quite the spectacle

My daughter likes to describe people by the shape of their head.  Like, “You know Levi – brown hair, circle head?”  I know she means face shape, but I don’t correct her because I think it’s really funny.  I happen to have what she calls an oval head.  I’m okay with this (better than a triangle, right?).  The oval is supposed to be the easiest shape to work with in terms of hairstyles, eyeglasses, etc.  But I threw a wrench in that system when I got bangs last month.  I like the new 'do but it changed the whole shape of my face.  Now it’s like… a press-on nail shape.  Flat across the top and oval at the bottom.  The problem with this is that none of my glasses look good on me anymore.  This wouldn't be too big a deal - I wear contacts most of the time anyway - except that my “day job” is working part-time at my brother-in-law’s optometry practice, and it’s kind of important to model the goods.   Plus I happen to love accessorizing with a fabulous frame, and with access to several really fantastic eyewear lines, I’m pretty much always looking for an excuse to “need” a new pair.  I’ve had my eye on several potentials for a while now, but the big round plastic nerdies and the oversized seventies-esque pairs I’ve been salivating over just aren’t going to work for me anymore.  I’m thinking I need something in a cat eye this time - something not too heavy so as not to block out the remaining Lee Press-On peaking out from under this fringe.  Here are some I think are worth a look-see.  I admit, some of them are no longer for me now that I look like a walking nail salon sample stick, but they're just so rad I had to share:

Lafont Celemine in Purple 722 lafont.com

Barton Perreira Treva in Cosmic Pearl bartonperreira.com

Oliver Goldsmith Corbin in Cassis olivergoldsmith.com

Marius Morel 1880 2021M in BM022 morel-france.com

Barton perreira Bronski in Champagne bartonperreira.com

Oliver Goldsmith Irwin in Cotton Candy olivergoldsmith.com

Lafont Greta in Pink lafont.com

Oliver Goldsmith Watson olivergoldsmith.com  

babies and other food

Why do we want to eat our babies?  I mean, not like the way a snake would - with the outline of their little body still visible in your abdomen after you literally ingest them - not like that.  What I mean is, why is it that when our babies are small, their cuteness and our overwhelming love for them creates in us the urge to, well, gobble them up like a Christmas ham?  It’s startling how strong the temptation is, when you have a sweet, squishy baby in your arms, to squeeze the ever loving crap out of it, bury your face in its neck and make Cookie Monster noises (nom nom nom).  And while most parents – hopefully – resist the urge to actually bite, we do put our mouths on our babies an awful lot, don’t we?  We nibble their ears, their bellies, their meaty little thighs.  We put their feet in our mouths – their feet!  I have caught the hubs with Estie’s whole hand in his mouth before. Several times, actually.  Why do we do that?  And think of the frightening things people say to babies.  Like, “I wanna eat you up with a spoon,” or, “I’m gonna get that nose,” or my personal favorite, “I could just sop you up with a biscuit.”  I think you can only hear that last one in the South, but I digress.  Why do we feel compelled to make these downright cannibalistic threats to our own tiny, defenseless infants?  The hubs theorizes that it stems from our instinct to protect them.  We want to keep our offspring as close and as safe as possible, and the safest place our subconscious can come up with is inside of our own bodies.  Basically we want to encase our children like human bubble wrap.  It’s an interesting theory (the hubs did take psych in college) but who knows.  What I do know is how much Estie’s ears look like little tortellinis, and how much her legs resemble those smoked turkey drumsticks you get at carnivals. Hey, don’t judge me.  I didn’t design the system.  It's not my fault she looks like a little baby buffet.  And don't pretend you don't see it, too.  You know you’d eat this baby. 

Nom nom nom...

d. i. why?

I am not a crafty person.  I have always felt bad about this - as a woman, a mom, a wife.  I feel like since I have a vagina I’m supposed to enjoy making things from scratch, like with glue and popsicle sticks and shit.  And I did used to enjoy things like that when I was a kid.  But as an adult I just don’t have the attention span or the interest to sit and assemble little projects for which I have no practical use (pinecone bird feeder, anyone?).  In the back of my mind I’m always thinking of other things I could be doing with that time, like laundry or my nails or getting a frontal lobotomy.   But I really want to make more of an effort with this, because my third grader Annie is very creative and I think it’s important to foster that in her.  (Basically she’s a highly intelligent, emotional loose cannon with occasional b-word tendencies, and I’m hoping to parlay that into “artsy and independent” before she reaches adulthood).

Thanks to Pinterest, I am conveniently bombarded with cute little DIY projects on a daily basis.  Apparently, some of my friends are actually doing this stuff.  Nuts, right?  So I’ve picked out a few of the cuter ideas, and I am like, totally gonna try to do some of them soon, when I get the time, cause I do work one day a week now, and of course only if Annie’s interested and we aren’t doing anything else that day.  And the baby’s asleep, and the hubs is at work, and it’s a full moon.  On a leap year.

Note: You’ll notice none of these projects involve glitter.  Glitter is the herpes of the arts and crafts world – once you've got it, you can’t get rid of it.  Just say no.   

from juliapetit

from designsponge

I actually love this idea. 
A daily calendar that can be reused each year and gets better the longer you use it.

Each day you write the year and something that happened that day like, "Estie took her first steps." 

Imagine how great it would be in ten years!

from honestlywtf

from myblessedlife
The hubs and I actually did this one - it works great and could not be easier!

from thepinkandblueblog

from thatkindofwoman


now go sterilize your kitchen scissors
and get crafting.

mom's the word

There is someone on top of me right now.  It’s not what it sounds like, though – the hubs is clear across the room.  And no, he’s not playing sexy voyeur while I score some illicit extramarital action.  (Why would I be typing, anyway?)  The little body on me belongs to Estie, and she’s been asleep on my chest for the last two hours.  It’s really sweet but she’s kind of like a chubby little toaster oven, and she’s starting to sweat and stick to me.  Since I’m trapped here under her dead weight I figured I may as well knock out a blog post.  Any chance to bust out the one-finger chopsticks typing skills and I'm there, right?!  The topic of motherhood seems at the moment apropos, so why fight it. 

Fifteen fun facts about new mommyhood that only a new mommy will tell you:

1. In the beginning, there will be days (okay, sometimes a week) where you will not change out of your pj’s. 

2. There will be days you don’t shower (hopefully not a week).

3. When you do shower, you’ll skip shaving to save time.  You will be hairy, and you won’t even care.

4. You will feel ugly 85% of the time.

5. You will be tired 85% of the time.

6.  You will sleep at times you used to be awake, and be awake at times you used to sleep.

7. You will learn to blow dry your hair in a tenth of the time it used to take you.

8. You will get nothing done around your house.  Like, nothing.

9. Frozen pizzas.  Hope your family likes them.

10. You will be peed, pooped and puked on and not be grossed out - but the thought of having sex will nauseate you.   

11. Your baby will get more “action” from you than your husband.

12. You will forget things you just did or said five seconds ago.

13. You will be hormonal, and this will manifest itself in alarming and sometimes frightening ways. Hot flashes, mood swings, drinking binges. Wait, not drinking binges.  Probably.

14. You will forget things you just did or said five seconds ago.

15. You will be the craziest, weirdest, happiest and most fulfilled version of yourself you’ve ever been, and if someone offered to take it all off your hands for a day so you could shower and sleep and have sex… you’d seriously consider it, I'm not going to lie to you.  But, if you're as in love with your baby as I am, you'll say no.  Hell no.  I love my life.

*There are many other strange and startling, weird and wonderful things about being a new mom that nobody really tells you - you just have to live it.  Stay tuned for more deets on the really good stuff, like not looking at your vagina for like a month after giving birth for fear that it might resemble some fucked-up sea creature. (Spoiler alert: it doesn't!)

dear ... diary?

Today was sort of nuts around here.  We just got home (it's almost midnight) and frankly I'm pooped.  The eight year-old headed straight to bed without being asked - that's the kind of day we had.  And the hubs is working late so he's still not even home yet, bless his heart.  I've taken up residence on the couch with the baby on my lap and the laptop, ironically, not.  That's on a pillow next to me and I'm typing chopsticks-style with my right index finger.  It's not super convenient.  I haven't had time today to conceptualize a post, much less actually write one (see earlier post about my tedious and time-consuming writing process).  But I refuse to give up my post-a-day commitment, especially this soon in the game.  So I'm just going to treat today's entry like a diary.  I figure if you can't stand the tedium, you can just quit reading.  Like your life's so much more exciting.

5:45 am - get up to give Estie a dry diaper and a pacifier.  Decide to just put her in bed between the hubs and me so I can get some more sleep.

6:00 am - scootch over to the furthest inch of the bed to avoid smothering Estie, who has burrowed into her favorite spot, my armpit.

8:00 am - Estie decides it's time to start our day.  The hubs takes her downstairs where Annie is already up watching something dismally Disney on DVR and eating cereal.  I shuffle down after them to fix myself a coffee and sit on the couch like a lump til it kicks in and I become a real person. 

skipping some stuff - like bottles and diapers and showers and baths and board games and the mother-in-law coming to hang out and making lunch and eating and getting us all dressed and running out the door.

1:00 pm - drop the girls off at my sister-in-law's for a play date while the hubs and I head to a meeting with our accountant.

2:00 - 2:15 pm - do our taxes.

2:15 - 3:45 pm - listen as my husband (world's most enthusiastic chatter) goes round for round with our family accountant (world's second most enthusiastic chatter).

3:46 pm - realize I'm not going to make it to the bakery a town over to pick up truffles for my girlfriend's mom, whose surprise 50th I'm attending tonight.  Need to come up with a plan B.

4:30 pm - walk into the liquor store with my kids. (What?)

4:45 pm - 6:30 pm - change my clothes (okay, frantically find something to wear and get dressed in stages, leaving my bedroom a totally disaster in the process), fix my hair, help Annie pick an outfit (remember Punky Brewster?), change Estie's clothes, feed her a bottle (tick tock, tick tock), pack the diaper bag, find a bow for the wine bottle, run like a bat out of hell out the door.  

7:00 pm - surprise!

7:01 pm- 10:ish pm - battle Estie's nightly gassy-tummy freak-out fest during a lovely dinner in possibly the warmest room in any restaurant I've ever patronized (did I mention I'm prone to post-pardum hot flashes?). It had a fireplace.  Great food and even better company though, nonetheless.  But if you've never tried eating with one hand while reaching behind your own back to rock a baby carrier, don't. 

10:15 pm - leave early in a frantic and embarrassing scramble after Estie headbutts the birthday girl's shoulder and begins to scream hysterically, drawing unsubtle stares from fellow diners.  Forget Annie's doggie bag and don't get to thank our gracious host.  Brace against freezing cold, hurricane-force winds while lugging a 75 pound baby carrier (okay, I'm embellishing a bit now - but not by much) to walk the full city block to our car, in heels, with a screaming baby.  Thank god for Annie, she's really such a helper when she wants to be.

10:15 pm - say the F word in front of my kids when the wind slams the car door on the back of my legs as I click Estie's car seat in place.

10:52 pm - home! Remember that lump on the couch from this morning?  My day's come full circle.
11:30 pm - the hubs gets home to join the lump.  We discuss our day while both on separate laptops. Who says romance is dead? 
1:03 am - holy crap, it's 1:03 am.  Goodnight!

   

to each their porn

It's been said that everyone has their vice.  I think this is absolutely true.  I also think it's true that everyone has their porn - something that captivates and holds their interest to the point where they could look at it all day and not get sick of it.  Take the hubs for example: he's a good old-fashioned gear head, through and through.  If it's got wheels and a motor, it's got his attention.  I'm pretty sure that if time allowed, he could spend about seventeen hours a day online, contentedly scrolling through car forums looking at parts and swapping shop talk with various other motor-minded dudes.  So you see, cars are my husband's porn.  (You will not hear me complain about this obsession - I know more than a few women whose husband's porn is, well, porn.)  I am no exception to this rule, of course.  There are actually a variety of dirty little things that arrest my attention and haunt my dreams, including, in no particular order, fashion blogs, baubles, motivational tidbits, Etsy, and Pinterest.  The ladder of those happens to contain therein the first four, which is why I spend way more than a healthy amount of time on Pinterest. 

Here are just a few things I find visually, mentally and emotionally stimulating - 

here is my porn:

 

now go wash your hands, you dirty thing you.