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Summertime and the living is . . . still a wee chilly up here in Minnesota. I mean, we’re no Christy or anything but it hasn’t burst into full on oven-door-open living. I put on my new jeans and the white linen shirt the other night. I wanted to feel like a human being, not a milk-making mama bear. It wasn’t forty minutes in to this novel experience that the baby directed an enormous poop right at the shirt, the toddler spilled his dinner plate on the jeans, and my earrings (yes, I PUT ON EARRINGS) got caught on my mom-bun and yanked ever so staunchly on those tiny fly-away hairs that are evidence of re-growth and postpartum hair biz. Right back into the bathrobe I zoomed. Linen It’s breathable and lightweight, but more forgiving in its flowing than a knit cotton. I gathered a bunch off off the inter web and then kept nearly all of them! The buttons make the shirt, as far as I’m concerned. Thank you for a little wooden button, designers! White one & pink one & butterfly one (for my sister) & brown one. All three of mine have been put in the dryer on accident and made it out relatively unscathed! Stretchy jeans Oh, as I confessed, I haven’t packed away my maternity jeans just yet (she’s a mere 5 months!) but that was, in large part, because I only have one pair and my non-maternity jeans were either too high waisted (not really ready to dive back…
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Are you prone to this as well? Oh, you probably exercise extreme self-control and moderate all expectations to a nice flat do-able level. So I’ll just share how I have blown each Mother’s Day (there have been 6!) up until now. Mind Reader. My husband had better read my mind and know exactly what I want even though I don’t want to say it aloud because it sounds selfish: LEAVE ME ALONE AND BRING ME DESSERT FOR BREAKFAST AND I DON’T WANT TO DO ANYTHING EVER ALL DAY LONG. So when he has hung to what I actually said demurely (oh, lovie, whatever! I just want to enjoy you and the kids!), I seethe inside. Doesn’t he know this hallmark holiday is supposed to alleviate all feelings of mama-frustration? Doesn’t he know I want a break so desperately that I would eschew all the cards and cake for a good long sleep? Doesn’t he know??? Gifts. Oh, you read that right. P L U R A L. I would love something over the top and impulsive and romantic and planned and wrapped and specific to my latest pinterests and instagrams. Budget what? Kid art–so nice, but I thought this was about my husband lavishing me with the world’s best mother gift. He could actually have that engraved on a silver spoon from which I gobbled up my yogurt parfait (bfast in bed for the win–see #1). Or he could have it embroidered onto a pillow from which I could never rise…
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Are you also an affirmation person? I need that verbal pat on the back–well–ask my husband–maybe often? But more keenly, as a mother, I’ve wanted to have external validation that I’m doing it all correctly. I’m doing it all right. I’m making the best choices I can for our kids and for my health. I want it from my doctors and care providers. I want it from my own mother. I want to hear it from my community. My sense of validation starts to pull apart, seam by seam, as I grow deeper into my role as a mother. The time I felt worse and worse postpartum but had multiple care providers tell me I was fine, and it turned out my uterus was infected (a rare condition!) and I needed to be admitted to the hospital right away for IV anti-biotics. The time I felt judged as a wannabe homeschool mother when we knew, just knew, that school was best for our oldest. The time I knew that I had to step back and let my husband parent or it would kill our marriage. You see where the grounding erodes away? Where the hems are pulled apart? When my validation for decisions came from O U T S I D E of me. When I was counting on those around me to make me feel affirmed. Affirmation from within would make a difference. What kind of questions could I ask myself, inform myself on, pray for grace & guidance on? How could I find…
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I am so in love with the fabrics I have for this spring & summer leggings collection. The new design of a more roomy bottom and less of a skinny leg works well for my (YES ALMOST 20 pound 4 month old) big little baby. You may also have a little lovie in your life that needs some summer leggings love. Every time I release new fabrics, I hear this from you, kind friends: you are out of stock in the one fabric I love! To try to remedy this, I’m doing an instagram custom-sizing sale on Monday. This means you hop over –> to here –> my instagram account. Then you comment on the photo of the leggings you want, tell me the size you want, and I paypal invoice you so that it’s sold then and there and no one can snatch it up away from you!! A few of them but not everything! EEEK I kinda want to keep them all. But I won’t! I’m sharing the love, people. See you on the ‘gram tomorrow!
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Dead giveaway. If you crane your neck to look past the baseball cards, unfolded underwear, used tape, and assortment of half-colored workbooks, and those weren’t the signal we have kids, welcome to my bathrooms. We live in a big ole house with lots of bathrooms. Some are rarely used. Some are frequent favorites. But nearly all of them have one of these fifteen characteristics of people-with-kid-bathrooms. 1) hand towel on the ground. It may be clean; it may be dirty. You just don’t know and don’t dare risk using it. It literally could have been anywhere. It’s also slightly damp. 2) garbage can missing. It was loaded with unmentionables and taken out to the kitchen to be tossed with the rest of the garbage . . . last week sometime . . . and hasn’t made it back. So meanwhile, there’s a pile of used q-tips, wet-ones, and hair balls in the corner. 3) toilet paper not on roll. It could be behind the toilet, on the back of the toilet, or set in the shower. But it’s not on the roll. 4) stool near toilet. If you’re an adult, please, do not use the stool. It needs to be wiped down. Just kick it with your foot out of the way so you can make it to the toilet, semi-unscathed. 5) suspicious crusting near toilet paper roll holder. Someone may have tried to wipe himself while waiting for a slow old mama to get the wet wipes to finish off a…
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Another 40 days and 40 nights (nearly) of Lent seemingly gone the way of failure. I sink into my hot cocoa mug, relinquishing the guilt that yes, our family gives up treats for Lent, that Jesus-diet guaranteed to break the monopoly sugar gut bacteria hold on my taste buds. My hot cocoa desires are based in a coping mechanism. Coping with another long recovery. Coping with the broken sleep that even the best little side-nursing cosleeper still bestows upon me. Coping with mental juggling and a touch of postpartum anxiety. I’m no coffee lover, so cocoa caffeination is all I can cling to. But this failure of really giving up treats brought me to another failure: my slow recovery. My pelvic floor took a number when I birthed this big baby and her shoulder dystocia. I’m healing on two fronts: internal pelvic floor and external SI-joints. My pelvis remains twisted and one side of my pubic bone is higher than the other. They’re called symphysis pubis dysfunction and diastasis symphysis pubis and I know others struggled with this throughout pregnancy and into their postpartum. While I bustled around the country for the Blessed is She retreats, stupidly not even asking for a ride from those carts at the airport, carrying my 18 pounder in the carrier, my ligaments continued to not heal. While I decided to tackle changing over their coats and clothes for spring, sitting unevenly for hours, lunging forward to drag a pile toward me, bending to scoop up stray…
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