courtney.leach3@gmail.com, Author at Desperately Seeking Superwoman - Page 27 of 33Desperately Seeking Superwoman

Kids

Where do all the teeth go?

June 11, 2015

We had a big milestone this past week. JoJo lost her first tooth. And by lost, I mean her father finally wore her down and she let him yank it out, the release of which brought first hysterical tears and then, upon realizing it didn’t actually hurt, crazy, psychotic laughter. It was a strange scene; the whole crew standing around this tiny white calcium nugget with a microscopic drop of blood on the end, laughing.

Anyway, the excitement of the extraction was immediately followed by excitement about the Tooth Fairy coming. She placed her delicate little prize in the special tooth pillow she got for Christmas and sewed shortly after, and tucked herself in for the night (an even greater miracle than her giving permission to pull the tooth). She awoke to a golden coin and all was magical in the world.

The next morning, when she and Spike, who sleeps with big sis, came down to show off her new fortune, I asked if she saw the Tooth Fairy. And then this happened:

JoJo: I didn’t, I was sleeping.
Spike: I did! She was like a beautiful very. (very = fairy in Spike Speak)
Me: I’ve never seen her in person, but that’s how I picture her.
JoJo: What does she do with all the teeth, anyway?
Me: Shhhhheeeee …..
Spike: Actually, you know, she has a giant mouth and she takes all of the tooths from all of the childrens of the world while they are sleeping and she keeps them all in her giant mouth.
[moment of silence.]
Me: Noooooo, that’s not it!

And then I never finished or followed up, because, let’s be honest, no one has a good answer. I mean, someone does, but it sure as shoot wasn’t me that day. I never freaking thought about it! If this post serves in preventing even just one mother from dropping the ball that is their child’s dream, I will soldier on feeling like it was a success.

Talking it over with some mommy friends at lunch, I realized it wasn’t just me. No one knew why a person would want a bunch of rotten teeth. And when you don’t have a cute story to tie to something like that, you can find and come up with some pretty disturbing scenarios. We started Googling and discovered that the trending response was that she turns teeth into buildings in her magical town. Lame! She also might plant them so they can become flowers. After this extensive and exhaustive research, I have concluded that the current theories yield answers insufficient for providing the happiest childhood memories possible. I am proposing a few ideas, and inviting your suggestions as well. Let’s all get on board with a universal story, shall we?

1.) She grinds them up to make her magical fairy flying dust. I like this one because it’s simple, easy for a child to grab on to and better than picturing a woman living in a giant tooth duplex. Maybe we come up with a different word for “grind” though. It’s a work in progress.

2.) She gives them to God and He, in turn, gives them to babies. This one is timely for our house, since Sloppy Joan is coming into some chompers. Plus, I’m pretty sure that kids picture God, Santa, the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy playing tag and having tea parties together. And I’m kind of OK with that at their age.

3.) She’s a collector. I can’t think of a better way to illustrate the concept that we all have different interests, and that some people’s are super strange – what we, as adults, call “red flags” – while other collections are fun, like bottles of wine and Sex and the City seasons. No? (Maybe option No. 1 or No. 2 would be best.)

I don’t remember what my parents told me. I was probably just happy I had some coin to go buy candy so the rest of my teeth could rot and fall out. Greedy little punk. What was your Tooth Fairy story? It’s only a matter of time before she circles back around.

Thoughts

Confessions of a chronic face sweater

June 10, 2015

Summer is here and, for me, that can only mean one thing: face sweat. You all have your sweet spot … be it the small of your back, or hairline or, the most popular, pits, where sweat gathers and glistens in the sauna of the afternoon sun. But until you’ve been a bona fied face sweater through the muggy month of August, you can’t truly understand the pain.

I chalk it up to genetics. My dad drips in dew as the degrees climb. He, in turn, passed the torch on to me, his youngest daughter, in an effort to ruin every outdoor activity for me for the rest of my life. On one particularly disgusting occasion, I took him to a Colts game at Lucas Oil Stadium. They had the roof open on one of those September days where summer is gasping its last hot breaths. As we wedged ourselves into the “generous” stadium seats, I sighed in relief, observing we’d landed in the shaded section. But as passes flew and the minutes ticked by, I noticed the sundial shifting. We were in our own game now, and it was one against time. We had 10, maybe 15 minutes, before the sun cast her wicked, relentless rays unforgivingly upon us. I looked up at Big Rog, wondering if he, too, saw our impending doom. He glanced toward the nearing horizon and we both knew there were no words. We simply sat in our solitary sweat lodge. The hats we bought couldn’t block it. Beer couldn’t cool it. Shade could not stop our pools of perspiration. We were face sweating like the father-daughter face sweaters we were, and I couldn’t even tell you if the home team won.

My affliction doesn’t just surface on my personal time. Last year, when I was 30 months pregnant with Sloppy Joan, I waddled out to the fancy food truck that came to the parking lot every Tuesday. Fish tacos and fries with aioli; pregnant food porn, for sure. But on that gorgeous day in May, the fish wasn’t the only thing fryin’. I walked into a perfect storm of steam: direct rays + a pond + aluminum + 75 extra pounds + a crowd. Before I knew what hit me, my mug looked like I just surfaced from an abrupt drop in the dunk tank. “Ma’am, you can wait under the awning,” the cook said. “Courtney, we can bring your food in to you,” a friend from the gathering crowd of my non-perspiring peers offered. They all saw it. “I’m a face sweater, guys!” I joked, officially acknowledging the awkward, obvious streaks of embarrassing water racing down the sides of my nose, and giving them permission to do the same.

Well, just last week, when I went to the intense Friday morning class at the gym, at the urging of a close girlfriend, only to realize she is secretly Tina Turbo, it was there. About 3 minutes into the warmup (the most ass-whooping warmup I’ve ever done, I feel inclined to mention), the instructor turned her perky self around, locked in on my face and said, and I quote, “OK! I see some of you sweatin’ out there!” Just me. I’m sweating. I was the only mother mover in that joint dropping that kind of water.

My inner circle knows “the stache” (sweat mustache) will make an appearance when prompted by any of the following scenarios: nervousness, stress, an excess of hot beverages, a car with no air, dancing, exercise, motion sickness or vomiting for any reason, crying, carrying or moving objects, cuddling a baby, intense thought, eating warm meals or setting up for a party. I have learned to dab and deal with it.

But, as a card-carrying member of the club, I beg those not burdened by these inconvenient beads of bullshit to withhold judgment and comment. Let’s make a deal that will live on from this post until forever … I won’t say anything about the spots under your armpits, if you agree to hand me a towel, smile kindly and turn away as I remove the sweat from the sides of my sniffer. There’s no cause for concern. Those aren’t tears coming from under my sunglasses, I swear. They are evidence of a genetic misfortune.

A woman wiping her brow with a handkerchief

The next time you get an invitation to join in a backyard barbecue, birthday cookout or, the nightmare that haunts my summer days, the absolute worst, an outdoor wedding, take a moment to appreciate your dreamy, dry face. Remember there are those who immediately panic about the face sweat that will accompany them on that fateful day, and the fact that just the thought of that face sweat, makes their face sweat. Sure, we could inject botox (the only treatment my research revealed), and lessen the liquid, but really, isn’t it better if we just embrace the face and the sweat that comes with it? I’d say so. Bring on the summer stache and cocktails!

Kids

Cosmic crush

June 8, 2015

Oh man, have you guys heard of Cosmic Kids Yoga? So, it started when Hank decided to try his core at yoga. We would rake some toys to the side, roll out our mats and move through some sun salutations while the chicks played, then inevitably fought, on the other side of the basement. Well, monkey see, monkey do, and eventually they migrated over and started busting some downward dog splits.

Around this time, a dear friend, who is far trendier and by far more granola than me, mentioned Cosmic Kids. But I filed it away in the dark caverns of my brain, somewhere between a great natural bug repellant recipe and the details of the 21-Day Fix.

I finally pulled it up on the Apple TV one chilly Saturday morning and discovered the hidden gem that is Jaime and her magical, wooly jammie unitard. She has the most endearing accent – Australian or British, I’m that bad at accents – and she tells the cutest stories that take your little one on adventures to jungles and oceans and Antarctica, all while incorporating yoga.

You know when you watch a group pose for a picture, and you find yourself with a huge smile on your face like you’re in the shot, even though you’re just an onlooker? That’s me watching Jaime. I put my mat next to the girls and played along, you know, so they wouldn’t lose interest. Before I knew it, I was on my belly paddling to catch up with the giant whale just a few feet ahead, with the goofiest grin. When the girls begged to do, “just one more,” I pretended I was doing them a solid, but I really wanted to do the one with the penguin.

If you have little ones, I’d say 2 ½ or older, check out her channel. And if you know where I can score one of those sweet jumpsuits, comment below.

Tune in Today, Wellness

Before and after

June 5, 2015

Tune in today to see if she can … complete Kayla Itsines’ 12-Week Bikini Body Guide

Who isn’t a sucker for a solid before and after shot? When a close friend told me to check out Kayla Itsines Instagram feed and let her know if I wanted to do the Aussie’s 12-week Bikini Body Guide, she must have known I was a complete fool for the side-by-side comparisons. The transformations are messed up they’re so amazing. And now I know why.

The friend who got me on the hook for Kayla, was also the gal who talked me into my first Whole30 and Insanity, both of which were torture at the time and extremely rewarding after. So I had high hopes.

The idea is fairly simple. The guide has you do the assigned Kayla workout 3 days a week, cardio of your choice for 30-40 minutes 2 days a week, stretching 1 day a week and 1 rest day. A Kayla day’s workout consists of 2 circuits, each containing 4 moves with designated repetitions. You set a timer for 7 minutes and do Circuit 1, as many times through as you can. Then, a 2-minute rest. Set the timer for 7 minutes again and do Circuit 2 as many times through as you can. Take a 2-minute rest. Then repeat the process. You complete each circuit twice.

This mama is still packin’ some extra LBs around the midsection and, perhaps because I had an umbilical hernia fixed 6 weeks after having Sloppy Joan, or perhaps because I am a tubby cake-lover, I had absolutely zero core strength. A fact that reached up and slapped me in the cheek as I reluctantly hovered in my first Kayla plank.

But, much like when we did Insanity, this program, over time, ignited a modest evolution in my meager muscles. Take the burpee, for instance. Kayla loves her some burpees. She changes up the form, but they’re there, in almost every workout. They might be first in the circuit, or fourth, but they’re coming for ya. During the first week, I felt like the motion was disjointed and sloppy and kind of pathetic. But by week 12, I could feel my body automatically snapping my limbs in and out like a push-button umbrella. After three kids, I’m thankful for every single small victory.

The pros of this program are many. The workouts only take about 40 minutes and, with a little bit of equipment, can be done at home. (You can certainly use your gym’s equipment and bust it out, too.) It does get a little tricky toward the end when she has you jumping over benches and such, but I just substituted a small child. It’s easy to get creative as long as you have some hand weights, a kettlebell or medicine ball, and some stairs. The movements are super effective and engage several different muscle groups at a time. And because you repeat a lot of the motions throughout the 12 weeks, just with some added difficulty, it’s easy to gauge your progress. I noticed the biggest differences in my core (Is that a muscle sprouting under that stretch mark?!) and upper arms.

I don’t really have any cons related specifically to the program as it was designed, although it is pretty pricey if you buy it from her. The cons in my case were tied to my tattered body’s inability to keep up. I never could do a jack knife; only one end of my body goes up at a time. My push ups are still of the girl variety. And once I passed Week 8, I’m pretty sure I never made it through a circuit more than 1.12 times, but you just keep getting back up, right?

Will you find my before and after in this post? Not likely. But I will throw you a bone with my measurements. Something to keep in mind is that I certainly did not follow the suggested protocol. I completed the guide in 20 weeks rather than 12, with some other classes and jogging peppered throughout.

If you want your Instagram feed flooded with unattainable body selfies, be sure to follow Kayla. It’s fun to browse and kill some time while your Oreos are soaking.

Until next time …

Kids

The thing about this baby

June 3, 2015

Today, my baby turns 1.

This. Is. Tough. Sloppy Joan is our third baby, and we’ve always planned on having three babies. This time, we’re not putting bottles and bouncies and Boppies away, we’re giving them away. It’s surreal.

When you’re 17, and you sit around with your girlfriends and talk about “10 years from now,” it’s kind of like you’re speaking your dreams out into the universe with the hope that God is listening, will take note and, as time passes and He sees fit, they will be distributed down to you one by one until you have everything you’ve ever wished for. So now, as I watch my baby girl smash bright pink frosting into her perfect little face, I’m realizing that my heart is full of all the wishes I had for my “10 years from now.” And that’s kind of … I don’t know … scary … overwhelming … beautiful.

I know eventually it will feel liberating – the thought that one chapter of my life is closing. They’re all here. I will [more than likely] never be pregnant again. It’s not that I have nothing to do now. We are in the throws of the next chapter, which is raising humble, strong, capable young ladies; a task booby trapped with a frightening level of estrogen. It’s just that I put so much energy into planning and anticipating and carrying these little lives, and now I have all of those emotions, without the control. My friend Kelly says that having children is like having a piece of your heart living outside your body. Sometimes I can physically feel that sentiment. Like, you know In Madagascar when Alex looks at Marty and he’s a talking steak? That’s the level I’m talking. I picture these little pieces of my emoji-looking, bright red heart, walking and crawling and dancing away from me. Torture.

Sloppy Joan had a rough first year, much of which was spent in the clutches of various ailments, the worst of which being the longest case of the flu ever and RSV. I rode, sitting on a stretcher, in the back of an ambulance at 2 o’clock in the morning holding my naked little angel, both of our hearts racing – mine from a fear like I’ve never known and hers from the virus – and I prayed in the most direct conversation I’ve ever had. I pleaded for this birthday to come. I begged for her beautiful, long life. So, I suppose I shouldn’t spend too much time analyzing the wrapping paper on my most amazing gift, now should I?

This little girl is the brightest ray of sunshine and the happiest of all creatures. She loves buttered noodles, waving and dancing. She’s finding her voice and rocks one prominent tooth on the bottom. Her butt crack is, I promise you, one inch longer than any other butt crack you’ve ever seen on a baby, and her daddy loves to hold her up before bath and say, “It’s been a long-ass day.”

If the sentence that is our growing family ends here, she is the perfect punctuation mark. Happy birthday, my sweet Sloppy Joan.

Thoughts

The 5 stages of being hungover in your 30s

May 31, 2015

It’s a rare occurrence, but I recently found myself victim to a massive hangover, the result of a martini happy hour and a lot of catching up with some of my high school crew. As I succumb to the pain and nausea, and gave myself over to the worthless sack of crap I would be for the day, it occurred to me that the years had not been kind. It was never this hard in my college days. The process then, looked something like: predrink, actual drink, eat pizza rolls, watch Cheaters, sleep, eat grease, resume role as functioning member of society. It was beautiful in its simplicity and sad in hindsight. But I lost my stride in my late 20s. The “day after” transformed into this heartless, brutal series of sacrifices and compromises that make the whole thing worth it only when entirely necessary, like 30^th birthday parties and a warm night on a terrace with great girlfriends. What follows a night of cocktails is, inevitably, ugly, and outlined below.

The 5 stages of a hangover

1) The realization

As long as there have been adult beverages, one fact has mystified those who choose to partake. No matter how seasoned of a social drinker I become, it still astounds me how you can go from beautiful buzz to one too many and no turning back in one fateful sip. For me, the realization typically arrives when I go to bed. Regret swirls around in my head and stomach as the lines in our blinds bend and wave, taunting me to try and focus. Misery is the moment you become cognizant of that fact that you are in the first hour of what is sure to be a 24-hour hell.

2) The paralysis

When faced with unpleasant physical circumstances, my typical response is to stay as stationary as humanly possible. Maybe if I’m quiet, the hangover won’t notice me. It’ll get bored and decide to move on. Throwing up is at the top of my list of least-favorite activities, along with going to the dentist and writing on cardboard boxes with a marker. Because of this fact, what follows is an epic battle between my mind and esophagus. I find that a strong will and deep breathing can buy me at least an hour, if not a complete pass.

3) The guilt

When you’re a college kid and you piss a day away, it’s called “Friday,” which ceremoniously follows “Thirsty Thursday”. When you’re a 32-year-old mother of three, it’s called “being a piece of shit”. There is a direct correlation between the level of guilt I feel the morning after a night out and the amount of time that passes before my next night out. If I really get rowdy and can’t function until 2 pm the next day, and the girls want to go outside, only I can’t because my cranium is on the deck of a ship in the eye of a hurricane, for instance, we’re talking like a good 6 or 8 months before I’ll dip my toes back into the water. A mild headache … probably 2 or 3 months. It’s not an exact science, but it seems the occasions I’ll drink are fewer and fewer, as my recovery time gets longer and longer and my tolerance gets lower and lower. There’s this song by the Avett Brothers called “When I Drink,” and it is set on involuntarily shuffle in my mind on these mornings: “But when I drink/I spend the next morning in a haze/But we only get so many days/Now I have one less/Just do your best” Ahhhh … yup. Like a knee to the gut, that verse.

4) The triage

When I was 21, I could wake up at 11 o’clock in the morning, pile into a hot car with 3 other girls, go to Wendy’s and get a cheeseburger, fries and a fountain Diet Coke, and it was like the jungle juice never happened. These days, it’s a process. I begin by opening my eyes and taking a quick inventory of the damage: head – throbbing, mouth taste – like a visit from the poop fairy, stomach – unstable. Sensing the need for immediate action, I then slide the lower half of my body out of bed, finding stability and then slowly, ever so slowly, stacking my upper half on top, keeping my head tilted so as to trick my brain into thinking it’s still on a pillow. I then shuffle to the kitchen, where I grab the largest cup we have and fill it with ice water. By the time it’s topped off, my brain catches up and demands I go back to bed. This is where I will stay for at least 2 more hours. I will then move down to the couch and resume the same position to pretend I’m not being a completely terrible mother, because at least I can turn on Netflix for the chicks. Around 10 or so, I turn into the very hungry, hungover caterpillar: On the first hour, she tried some toast and black coffee, but she was still hungry. On the second hour, she went on a ballsy binge and ate 1 popsicle, 1 can of Sprite, 2 handfuls of goldfish crackers, 1 bowl of Kix and 1 sliced apple with peanut butter. On the third hour, she went back to the couch, but sat upright.

5) The gamble

Once the influx of carbs and sugars settles, I start evaluating my limitations and abilities. I could probably run and get the presents for the birthday party, but definitely not working out today. Although if I sweat it out, that could be good. Maybe I should watch one more House of Cards and chug this last glass of water and reevaluate. Eventually I do get up and scramble to salvage the hours that remain of the day I will forever recall as “the day I was so hungover I hated myself for a full 24 hours.” But it’s dicey, for a full day.

Again, just to drive the point home, this post in no way indicates that I have a problem other than the loss of my tolerance and occasional ridiculously bad judgement. But I will say, the mornings I feel the worst are often preceded by the best nights. Getting carried away by a conversation or dancing to my jam and laughing like the fool I love to be sometimes. It’s all good. You can’t have honey without the bees. It just sucks so bad when you get stung.

So Says Sloppy Joan

A lesson in chewing

May 29, 2015

When Sloppy Joan’s first tooth came through and we started putting diced delicacies on her high chair tray, the toddler tradition of placing food in her mouth, where it was tongued and eventually sent out in a tiny tidal wave of drool, began. So, I started showing her how to chew. Demonstrating. But now I’m getting the sense that she’s mocking me. Sure, I probably exaggerated the motions. I mean, I wanted her to be able to see.

At first I thought it was cute. Like a sweet little old man who’d misplaced his dentures.

But I’m starting to get the impression she’s making fun of me. This must be what I look like to her when I do it. Like a largemouth bass with peanut butter in its teeth.

The case mounts.

Wellness

Mama said knock you out

May 27, 2015

Tune in today to see if she can … plow through Piloxing.

So, Piloxing® is hard.

While my motions say otherwise, I am learning so much about myself through these classes. Turns out, I like to hit shit. Who knew? Well, I like to swing at the air and pretend that I’m hitting shit. It’s not like a hidden rage thing, it’s more like … OK, so I work an 8-5, I have three children, my husband and I can sing every word of Love is an Open Door, and guys, I like jorts. Not like cutoffs, or those cool, high-waisted Coachella girl ones. I’m talkin’ Bermudas, baby. I love ‘em. I do. So, my point is, when do I get to be a badass?

Piloxing has more punching than it’s butt-kicking cousin, Turbo Kick®, which, as I already covered, makes me a big fan. While it still requires coordination, it doesn’t have the rapid turnover sequences. It has “blocks”. Blocks are my buddy because they give me time to figure out what the frick is going on before we’re on to the next move. And I don’t know if it was the humidity hangover from the afternoon thunderstorm or the feistier-than-appearances-would-suggest instructor, but mama was sweatin’ like Britney without a background track. I could actually feel the beer and s’mores from the past 4 days liquefy and be exorcised from my system.

But for every high there is a low and with Piloxing, it’s the gloves and balance. Before the class started (Why do I always have to be so damn prompt? Why can’t I just straggle in during warmup like all the cool gym girls?), the instructor gave me a quick overview and offered a flash of her colorful gloves. This handwear, she explained, offers a light, added weight to optimize your upper body efforts and increase results. And, oh, they sell them. Of course they do. Gosh dang it. Just like the girl with the rowing shoes … or the people with the special clip-in spinning shoes … or yoga mats with built-in cooling pockets (made it up) … there’s always something, isn’t there? But as I hooked and jabbed and punched, I realized my jort-free badass self wanted the stinkin’ gloves.

The “pil” part of the class is a healthy dose of pilates core work, presented on this night in a block of balancing moves. So, the funniest thing happened. It turns out somewhere between my first pregnancy and a 6 year old coming in to go potty while I’m trying to take a hot bath, I lost the ability to stand on one foot. Truth be told, it didn’t come as a shock. I’ve been the girl whose tree pose appears to be wavering in a blustery breeze for months now. The other gals had it and I was the flailing distraction in the corner of their eyes. Sorry about that, ladies.

Definitely hitting this one up again (pun intended). The only sign I needed was when Still Not a Player by Big Pun came on as I turned onto my suburban street. And hell yes I turned that shit up!

Until next time …

Wanderlust

Memorial Day in Michigan

May 26, 2015

Memorial Day weekend for me now, is the equivalent of what Spring Break was in college. It feels like the first steps out of a 100-mile tunnel. We hauled ass outta here Thursday afternoon with our popup Emma, and made the trek to a KOA in Allendale, Michigan. Our reservation was a last-minute call since we only recently became camper folk, and the kind new owners gave us a spot on the lawn overlooking the pond. Very quaint.

Friday morning, while Hank tore Emma apart trying to hook up a water tank, and in an effort to quiet my screaming anxiety (Sidebar: If we’re going to be friends, you must know that I am a complete, intolerable psycho when it comes to organization. I need a system. I need things put away. I need to know where the GD ziplocks are, man. It’s gross and I’m not proud, but it’s my bag of clipped toenails in the closet. The secret side of me that torments my inner circle. So when I saw Emma in shambles, I got the shakes.) I took the girls over to feed the ducks. Only, these were not ducks. I’m pretty sure you could ride them. And they were super domesticated and entitled. A few scraps of enriched flour and these mugs came into our personal space. They were fighting and doing stuff to each other and it all got really uncomfortable really fast.

So, they chased them.

We hopped in the car and went to explore Holland, Michigan, just a few weeks too late for the Tulip Festival. We buzzed through the Hope College campus and landed at a restaurant on the water, Boatwerks. The food was decent and the backdrop was beautiful (Spike saw the most “indorable” baby geese) but the highlight was hands-down the beer. My mission is now to drink all of the Ciderboys Peach County cider, which will be difficult, because they don’t distribute here, as Hank predicted. Like biting into a juicy, drunk peach …

Now, the cool thing about camping is that you have a group of folks all connecting with their need to disconnect – sitting around mesmerizing, flickering flames and eating things cooked on sticks. The weird thing about camping, I’m finding, is kind of everything else. Like, I love it and I’m all in, but as we were walking from my folks trailer to Emma on the other side of the pond Friday night, it occurred to me that our present circumstances weren’t much different from that scene from every crime show where they go looking for the homeless man who “might have seen something”. We passed site after site with small groups hovering over their modest fires, warming their hands. The conversations were low and muffled … the cracks of what we hoped were fireworks in the background. As we climbed onto our firm mattress, I honestly chuckled at the thought that we were sleeping in an open field, surrounded by strangers with, essentially, a screen door between us. It’s kind of crazy, right? Like good crazy, but crazy.

But I love Emma. I also find that she satisfies that fine line between camping and glamping, or, as I refer to my parents’ unit, “an apartment on wheels”. We keep our street cred with the tent folk, but need only trot over to Mom and Dad’s for TV and a microwave. Boom! Best of both worlds.

Saturday brought official business. We were in the area for a very special wedding for a very special girl. My sister-in-law got remarried. That’s just how our crew rolls; legal unions might be dissolved, but the family one never will. It’s like the Soprano’s, only I’m pretty sure we’re German, and we shoot around sarcasm and digs rather than bullets. So we put on our sundresses and went to the beach in Grand Haven to see her start a new chapter.

Kids were welcome, and in abundance, and as is often the case with beaches, this one was full of sand. You guys, it was like being at an underground feline rave the moment they bring out the catnip. Khakis and dresses be damned. Kids were rolling down dunes and spreading grains like Sparky’s ashes. Beautiful vows were exchanged among a sea of sand monsters. The moment they sealed the deal with a kiss, the gates opened at the Kentucky Derby and the fillies fled to the waterfront with nervous parents trailing, just trying to get that Instagram-worthy family shot. Here’s ours (notice Spike’s wet dress):

Her dress was wet because …

But it was a lovely occasion with lovely company, as could be said for the entire weekend.

Trip High: When a butterfly landed on Spikey, twice! (The Ciderboys would have had it if I’d grabbed a few cases on my way out of the state.)

Trip Low: Saturday morning we got all geeked up to go for a hike. I put on my Cheryl boots and killer hiking socks from Costco, the girls tied sweatshirts around their shoulders (backpacks, they claimed) and Sloppy Joan was strapped into her carrier. The walk, it turned out, led to a swamp, and lasted a sweaty 5 minutes. The asshole mosquitos and standing water abruptly shat on our adventure.

That’s a wrap on Memorial Day 2015. We hope you had a great weekend!

Pages

You down with F.P.P.?

May 19, 2015

Since officially releasing my blog baby into the world, it’s been brought to my attention that most [normal] people don’t know how to follow such a thing. Now, of course you can add me to your Bookmarks or subscribe to the RSS feed, but if you want a system … if you want to truly let yourself fall down the blogosphere rabbit hole (trust me, you do), then I’m going to let you in on my secret.

Every morning, around 7:05, I settle in for a little personal F.P.P.: Feedly, Pocket, Pinterest. Three apps, more than 100 blogs, and just a mild addiction.

First things first, you need to treat yo self to a trip to the app store. Get Feedly, Pocket and the Pocket bookmarklet, and Pinterest and the Pinterest bookmarklet. (God bless the bookmarklet, man.) Once all the players are at the table, you can really play the game.

Go crazy. Start adding any and all of the crazy-awesome blogs out there to your Feedly roll. Suggestions? Oh, I have a few:

Yes and Yes – Great tips on bringing it as a human.
Dishing Up Dirt – My couple crush. Follow their adventures on Tumbleweed Farms.
Ivanka Trump – As far as brands go, this one has a creative dream team.
Enjoying the Small Things – Family stories that will rip your heart out. (In a good way.)
Blog Society – My jam for writing and creative inspiration.
Free People – When I want to tap into my inner hippie.
REI – They truly bridge the gap between selling product and selling an aspirational lifestyle. I’m buying everything they’re selling. Except, really not because I don’t have the money.

Basically, if you have an interest, someone has the blog. Mommy blogs, stay-at-home-mommy blogs, fitness blogs, blogs for lazy people, clean eating, natural eating, farm-to-table eating, fast food eating, crafting, knitting, scrapbooking, stationery collecting, dating, designing, meditating, running, running a scrapbooking store where people date … it’s out there. Just waiting to fill your Feedly. So fill ‘er up!

As I scroll through my Feedly, I give myself three options, none of which require a lot of thought. I either pass by, put it in my Pocket (to read later) or Pin it (to reference later). That’s it! I go on instinct, and I move fast. My Pocket is full of great articles for those rare occasions when I find 20 minutes to read. And my Pinterest boards are full of a trillion recipes, gardening tips and hair tutorials. It’s all there; roads and rives on my Superwoman road map.

I know I went through that pretty quickly, so I created this handy graph, using my pathetic Photoshop skills, for reference:

Do yourself a favor. Get a system and get down with F.P.P. There are a billion bloggers out there just waiting to blow your mind. But start with mine, of course (winky face).

Older Posts

Newer Posts

Archives

Where do all the teeth go?

Confessions of a chronic face sweater

Cosmic crush

Before and after

The thing about this baby

The 5 stages of being hungover in your 30s

A lesson in chewing

Mama said knock you out

You down with F.P.P.?

Archives