Clubbin'

I'm starting a new club and I'll tell you why. I hope you didn't plan on going anywhere for a while, this is going to take a minute to explain. And even once I do, you still might not get it. But crazy speaks to crazy, I've been told.

The mommy club was not for us and so I belonged to the infertile club (IFC). We had what we thought was lots more fun and could not for the life of us figure out how a woman who did not work full time could be so tired at the end of the day. He he. I remember that conversation and have since repented.

Then something happened to the IFC. Through one way or another we became mommies. But I remained uncomfortable with the labor stories and the breastfeeding talk. Thankfully, I had my adoptive mommies club (FSA). Sometimes it's just easier when you don't have to explain what birthmoms are, no one comments on family resemblance, and you can get feedback on openness and appropriate Mother's Day gifts. It was totally normal and expected to hold dual membership in both the IFC and FSA.

But then something else happened and I find myself pregnant. It was in not so many words inferred recently that now I would be in the mommy club. The mama bear within me surged and I took the comment probably a little more personally than it was intended. I have an almost two year old. I've been in the mommy club, thank you very much.

Like a lost Jr. High-er I'm not really sure where I fit in. Am I still infertile? I don't think so. But what if I don't stay pregnant? Will I go back to being infertile or am I still considered part of the IFC until you're in labor? And how about FSA? Is it going to be awkward if I stay pregnant and show up to our playgroups and even a conference? Cuz I'll tell you what...I might have slapped some preggo who plopped herself down next to me and told me "No worries. Everything works out the way it is supposed to." -especially if she used the word preggo.

But I swear I'll lose my mind if I am completely relegated to the full-fledged mommy club. Thankfully I've found myself a couple of mommies who can talk about UFC and painting junk on Craigslist as well as the importance of a daily prune during pregnancy. It's all just too much to think about. I'd be really in for it if I had to worry whether or not Super-Hottie was going to ask me to dance at the next formal.

Rather than don the black eye-liner and Doc Marten boots I am starting a new club. There is only one requirement. It is open to any and all so long as you meet this one requirement. Anyone who is going to go to heaven and ask, WHAT WAS THAT ABOUT!?!?!?! can join. I'm thinking we can wear wristbands with WWTA on them. Oh, and since I made it up, I get to be President.

Damned if you do, damned if you don't.

Either I'm a hypocrite for blogging what I am about to blog about, and I become one of those women that I have openly and repeatedly bashed...

Or I don't, and I'm still a hypocrite for not 'keeping it real' or being totally honest about what's going on in my life. A compliment which I have worn as a badge of blogging honor. I am honest and real. I don't hold back. Until lately, which in itself makes me want to throw up. A feeling I am intimately acquainted with.

It is my lot in life to eat my words. Repeatedly.

Here goes. This would go down so much better with a Dr. Pepper I think.

I hate it when women announce to the world, the Relief Society, Facebook- any and all means of communication that they are two and half seconds pregnant.

And in all fairness- I'm more like four seconds pregnant so it can't be nearly as bad, right? OK, it's just as bad, but I needed to get it out. I'm not on vacation. And I'm not slacking. I just totally and completely suck at keeping secrets about myself.

Today I am pregnant. I don't know why. I only kind-of sort-of know how. I don't know how long it will last. And I want to write about all of it.

I'm taking a little vacation.

In reality, I've been and plan on continuing to be a total slacker for the next week or so.

Vacationing has a much nicer ring than slacker, don't you think?

A Man of Few Words

That would describe my husband.

Standing at the register of See's Candy...

"Can I help you?"

"Wife said chocolate."

Coincidence

My blogging gets lame(r) and homework is due in two hours. Connection?

You're on your own babe.

This just isn't my thing.

A story about when I was a little girl and how it applies today.

I like to have things clean. That doesn't mean I like to clean. Since I was born without the ability to wiggle my nose and make things happen and have yet to stumble upon a magic wand, I'm on my own. I usually manage to do an okay job at the housework thing but my Get-up-and-go got up and went about three days ago.

When we were little, I liked having our playroom clean but no one wanted to actually clean it. We managed to work it into our little games of house, or CIA agent, or whatever by pretending we were having an important guest-usually the President. I don't know how we came up with the President but somehow we knew that we'd probably like our house clean if he were to show up. We rushed around until it was clean and then we went on with our games.

I guess I haven't changed much.

I need someone to come to my house so that I can find the motivation to get what I'd like to have done done. I will volunteer to host the meeting (and the President) wayyyy too early on a Saturday morning so I can have the rest of the day to get on with my fun. I will put it off until bedtime and then I will rush around the house like we did when we were little, "The President is coming. The President is coming."

Who wants to come next week?

Thursday Thoughts

I stood in the kitchen debating about whether to cut up a pineapple or just go to bed. I went with neither, and thought you'd like to know what I was thinking standing in front of my fridge deciding on what to eat next. So what if I just ate half of the most delicious BBQ pizza I've ever had? My life revolves on what I'll be eating next and I do my best thinking standing in front of the fridge.

I remembered that I once had a debate about whether there was food in heaven. It ended with me stating that, "If there's no food, then I don't want to go."

This brought me to thinking about heaven and hell. It's hard to picture what heaven will be like. Hell I imagine is a lot like Christmas Eve when you're five years old- still believe in Santa, and know your stocking is going to rock, but Christmas never comes. Hell is waiting. And I make waiting hell.

Thoughts about heaven and hell make me think about God. I have two thoughts on this actually. #1. The more you think you know about this great thing we call life, the more you realize you know nothing. #2. God's sense of humor runs along the lines a British comedy. A little disturbing, I mostly don't get it, but it's some funny stuff.

And then my thinking was interrupted by the beeping of my fridge. It does that when the door is open too long.

Top Ten

I've been asked to give up some of my sources.

I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you.

Okay, but just because I'm a super nice person. Today.

Whip-up

Crafty Crow

Crockpot 365

$5 Dollar Dinner Mom

Design Mom

Centsational Girl

Soule Mama

Ravelry

Motivated Moms

Martha Stewart


There. Now you know. I'm not a crafting, homemaking, mothering genius.

The first step is admitting you have a problem.

After six years of marriage and no television we (I) caved and allowed one into my family room for this season's football games.

Oh, what a slippery slope!

How could I have gone this long without the FoodNetwork?

The FOOD NETWORK?

Really?

Oh, yes.

Iron Chef at 1:00am.

It's a problem.

The Moral of Today's Story

Be nice to your kids.

They'll pick your nursing home.

Misunderstood

One of my favorite bloggers, one who I link to frequently, left me feeling a little uncomfortable as I read her post today. The short version is that she shared two experiences where she gave her will to God and he gave her pregnancy. Twice.

Bully for her.

Obviously this struck a cord. It sounded a little too much like the "If you just have faith you'll get pregnant" comment I received while trapped in the rabbit hutches of the married ward at BYU. I came home m.a.d. with a response along the lines of "I'll show you faith! You best be running across Utah lake because I'm about to..."

I didn't believe her, but I'd be lying if parts of me at some times didn't wonder if maybe it was true. Maybe if I gave more over to God...

I sat reading the comments on this post, and getting a little more and more irritated with some of them. Until I got to this one.

"I did the same thing. The baby never came. I want to think that is okay.

But when I read posts like yours I cannot help but wonder why it is that God rewards some while leaving others to live up to their vows of being faithful despite not getting what it is their hearts craved the most.

It's one of the reasons that I do not attend church or participate in a religious community anymore. I simply cannot hear people proclaim how God blessed them for their faithfulness with what it is they wanted all along (a baby, a child cured, relief from pain, etc.) while others are simply left to be faithful while it all falls apart, all falls away."

I cried. I know she is not the only who believes this. That concept (the one about 'just have faith and you'll get blessed') is one of my biggest pet peeves with people of many religions.

In the Gospel according to me, Faith is a concept so misunderstood. And it's myth is often perpetuated most by well-meaning individuals who quip "just have faith." Faith is not believing so we will get what we want. Faith is being able to trust that God knows us better than we know ourselves and having faith is knowing that we are strong enough, good enough, worthy enough to handle what life (and yes, even sometimes God) might throw at us.

9/11

I sent my husband off to work this morning. He will spend the day in cubicle land and then come home around six. I will spend the day out shopping and this afternoon my Scrunch will nap and I will knit. And we will get to do these things because there are people who are willing to sacrifice to protect our freedoms and our way of life. Thanks for that.

And to all the families who sent their loved ones off to work expecting them to come home but didn't, my heart goes out to you today.

Bad Hair Day

The key to combating a bad hair day is a good hat. A good hat is the only thing that is helping me keep my resolve to grow my hair out.

Selbu Modern

Inga Hat

Foliage

Felicity

Amelia Earhart

Habitat

Koolhaas

One for every day of the week. By the time I get these knit I may look like Rapunzel, but if I do I'll never have to blow dry again!

I should quit listening to the radio.

On the ride home from my riding lesson tonight I was rocking out to whatever was on the radio and realized I got a little choked up and teary over a Brian Adams song. Since my Husband and I aren't fighting it can only mean one thing- my least favorite aunt is coming for a visit. My little reminder (as if I needed one) that not only am I not pregnant, but certain parts of my anatomy attempt a mutiny on quite a regular basis.

As I sang along to 'Please Forgive Me', I realized I've been doing really, really good lately in trying to enjoy where we're at right now. Enjoying my Scrunch and trying NOT to think about our next baby. I think it has a lot to do with rocking out. Rocking out to 'Girls Just Wanna Have Fun' in the back bedroom with my little girl makes my so happy I think my heart might explode. In that moment, I am totally and completely happy. And fulfilled- which is the harder part.

Every so often a twinge of sad and frustration creep in. Like when I realize that many of my friends and family are on their second, third, and even fourth children. I start to feel that panicked feeling like when you're late. Or when I look at the costs of the various private agencies. That brings on the kind of anxiety that makes your hair fall out. Another post for another day is the frustration of family planning and finance in adoption.

But especially when my Baby prays for a baby. That more than anything makes my gut wrench. And for a few minutes I am sad. For me. For her. For my Husband. I mean, how young is too young to have to learn the lesson about God's timing when it comes to answering prayers? I still don't get that one yet.

A few months ago we gave our best effort in trying to conceive. I even shaped up and started doing things that I should have been doing anyway, but suck at making a habit of. Stuff like weekly temple attendance, prayer, and scripture study. OK, still a little sucky at scripture study. But I was trying. I remember talking to a friend who asked how I was doing.

"You know....I'm gonna be a little ticked off at Him when I work this hard and it all goes to crap anyway," was my response.

I must have known. And in the silent prayers in my head and heart throughout those days that we counted the days, I made a deal with God to please help me be okay with it all. The last time she came to visit I didn't cry. I accepted that my babies will be coming in a different way. Somehow I've conjured up the picture of my son asking me how long I'd be willing to wait for him. I think about that all the time. Maybe I'm nuts. But I come by it honestly.

I have a crazy grandma. Seriously bordering on certifiable. The woman is off-the-wall completely bonkers. But I still listen to what she has to say, and I believe her when she tells me,

"Don't worry kiddo. You just put your intentions out there into the world and He'll take care of the rest. These blessings were secured long before we got here. Only special babies come to your house."

For being completely nuts she makes so much sense.

All these thoughts and more came from some stupid Brian Adams song. Next time I'll just turn off the radio.

Catching up on my kid.

Have you met my child? She's the cute one with curly hair and a little sass. Not yet two this baby gives her Momma a run for her money.

As she flipped herself off the back of the Costco bench while literally flipping her hair and flirting with some old guy chowing down pizza.

As she runs through the house looking for anything she can reach but that she knows is not hers, brings it to me and says, "Dis Mommy's".

Ask her if she is a Baby or a Big Girl and she'll tell you "A Good Girl."

She's caught on to yelling at the dogs. We really shouldn't laugh, but when they listen to her she says "Gooodjob. Goodjob." She's also been known to pat her Papa's back and tell him "Goodjob Goodjob" too.

And of course my personal favorite- her singing AC/DC's Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap. "Dewty Dewty Deeds"

Most of the shots are of the back of her head because well...I love her curls and I have a hard time keeping up with her.


I'm not going to hurt you. My dog just wants to chew on your neck.

Booo!

Oh, look. You caught up to me.

There's got to be something left in here.

You try telling her she's not a big girl yet.

So what's weirder, that I verge on Brittney's parenting style and let my kid in the driver's seat or that she matches my Mom totally by accident?

It's just so much to think about when you think about it.

The Day Martha Stewart Came to Visit

She told me to paint my front door purple. And when Martha says paint, you paint.

Before

After

My mother is Martha Stewart. Or could be. What can I say? Martha is always right.

Labor Day

The day in which American wives get one last shot to squeeze into their white jeans and a three day weekend to make their husbands labor in the yard, the house, the garage, or the kitchen. Painting a front door purple is on the to-do list today. Happy Holidays!

Why my blogging sucks lately.

I just spent the evening writing a procrastinated paper on the pros and cons of NAFTA. And I'm clearly having such a rocking good time right now that if I blogged all about it you'd want to be me.

I love Fall.

Can't really say I'm not caught up since I spent three hours at the outlets this evening. It is beginning to be my favorite time of year. My husband gets football and I spend the duration of the game doing/spending/playing whatever I want, no questions asked. It's even better when they win.

By Monday I should be back to my blogging self.

Time to take my own advice.

Feeling like you've got too much to do?

Shorten your to-do list.

This may or may not include watching Sesame Street and eating caramel popcorn for breakfast.

Paying gigs get priority. I'll be back when I'm caught up.