tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-79082178222350724062024-02-21T04:52:43.248-08:00MOTHER'S GILTElizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10405771183597929392noreply@blogger.comBlogger33125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7908217822235072406.post-44624339067595366752013-10-18T15:11:00.000-07:002013-10-18T15:11:31.616-07:00Soon to be a Mother of Two<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I don’t know what came over me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One day, I looked at Darla walking around and
talking and thought, “holy crap, I think I want to have another one.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I brought it up to Greg and he wasn’t sold
on the idea for a few more months.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We both knew, once we found out I was pregnant with Darla,
that we were going to have another kid.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>In fact, within minutes of Darla being born I thought, “Oh crap, I’m
going to have to do the whole pregnancy and delivery crap all over again
someday.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had been dreading getting
pregnant ever since. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Overtime, however, the morning sickness, extreme fatigue,
the baby limbs jutting out of my stomach, the heartburn and the peeing 20 to 25
times a day became a distant memory.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
looked back on myself from 2010 and thought I was just being a baby.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It wasn’t that bad.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Once I got pregnant this time, I quickly realized that it
really was as bad as I had remembered.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
was sick for 19 weeks, had a few weeks where I felt ok and then the extreme
fatigue and discomfort kicked in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m
not a very grateful pregnant woman.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m
angry and I complain a lot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t
enjoy being pregnant and see it as the cross I must bare in order to get the
baby.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Which brings me to today; 38.5 weeks pregnant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m shortly going to introduce a baby boy,
currently named Butter courtesy of Darla, into the world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I’m terrified beyond words.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know it’s going to be hard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know it’s going to rock my world and that
it’s going to be like climbing a mountain with a toddler clinging to my leg and
a newborn strapped to my chest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know
I’m going to be even more exhausted than I am now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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I, also, know, that life’s going to get even more awesome
because I’m going to get to meet Baby Butter and watch he and Darla grow up
together.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These past months are a small
price to pay for that amount of amazing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></div>
Elizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10405771183597929392noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7908217822235072406.post-21520406276783625132012-10-22T11:04:00.000-07:002012-10-22T11:04:26.967-07:00Baking Time with DarlaSometimes, it's ok to give your toddler and her cousin a bowl of flour to play with. The memories far outweigh the time it takes to clean it up (especially when your brother sweeps up the mess).<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="allowfullscreen" frameborder="0" height="281" mozallowfullscreen="mozallowfullscreen" src="http://player.vimeo.com/video/51420255" webkitallowfullscreen="webkitallowfullscreen" width="500"></iframe> <a href="http://vimeo.com/51420255">Baking with Darla</a> from <a href="http://vimeo.com/user4545242">Frank McKenna</a> on <a href="http://vimeo.com/">Vimeo</a>.Elizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10405771183597929392noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7908217822235072406.post-68872145243551810932012-09-12T16:42:00.000-07:002012-09-12T16:42:41.201-07:00Like Cussing Mother, Like Cussing Daughter
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaWeBUTOVxnSwcS1UQD0dV7Kze9bgX8gzIHnrmDIzQNCeeMuIeFNrlsw8Y-oRgs7axDLWjdnF17_qy-PU3BXhkLgCVKfxxxH0HOYTaX-kEaye70tqmcXu5iFIzQak8OD-AznCzRYLivuE/s1600/620670_4168925855856_1741525901_o.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaWeBUTOVxnSwcS1UQD0dV7Kze9bgX8gzIHnrmDIzQNCeeMuIeFNrlsw8Y-oRgs7axDLWjdnF17_qy-PU3BXhkLgCVKfxxxH0HOYTaX-kEaye70tqmcXu5iFIzQak8OD-AznCzRYLivuE/s400/620670_4168925855856_1741525901_o.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div>
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According to my sister Bridget, the first time I cussed was
when I was four. Eight siblings had just
crawled out of the backseat of our dad’s station wagon. I was about to follow suit when Bridget closed
the door in my face, forgetting that I was still in the car. Realizing her mistake, she turned around to
open it. Before she could, she read my little
lips as I yelled, “oh shit.” I was angry
and surprised and I had no other choice but to curse my way through the
situation. I don’t think I’ve stopped swearing
since.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Darla is an even earlier bloomer than I was. It was a proud moment in my life when I
realized that my 18-month-old daughter was a swearer. This special occasion happened for me when I
gave Darla a juice box filled with coconut water. She took a long, satisfied pull from it,
slammed it down on the table and said, “Oh S” (but it’s not just “s”) with a
big grin on her face. Greg and I looked
at each other and put our heads on the table. The most troubling part about this wasn’t the
fact that she said it, but that she had reached a level of sophisticated
cussing that she completely bypassed the frustrated or angry profanity and went
straight for the joyful use. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is a wake up call for me. Although I’ve been very conscious not to let vulgarity
rein, I’ve let a few (or maybe a little more than a few…) muttered profanities
pass my lips in her presence. Sometimes,
it came as a result of running late for an appointment and seeing that Darla
had decided to take my bag and dump it all over the floor. Other times, it was when I’d been so excited
by something cool Darla has done (like dancing like a “Maniac”) that I exclaim,
“that’s f’ing amazing.” I’m 100% to
blame for this and I apologize in advance to all of the parent’s Darla and I
come in contact with. Darla has been
known to teach other kids such wonderful things as “no, no, no, no, no” or
screaming at the top of her lungs.
Here’s just one more thing to add to your list of “things my child
learned from Darla that I now have to unteach it.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m at a loss of how to deprogram Darla, but I have been
trying my hand at redirecting her language.
Here are some examples: When
Darla says the s-word I pretend she has said “cheese.” With her garbled tones, it’s an easy mistake
to make. I’m hoping after enough rounds
of this, she will get confused and think she’s actually saying cheese. Also, I believe I’ve heard Darla say the b-word,
but I just translate that to “peach.”
When the day comes when Darla says the f-word, I imagine I will have to
think she’s saying “fork” and pass her the utensil. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m hoping this plan works.
I try not to let my mind linger on the fact that she may just end up
saying the s-word every time she wants a slice of cheese. <o:p></o:p></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Elizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10405771183597929392noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7908217822235072406.post-15422671546417908332012-08-08T15:43:00.004-07:002012-08-08T15:43:57.390-07:00A Bad Case of Motherhood<br />
Infants and toddlers with their new, little immune systems get sick every other week. Everyone knows that. A mom, an adult with a supposedly seasoned and robust immune system, is supposed to be the rock on which her sick children lean. I, unfortunately, am not of such sturdy stock as I imagine all others to be. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg59p_T3-xDRqK0I66-3Ct7PjTvMhke8ceYNwvmXvz3AdFMSRzvf5Mw2TvdT4K_6VC4lzusTgsW-QQfyianDJe9logKchi0vHmUZlY2ZxW31QNU1iHHoGb_s_MNTK4XZcLvWe1_oZBoZGk/s1600/P1090298.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg59p_T3-xDRqK0I66-3Ct7PjTvMhke8ceYNwvmXvz3AdFMSRzvf5Mw2TvdT4K_6VC4lzusTgsW-QQfyianDJe9logKchi0vHmUZlY2ZxW31QNU1iHHoGb_s_MNTK4XZcLvWe1_oZBoZGk/s320/P1090298.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
Sometime around Darla's first birthday in March, I lost it because every time she was sick, I was sick. By May, it had been two months of a non-stop viral party. I couldn't believe that I just had a weak immune system. I decided there was something terribly wrong with my health. I looked over the past few months. Consistent sinus infections, hand, foot and mouth disease, extreme exhaustion and fevers. The only thing I could glean from this information was that I was anemic, again. I tried taking vitamins, drinking more water and eating better. I still felt like my head was stuft with cotton and that my eyes were hung-over droopy.<br />
<br />
After putting it off for months, I went to the doctor. I was ashamed to admit I felt malaise, achy and at my wits end. I thought that there was no way she would under stand the pain I was enduring. <br />
<br />
She walked into the office, asked if I had any concerns and I dove right in.<br />
<br />
"I have a 14 month, whose actually in the waiting room with her dad. I've been sick non-stop, I'm going brain-dead because I'm so tired and I wake up every morning dreading my to do list. I count the minutes until I can go back to sleep from the second I wake up."<br />
<br />
I thought she was going to criticize me for being an unenthusiastic, apathetic parent who can't properly raise a child. I hoped she would diagnose my anemia before she got to that part.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjib-gT_AoKHmJhTsMqFhS931FH9IYWZfsu_Ub99C83dp0WLrHGpbydLZ7QMJ6gKySIZG_EFp3c-jPJd5yfD903YJryA6BJV-bUsTqZ51kLP4ll4NvIBQF2DgGSsKeYxz1aBxqMSv-Z6O4/s1600/P1090294.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjib-gT_AoKHmJhTsMqFhS931FH9IYWZfsu_Ub99C83dp0WLrHGpbydLZ7QMJ6gKySIZG_EFp3c-jPJd5yfD903YJryA6BJV-bUsTqZ51kLP4ll4NvIBQF2DgGSsKeYxz1aBxqMSv-Z6O4/s320/P1090294.JPG" width="320" /></a>Instead, after she heard my monologue listing my ailments, she gave a look as if to say, "there's more, right?"<br />
<br />
I added, "I used to have anemia, so I think its come back."<br />
<br />
She shook her head, "I think that you're experiencing what it's like to be a mother. This all sounds very normal."<br />
<br />
I wanted to argue with her. Tell her that she didn't know what she was talking about and that being a mom can't be this hard. To have argued that point would have meant ignoring the big elephant in the room (aka her 8 month old pot belly of her second pregnancy). <br />
<br />
To placate me, she agreed to run some tests, which I didn't end up taking until two months later.<br />
<br />
When I finally went in for the blood tests, I anxiously awaited the day that the results would come in. I was excited to find out that I had a minor problem, which could be cured by a few pills. The phone call I received regarding the results was beyond disappointing. My levels were all normal. There would be no miracle pills for me.<br />
<br />
Despite this lack of a diagnosis, I trudge on. The exhaustion has slightly diminished. I went a whole month without getting sick. I only count down the minutes until lunch and then, from there, I count down the minutes until bed. Things are improving!Elizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10405771183597929392noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7908217822235072406.post-78095912455444506122012-07-16T20:28:00.002-07:002012-07-16T20:29:31.185-07:00Panic Attacks<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy__eTdnmMb23VpwIffzPpzRx_UOm4wp6H_sUFyfTSqS3vi5hsa00n4xTDt3qKx7kMfRwS1tWhLYUujtk5IqOZqzsHsuVtrE86pruddBDWflEZOn_UYvsyHG3JXccvoEt8LRKH0ERcieY/s1600/599525_3897897440315_1608866019_n.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy__eTdnmMb23VpwIffzPpzRx_UOm4wp6H_sUFyfTSqS3vi5hsa00n4xTDt3qKx7kMfRwS1tWhLYUujtk5IqOZqzsHsuVtrE86pruddBDWflEZOn_UYvsyHG3JXccvoEt8LRKH0ERcieY/s400/599525_3897897440315_1608866019_n.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'm not a fan of her being this close to dogs.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I walked on eggshells my entire pregnancy. My heart would pound if I didn't feel Darla's incessant kicks. I would get dizzy before doctors appointments as I worked myself into a panic over what they might find. <span style="background-color: white;">I thought pregnancy was the hard part. "Once she's out," I told myself, "the constant terror will fade into the background and you'll never feel this kind of fear again."</span><span style="background-color: white;"> </span><br />
<br />
Unfortunately, the real panic kicked in once Darla was born. For an entire years, I lay awake at night in order to stare at her monitor. I felt like the unimaginable would occur if I didn't watch her belly rise and fall. And, as is typically for a newborn, she would often go seconds without breathing. This made my blood run cold every single time. I prayed for the first year to pass quickly so I could stop worrying about her so much.<br />
<br />
At sixteen months, I'm in an even more intense, condensed state of stress than I've ever been in. Her world has gotten so much larger and, with that, the dangers have just multiplied exponentially. I daily run through a mental checklist of dangers and I swear I can't breath by the time I'm halfway through. There's batteries, sharp plastic bits, poisonous spiders, pointy edges, scary strangers, rabid dogs, concrete sidewalks... I could go on with my list, but I'm starting to feel anxious. As a result, I prefer to keep her locked in her baby-proofed bedroom where there are no corners for her to hide behind, sockets she can poke her little fingers into and no stray pennies. I watch her bang on the door, furiously trying to get outside into the dangerous world, and fantasize about how much easier life will be when she's not a young toddler who constantly wants to eat whatever she finds on the floor.Elizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10405771183597929392noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7908217822235072406.post-22954159597117604182012-06-20T22:23:00.001-07:002012-06-21T13:16:27.736-07:00Pretty as a Picture<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9UqCoggu5pv_UWHGnKtqVHBHlBVdbFj0iIerhnqS7nDi5-nGiOCFN1_QYxwgJBxwIv7KGSAa6fxWcJSuPbSHGeeqkpeKgXMtVjiXLHumS6HFQZCkGfDpYfhkG6NK94y67pEXV750cI8U/s1600/282925_10150973829799539_1912590505_n.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9UqCoggu5pv_UWHGnKtqVHBHlBVdbFj0iIerhnqS7nDi5-nGiOCFN1_QYxwgJBxwIv7KGSAa6fxWcJSuPbSHGeeqkpeKgXMtVjiXLHumS6HFQZCkGfDpYfhkG6NK94y67pEXV750cI8U/s640/282925_10150973829799539_1912590505_n.jpeg" width="456" /></a></div>
With each day that passes since my last blog entry, I feel less and less inclined to post. I think about scrapping this all together and starting new so no one can see how few and far between they are. I'm terrified of coming off as a failure, a lazy mom or an unmotivated writer. I compare myself to other moms who seem to be able to make their children incredibly nutritious meals, create crafting projects, work an eight hour day, have a fantastic meal prepared for dinner and who get their hair done every six weeks (I'm especially jealous of that last one). I see myself, with my rushed mornings, my basic lunches, hectic days and burned out evenings spent on social networks and fall into despair. I know I'm not supposed to look at myself in contrast to other people, but god damnit it gets frustrating when I feel like I'm surrounded by women who seem to have it together. Everyday that I don't blog is just another excuse to get upset with myself and another way in which I feel as I have failed as a mother.<br />
<br />
So, I'm biting the bullet and writing, despite how silly and exposing it feels. <br />
<br />
And I sit at the computer with my mind completely blank and unable to figure out what to write about. Then, I look at this amazing picture my brother took of Darla and I in the water. The moment looks so fresh and carefree. We're having the time of our lives. You wouldn't guess that Darla was stomping around in murky water or that I was hot and stressed about whether or not I had put enough sunblock on her. In that moment, I felt that I looked like a frazzled mom. In reality, that seems to have all been in my head. When I think about that moment that she marched into that water fully clothed, I know I was happy and that I looked happy. I didn't look as confused, overwhelmed and exhausted as I thought I did. (But that's not to say that I didn't pass out very early that night from a very confusing, overwhelming and exhausting day. I'm learning to accept that those emotions will be felt almost daily).<br />
<br />
I think about what another mom might think when she sees this picture and I bet someone might feel like our lives are full of spontaneous beach visits and calm moments at the beach. I feel comforted that maybe someone out there might look at me and think, "she's got it figured out." I won't bother telling her about the Sh*tsplosion Darla had on our way back to Los Angeles from San Diego. Nor will I mention that she was covered from head to toe in her poo, which she had managed to do in the five minutes it took to get off the freeway. Or that I didn't have any wipes so I had to use clothes I was going to donate to wipe up as much as I could before bringing her into the gas station bathroom for a "trucker's bath." I will keep up the illusion that the day was full of sunshine, laughter and waves.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHxWgP1jldhyphenhyphenpzym1YYITJp0hYK0wAZdc6QQoLLbUih7DLHm40zGvkMKCLwE0TCA7lDd8px5NJFMOaqAfssVpZVXvfE6jNXPQRni_fpu4P9yRsh1aiOqIHerlISVcb0afa8Le7LTnENl8/s1600/389573_10150973823759539_1058847139_n.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHxWgP1jldhyphenhyphenpzym1YYITJp0hYK0wAZdc6QQoLLbUih7DLHm40zGvkMKCLwE0TCA7lDd8px5NJFMOaqAfssVpZVXvfE6jNXPQRni_fpu4P9yRsh1aiOqIHerlISVcb0afa8Le7LTnENl8/s400/389573_10150973823759539_1058847139_n.jpeg" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A moment of calm before she wriggled out of my arms.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxr36-fShrAxA8R3sXyUU8Hj-gCGv12Xc14y88rr63X0ZBuVeMBqy1tEe7c6Outp5laCaB3M0ZsK86V0bDj3Jw2Yt5rw0cn-A-MZQmE7dHMcoNk8yq-V_6uC5-tvo77RxtbHcFkusrdNc/s1600/538207_10150973823104539_306425145_n.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxr36-fShrAxA8R3sXyUU8Hj-gCGv12Xc14y88rr63X0ZBuVeMBqy1tEe7c6Outp5laCaB3M0ZsK86V0bDj3Jw2Yt5rw0cn-A-MZQmE7dHMcoNk8yq-V_6uC5-tvo77RxtbHcFkusrdNc/s400/538207_10150973823104539_306425145_n.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pure joy</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX04uNsE40wIsl9LL_HAmo5ByhMulQxEb3f52xUxejfRXmQEtEBnQvnV4MqTEQUIXQRaW6z8n_QyU4TGHwKU6FkC2PtJe6JxDOqx9RyF5VoPnm74IKQP_QkmQyqP2gljHpgYqWr3KgTmA/s1600/550923_10150973841604539_1695120980_n.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX04uNsE40wIsl9LL_HAmo5ByhMulQxEb3f52xUxejfRXmQEtEBnQvnV4MqTEQUIXQRaW6z8n_QyU4TGHwKU6FkC2PtJe6JxDOqx9RyF5VoPnm74IKQP_QkmQyqP2gljHpgYqWr3KgTmA/s400/550923_10150973841604539_1695120980_n.jpeg" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">She reminds me of a cute old woman in this one.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihxYQR99ZRPSSUBMtQf0qyT-yvYrDJS9J4jha4tommnIGktEo3iejxBNVvBOrCFeTHdiIiAHTQ_CBqnE3Ev0PRlZw2JmZItckaBsCNjZJZFAoMtoNsDxKx3Y5ugVpGI5XgPJb0wxfxUDE/s1600/575779_10150973822599539_72677357_n.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihxYQR99ZRPSSUBMtQf0qyT-yvYrDJS9J4jha4tommnIGktEo3iejxBNVvBOrCFeTHdiIiAHTQ_CBqnE3Ev0PRlZw2JmZItckaBsCNjZJZFAoMtoNsDxKx3Y5ugVpGI5XgPJb0wxfxUDE/s400/575779_10150973822599539_72677357_n.jpeg" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">She's about to run off.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr45q30hgMwjY_E_ADDkSPy9u3lGHd6F3Mqs23qGsWUwZCahH3-h3kcXNDJOuEYsA-EBPMnxEBQ7EusMkuiq3wjI_H7Ya00E96ciwqUq-WLyZ0A6KDgFkdbwyH0HejG9INCh011vK2tOU/s1600/601020_10150973939879539_1596761074_n.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr45q30hgMwjY_E_ADDkSPy9u3lGHd6F3Mqs23qGsWUwZCahH3-h3kcXNDJOuEYsA-EBPMnxEBQ7EusMkuiq3wjI_H7Ya00E96ciwqUq-WLyZ0A6KDgFkdbwyH0HejG9INCh011vK2tOU/s400/601020_10150973939879539_1596761074_n.jpeg" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">She pulled the hat over her face and started walking into walls.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />Elizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10405771183597929392noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7908217822235072406.post-47922035416420378032012-04-04T11:39:00.000-07:002012-04-04T11:39:08.040-07:00Birth of a Fashion Plate<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:OfficeDocumentSettings> <o:AllowPNG/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:TrackMoves/> <w:TrackFormatting/> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:DoNotPromoteQF/> <w:LidThemeOther>EN-US</w:LidThemeOther> <w:LidThemeAsian>JA</w:LidThemeAsian> <w:LidThemeComplexScript>X-NONE</w:LidThemeComplexScript> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> <w:SplitPgBreakAndParaMark/> <w:EnableOpenTypeKerning/> <w:DontFlipMirrorIndents/> <w:OverrideTableStyleHps/> <w:UseFELayout/> </w:Compatibility> <m:mathPr> <m:mathFont m:val="Cambria Math"/> <m:brkBin m:val="before"/> <m:brkBinSub m:val="--"/> <m:smallFrac m:val="off"/> <m:dispDef/> <m:lMargin m:val="0"/> <m:rMargin m:val="0"/> <m:defJc m:val="centerGroup"/> <m:wrapIndent m:val="1440"/> <m:intLim m:val="subSup"/> <m:naryLim m:val="undOvr"/> </m:mathPr></w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" DefUnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<div class="MsoNormal">There comes a moment in a mother’s life when her child does her proud. Either she learns to love her favorite sandwich or learns the melody to her favorite song. This moment came for me when I learned that Darla loves fashion. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">First, there was the moment she realized that her favorite pair of gold Ralph Lauren slippers no longer fit. I struggled to shove her chubby little toes in, but took them off when I saw her foot was turning red. She tossed her head backward and yelled. I let her get it all out. When she calmed down, she picked up the shoe and tried to squeeze it onto her foot herself. I tried to distract her with a pair of pink converse, but she just whimpered and looked at the gold slippers longingly. When she wasn’t looking, I slipped the gold slippers into her drawer. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbNgInB4gZNnEDxYjJaa-H7UfSHh1Ih_HWhnJjXzFWzHwcMATAqqqKIshu_G2I2JqxlD3WyuLL4s6SGX_XuGO1XYf_qd-lgQRg3t6jjzIdXeVB7Xasnke7DC8I9kNuhKSwlqGdmpkOZoE/s1600/535688_374112382622502_100000712310317_1185615_865148952_n.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbNgInB4gZNnEDxYjJaa-H7UfSHh1Ih_HWhnJjXzFWzHwcMATAqqqKIshu_G2I2JqxlD3WyuLL4s6SGX_XuGO1XYf_qd-lgQRg3t6jjzIdXeVB7Xasnke7DC8I9kNuhKSwlqGdmpkOZoE/s640/535688_374112382622502_100000712310317_1185615_865148952_n.jpeg" width="476" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">Second was when she learned to pose because she was wearing a Chanel necklace. This picture speaks for itself.<o:p></o:p></div><!--EndFragment-->Elizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10405771183597929392noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7908217822235072406.post-17223381234644939922012-02-14T21:34:00.000-08:002012-02-14T21:34:28.153-08:00A Day in Our Lives<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/3CxbyZm2WnY" width="560"></iframe>Elizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10405771183597929392noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7908217822235072406.post-84592652677172695802012-02-08T20:54:00.000-08:002012-02-08T20:54:16.003-08:00Another Memory (Courtesy of Uncle Frank)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://blog.frankiefoto.com/"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/E6WHx7qQGh0?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></a></div><br />
Thank you, <a href="http://blog.frankiefoto.com/">Frank</a>, for the beautiful video...Elizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10405771183597929392noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7908217822235072406.post-80571234168999767622012-01-31T22:23:00.000-08:002012-01-31T22:23:35.807-08:00Parenthood: The Death of IronyI'm much more earnest and direct than I was before. Greg says that I don't even have time for irony anymore, which actually isn't true. It's not time that's to blame, but, rather, it's the fault of my ever diminishing brain cells. The make it impossible to contemplate or create anything that requires my focus for more than 30 seconds. Irony and humor, unfortunately, need to take a back seat to thoughts of Darla's next meal or when I can squeeze in cleaning.<br />
<br />
While my brain shrinks, my ability to remember things also gets worse and worse. Since I'm so tired that I can barely remember how old I am, I'm eternally grateful to my brother <a href="http://www.frankiefoto.com/">Frank</a> for documenting my time with my family so well. Now, I can look at the pictures and remember the weekend in January that felt like the Fourth of July. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2hWuySwX9UFEe5rpavDimRNTF09ablUXlmDFl0sal-hF8BAZbjCmG6l1wVvG37n4fI6JL13reMHKoOTKpz1Ya6msHgABsoK5Z3n41rcg27-FcauKqC-92gvTdFFQ3U4LrQ5_68tntlMU/s1600/326497_10150566639909539_777049538_8812718_298168644_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2hWuySwX9UFEe5rpavDimRNTF09ablUXlmDFl0sal-hF8BAZbjCmG6l1wVvG37n4fI6JL13reMHKoOTKpz1Ya6msHgABsoK5Z3n41rcg27-FcauKqC-92gvTdFFQ3U4LrQ5_68tntlMU/s400/326497_10150566639909539_777049538_8812718_298168644_o.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Darla attempts to eat dog poo. Luckily, Aunt Erin stopped her.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtDdfTlqrgTEQD9hlrcCxdSbL2ejSDNnNbv4mu_yP4KwAULrnV6uig5CeB0Lp89kR_eRCYiXksd95kim5OyjJsKHWSdCy-mayZUjFvgiLVNXgU2aB0wfOSQeU62UlPtyk9urWjAESDUsg/s1600/329548_10150567956899539_777049538_8817032_707825962_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtDdfTlqrgTEQD9hlrcCxdSbL2ejSDNnNbv4mu_yP4KwAULrnV6uig5CeB0Lp89kR_eRCYiXksd95kim5OyjJsKHWSdCy-mayZUjFvgiLVNXgU2aB0wfOSQeU62UlPtyk9urWjAESDUsg/s400/329548_10150567956899539_777049538_8817032_707825962_o.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Darla with her adorable cousin, Oliver</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYFH3r8Srnc-qCjnLQ3tZJUpx-Q4tvMtgZHi_yRSc034qOvK63MlKV-LX8FEy0p-C9pCwFlreZrCEsMyx7Ps5Ard0va461J7tPqZgd5ustawW22RNWrWKP64b0DT9-NlmZIJxWpxcJC4I/s1600/330112_10150569503339539_777049538_8822492_2125333050_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYFH3r8Srnc-qCjnLQ3tZJUpx-Q4tvMtgZHi_yRSc034qOvK63MlKV-LX8FEy0p-C9pCwFlreZrCEsMyx7Ps5Ard0va461J7tPqZgd5ustawW22RNWrWKP64b0DT9-NlmZIJxWpxcJC4I/s400/330112_10150569503339539_777049538_8822492_2125333050_o.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Three generations in one Radio Flyer.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWI5Mim-UM6hv1xu12WEVjfe4ETzhWCYFUDPwFEydxmRJbJdR6JLmljyW8GmvIe_8FDFKqyv-3OkVI3etuKdljup2G0GPwZlQSK6yvscHU3nbBN90s_45c93DaUGobGC4G7F3YNXjBSAg/s1600/415377_10150567941889539_777049538_8816973_389620492_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWI5Mim-UM6hv1xu12WEVjfe4ETzhWCYFUDPwFEydxmRJbJdR6JLmljyW8GmvIe_8FDFKqyv-3OkVI3etuKdljup2G0GPwZlQSK6yvscHU3nbBN90s_45c93DaUGobGC4G7F3YNXjBSAg/s400/415377_10150567941889539_777049538_8816973_389620492_o.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We have the same crooked smile.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Elizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10405771183597929392noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7908217822235072406.post-7783136351259812792012-01-15T20:35:00.000-08:002012-01-15T20:35:08.264-08:00Let Sleeping Darlas Lie<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF7gcPcalPT6YSkwA-DdRW8Uq296DXfE89uBHwYfHEP6PlXD_uejZ21rWH44U-Wyd3YzpzOXtqaMs9rqjLV7gjHhmh_GoHEB9cHSRPHGS5l5UtvByOXMGy8HmRCkdjnWAsNb-3LZl4-a0/s1600/photo+%252859%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF7gcPcalPT6YSkwA-DdRW8Uq296DXfE89uBHwYfHEP6PlXD_uejZ21rWH44U-Wyd3YzpzOXtqaMs9rqjLV7gjHhmh_GoHEB9cHSRPHGS5l5UtvByOXMGy8HmRCkdjnWAsNb-3LZl4-a0/s400/photo+%252859%2529.JPG" width="298" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">I was guilty and anxious before I had a baby. The situation has not improved at all. It’s actually gotten worse. Especially on the days I work from home. I want to give 100% to Darla and 100% to work. Neither is possible and I end up feeling like a horrible failure as each only gets about 30% (don’t ask me where the other 40% is. I think I lost it somewhere in my second trimester <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Today was shaping up to be one of those frantic afternoons (darting between feeding Darla, doing laundry, setting up the bakery’s insurance and, maybe, squeezing in a bathroom break) when my working day came to a grinding halt. After attempting to logon to my email, I found that the Internet was down. I reset the modem several times. I had no other solutions beyond this, so I started walking in circles. I stopped walking when I realized that I had forgotten to pay the bill. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“That’s an easy fix,” I thought and called in my payment. The automated system told me it would take half an hour for my service to be turned on. I was at a loss and resumed walking in circles. My plans for a frantic day were nothing without the Internet <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Darla smiled up at me from her high chair. She rubbed her eye and tugged her ear. There was my answer. I was being summoned to begin the most stressful part of my afternoon: getting Darla down for a nap. This involves a lot of deafening howls and countless trips into her room to coax her down from standing up in her crib. After a half hour, I would most likely give up on a crib nap and just put her in the car to fall asleep so I can run errands. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Today, I didn’t feel like getting into the ring with Darla, so I decided to let her fall asleep on our bed. After 15 minutes of shrieks and trying to keep Darla from sitting up, I gave up and gathered her into my arms. I lay her head on my chest and she stuck her thumb in her mouth. Within a minute, she was fast asleep in my arms and I lay back while she sighed deeply on my chest. As I listened to her breath, sadness came over me. I realized that laying her sleeping body across my chest on a warm afternoon with little strands of light coming through the window wasn’t going to last forever. Her little roly-poly body would only be able to lie on me for a finite amount of time before she learns that she and I are not the same person.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">For a moment, I thought about all the work I should be doing besides holding Darla in my arms. This was a useless thought. One year from now, was I going to regret not folding the laundry? Probably not. Would I regret not taking advantage of an opportunity to rest with my daughter? Definitely. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I hugged her tighter and felt incredibly sad that I couldn’t lay there with her forever and incredibly grateful for the fact that I forgot to pay our Internet bill. I bought myself a chance to be 100% a good mom. I closed my eyes to just let it all soak in when Darla lifted her head and poked my eye open. <o:p></o:p></div>Elizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10405771183597929392noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7908217822235072406.post-5312139201244211762012-01-07T18:44:00.000-08:002012-01-07T18:44:18.877-08:00Darla's Laughter (Again)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/QRneoTOEOTI?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>This is kind of an old video, but wanted to put it up since I haven't posted in months.Elizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10405771183597929392noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7908217822235072406.post-813153004705389762011-08-24T21:34:00.000-07:002011-08-24T21:34:19.988-07:00A Gaggle of Moms and a Lunch Rush <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:OfficeDocumentSettings> <o:AllowPNG/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:TrackMoves/> <w:TrackFormatting/> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:DoNotPromoteQF/> <w:LidThemeOther>EN-US</w:LidThemeOther> <w:LidThemeAsian>JA</w:LidThemeAsian> <w:LidThemeComplexScript>X-NONE</w:LidThemeComplexScript> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> <w:SplitPgBreakAndParaMark/> <w:EnableOpenTypeKerning/> <w:DontFlipMirrorIndents/> <w:OverrideTableStyleHps/> <w:UseFELayout/> </w:Compatibility> <m:mathPr> <m:mathFont m:val="Cambria Math"/> <m:brkBin m:val="before"/> <m:brkBinSub m:val="--"/> <m:smallFrac m:val="off"/> <m:dispDef/> <m:lMargin m:val="0"/> <m:rMargin m:val="0"/> <m:defJc m:val="centerGroup"/> <m:wrapIndent m:val="1440"/> <m:intLim m:val="subSup"/> <m:naryLim m:val="undOvr"/> </m:mathPr></w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" DefUnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqJt_tzbC3QszKhGItXQCTbnkZ5VKBCjvnPOiidf1GjSC_tJNpPSXbmARCfPnCOIhQd-dJ55Za0Et0Or-UoW4UIRhP5cowY_8_YSr5jBkAa0lIimKCG7xExJJcS_yax6udfYi8x_3UZV4/s1600/darla+big+pink+hat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqJt_tzbC3QszKhGItXQCTbnkZ5VKBCjvnPOiidf1GjSC_tJNpPSXbmARCfPnCOIhQd-dJ55Za0Et0Or-UoW4UIRhP5cowY_8_YSr5jBkAa0lIimKCG7xExJJcS_yax6udfYi8x_3UZV4/s320/darla+big+pink+hat.jpg" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Darla wants to be the only baby at lunch</td></tr>
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<div class="MsoNormal">Going to a restaurant with one baby and two adults is a horrible experience for me.<span> </span>I nervously look around at all the patrons, wondering where their hatred may lie on a scale from one to ten.<span> </span>My guess is usually that it hovers somewhere around five when she’s quiet and ten when she’s screeching.<span> </span>This is why Greg and I only go out to eat at 4:30 PM.<span> </span><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Picture this nightmare scenario, then.<span> </span>Myself and six other moms walk into The Cheesecake Factory during their lunch rush. Five of us carry our babies in Ergo packs on our chests.<span> </span>We hush our respective baby’s screams.<span> </span>Two other women roll strollers through the front door as us Ergo wearers struggle to hold it open for them.<span> </span>Our names have been submitted to the hostess, who shows us the various options we have for seating.<span> </span>We opt for the one in which we have an entire section to ourselves.<span> </span><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We toddled to our table, while the women with the strollers attempted to roll their behemoths away from the center of the aisle.<span> </span>Their SUV strollers, however, are still planted right in the middle of the restaurant.<span> </span>I had to give them credit for trying. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We sat down and chaos (or at least what I felt was chaos) ensued.<span> </span>The mothers politely argued amongst themselves over whose baby was the fussiest, therefore earning the seats on the end.<span> </span>Each baby cried intermittently.<span> </span>Drinks were ordered and, with the exception of myself, waters were ordered all around.<span> </span>I worried over whether the server hated us because we took up eight tables in his section. <span> </span>I neglected to change Darla’s diaper for fear of stretching out the experience.<span> </span>What if, after I ordered, the server came to the table to tell me that they’d run out of the bacon bits for my salad while I was in the restroom with her?<span> </span>I would hold up the entire table’s order, thus forcing all involved to sit at the table even longer.<span> </span>I sat tight and apologized profusely to Darla in my head.<span> </span>All of us mothers struggled to keep a steady conversation going between “shhhhs” and “ummmms” as we lost our train of thought.<span> </span><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I tried my best to stave off a headache as I inched closer and closer to a panic attack.<span> </span>After waiting tables for years, I had become a hyperaware restaurant patron. I’ve always been careful to order politely, tip in cash and not ask for water that I won’t drink.<span> </span>I like to walk lightly through the whole experience. <span> </span>The mom brigade descending on the Cheese Cake Factory, however, was more like a destructive stomp in the middle of the restaurant.<span> I really enjoyed every mother who was there, but it's better in a one on one situation.</span><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">In the end, I needed to get out of there so desperately that I just started throwing cash at the situation.<span> </span>I overpaid my part and felt it was money well spent because it got me home to my quiet, empty house all the sooner.<span> </span>Once I walked through my front door, I breathed a sigh of relief and vowed to only go out to eat with one mother at a time. I’ve made good on that promise so far.<span> </span><span> </span><o:p></o:p></div><!--EndFragment-->Elizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10405771183597929392noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7908217822235072406.post-70671005379920263282011-08-04T08:03:00.000-07:002011-08-04T08:03:31.782-07:00Darla's Laugh TrackGiven that I've recently gone to work and Darla's sleep has become horribly disturbed, I've been unable to muster up the time or energy for anything more than posting videos. But, I have to admit, they're FANTASTIC videos.<br />
<br />
Enjoy this minute of Darla laughing!<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/YK8PXRVwJcc?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>Elizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10405771183597929392noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7908217822235072406.post-53867356531366434952011-07-22T16:59:00.000-07:002011-07-22T16:59:58.122-07:00Darla's First Music VideoMy lovely and talented niece, Madeline Follin, started "Cults" with her boyfriend, Brian Oblivion, last year and posted some songs online at <a href="http://cults.bandcamp.com/">Bandcamp</a>. The songs blew our entire family, media, music industry and New Yorker's minds. <br />
<br />
Fast forward to a little over a year later: Cults is huge. They've signed to Sony. They're album is a chart topper on iTunes. They're constantly on tour. They're in every magazine you open. They're so totally mega!<br />
<br />
Baby Darla was given the opportunity to ride on her cousin's coattails this past Mother's Day when Madeline asked if she could be in the video. Darla fretted over her thighs and her thinning hair, but ultimately agreed to it. <br />
<br />
This is the amazing, haunting video.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/eAM9diyVRiM?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>Elizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10405771183597929392noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7908217822235072406.post-91273170650652779952011-07-12T22:55:00.000-07:002011-07-12T22:55:23.925-07:00First Comes Baby, Then comes MarriageLast July, Greg and I were a young couple drifting through life with barely any responsibilities. Then, we took a pregnancy test. In a blink of an eye, our lives had become nothing but responsibilities and we are infinitely better for it. It opened up a world of challenges and new opportunities, which eventually led to Greg's proposal. <br />
<br />
I never knew I wanted a baby. I always thought my freedom was the only thing of any value in my life. I thought I would crack under the pressure of having a human be 100% reliant on me. I thought I wouldn't be able to wake up five times a night to a crying baby. I thought I would never want the blueprints of my life to be laid out before me. To me, this seemed second to death.<br />
<br />
Nothing I thought was true. My freedom was boring. I spent my nights watching TV and fearing any new experiences. I wake up every morning excited to spend the day with baby Darla and we make it through the day unscathed. I respond to her cries nightly without much thought because my only concern is to make Darla feel loved. The rough outline of my life has been presented to me, but there is plenty of room for surprises. Far from death, I've been given a new life.<br />
<br />
Finding out I was pregnant with Darla was an amazing surprise that pushed my life in a beautiful, exciting, wide open direction. I look at her round, smiling face and feel so much gratitude that she chose me (at least, this is what I would like to think).<br />
<br />
This is why I have no regrets about not being married to Greg before we found out we were pregnant. <br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Since I wanted our baby girl to be in our wedding, we decided to wait until after she was born to tie the knot. With lack of foresight and clear understanding of what it takes to be a parent, we went forward with these plans. The following is a list of reasons why one should get married BEFORE the baby is born.</div><br />
1. <b>The Wedding Dress</b>: Wedding dresses are hardly ready to be worn off the rack. They are altered to fit the bride's body perfectly. This requires numerous fittings. It's no easy feat to do this flying solo. When you add a baby to the mix, it's like walking through quicksand. <br />
<br />
I initially didn't care about the dress, but my mom convinced me I needed this Valentino dress. I had to oblige. (Poor me!)<br />
<br />
This dress isn't allowed to only look "ok" on one's body. It needs to look stunning, which is why I made three 4 to 5 hour trips to Beverly Hills to get the dress altered. I drove in a frenzied state, with a crying Darla in the backseat and an ever increasing anxiety as traffic inched along on Wilshire Blvd at a snails pace.<br />
<br />
Luckily, I knew Darla loved the dress. How do I know this? She pooed every time I put it on in the Neiman Marcus fitting room. It made her feel relaxed.<br />
<br />
2. <b>The ever-present danger that the baby will steal the thunder from the couple:</b> In conversations with Greg regarding the wedding, I spoke mostly about Darla's part in it. I wanted her to be my bouquet. I wanted her dress to be the show stopper. (Unfortunately, mine trumped hers). I wanted her to shout out when the minister (Greg's dad) asked "Is there anyone who thinks these two should not be married?"<br />
<br />
Greg, on the other hand, was afraid she would babble through the ceremony (I hoped she would) and shout out an objection. Clearly, we weren't on the same page regarding Darla's part in our wedding.<br />
<br />
In the end, although we thought it was all about us, it was really all about her. We thought everyone was clamoring to talk to us, but really they were reaching out for Darla. All were competing with one another to hold her. It worked out for us as it freed up our arms to do nothing.<br />
<br />
3. <b>Setting up the chapel and reception using one hand: </b>I've gotten adept at typing using one hand or else waiting for her naps. This is all while maintaining the cleanliness of our house, grocery shopping, checking Facebook (very important) and running errands. Prior to planning a rushed wedding, there was barely time to keep up with these chores. All things suffered as I attempted to coordinate with wedding planners and the restaurant. What should have taken an afternoon got stretched across three weeks.<br />
<br />
4. <b>Dying my hair</b>: It's already expensive to get a really good dye job in LA. Tack on the cost of a sitter that you need to book weeks in advance and you have a monumental cost on your head that's really only going to look good for the next few weeks.<br />
<br />
5. <b>Picking up the thirty little things that pop up when you start peeling back the wedding onion layers:</b> Precise strategy is the only way to maneuver out in public with a young baby. However, when you keep forgetting the minutia, all plans are thrown out the window. I darted all over Los Angeles, spending too much money and sweating through the guilt. I continuously apologized to Darla for not singing and reading to her all afternoon like I should have.<br />
<br />
This is my list of reasons why one should get married before the baby comes. At the end of the day, these are high-class problems and I feel ashamed of myself for throwing a pity party for myself during the planning. I'm incredibly fortunate to have a fantastic wedding and an amazing, new family that I'm absolutely crazy about.<br />
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</div>Elizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10405771183597929392noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7908217822235072406.post-81641815868590213052011-07-06T12:45:00.000-07:002011-07-06T12:45:52.480-07:00A New Mom Going Back to Work<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJJ9j7LqhYgUsq_wo5Ze1pxrwsvH5i4QPzfO-EOEbN3IXRy1pPETq68_0vwzWrt4d1XGLXOdypLXp9ajv_EQCigYiYHbcklD_axanPHTDmsfyrFr-GZkzIR8Z5JOFdJ5H-Ha0TSC-WBa8/s1600/205740_203030489730693_100000712310317_603658_3938465_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="248" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJJ9j7LqhYgUsq_wo5Ze1pxrwsvH5i4QPzfO-EOEbN3IXRy1pPETq68_0vwzWrt4d1XGLXOdypLXp9ajv_EQCigYiYHbcklD_axanPHTDmsfyrFr-GZkzIR8Z5JOFdJ5H-Ha0TSC-WBa8/s320/205740_203030489730693_100000712310317_603658_3938465_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Erin, myself and Sabrina in the bakery's early days</td></tr>
</tbody></table>I'm going back to work in a few days and my anxiety levels are through the roof. Despite my extensive experience at BabyCakes NYC (I've worked there pretty consistently since 2005. I know that place like the back of my hand. I set up it's counter procedures, POS system, Front of the House policies, bookkeeping practices and inventory), I feel as if I'm starting a whole new career. The reason for this has to be because I've never worked there with a bitty baby strapped to my chest.<br />
<br />
I'm lucky. My sister runs the bakery at which I work and she is giving me a dream mom job. She's allowing me a trial run of bringing the baby with me and is setting up an incredibly flexible schedule. This is fantastic; I couldn't ask for a better job!<br />
<br />
This doesn't mean, however, that it will be easy to adapt to the new identity of a working mom.<br />
<br />
Even as I write that last line, I get upset. Being a mom has to be one of the most difficult, non-stop, anxiety-inducing jobs I've ever had. To tag the word "working" to the front of it is a redundancy. I've worked pretty damn hard. I guess it might be best to say that I'm taking on a second job. And I don't know how good I'm going to be at it. <br />
<br />
I never thought going back would be this hard.<br />
<br />
Come to think of it, I didn't think much of motherhood before she was born. I thought hiring a sitter and leaving the baby with her would be simple. I imagined I would jump at every opportunity to have one. I wondered, "why in the hell do people lose so much sleep because their babies are crying? Can't they just easily ignore them for the sake of sleep." I believed that I would be chomping at the bit to go back to work. <br />
<br />
Every one of these assumptions were ludicrous. I hate leaving Darla with the sitter and miss her the entire time I'm gone. My heart hurts when the baby cries, so I do everything in my power to try and calm her in the middle of the night. <br />
<br />
As far as going back to work is concerned, I don't want to go back for many reasons, many of which I'm sure most moms will understand.<br />
<br />
I'm nervous about strapping her to my chest and, basically, having to ignore her babbles as I work. (She won't know the difference. She'll probably think I'm talking to her). I'm scared that bringing her to work isn't going to be successful and I will have to hire a sitter, which will basically mean I'll be working in order to pay for daycare. I'm afraid I'll get so exhausted from doubling up jobs that I won't be able to be a present mom. I'm anxious that I won't be able to write at all because all my energy will be expelled.<br />
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I guess what it all boils down to is fear. And, since I can't get around it, I have to go through it. Only time will tell if my anxieties are founded.Elizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10405771183597929392noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7908217822235072406.post-32334067135685687292011-06-29T12:12:00.000-07:002011-06-29T12:12:34.455-07:00Darla's First Cut (I'm to Blame)<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQUatHW69EWUiARILkY3_7_wSYWi11re1UILt0AxNeomZehSn6O1J0nuKXaiJVd8CkVURJGBXrD8C6riN92sTTCHfNiLAEFgRH0ZQDo2wq0sfv_xTWCqwQIhTWSGv9vEd6kNpC95Q0qAY/s1600/photo%252817%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQUatHW69EWUiARILkY3_7_wSYWi11re1UILt0AxNeomZehSn6O1J0nuKXaiJVd8CkVURJGBXrD8C6riN92sTTCHfNiLAEFgRH0ZQDo2wq0sfv_xTWCqwQIhTWSGv9vEd6kNpC95Q0qAY/s320/photo%252817%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I feel too guilty to post a picture of the cut!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Darla's learning to grab things. She can pick up small toys. If she's sitting on my lap without something bright and colorful to reach for, she starts to cry. She pushes her hand into those of whoever is holding her. My least favorite part of this development is how she fiercely claws at my chest when I feed her. I have little purple scratch marks up and down my chest as a result.<br />
<br />
Typically, I avoid cutting her nails for as long as I can for fear of what the clippers will do to her delicate fingers. Most recently, however, I allowed her nails to grow long because I was too damn busy. Between keeping her fed/diapered, the house clean and planning a wedding (post to follow), incidentals like that fell by the wayside. With the wedding behind me and our bags unpacked, I couldn't avoid it any longer. <br />
<br />
I sat her down on my lap, the dryer whirring in the background, and began cutting her nails. I got cocky. After nearly four months of cautious nail clipping leading to no major disasters, I decided I was an old pro. I chatted with her as I worked. She babbled back at me. <br />
<br />
For a moment, I thought, "I feel bad for those people who accidentally cut off a piece of their baby's fingertips."<br />
<br />
Not one second later, Darla began to howl. I didn't even move the nail clipper for fear of what I knew I'd see. I took a deep breath and looked down. Blood flowed from her tiny thumb tip. She flailed her arms, smearing blood on her arms, onesie and my face. I carried her into her room to grab the first aid kit. I was dizzy. The world was spinning around me. I was short of breath. And the blood continued to pour out.<br />
<br />
I put antiseptic and a band aid on her finger. I fed her to keep her from screaming. She ate to soothe herself. I wondered if I were teaching her bad habits. Would she forever calm herself by way of food? <br />
<br />
The blood wouldn't stop. <br />
<br />
"On no," I thought, "I have to take her to the hospital. She's so tiny. She doesn't have that much blood."<br />
<br />
My phone wasn't charged and I had no other way to contact my sister's but through email. With a shaky hand, I typed out: "I cut of part of her fingertip! What do i do. ,y phone is out of bats and have no ones number~!"<br />
<br />
I looked down at her hand as I got up to walk her around. The band aid was gone. <br />
<br />
"No, no, no, no, no," I thought. <br />
<br />
I looked in her mouth to try and pull it out. There was nothing there. Had she swallowed it? I quickly thought over everything I'd learned in my CPR class. My mind was blank.<br />
<br />
"Please, God. Please help me find the band aid."<br />
<br />
I walked in circles, with her screaming in my arms. I stared at the floor. I found a flower petal, a plastic tag, lint and a bottle cap. No band aid. <br />
<br />
"Please, please, please, please," I said out loud.<br />
<br />
I looked down. It was by my foot. <br />
<br />
I sat down on the bed and fed her some more. Her cries were completely gone. The blood had stopped dripping. In Darla's world, the cut was but a distant memory (or, at least, that's what I kept telling myself). <br />
<br />
In my world, my guilt steadily increased. My heart pounded and there was a pit in my stomach that wouldn't go away. I wondered whether the cut would get infected. I wondered whether she would have a scar. She would tell all her elementary school friends about how her mother had cut her when she was a little baby and that's why her thumb was disfigured. I wondered whether I would ever get over this. I wondered whether she would ever forgive me. <br />
<br />
As I wondered, I sat Darla up, looked at her and kissed her chubby cheeks. She clasped her little hands together and gave me one of her big grins. My heart ached for her. She didn't realize she was smiling at the enemy. I wished she would just yell at me and get it over with. She just continued to smile.<br />
<br />
I had only clipped three of her fingers and left the other one's long. I couldn't run the risk of hurting her even more. As her nails dig into me when she eats, I just assume I'm paying penance for my sin. Elizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10405771183597929392noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7908217822235072406.post-18471319208460736472011-06-21T13:21:00.000-07:002011-06-21T13:21:56.056-07:00Today's Top 5 "I Feel Guilty Because..."<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDVa045DZ-83sZ3BVPzR8rNlXb4v1IbslXBRufdVsARmRoOHyEwWMYxGqgqo_5VoJfQem5Dzwmno6V4rXydOJ1N7HlNAjfctG0SoQ1mZuJfVUwQ6EScbZWhCMpsJN-YlqPtcCNLTbzVZM/s1600/photo%252815%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDVa045DZ-83sZ3BVPzR8rNlXb4v1IbslXBRufdVsARmRoOHyEwWMYxGqgqo_5VoJfQem5Dzwmno6V4rXydOJ1N7HlNAjfctG0SoQ1mZuJfVUwQ6EScbZWhCMpsJN-YlqPtcCNLTbzVZM/s640/photo%252815%2529.jpg" width="476" /></a></div><br />
1. I sometimes fake laugh to get Darla to giggle. She'd feel so dumb if she knew!<br />
<br />
2. I think everyone at Starbucks thinks I'm a horrible mom for talking on the phone and typing while Darla babbles next to me.<br />
<br />
3. I have to drive long distances with Darla in the back seat.<br />
<br />
4. I kept her out two hours past her bedtime. <br />
<br />
5. She has a cut of unknown origin on her finger.Elizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10405771183597929392noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7908217822235072406.post-86840975997902679642011-06-14T11:18:00.000-07:002011-06-14T11:18:58.986-07:00Mom Time<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9hiGhDwhkm5IWjFO9tGPWqrBDAhaVEuiwv5S6bhcozOQlS0rFuMtih8V_wqamLKf1S0I7FKr24HIHA9gQa6Kxb7Q4C9VLWrrDmMX9iXtNJ58Ia9fiZscI9xKfa0KBatiq3bhEvihMvfA/s1600/darla+headache.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9hiGhDwhkm5IWjFO9tGPWqrBDAhaVEuiwv5S6bhcozOQlS0rFuMtih8V_wqamLKf1S0I7FKr24HIHA9gQa6Kxb7Q4C9VLWrrDmMX9iXtNJ58Ia9fiZscI9xKfa0KBatiq3bhEvihMvfA/s640/darla+headache.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This story gives Darla and I a headache</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Nowaday, I lose everything. My card isn't an exception. This is why I made sure to have cash on hand in order to pay for the Mommy and Me movie (<i>Super 8</i>) that I had plan on going to with my new mom friend. I left it in the car so I would know where it was when I left the next morning. <br />
<br />
Darla was strapped in her seat and calm. We were ready to roll. I looked down in the cupholder to make certain the cash was there. <br />
<br />
It was gone.<br />
<br />
I tore the car apart. Sweat rolled down my temples. I knew I only had a finite amount of time before Darla grew frustrated and started to scream. I threw all the dry cleaning on the floor. I knocked plastic cups out of their holders. I threw paper everywhere. I even checked the glove compartment (clearly, the most unlikely place because it's the most logical spot to put cash). <br />
<br />
I called Greg, not knowing what else to do.<br />
<br />
"I took out money so I would have cash today and I can't find it anywhere," I said.<br />
<br />
"Ohhhhhh...Was it a few bills?" He asked.<br />
<br />
"You didn't," I said.<br />
<br />
"I thought it was a bad idea to leave cash sitting out like that, so I picked it up on my way to work," He said.<br />
<br />
"I have no money!" I said.<br />
<br />
"Sorry," he said. <br />
<br />
This was when Darla started to cry and I realized I was going to be over 20 minutes late meeting my new friend, whose cell phone number I didn't have because we'd only ever emailed each other. I remembered the humongous bag of change that sat on the floor of my car. I was just going to have to bite the bullet and use those.<br />
<br />
I raced over to the the theater, reaching into the backseat every few seconds to shove the pacifier back in Darla's screaming mouth. I, panic stricken, rolled her stroller into the theater and apologized profusely to my friend.<br />
<br />
"One please," I said to the person selling the tickets.<br />
<br />
"That's $10.50," she said.<br />
<br />
"I'm so sorry about what I have to do, " I said as I started counting out stacks of four. "One, two, three, four....Crap, I don't know if I have enough...five, six, six seventy five, seven, eight twenty five, nine...How much was it?...ten, ten fifty."<br />
<br />
Mortified and ashamed, I collected my ticket. <br />
<br />
"I'm so sorry," I said to my new friend.<br />
<br />
She waved her hand as if to say get over it, but I couldn't.<br />
<br />
We watched the movie and, after, she bowed out of lunch (which I would've had to pay for in quarters anyway). She claimed she had a stomach ache.<br />
<br />
I knew better and worried the whole way home that I had lost a potential friend. I decided to write her an email in which I lied and said:<i> I am usually far more put together.</i><br />
<br />
She replied back that in Fiji everyone is late and they have something called Fiji Time. We're on Mommy Time, she reasoned.<i> </i>She then moved on to tell me that Ian Ziering (Steve from 90210) was the celebrity actor the woman in our mom group was referring to as being her husband.<br />
<br />
I told her I had figured that out through a one handed google search within an hour of leaving the Mommy and Me group. <br />
<br />
My flakiness from that morning wasn't acknowledged any further. All was right with the world.Elizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10405771183597929392noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7908217822235072406.post-8845774314835122152011-06-08T22:14:00.000-07:002011-06-09T11:39:12.740-07:00The McKenna Family's Road Trip<i><a href="http://www.mamakatslosinit.com/" target="_blank"><img alt="Mama’s Losin’ It" src="http://i913.photobucket.com/albums/ac331/mamakatslosinit/workshop-button-1.png" /></a> </i><br />
<i>Thank you <a href="http://www.mamakatslosinit.com/2011/06/road-trip/?utm_source=feedburner&utm_medium=feed&utm_campaign=Feed%3A+MamasLosinIt+%28Mama%27s+Losin%27+It%29">Mama Kat</a> for the inspiration!</i><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">Kids wear sweatshirts tied around their waists and stand in front of beaming parents who “accidentally” dress in matching khakis and white collared shirts. These are the pictures that sit on mantles or line the walls that lead up to the second levels of Middle America houses. They stand next to Anne Getty calendars and mugs that read, “I don’t do mornings.” The people who take these photos are the ones who store memories of family vacations in the parts of their brain marked “precious” or “beautiful.” Parents remember the orgasmic rush of the seemingly bottomless Grand Canyon. Kids only have visions of lines, boxes and zigzags burned into their retinas from their Gameboys. Families look back on childhood and laugh at how the kids incessantly asked, “Are we there yet,” in nasally, lethargic voices that pinched eardrums with obnoxious cuteness. They were probably on their way to Florida or Grandma’s house. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">These memories are mundane and fade quickly. The trips frequently orchestrated by my dad still burn bright in my mind and I can only hope to create vacations half as memorable for Darla. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">We would travel to Julian to pick up an apple pie. We would trek to Anderson’s to enjoy their famous split pea soup. The highlight and motivation for every trip was food and usually required at least an hour’s worth of driving. One of his favorite vacation spots was Knott’s Berry Farm. He would throw out a net to catch as many of his twelve kids that he could and toss us in his Station Wagon. Typically, this number hovered around eight, as the oldest ones had the good sense to hide or move out of the house. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrr49U_czL8XJb9abCAkqM3Dm2dYNQ6FrrD3F9vqFkRDFZoKKRgbRpA3cnDdoOLn4HcszrL-3CS4DRX21edH-OH3gD-7_jU6n23Dr8VSEgPCp5fYaHgOzFl6Kt_jcBvtONCSUfVO97W50/s1600/knotts-fiesta-mexico_apr08.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrr49U_czL8XJb9abCAkqM3Dm2dYNQ6FrrD3F9vqFkRDFZoKKRgbRpA3cnDdoOLn4HcszrL-3CS4DRX21edH-OH3gD-7_jU6n23Dr8VSEgPCp5fYaHgOzFl6Kt_jcBvtONCSUfVO97W50/s400/knotts-fiesta-mexico_apr08.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">With all his kids loaded up, he drove North on highway 5 as two layers of brothers and sisters endured two to three hours of sore knees, numb limbs and a mild claustrophobic panic. We might’ve ignored the spasms in our legs had we been allowed to play music, but my dad said he would get in an accident if we turned on the radio. How could he be expected to pay attention to the road AND sing along to Neil Diamond’s “Sweet Caroline?” We respected his desire to not kill us, so we stared out the window or at his comb over to pass the time. Usually, right when I thought I was about to have a panic attack because Sarah had been pinching my arms for the past two hours, we would pull off the freeway.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Entrance into Knott’s parking lot was just as long and tedious as our journey to it. Cars slowly snaked through the packed parking lots hunting down a spot. We eight pressed our noses against the window of the car and watched ravenously as the rides swooped, jiggled and plunged. I would hear the sound of fading screams and my heart would fall. I wasn’t destined to enjoy the rides or even step foot in the park. Despite the fact that we traveled there bi-weekly, we only went inside a handful of times. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">As my dad reasoned, “Why da hell am I gonna pay $400 for all yous kids to sit on rides when you can just experience da lord’s splendor every day.” This came from a man who would later spend $60 on fresh squeezed orange juice in one sitting. His frugality was selective. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">We had made the trip not for the rides, but for the long deceased Mrs. Knott, whose restaurant was typically a side note on anyone else’s vacation. Before we could make it to the restaurant, however, we had to go through the ritual of showing the parking attendant his two-toed foot so we could park in the handicapped spot. A disability placard would’ve remedied this need, but he derived too much pleasure showing it off. </div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaQBaYzhI5qxsKlZr6oaDOaeplAgr3xwA-EKjJ4bmAjVoZS1-NWj-66TR8dI7I07iM8j3JNYDdGU4JKE6tPe4Qg3lCesfP7B_IT8w2i8uIVBSlG37kWMpwJ3qJgJYHSXWZbOVRwsOnZKU/s1600/dad+and+sarah.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaQBaYzhI5qxsKlZr6oaDOaeplAgr3xwA-EKjJ4bmAjVoZS1-NWj-66TR8dI7I07iM8j3JNYDdGU4JKE6tPe4Qg3lCesfP7B_IT8w2i8uIVBSlG37kWMpwJ3qJgJYHSXWZbOVRwsOnZKU/s400/dad+and+sarah.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My dad and my sister Sarah</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Here is how it would typically go down:</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">As we entered the parking lot, my dad quickly spotted the parking attendant. He slowly drove over to her. The high, hot sun beat down on her large straw hat and ray-ban sunglasses; beads of sweat ran down her abnormally tan nose. The woman glared at my dad as he interrupted the steady flow of traffic.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Our mom, who up until that moment, hadn’t said a word, decided to speak up, “please, Frank. Not today.” </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">He, intentionally ignoring the woman’s irritation and our mom’s request, waved the parking attendant over. Instead of beckoning with his index finger, like most people would, he utilized his middle finger. The gesture, which crosses all cultural and linguistic boundaries, told her, “I’m not dicking around. Come talk to me right now.” </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">The previously agitated parking attendant shifted gears and cautiously approached the car. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">I, six years old and in my usual spot on my sister Mary’s lap, screamed silently. I knew I wasn’t the only one who was afraid of what was going to happen next. I fidgeted with the frayed hem of my daisy dukes and kept my face turned away from the parking attendant; I nervously ripped out the string until it began to make tiny cuts in my hand. That pain was more tolerable than the anxious anticipation.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Our dad said, “Sweetheart, it seems we have a problem here. Err, I’m a man whose got a lot to deal with, like da twerlve kids sitting in da back.” </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">It didn’t matter that this point failed to drive the story forward in any way and there weren’t twelve of us in the backseat. As long as we roughly looked like that amount, everything was cool. The woman peered in the window and was confronted by an unkempt, bitter group of pale, freckled, buck-toothed kids. She probably wondered why he was showing us off. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">He paused a moment both for dramatic effect and to let the parking attendant process the information. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">“The reason I tell ya dis, sweetheart, is because I have a bit of a praablem with my foot. I had a little boomp boomp and, well, I can’t walk too good. Here, I’ll let ya see.” </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">He quickly threw the car in park and we all watched with horror as he pulled off his black tennis shoe. He peeled off multiple layers of torn, black socks to expose the most memorable foot that parking attendant had ever seen.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">He thrust his exposed appendage through the window, right under the parking attendant’s nose. (For how round he was, he was astonishingly limber). The bright sun illuminated the foot perfectly and the moist puss and scabs glistened. It was a glorious body part, peppered with scar tissue and gashes.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">The woman looked as if she were going to faint and I am pretty sure I saw her gag. She wanted us out of her face and she waved us into the disability section as fast as she could. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">I took a sidelong look at her as we passed and saw she was holding her head in her hands. Her eyes were squeezed shut as if she were trying to erase the gory image from her head as we pulled into the parking spot. We headed into the restaurant. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Groups of tourists wrapped around the waiting area in the log cabin-esque restaurant. I would’ve assumed they had made the trip just to eat like we did, but their sunburnt noses, souvenir Knott’s Berry Farm cups and large plastic pencils/piggy banks told a much different, far more exciting tail than my own. The only thing we had to look forward to was watching our dad devour her famous fried chicken, fluorescent pink rhubarb and mashed potatoes. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Once seated, we’d listen to the lighthearted, high-pitched screams of the adventure seekers faintly in the background as we watched our dad rip into heavily breaded fried chicken with intense passion. As I looked around the restaurant, I could see he enthralled all the other patrons. Were they admiring how he was able to spread chicken all over his face? Or, maybe, they were wondering how he got so much butter on the back of his neck. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">My dad could lose himself in a meal. He was a prize-winning gurgitator that made Kobayashi look like a snail and outshone fireworks on the Fourth of July. (One of my brother, Patrick’s, friend specifically requested that he be put on alert when my mom purchased corn. He wanted to be sure he could make it over to our house in time to stare at my dad with wonder. A kernel could somehow shoot across the room, make a lap around the dinner table and wind up on his forehead in a matter of seconds). Us kids, however, had grown bored of his skills and immune to the fascination of this sight. We wanted to ride roller coasters, not watch grease drip down our dad’s chin; we could do that at home. </div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;"> After fifteen minute, he had left a mess that spread all over the table, his face and a five-foot radius of his chair. He would pay the bill and usher us all back in the car. He wanted to get us home in time for dinner.</span>Elizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10405771183597929392noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7908217822235072406.post-51271220715177150422011-05-29T10:24:00.000-07:002011-05-29T10:24:05.049-07:00Mother: Protector/Caretaker/Ghost Hunter<i>Thank you to Christine from <a href="http://allaboutmomsense.blogspot.com/">All About Momsense</a> and Nadine from <a href="http://musingsbylightofthemoon.blogspot.com/">Musings...By Light of the Moon</a> for setting up the lovely, engrossing <a href="http://allaboutmomsense.blogspot.com/2011/05/may-mom-blog-tour.html">May Mom Blog Tour</a>. It has been a joy reading all the submissions and a true honor to be a part of the cool club called motherhood. </i> <br />
<br />
I barely got to hang out with Darla the day she was born. Our hospital room was overwhelmed by visitors, nurses, first pees, adrenaline, hearing tests and even a stray delivery man (who bounded into the room without knocking while I was getting a catheter put in).<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdSHVkastGfWA6syCO1vt9BYUe4jTNGGe5UZ6QGZCA13ZLRTVxAQE_Wr4YE3pgjFoXb8uIlt7mZPITEA2sgW-O9gioyzUvOp4QniuTKmBgOgqDPXmn7BwMma48ML5VemchIbA3SAgMSA4/s1600/IMG_0127.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdSHVkastGfWA6syCO1vt9BYUe4jTNGGe5UZ6QGZCA13ZLRTVxAQE_Wr4YE3pgjFoXb8uIlt7mZPITEA2sgW-O9gioyzUvOp4QniuTKmBgOgqDPXmn7BwMma48ML5VemchIbA3SAgMSA4/s640/IMG_0127.JPG" width="480" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Once everyone had gone home, all I wanted to do was sit in the glider and stare at Darla. Since I was in the hospital, uninterrupted child-adoration wasn't allowed. Two minutes after everyone left, a nurse came in.<br />
<br />
"I have to draw blood," she said.<br />
<br />
I moaned. "I can't take another needle. I'm so tired of feeling pain."<br />
<br />
The nurse shook her head. "This one's for the baby."<br />
<br />
With relief, I replied, "Thank God."<br />
<br />
As soon as the words came out of my mouth, I wanted to punch myself in the face.<br />
<br />
"Why the hell would I prefer my baby to go through pain than myself?" I asked Greg.<br />
<br />
He shrugged, too preoccupied by Darla's screams. She had just been pricked with a needle and the nurse was drawing out blood from her foot. All I could think about was how that was the exact wrong thing to say. <br />
<br />
That was the first and last time that the fear of Darla feeling pain didn't faze me. What a good ole carefree day that was. Since that day, I have become a mom and been on constant "Is Darla in pain, sad or hurt" watch. Her pain hurts more than my own to me. I touch her head and imagine she has torticolis because I think I feel a flat spot. She cries, and I think that she is in tremendous amount of pain. She gets her vaccines and I'm shaking even though she barely cried for a minute. (Once they gave her the sweet, oral medicine, she was very calm).<br />
<br />
I'm so worried about her all the time that I can barely sleep. For weeks, I lay awake at night, staring into her bedside bassinet. I watch her stomach move up and down with each breath. I touch her cheeks to make sure they were warm. I secure her swaddle frequently so it wouldn't end up over her face. I do this to make sure she's OK, but also to protect my own heart. Every time I think her world is anything but perfect, my heart breaks a little. If anything serious were to happen to her, my world would completely fall apart.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjreq4P-OPgbEX2hz6MTe9FvOAUPBG7Asy5T_bfIzRtsOoutPszl5I9PGexHB7E-V1ffSn_Oi1jyot_EfHmp9KtWuoeZJhkMUTQ0YegzmEmRXD_FHTkU1fgRbOqhn-eQrj28LXs6hxR2iU/s1600/IMG_0154.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjreq4P-OPgbEX2hz6MTe9FvOAUPBG7Asy5T_bfIzRtsOoutPszl5I9PGexHB7E-V1ffSn_Oi1jyot_EfHmp9KtWuoeZJhkMUTQ0YegzmEmRXD_FHTkU1fgRbOqhn-eQrj28LXs6hxR2iU/s400/IMG_0154.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Three months into motherhood and gone are the days of holding vigil at her bassinet. She's outgrown it and punches the sides of it with her chubby little fists whenever I put her in. She's like a fat man in a Miada.<br />
<br />
Now, I watch and listen to Darla through a gray screened monitor. This is a nightmare and has brought a whole new level of fear into my life. The eerie creeks and far off barking dogs that the microphone picks up coupled with the dark shadows and lonely looking baby resting in a huge crib have a horror movie quality to them. I hear a whistling howl and I think of <i>The Ring</i>. I see her hand move slowly and I think of <i>The Ring. </i>Basically, everything about the monitor makes me think of <i>The Ring</i>. I look at the screen both to see if she's breathing and to ensure that ghosts aren't whisking her away.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmDpvLPDRZq-MKL7UeWYMiJtRoScy7ce_JayBj4JSP8fEgUmrHA1711pk-ZkpmSvx7wZD1cIH9dWbLd1nJ2XRqim5PxahTBq580BCid8zMcWsFiAHbPcrG-doMY_lyNgnadl6SomSISF8/s1600/Monitor.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmDpvLPDRZq-MKL7UeWYMiJtRoScy7ce_JayBj4JSP8fEgUmrHA1711pk-ZkpmSvx7wZD1cIH9dWbLd1nJ2XRqim5PxahTBq580BCid8zMcWsFiAHbPcrG-doMY_lyNgnadl6SomSISF8/s640/Monitor.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br />
<br />
If I'm going to be honest, I could very well shut off the monitor and still be able to hear her very clearly in the next room over. (I can even hear her sigh. Our house is that small). But, I'm just not going to do that. Especially now that I've recently come to believe that "ghost hunter" has been added to the motherhood job description. I'll be damned if I'm not watching the monitor when the bogey man spirits off my daughter. I want to be able to catch it in the act and recite some incantations that will send it out of the house.<br />
<br />
Hopefully, I'll capture the ghosts or else get enough sleep so I can get over this fear before she's old enough to say, "mom, I'm afraid. I think there's a ghost in my closet."<br />
<br />
I don't want my reply to have to be, "I think there's one in there, too." <br />
<br />
<i>Don't forget to hop over to read Allana's submission at <a href="http://allanapratt.com/blog-and-vlog-musings/">Blog and Vlog Musings</a> tomorrow!</i><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span>Elizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10405771183597929392noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7908217822235072406.post-65243171941436948642011-05-24T14:19:00.000-07:002011-05-27T12:12:51.695-07:00Today's Top 5 "I Feel Guilty Because..."1. After a long night of crying every time the pacifier fell out of her mouth, Darla is having a very calm day.<br />
<br />
2. I forewent the mommy and me group experience for some solitary mommy and me time.<br />
<br />
3. I should be doing something more productive with her nap time.<br />
<br />
4. I bought her a dress with money that might have been used to pay the gas bill.<br />
<br />
5. Darla is the only person I've talked to today.Elizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10405771183597929392noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7908217822235072406.post-80898787957010678442011-05-23T13:46:00.000-07:002011-05-23T13:46:08.493-07:00Smiling Self-Esteem BoosterEver since I was in kindergarten, I've had incredibly low self-esteem. I spent most of my high school years asking every person I met or knew, "do you hate me?" This was quickly followed by an, "I'm sorry." I'm amazed that I even had friends given that I literally didn't know any words beyond those six. If I could curl myself up like a rollie-pollie, I would've. <br />
<br />
Over the years, I've slowly acquired further reaching verbal skills, poise and self-love. Externally, I've been on the up and up. In the back of my mind, however, I've endured a nagging doubt about my worth. Every social interaction has been peppered with self-doubt and flagellation. In private, I analyze every part of myself. Am I a good enough writer? Does my hair look alright? How long before everyone finds out I'm a total fraud? <br />
<br />
All that doubt goes away when I see this face:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyqBDeu48HXGD96HvRPJNyFU3eCR50XayhzfzvGS08g-qkRKYem4j2rL-w2nnf58mmtzS7j36GZmYUYAz5EJgNQ8ASnmT0DXoTLN-ruVVvRPfCzg5DizQSyYMkpH0GNdSF0gYgSQKTxJ8/s1600/photo%25288%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyqBDeu48HXGD96HvRPJNyFU3eCR50XayhzfzvGS08g-qkRKYem4j2rL-w2nnf58mmtzS7j36GZmYUYAz5EJgNQ8ASnmT0DXoTLN-ruVVvRPfCzg5DizQSyYMkpH0GNdSF0gYgSQKTxJ8/s640/photo%25288%2529.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br />
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How could I feel bad about myself when she looks at me like that? I'm raised up from the mire of self-doubt and become the funniest, most intelligent, beautiful and important human being in the world.Elizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10405771183597929392noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7908217822235072406.post-5833391205762494272011-05-16T18:07:00.000-07:002011-05-27T12:13:11.642-07:00Today's Top 5 "I Feel Guilty Because..."1. Baby Darla is sleeping for longer stretches at night. I shouldn't be allowed to have 6 (albeit non-consecutive) hours of sleep.<br />
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2. Sometimes, Darla sleeps until 9:00 AM after a prolonged 6:30 feeding and I sleep with her.<br />
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3. I'm not playing with Darla right now.<br />
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4. The house doesn't look very clean right now and I'm on the computer rather than fixing that.<br />
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5. I put Darla in a vibrating chair and allow that to calm her from time to time.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG0UT2l9UPpiV3fsuqRdcxWK73uudshhnIHSUdhORPaVvP5caOZ8ENr_CJPfMRrLuNuQj2r3RruLbC8TS7jqKGbovO8L4-5-UeBFD0LU0orhNiIvvM8ZYBeouLhX651U9EU625vKFp564/s1600/photo%25285%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG0UT2l9UPpiV3fsuqRdcxWK73uudshhnIHSUdhORPaVvP5caOZ8ENr_CJPfMRrLuNuQj2r3RruLbC8TS7jqKGbovO8L4-5-UeBFD0LU0orhNiIvvM8ZYBeouLhX651U9EU625vKFp564/s640/photo%25285%2529.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>Elizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10405771183597929392noreply@blogger.com2