Back to print, with plants

A van full of offspring and three pants sizes ago, I majored in magazine journalism. You see, people used to actually go and buy printed pieces of paper with words and pictures – which made stories –  and they would turn pages and, well, the whole thing made for a good time. But now we swipe and scroll and what's tangible isn't as trendy, and .... I digress.

My first job out of college was working on a bimonthly food magazine with my college roommate. I wrote, she designed, and we drank at Howl at the Moon on Tuesday nights. It was such an exciting time. So, when she reached out for some freelance help a few months back, the 23 year old deep inside me danced like the rhythm-having, club-going, cool kid she once was.

Kit is a charming bimonthly magazine out of Indianapolis that offers fashion and lifestyle pieces for women. I was recruited to write a 2-page spread on picking the perfect plants for your spring landscaping. It's great information and this lady can't wait to get a tomato/potato hybrid going in my beds.

Check out Kit's blog for more fun stuff for spring.

Mother's Day (It's a girl thing)

As I take my melatonin and tuck myself in at sunset on this, my sixth Mother’s Day, my heart is full, fat and happy. In what feels like the heartbeat of a hummingbird, we have filled this house with 3 gorgeous girls. Three girls … I still can’t believe it … three girls! 

People often offer a "poor you" expression when I share that I have all girls. I get it. I mean, let's face it, being the mom of all girls is like being on an endless group date on The Bachelor. Not one of the week 2 dates, where the crazies are still running rampant, but like one of the last ones, where all of the remaining contestants are cute as can be with somewhat charming characteristics. The comparison cuts the mustard in many regards. You constantly find yourself trying to get a word in, the ease of the experience elevates in relation to the amount of wine consumed, and it’s extremely difficult to get one-on-one time with the only guy in the room.

It’s fun to trade war tales with women on the other side of the spectrum. Working from home one day, an instant message popped up from a coworker, who has all boys, that simply read, “I had to put the Hulk in timeout last night for smashing Sammy’s wiener.” And right there, in that moment, I realized I would never have that experience. Much like I imagine she will never receive the response, “You make me feel like a piece of trash in a trash can that no one wants!” when she tells her toddler to stop arguing and go to sleep. Drama breeds like barn cats in summer around our house. The more estrogen in a square foot, the greater the magnitude of emotion you get.   

Those same people who give "the look" also love to point out that we should “try for a boy” and make the assumption that we feel something is lacking in our lives. Sure, they always have to go potty when the food arrives, all of the body questions get fielded to me and I’ll never get a special dance at one of their weddings. But for every gut punch, there is a wonderful gift given in exchange. Knowing my husband watched YouTube videos with “simple braids for dads” or hearing him read them his favorite book, Daddy’s Girl, at night always makes my ticker swell. Having JoJo tell me she wants to be a writer just like me, or Spikey say she’s going to be a mommy, or watching them snuggle and chat and carry on. Nothing is missing in this house. Absolutely nothing.

I thank God every day for letting me live with these magical little people. I thank Him even on the days when my patience is spent and my nerves are shot. And as much as today makes me reflect on my own joy, it also reminds me of the sisterhood we all share. Every single woman who tries to be everything – the cook, the housekeeper, the professional, the coach, the disciplinarian, the therapist, the nurturer, the teacher. Every woman who tries to be Superwoman.  It reminds me of the respect I have for all of you and the energy it takes to try and be the best version of yourself to make a great version of someone else. I hope your Sunday was filled with sweet moments and crayon drawings, and you maybe found a little time for yourself.

Happy Mother’s Day!

Spike vs. Ruben Studdard

Unprompted apologies are so few and far between. But when they come, it's like a Saturday morning at confession. Who's more sorry?

Spike (writing an apology letter to our favorite caregiver, "Kay-Kay") ...

Or Ruuuuuuuubbbben Studdard ...

The popup and the plague

Months ago I asked JoJo how she wanted to celebrate her sixth birthday. Her response crushed every piece of my maternal heart. “Mama,” she said. “I don’t think I want to turn 6. I just want to stay 5 forever … and live here forever … and keep my same clothes and my same blankets and live here forever.” It became very clear very quickly that we would have to bring out the birthday big guns. Not clowns … everyone knows clowns are psychotic. Not the trampoline place … I’d surely piss myself. A camping trip? The sparkle came back to her eyes with an enthusiastic "Yeah!"

In tandem with this conversation at our dinner table, my parents were coming into a sweet little popup camper that needed a new home. Coincidence? 

Every week that passed brought more excitement and anticipation. We talked about snacks. We talked about our camper. We put the camper up and sat in it in the rain. We talked about snacks. And finally, the week was upon us.

This is where our heartwarming tale takes a super shitty turn. Wednesday night, I heard Sloppy Joan coughing. When Hank went to grab her for a breathing treatment, he discovered an unpleasant, deconstructed version of her dinner spattered all over the crib. This was the first act in what would be a very long night of splats and squishes for Daddy, God love him. She’ll be better tomorrow, we thought. She wasn't.

Friday was JoJo’s actual birthday, and the long-awaited departure day. I packed all morning, Hank left to load and pick up the popup (Emma we’re thinking of naming her). I took Sloppy Joan and went to pick up JoJo and Spikey for the annual birthday lunch at Old McDonald’s. Something deep in my soul told me to pick up the food and take it home rather than linger for the usual scamper through the urine-doused dome of fun. I knew something was off when Spike just stared at her nuggets. Girl loves her nuggets. Two gulps of apple juice – denied. We had a second puker. Maybe she just drank too fast, we thought. We were wrong. Curly tossed more cookies than a clumsy Girl Scout. With my whole family and a caravan of campers en route, I jumped on the grenade and stayed home with the younger two, while JoJo and Hank went north to nature.

Spike passed out and slept for, literally, 13 hours straight. It was incredible. She woke up like Will Ferrell in the debate scene of Old School, renewed and ready to camp. So, we went camping. It was gorgeous. A sunny 78 and a stone’s throw from the playground. We hiked and we ate … oh, how we ate. I mention the eating now as a cautionary tale to any woman who sits with flu-stricken children just 24 hours before said eating. As the children were nestled all snug in their sleeping bags and the adults gathered to gossip and drink grownup juice, I felt my stomach starting to think over my recent decisions. Best to go to sleep, I thought.

At 2 am, I was jolted awake by a very unpleasant, bitchslap of a truth that I can share with you now: Hell is the flu in a popup camper. The angels were with me in only one regard, and that was my parent’s apartment-on-wheels camper, which was just 15 strides away from our swinging door. I know this because I spent the hours between 2 am and 7 am pacing between their trailer and the soup pot that awaited me in the popup. Just after sunrise, my husband was serenaded by dry heaving and snotty snobs.

I was waving the white flag. It was time for me to go home, I thought.

Hank comes out as the saint in this story. This man – this sweet, sweet dad and selfless man – had to pack that whole trailer, unpack it, and then pack it all up again, with three little chicks in tow. Not to mention handle his hysterical other half.

But I suppose every party needs a pooper and that’s why we invited … well, the majority of our family of five. It turns out we gave treats to our party guests as well. As of publishing this post, my mom, brother-in-law and niece were down with the BGs (bubbly guts). Happy 6^th birthday JoJo!

All crap aside, you are one of the most amazing people I know. You keep me sharp and challenge me to teach and to listen. This year, more than anything, you surprised me with your courage and determination. I saw fire in those eyes, kid, and there’s nothing wrong with that. You were my first timid step into motherhood – and now to see what has come of that adventure … to see this bold soul finding her voice and her place is so overwhelming. But remember, no matter how old you are, you will always be my baby. You promised!

p.s. This video is the only proof I have that this weekend actually happened. Sloppy Joan chillin with the iPad hanging from the roof of the popup. Good times ... 

Better in my 30s: Meditating

Tune in today to see if she can ... Meditate for 30 days.

A few months back, I was on a Gabrielle Bernstein high. I listened to her audio book for Miracles Now and became a full-on spirit junkie, taking hit after hit of Gabby's good stuff. While like most of my infatuations, it only lasted a hot minute, I would say I was addicted. I took introspection to a DEFCON level 5, dissecting every passing thought and action, trying these wild meditations with mantras that I chanted, having absolutely zero clue what they meant. But before you judge, listen to the girl speak. You might not drink the Kool-Aid, but you'll at least smell it to see what flavor's in the pitcher.

She said things like ...

 
And these memorable nuggets ...

I finished the last disc and swore to find my peace, damn it!

A quick confession and choppy transition: I have over 100 blogs in my Feedly roll. Whether you find yourself appalled or impressed is neither here nor there, but what I can tell you is certain trends are undeniable in the blogosphere. Repeating themes, if you will. And right now I could create a brutal drinking game for content addicts based on the mention of any of the following: juicing, HIIT, festival, flower crown or meditation. The latter being the only one that also coincides with my resolutions for self improvement in 2015. The universe just keeps throwing it at me. So, I'm going to stop throwing it back. At least for a month.

Starting Monday, this mama is going to hide in my basement, closet (c'mon, I have no pride anymore) or bedroom for 10 minutes every day, for 30 consecutive days, and meditate. Nothing fancy. No mantras. Likely just a timer and some instrumentals. I don't know ... I don't know if I'll have enough time ... I want to see if being mindful truly impacts decision making, parenting and sleep. I want to breathe and reboot. So, we'll see. I'll journal and overthink it all and report back in June. I know you'll be on the edge of your seats (wink, wink).

Until next time ...

Arangadang adoration

Before we can even get into the obscene amount of adorable that I'm about to put on you, we have to get on the same page. If you have not already been witness to this piece of pop culture history, take a moment, won't you?

This was pre-Anna, and, mind you, I am not now, nor have I ever been, a Veronica Mars follower. At one point, the sole source of my appreciation for Kristen Bell was this sloth video.

Bringing it back to this post, our Children's Zoo recently welcomed a baby orangutan, Asmara. There are two things I geek out about when I take the girls: 1) Feeding the giraffes, and 2) the orangutans in the rain forest exhibit. Spike calls them "arangadangs" which, let's face it, just adds another layer of awesome.  I mean, they sit on branches with trashcan lids on their heads for crying out loud. They can kill you with a swift backhand, but they have such humanistic features and expressions.

When someone at work sounded the alarm for a last-minute photo shoot, I threw out the zoo as a suggestion, never imagining in a trillion years we would end up, as I imagined in my dreams, on a Friday morning, standing in an observation room in the rain forest with just 5 feet of space and a pane of glass between me, Asmara and her family. They were sloths, and I was Kristen Bell.

There are times when I can, and then there are times like this when I ... just ... can't even. 

Plus,  these dudes:

You're welcome. Now go hysterically cry and record yourself.

Stand up routine