The two numbers that rule my life

I once resolved to kick my scale habit because daily weigh-ins were making me nuts. I managed to stick to one weekly weigh in for months, but slowly the scale has called to me more and more often and I'm back to stepping on every morning.

I can't help it. It's like a drug. I don't want to weigh myself, I don't really want to know, but I see the scale and I start to wonder. I think, "I was really good yesterday. I stuck to my Weight Watchers points. I exercised, did it pay off?"

So I step on. I step off, shift the scale a bit. Step on. Step off, shift the scale again. Step on. After three or five tries I finally decide that I'm not going to see a lower number and I step off one last time. It doesn't matter how well I slept or how great a day I have planned, if the number has gone up from the day before my day is shot. If the number has gone down I'll be on cloud nine all day.

It's absurd. It's stupid. But again, I can't help it. The number on the scale rules my day. It'll determine if my pants feel tight or I feel sexy in my top. It'll dictate how I feel about my meals throughout the day. And it even seeps into how I feel about everything else in my life. I feel like a better, smarter writer on the days the scale has gone down.

And that's when the other number that increasingly rules my days comes into play. Because once I've gotten dressed and attempted to move on, I turn on the computer and check my blog stats for the day.

That too is a sickness. Nothing rides on these stats. It's not like I'm getting paid to entertain you all with my daily neuroses insights. I tell myself I just want to see who's linked to me, where new readers are coming from, anything to justify clicking through to GetClicky multiple times a day.

I know you'll be shocked, but when I click through and the numbers are lower than the day before, well, I get depressed. I know! Shocking. Told you so.

Again, I know that it's absurd and stupid, but I can't help myself. The number on the scale reflects how I feel about myself. And I worry that the number on GetClicky reflects how the rest of the world feels about me. I told you, I have issues.

I wish I had the strength to throw away my scale and disconnect my blog from statistics software. I wish I didn't let it all get to me so much. But mostly I wish I knew in my gut and my heart that I'm good enough they way I am and I didn't need numbers to validate me.

Friday Flashback - Roots all over the world

Friday Flashback is all about bringing to light some of my favorite posts from my archives to breathe new life into them. This post that was originally published in April 2007. It's about my diverse roots, spread out all over the world. I'm posting it tonight because, well because I'm a bit homesick this week, and it's a bit hard to understand how I could feel that way without knowing where I come from.

Rooted

I grew up in a different world. A world filled with french bread and yummy cheese, with snacks made of bread, butter and chocolate, with classy children's clothes and outdoor markets. I grew up in France, and for the first seven years of my life that was the only world I knew.

A few days before my seventh birthday we moved from our lovely Paris home to an even nicer place in Rye, NY. I went from being a city child to a true American suburbanite. I learned to walk to school and go home at 3 instead of 5pm. I spent summers in my bathing suit going from neighbor's house to neighbor's house. In the winter I wore my snowsuit to school and changed in the hall with all of my friends. It was more than just a different world, it was a different universe.

By the time America grew to feel like home we were off again. London, England this time, and once again I had a slew of new customs and habits to get used to. By this time I was a little older and a little more aware of my surroundings. I attended an American school and had few British friends. Even though the language was the same, everything else about England was different and it took much longer to get used to living there. Eventually I found my place and I grew to love London.

And then we moved again. Back to France, a skip and a hop across the Channel. A world away nonetheless. I remember sitting at my desk in my new bedroom near Paris, sobbing to myself "I just want to go HOME!" The problem was that I couldn't figure out where home was supposed to be. We'd been mere visitors in NY, even more transient in London. To all extents and purposes, I was home, it just didn't feel like it at all.

That strange feeling of not belonging stayed with me for a long, long time. Even when I found my french roots and settled back into Parisian life I still had moments when I felt like a true outsider. To my French friends and family I never stopped being the American one. To myself I was always both.

I stayed in France for years. I went to high school and college. Made great friends and lived the French life. But I never strayed too far from my American side. I devoured English language books, saw American movies in their "original version" (English with sub-titles), found a few fun American restaurants, I even majored in English Literature. The French was strong in me, but it had some stiff competition.

The summer I turned 24 I interned in a NY advertising agency. I slipped right back into my American skin and in a heartbeat felt right at home. I never really went back to Paris. I met my husband that summer and just went back to pack up my life and move to Boston. M and I lived in France for a year before moving to California, and we've been here ever since.

This summer I turn 30, I've lived half of my life in France and half of my life in the United States. If you ask me where home is, it'll take me a minute to answer. Home is here, and home is there. My roots are divided. France is the home of my childhood, America is where my life is. Some days I feel French, some days I feel American, there's no rhyme or reason to it. I have no desire to live there, yet I miss it terribly. This place is so very different, so very foreign to my native land, yet I feel so at home here.

Sometimes I run into people who have lived all over the world. It barely takes a few minutes for the kinship to become apparent. We are the ones without roots, the tumbleweeds. Sometimes I envy the people who know where they come from, who can point to "Home" on a map, who have a place to run to when they need nurturing. But at the end of the day, I think we are the fortunate ones. The world is our home, our roots are everywhere.

Made by two kids, fit for a bird

The box containing a little birdhouse kit arrived last week. Now, it's no secret that I'm not a huge bird fan, but I do like the build things, and I knew that the kids would love it too. The explanatory email from Graco sealed the deal. I may not like birds, but I can't resist a contest!

I won't lie to you. I did consider building the thing on the sly and decorating it behind the children's backs. I just knew it would be... neater if I did it. But what can I say. I must love my kids more than winning, because as hard as it was to let go, I gave them free reign to decorate at will. OK, well maybe not free reign, but almost. Come on! I tried! And it's not like I went back to fix their design after they went to take a bath. Well, not much. OK. I'm pathetic. But my kids are cute, and their birdhouse turned out... well, you tell me.

They painted.
Little L got in on the action too.

Even though it was a bit of a stretch for her.

And she kept having to beg for "more" paint.

C was adamant that the inside also be painted.
You know, so the birds would like it more.

And there you have it!
A clean girl and a finished birdhouse!

A proud, clean girl!

And one gorgeous birdhouse.

Now go forth and vote! And may the best birdhouse win! (Voting opens May 30th)

Wordless Thursday - Bathtub for one

Perfect for dishes,
perfect for toddlers.

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Two great new giveaways posted at The Lemonade Stand. Enter to win a children's book & coordinated plush toy and/or enter to win a SanDisk 16GB MicroSD memory card.

From childhood labels to grown-up characteristics

"That one, she's easy, the little one is more challenging."

How often have I heard myself say that as I watch my daughters play? No matter how many times I've actually said it, it's one too many times. Of course Little L is more challenging, she's younger. She doesn't quite have the ability to reason that C has developed in the two plus years she has on her baby sister.

Then again, Little L did refuse to sleep for the first 18 months of her life, while her older sister slept through the night at 8 weeks. She throws more tantrums and is more demanding and more willful and independent than her sister ever was at her age.

C is cautious where Little L charges forward without a care for consequences. C assesses a situation, Little L acts first and thinks later, if ever. They're different through and through, but to call one challenging seems a bit excessive, especially if I consider the fact that my hasty label might form her character forever.

I don't want my words to be self fulfilling.

Think of the labels that were applied to you as a child, do they still ring true? Who would you have been if they had never been spoken in your presence? Little L might well be challenging, but I'd hate for her to keep being that way because she thinks I expect it of her.

"You be happy, I'll be good." The big sister says to her little sister in Kate Jacob's lovely book Comfort Food. Their father has just died and they're doing the best they can to help their mother cope. Twenty years later one sister can't let herself get too deeply involved with the love of her life; if they broke up she'd have to be sad and the happy sister can't ever be sad. The other sister can't relax long enough to enjoy herself, she has be good, all the time, she's the dependable one. The roles they assumed as children, based on the labels the mother dispensed, have stunted their growth all the way into adulthood and it takes a serious shake-up in all of their lives for them to realize what's holding them back.

I know Comfort Food is fiction and it's only tangentially about how labels can affect children, but as I relished the story about a "CookingChannel" celebrity the concept teased me. Next time if you ask me to talk about my children I'll resist the urge to apply labels to them as I tell you about their latest antics.

This post was inspired by this month's Silicon Valley Moms Blog book club. Click through to see other posts inspired by Kate Jacob's Comfort Food.

30 days later, barely 4lbs lighter.

I did it. I stuck it out. Except I didn't really.

Wait. Wait. Hear me out!

I did watch my diet and exercise for 30 days. It's just that I didn't exactly follow the prescribed plan for the full 30 days. I started out strong, and for two weeks I kept at it like a dog with a bone. I mean, I ate every single little thing that was on the menu plans and not a scrap more, and I did every single exercise routine I was assigned, and yes, even a little more. After two weeks I had lost three pounds, regained two, and I was going insane.

I'm very, very anal when it comes to dieting/lifestyle changing. Tell me what to do and I will do it to the letter, even if it kills me. But I like flexibility. Or rather I need flexibility, because my life is terribly unpredictable. If a friend calls me at the last minute to beg me to come have lunch with her it's going to kill me that my carefully measured English Muffin and two tbsp of peanut butter with a side salad is waiting for me at home. And if my kids are out of control one morning and I can't scramble my three egg whites and sprinkle them with cheese before running out the door I'm going to be pretty unhappy.

So after two weeks of making myself and my family miserable I realized that I needed to step back and reassess the situation. I can lose the weight and get back into shape if I follow a smart, healthy, flexible plan. Like, say, Weight Watchers, which fits perfectly into my need for flexibility and my craving for a plan that I can follow to the letter.

Two weeks ago I hauled out my Weight Watchers binder and journal, I calculated my daily points allotment, and I went grocery shopping for all the foods that I'd been missing. For the last two weeks I've been on track, eating well and exercising daily. I haven't felt insane or trapped, and I know that I can do this for the long haul. Which is a good thing, because it's taken me a month to lose just over 4lbs and I have another 11 or so to go.

I guess I can't do anything for 30 days, but since I learned to listen to myself and do what's right for me instead, I think can live with that.

The sun's not the culprit, the sunscreen is.

On Tuesday when I blogged about Little L's latest health drama I was at my wits end. I played it off all cool and collected, but inside I was struggling. I mean, it's one thing to want to always protect your children, but when the sun is the thing hurting them, the challenge is more than a bit daunting.

Lucky for me I have an awesome older sister who, despite being completely swamped with a huge move and her own life, is one of my most faithful readers. She read my post and emailed me right away to remind me that my oldest niece, her oldest daughter, had suffered from a similar issue when she was little. Only it wasn't the sun she was allergic to, it was the sunscreen.

That's right, the sunscreen, which I had diligently been applying to every single nook and crany of my poor baby's body.

In an effort to protect my baby from what I thought was hurting her I was in fact coating her carefully in the stuff that was doing the damage. Figuring that out was bittersweet to say the least. It was a huge relief to finally know what was wrong and what we could do to fix it, but it was horrible to know that I was the one inflicting such pain.

On my sister's recommendation I invested a small fortune in Mustela products, specially formulated for extremely sensitive and irritated skin, and I started tracking down non-chemical sunscreens and sun protective clothing. After five days of daily baths with the magic soap and twice daily slathering of the miracle lotion, Little L is no longer covered in little red dots and her skin no longer feels scaly. Which is good, because ew. Even better she no longer screams when I put her in the tub, nor does she scratch her belly while plaintively moaning "ouchie."

Tomorrow we're going to be taking the non-chemical sunscreen for it's first test drive, and I'm not going to pretend that I'm not feeling nauseous at the thought. If I could protect her from the sun without ever using sunscreen again I'd be much happier, but all that sun protective clothing is hot, and it's just not always the most practical option. So tomorrow I'm going to pull out Little L's new unbelievably expensive sunscreen and I'm going to close my eyes and apply it to her skin while uttering a million wishes that she doesn't react to it, or the sun, or anything else she comes into contact with, so we can get on with the important tasks of summer, like playing in the pool, going for walks, or hanging at the beach.

Friday Flasback - It can all change in a micro second

Friday Flashback is all about bringing to light some of my favorite posts from my archives to breathe new life into them. This post that was originally published in October 2007. I'm posting it today because I recently worked in this coffee shop and the whole time I was there I was hyper aware of my coffee cup and all the laptops in the vicinity.

I walked into It's A Grind with the intent to have a little coffee and a little writing time before heading out on my weekly walk around the dish. Most of the tables were taken, so Little L and I set up shop in an arm chair near a little table already being used by a young man hard at work on his laptop. I was hoping that a free table would open up by the time Little L was done nursing, but it was not to be. I got her settled into her car seat and opened up my laptop, perching it on my lap.

Little L toyed with me for a while, pretending to get drowsy and then snapping her eyes wide open. I alternated writing and shaking the stroller, but after a while I had to come to grips with the fact that she wasn't going to sleep and that her crying was starting to disturb the natives. I pulled her back out and nursed her in a last ditch attempt at getting her to sleep. The problem was that I was on a streak and I didn't want to stop writing, so I juggled for a minute until I reached a sort of balance; Little L on my breast and the laptop on my knee.

Everything went well for a few minutes and I was giving myself mental high fives. There I was working on my novel, nursing my infant; the picture perfect super mom. And then... and then... Little L spit up, I reached into the diaper bag for a wipe, my knee jerked up, and the laptop tilted back hitting my full coffee cup, spilling it all over the table... all the way into the guy's Macbook. Pshht. Buh bye Macbook.

In a split second I went from feeling pretty darn good about myself to feeling like a big steaming pile of, of, of... loser mommy. Who was I to think that I had any right to be there with the serious writers? Me and my little fledgling mommy lit novel? I should have been home, folding laundry or making dinner. My house is a wreck, my oldest daughter is losing her mind, we've eaten out almost every night in a week, but I'm pretending to be a great writer and hanging with people who have a right to be spending hours with a laptop in a coffee shop. And I'm ruining their laptops!

I stood there, watching the coffee drip off the table, holding a squirming baby, stuttering that I'd pay for his computer and that I was oh so, so sorry, my confidence and self esteem in crumbs dissolving in the growing puddle of vanilla nut flavored coffee. I wanted nothing more than to run from that place, run back to my pig sty of a home and hide on my couch until it was time to go back to my safe little desk job. But I stood my ground and waited for the young man to come back from the bathroom with his moribund laptop. Then I drove him to an Apple store so he could see if they could salvage the beast.

I walked the Dish and I waited to hear from my new friend. He called as we were near the halfway point to tell me that the Apple genius had recommended letting the Macbook dry out for two weeks before trying to turn it on again. I reiterated my profound apologies and only stopped running my mouth just as it was about to offer the loan of my own laptop for the two weeks. I may not know if I'll ever have the guts to go back to the coffee shop, I don't know if my self esteem will rise back to the point where I can pick up where my pathetic excuse for a novel leaves off, but apparently I'm not quite ready to give up writing.

Wishes for souls to grow on

Wake up, get through the day, go to sleep. Rinse and repeat every morning.

Our bodies crave that routine. We don't like change, not really. We like to eat at the same time, go to sleep at the same time, get up at the same time. We even tend to eat the same things, falling into a food rut just as easily as we fall into a routine rut.

Our souls are a whole other animal. Our souls crave adventure and change. If we don't change things up a bit every so often we start to shrivel up inside. It's a slow shrivel, one you wouldn't notice from day to day, until one morning you wake up and realize you have no desires, no goals, no aspirations, no dreams.

Do you still dream? Not the pink elephant kind that happen in the dark of the night or when you've had too much to drink, the kind that happen during the day. The "I wish I could..." dreams.

Remember saying as a kid "When I grow up I..."? Have you done that stuff? Do you still want to? What replaced those dreams?

I just finished Debbie Macomber's Twenty Wishes, which I really just picked up as a quick and easy diversion. I never expected it to give me so much food for thought. Her main characters all vow to create a list of twenty wishes they hope to see fulfilled in their lifetimes. Not goals, wishes. Some whimsical, some serious, some attainable, some more of a stretch. Enough to kick their widowed souls back into life.

As I read I wondered about my own wishes, my own desires. I haven't let myself daydream like that in far too long. I finished the book and I realized that I needed a list of my own, if only to keep my soul young and free.

I haven't come up with twenty wishes yet, but I love thinking about it. It's food for thought on the highway, it's distraction during the chores, and yes, it's an inspiration for the future. It's too easy to get caught in a routine rut and I want to remember that there's a whole world waiting for me beyond the day to day basics of my life.

I bring you my wish list, as it stands so far:
1) Take my children home to Paris and watch them discover my childhood world.
2) Walk into a bookstore and see my book on the "Staff Favorite" table.
3) Take my husband to Amsterdam and gloat "I told you so" when he tells me he'd like to live there, forever.
4) Be proud of my body and happy with the way it looks. Not a number, not a size, just satisfied that it's in the best shape it should be in, for me.
5) ...

How about you? What are you wishing for?

Goals being met right and left

Back in January, when I was still struggling with the first of the winter's viruses, and didn't yet understand the extent of the onslaught we were about to face, I wrote a post outlining all the great plans I had for the coming year. I came across the post last night while I was searching the archives for inspiration posts about asthma and I gave myself a mental pat on the back. I'm not doing half badly on the big ol' plan for the year!

To be specific...
- I wanted to "declutter and organize our home." OK. One quick glance around might make you think I've failed dramatically at that. But! BUT! We did organize the kid's toys, more or less, and when we actually take the time to clean up the place doesn't look half bad. Plus, I mastered the laundry, which was definitely on the list of things to take care off in the big declutter project, so there's always that.

- I wanted to "write my book." Well, as of today I have 39 388 words written. That's a lot more, as in, 30 000 more, words than I had back in January. And also it marks the halfway point in my 80 000 word first draft goal. So BOO YAH to me on that! I'm getting the thing written. In fact, my current goal is to have the first draft written by the end of June. I'll keep you posted.

- I wanted to "overcome my self sabotaging tendencies." Uh. Yeah, about that... Hey! Look over there! Something shiny!

- I wanted to "write and sell an article to a magazine." After a couple false starts on that I've finally done it. My first article is slated to be published in the June edition of a local journal called Parenting on the Peninsula. I cannot wait to see my name in print.

- I wanted to be "nominated for a blog award." That ship sailed silently by, but I'm fine with that. Whatever, there's always next year, and the year after that, and the one after that. In the meantime my readership is growing one faithful reader at a time and I'm more than just fine with that. Because you guys are great and you're really the only ones who really matter.

So, you see? I'm doing pretty well, no? In fact, I'm starting to think I might need to come up with some goals for the second half of the year. Though maybe just getting the book written and sticking to my diet is plan enough for me. Wouldn't want to get too ambitious or anything.

First there was asthma, then there was more.

I have been anxiously waiting for summer to arrive. Summer was going to be our salvation from the horrible winter germs and viruses that have plagued us since December. Summer was going to release us from the grip of asthma anxiety. Summer was going to rawk.

Until Little L started getting rashes.

The first time she broke out in little red dots all over her body I assumed that she was reacting to an afternoon spent rolling around in the grass. C sometimes has a bad reaction to grass. Whatever, it's nothing, goes away after a quick bath.

Little L's spots didn't clear up after a bath. In fact, they got worse. Then she got a fever, so I assumed it was just another virus. But the next time she was out in the sun she broke out again. And the time after. And yes, the time after that too.

It turns out she's not allergic to grass, she's allergic to sun. OK, fine, maybe allergic is a strong word. She's what they call photosensitive - her skin doesn't react well to exposure to the sun, any exposure at all.

According to her doctor she's not in any danger and she should outgrow this condition. Her helpful advice is to just keep Little L out of the sun, which, living in California, is definitely easier said than done. I've purchased a number of long sleeved, SPF swim body suits and I'm stocking up on sunscreen, not that it's doing any good at all. And after a couple days of completely and utterly freaking out about this newest twist, I'm coming to grips with it.

This is Little L. She has quirky medical issues. None of them are all that dire. They're just tedious, and time consuming, and yes, potentially bad, or they would be if we hadn't noticed them right away and taken steps to protect her from herself. In the winter we will load up on asthma and cold medicine and in the summer we'll stock up on protective clothing and sunscreen. And we'll stop saying things like "Yay summer is coming! Relief is almost here" because now we know for a fact that Karma reads my blog and she's taking notes, and really, we don't need to give her any extra ammo.

No use crying over spilt milk

I have a bag. A good bag. A really, really good bag.

Technically it's a diaper bag, but it only ever really rarely actually holds diapers*. Instead it holds my three or four notebooks**, my pens, my wallet, my glasses, my camera, my Flip, stickers, a book for the kids, my phone, sunscreen, more sunscreen, Aquafor, more pens, some old candies, a pacifier, often my laptop, and anything M or the kids want me to carry for them***.

Including, sometimes, their left over milk containers.

Which don't usually spill.

Except for this last one.

I honestly can't remember the last time we went to McDonald's (before tonight, because that doesn't count, it has nothing to do with this story and I'm only including that fact in the interest of full disclosure.) Sometime in the middle of last week maybe****. As we left Little L handed me her milk chug, and I, thinking that it was still sealed shut, threw it into my bag.

I fully intended to put the milk chug into the fridge as soon as we got home, but I promptly forgot about it, and I didn't remember I had even put it in the darn bag until I pulled it out this morning as I was trying to shove my laptop into it's space.

Even then I didn't notice the bottle had been opened. Or that it had leaked all over my bag. All over all that clutter at the bottom of my bag. All over my precious notebooks, pens, and stuff.

Did I mention that it was almost 100F over the weekend?

I have had old milk sitting in my bag, all over my stuff, for the last 4 to 5 days, in the torrid heat.

So I apologize. That smell that's been bothering you all day? That's my bag. I'll be getting a new one in the morning. Because sometimes it's no use crying over spilt milk, not even when it has spilled inside your really, really good bag, all over your precious stuff.

* I keep the diapers in the car, or on the baby, where they're most useful.
** I have a bit of a notebook problem. Maybe more like an addiction. And let's not even mention the pen situation. K? Thanks.
*** This bag, it is heavy, very, very heavy. But it's all essential. I swear.
**** Do not be a Judgy McJudgy-pants. We bring veggies and fruit, they eat chicken nuggets and a couple of fries. It's not so bad. Really. Honest.

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Last day to enter the EarCheck giveaway! Never miss another ear infection or go into the pediatrician's office for nothing again!

And then she was 4, and there was lots of cake.

M and I rolled out of bed at 7:30 this morning and we didn't stop moving, prepping, planning, organizing, and getting everything ready for the princess' birthday party. All of that in the 95 degree heat that was smothering the Bay Area today.

Lucky for us we were hosting a pool party. Lucky for all the guests looking to cool off, it's a big pool.

The day started out with a large pile of gifts.

Only question, which one to open first.

This doll won that honor,
then she watched as all the other gifts were torn into.

Then we rushed around getting more stuff ready, more things cooked, before we realized that we were cooking ourselves and we packed up everything, including the kids, and headed to the inlaws'. We made great use of their AC to finish prepping the party that was taking place in their pool. Only seems fair, right?

This was the piece de resistance.

Which was supposed to be accompanied by lots of tiny butterflies...
which wouldn't unmold...
so instead I whipped this up. Purty, right?

The birthday girl thought so!

That's right, she's the birthday girl.
The great big four year old birthday girl.

After C was born I lay exhausted in my bed, recovering from an endless labor and a last minute c-section. Tonight I'm going to go lay in my bed, exhausted from a completely different kind of labor. I may be tired, but it was worth every minute, and there was a lot more cake than on this day four years ago.

Friday Flasback - The eve of a major life change

Four years ago today I had a different blog, a different life, and no kids... yet. It didn't take long for all of that to change. This week's Friday Flashback, created in an effort to breathe new life into my favorite posts from my archives, spans both time, blogs, and blogging platforms. This post was originally published in May 2005 on my old blog where you can see my humble beginnings as a blogger, a writer, and a knitter!

All goals reached

Contrary to what everyone thought, I actually accomplished everything that I said I would. I worked up to my due date, worked through the two events that took place on my due date weekend, finished teaching both of my religious school classes... unbelievable. And now? Mark's last final is in three hours and it's looking like we are going to make it through that too! But not much further!

I'm feeling crampy and sore, the only question is whether I'll go into full blown labor on my own or whether I'll make it to my doctor's appointment tomorrow. At 11 in the morning they are inserting the Prostaglandin Gel in the hopes of ripening my cervix some more. If that doesn't start labor we go in on Wednesday for the Pitocin drip... One way or another we're having a baby sometime before Thursday.

Pretty terrifying on the whole. This is my first day off of work and I have to say that it's making it more and more real by the minute. Everyone seems so sure that I'm going to be great at this whole motherhood thing. But I don't know. I'm heading into foreign territory and I don't know what to expect. I don't do so good with the whole unknown thing. So cross your fingers for me. I'm going to need all the help I can get.

See you all on the other side....

Playing catch-up again

My to do list is probably two full pages long by now. I'd have to sit down and write it all out to know for sure, but I don't have the energy to make the list. Which is really OK because I don't have the energy to do what's on the list either.

I don't know what's going on with me. Could be that we're back in sleepless hell, could be this darn diet I've been on for almost three weeks, but I'm constantly dragging. Seriously, last night I went to bed at 9:30 and I woke up at 7:30 just as tired as I'd been before going to bed.

I'm hoping that this slump has everything to do with being tired and that all I need is a couple good nights of sleep to get back in the groove. I was doing so well and was feeling so in control and on top of things, it's frustrating to be falling behind again.

It seems so unfair, isn't eating healthy and exercising supposed to give you more energy, not less?

From the Mouths of Babes: Getting ready to be a grown-up

I snuck out of the kitchen, leaving the girls busy with their crayons and markers. With any luck I'd have fifteen minutes to get my crunches done before one of them found me and made it impossible for me to do my workout. I don't know about you, but I find it hard to do sit-ups while someone bounces on my stomach or sits on my face. Go figure.

I managed to get 50 crunches done before I heard first little patter of feet coming down the hall. Another 15 and C figured out that I was hiding in my room. As soon as she saw me lying on the floor she dropped her doll and lay down next to me.

She propped her ankle on her knee in a perfect imitation of my position and as I did a few more crunches she tried to do a few herself. She may not have managed an actual crunch, but she had the grunting down to perfection.

"Mommy?"
"Huh?"
"You know why I'm doing this just like you?"
"No, babe, why are you doing this just like me?"
"Because I have to practice."
"You have to practice what?"
"I have to practice doing this because this is what grown-ups do and I have to practice doing grown-up things for when I'm a grown-up."

Today we practiced doing crunches, tomorrow we practice balancing the checkbook or maybe driving the car. I don't know, what would you suggest?

*************
Great giveaway for an EarCheck monitor going on at The Lemonade Stand. It allows you to determine if your child has an ear infection from the comfort of your own home!

Wordless Wednesday - Shirley Temple Reincarnated

Same curls, same cheeks, same smile,

and definitely same diva personality.

7 years and no itch in sight

"I love how much you love him." The Facebook message read and I thought, well duh, what's there not to love? I married the perfect man for me. He loves me. Wait. It's more than that. He knows me, understands me, and he still loves me.

He makes me laugh, he makes me feel good about myself, and he makes me feel needed.

He believes in me.

He knows how to orchestrate the best Mother's Day ever.

He gets better looking every day.

He's the best dad in the world.

He's the best husband I could have ever asked for.

So, yes, even though he sometimes snores and tonight when I told him that this summer we'd be celebrating our seventh anniversary his response was "That's disgusting," I do love him in that sick annoying way newlyweds love each other. And I don't see that ending any time soon.

The perfect Mother's Day doesn't have to include chocolate

The perfect Mother's Day isn't about pedicures and spa treatments. It's not about chocolate or candy. It's not even about time alone or fabulous presents.

The perfect Mother's Day is a day that reminds you why you love being a mother. It's filled with cuddles, love, and hugs. It's decorated with pictures painstakingly drawn by little hands. And it moves to the soundtrack of toddler giggles and preschooler songs.

I had the best Mother's Day ever. It started out with a long family snuggle in our not quite big enough bed. It continued with a lavish Country Club brunch and an afternoon at the in law's pool. And it ended with a low key, impromptu barbecue by the pool. Nothing special. Nothing out of the ordinary. Just a wonderful day with my wonderful family. A day that made me happy to be a mom.

Mother's Day can be sad you know

Not every mommy wakes up on Mother's Day with a smile on her face, some wake up with tears in their eyes, and it's not because they know they won't be getting the gift they covet.

Some moms wake up sad on Mother's Day because it's a painful reminder of the child(ren) they can't cuddle and love. For women who have lost a child in any way at all - miscarriage, still birth, death, custody battles - Mother's Day and all the hype that surrounds it is a brutal reminder of everything they can't have. By the same token dads who have lost a wife or children who have lost a mom feel that same pain.

Motherhood has nothing to do with poopy diapers and snotty noses. It's about the love a mother bears for a child who she carried in her womb, in her heart, or sometimes just in her head.
Moms who can't hold their children any more are still moms and they deserve the same recognition and the same attention on Mother's Day.

Do me a favor. Call it a Mother's Day gift if you will. Reach out on Sunday (or whenever you celebrate Mother's Day) and make these bereft moms feel just as special and loved as they would if their child were still with them*. Every loss is our loss too. Every mom is one of us. Don't forget them on this one day set aside to honor and appreciate moms and what they do.

Don't be afraid to reach out to a mom who has suffered a loss. The best gift you can ever give a mourning mom is the gift of remembrance. Tell her that you'll never forget, that her baby lives on in your heart too. She won't mind being reminded, she never forgets. She'll just be happy she's not the only one.

Happy Mother's Day to all moms. You'll be in my thoughts on Sunday.

*This Sunday I'll be thinking hard about these moms:
Tuesday's mom
Maddie's mom
Thalon's mom
Benoit's mom
Micah's mom
Shale's mom
And all the other moms who have lost their babies but don't have a blog for me to link to. If you know of others who might need a little extra love this weekend leave us the link so we can go say hi.

Her big mouth, that's what I inherited from my mother

People come to me for advice. A lot. They don't do it because I'm smart and know what I'm talking about. I mean, for the most part I am and I do, but that's not why they come to me. No, they come to me because they get exactly what they ask for. I don't sugar coat the truth. I ask the hard questions. And I make them see what they did or maybe didn't really want to see.

You'd think people would hate me for it, but they really don't. Of course I'm not mean about it. I'm not going to tell someone that they're making a horrendous mistake or anything, but I will help them see the truth for themselves. It's a gift. The gift of calling things as I see them. And it's not a gift I can take credit for.

See, I owe it all to my mother, the woman affectionately nicknamed "Big Mouth Maman*."

My mother has never been one to hold back. As kids we used to cringe at some of her comments. You never knew who would be the target and you never knew if they'd hear what she said. We'd cringe, and then we'd laugh, because sometimes it's pretty liberating to say whatever crosses your mind.

You'd be surprised at how much I learned from my mother's "I don't care what people think" attitude. Clearly, for starters, I learned not to care what other people think. And I learned that the truth doesn't kill. But most importantly I learned to observe, to notice flaws, to notice attributes. Because after all, if you want to critique, you have to first see things worth critiquing.

I might comment in a slightly more roundabout way than my mother, but I speak the truth just as candidly as she does. And when my friends thank me for my advice and tell me that they come to me because they can trust me to be brutally honest, well that just makes me proud. Proud to have been taught by the best.

This post was written in honor of the Parent Blogger's Mother's Day Blog Blast and and Johnson's second annual Celebrity Hand Me Down charity auction, which runs from 7 pm PT on Thursday May 7 through 7 pm PT on Thursday May 14 and features items donated by celebrity moms Gwyneth Paltrow and Jessica Alba.

Be sure to visit the Parent Blogger's Blog to see all the other fun things that have been handed down to bloggers by their moms!

*Maman = Mom in French.

I just want to blog, not fight. Is that still an option?

First there was the fear. The word on the street is that bloggers could be prosecuted for endorsing products without being crystal clear about their affiliation to the companies they are representing. Disclaimers started popping up on review sites and I naively thought that that would be the end of that.

Ha! Instead, the chatter about the need for transparency kicked open the door to the debate about fair compensation. People started ranting about the need to get paid to do reviews and giveaways. It's nothing new. It's all been said before, which doesn't make any of it any less valid, but it doesn't make it any less irritating either.

Reviews and giveaways aren't easy to write well. It takes time to write a good, honest, balanced review. Time to test the product and time to write the review. I probably invest a good 3 or 4 hours in each review/giveaway that I post. I'm not kidding. The actual post might just take an hour to write, but the testing and promoting of the giveaway take time too. So does picking a winner and coordinating the prize distribution.

I'm not complaining. I'm not in it for the money or the "free" products (not really so free if you count the hours that go into promoting them). Money would be nice, but I didn't start blogging to make mega bucks and I didn't stop blogging when they didn't start rolling in.

So, why am I blogging you ask?

I blog to share the daily stories and thoughts that bounce around my head.
I blog to improve my writing.
I blog to reach out to moms, dads, writers, and anyone else who might feel a sense of kinship with me.
I blog to feel connected to other bloggers around the world.
I write reviews to help small companies spread the word about their products.
I write reviews so I can share information about great, fun, or useful products that might be helpful to you.
And yes, I do it all to create a web presence for myself so that when my first novel comes out you'll all already know my name.

If I hear about a cool product that you might find helpful I reach out to the PR team to see if I can help promote it. The key factor here is you, the reader, not me, the blogger. I'm not out there trolling for products I want, I'm out there searching for things you might like. And then I spent hours sharing the information with you.

If companies stopped using bloggers to promote their products I'd still be telling you about my latest finds. And if people stopped advertising on the net I'd still be blogging. I'm here for the writing and for the readers.

That might not make me a very popular person among the bloggers who are trying to set fair compensation standards throughout the blogosphere. But I have to say that I don't really care. I don't have the energy to fight that fight. I'm too busy working on my writing.

I would love to be able to ask for $500/month for ads. I would like to demand payment for each and every one of the posts I write. I would like for all bloggers to be able to get the same! I value my work and it would be nice to be compensated for it. But I don't get nearly enough traffic to be able to stake those claims on the money. So I feel like it's not really my fight.

I'm sitting this one out and focusing on the writing instead of the perks. If the fair wages fight is eventually won, then great. If it isn't, I'll still be here after the dust settles and people have moved on to more lucrative ventures.

I miss the time when no one else knew them

This morning a friend who just found out she's pregnant (One of many right now!) asked me if I was glad I wasn't the one calling with the news.

My gut reaction was a resounding Duh! Twenty-one months without sleep does not foster any kind of baby lust at all. The thought of another two years of being woken up multiple times a night sends shivers down my back, and not the good kinds of shivers.

And yet, as glad as I am to not be pregnant, a part of me is insanely jealous. Don't tell anyone, OK? But I kind of miss being pregnant. No, not the nausea, weird cravings, back aches, constant peeing, or wild mood swings. I just miss that oneness with the baby.

For nine (or ten, depending on how you count) relatively short months my babies and I were a whole. It was the two of us, united against the world. During those months I was that baby's entire world. She didn't know anything else and no one else knew her.

It's selfish and shallow and even maybe a bit silly, but I miss being my children's whole world. These days Daddy is their prince and I'm just in the way. Last week, two days in a row I was summarily dismissed when he got home. Sent away with a resounding "Bye bye! Mommy go! Daddy stays!" I walked away, a bit shocked that I could just walk away and leave them behind.

There are no words to express the love that wells up inside me when I watch my children play with their father. When them run to him in the morning for a last hug goodbye or beg for one final kiss at bedtime I marvel at the bonds they've developed over the years. It's everything it should be. It's ideal and perfect.

But sometimes I watch them from the sidelines, one hand on my belly, remembering what it was like when I was the only one who knew them at all, and hoping that one day I'll get to feel that closeness again.

Takes guts to go back and read what you've written

Ever since February when I started seriously working on my novel again I've been forging ahead, desperate to get to the end. My only goal was to power through the first draft, come what may, and just. get. it. done.

I think I was terrified that if I stopped to reread what I'd done I'd either get paralyzed again and stop, or I'd realize that I was writing drivel and stop. So I powered through. I wrote through scenes that I knew were terrible. I wrote on even when I knew I wasn't getting the character's details just right. It didn't matter. None of it mattered as long as I got to the end.

I'm 1/3rd of the way through and I stopped to go back to the beginning.

I'm not going to rework everything, I'm not going to make significant edits. I'm just going to change the point of view of the major character and see how the story is building. I'm doing what I didn't think I had the guts to do before I went to to hang out with a group of writers for a day.

So far I've learned that I wasn't writing drivel. Now let's see if I have the guts to keep going.

Stepping into a whole new world.

Just before the polished elevator door starts to open I take a deep breath and I glance at my reflection. I look OK, not great, but not bad either, at least my hair is behaving today. I square my shoulders back and step out onto the floor.

"Excuse me?" I ask a passing hotel employee. "Where can I find the Executive Boardroom?"

She directs me to the second door on the left around the corner and I head in that direction. With any luck no one can tell that butterflies are doing jumping jacks in the pit of my stomach. What kinds of people attend Romance Writer's Association meetings? Heck, who writes romance novels? My stories aren't romances. Are they? I'm pretty sure they aren't. Are these people going to know? Are they going to care? Are they going think I'm a fraud?

The door to the boardroom is wide open and I step in unnoticed. A group of women, all ages, all types, walk around with bunches of bookmarks and fliers which they're adding to the already towering stacks on the large boardroom table. None of the women look like what I would expect, but I watch them and realize I'm not surprised. If you have no expectations they can't be dashed. Three weeks ago I didn't even know the Romance Writer's Association existed. Three weeks ago I hadn't given it any thought at all.

I interrupt the excited banter with a quiet greeting. I want to stay unnoticed. I need to observe these people for a moment, just to see if I can fit in, but I don't get a chance. I take the stack of postcards a member hands me and I join the women already gathered around the table. For a minute we move awkwardly around each other, darting in and out, adding our things to the stacks, then we fall into a rhythm, all of us dancing around the table in the same direction, at the same speed.

I don't talk much save for a few murmured hellos. I just strain to listen.

"Are you pitching tomorrow?"
"What are you working on?"
"Hey! How's that new story coming along?"
"What are you going to pitch? The finished one or the new one?"

The chatter is energetic and friendly. I don't hear jealousy, just support and honest interest. I listen more intently, but I just get more of the same - advice, support, even genuine affection. In a group of bloggers there's often an undercurrent of tension and competition. There are many of us fighting to be heard in one small overcrowded space. I can't detect that same undercurrent here. This is a group of women coming together to support each other, not size each other up.

"Hey! Jessica, want to come get some coffee?"

I look around to see if the words are being directed at someone else, but the speaker is looking straight at me. I nod, still a bit unsure, and she smiles at me. I'm still not sure that what I write fits under the Romance genre, but don't think that's going to matter all that much.

*************
I ended up learning a ton this weekend, including the fact that I don't write Chick Lit, I write Women's Fiction, which falls broadly under the Romance Writer's umbrella, so all was truly well.

Friday Flashback - You know you're a writer when...

This week's Friday Flashback has everything to do with the fact that I'm attending my very first writer's conference and I really needed a little reminder that I'm actually a writer, you know, even though I don't have a finished manuscript yet.
Friday Flashback is all about bringing to light some of my favorite posts from my archives to breathe new life into them. This post that was originally published in October 2008.

Yesterday I discovered a delicious little book by Adair Lara called You Know You're a Writer When... filled with fun little quips collected from writers about their occupation. Crack open the little blue book and you'll come across such gems as:

You know you're a writer when....

... writing is the only thing that makes you happy, and you hate writing.

... you hire a babysitter to watch your kid so you can go to your office and write about how much you love him.

... you have an opinion on the serial comma.

... you don't know what you think until you see what you wrote.

And my personal favorite
... you relish reading a junky novel because every paragraph reminds you of how much better a writer you are than the author. At the same time you are sick to your stomach: this hack at least got published.

I chuckled and nodded knowingly almost every time I turned the page, but at the end I thought up a few that they seem to have forgotten.

You know you're a writer when...

...you own many pens and they are each equally essential in their own way. If you have the wrong pen you aren't able to write.

...you know just how much coffee you can drink before the jitters interfere with your typing.

...you mourn the loss of each and every notebook, despite the hundred others you have in your car, at home, or in your bag.

...you dream about your characters more often than about your friends or family.

...you are convinced that every story you forget because you didn't have the right pen and notebook on hand to jot it down was the story that was going to make you win that Pulitzer.

I went to bed way too late last night, or I'm sure I could come up with a few more. I'd better make sure I have the right pen and notebook with me this afternoon so I can be sure to write them down before I forget.