tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23447250187672240052024-03-16T12:52:48.100-06:00The Domestic ProjectUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger130125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2344725018767224005.post-71742457896331092482013-06-23T18:00:00.000-06:002013-06-23T18:12:46.070-06:00A Love Letter To My City: Calgary Flood 2013This will not be one of my usual posts. <br />
<br />
This will not be filled with sarcasm, humour, and moaning about everyday life, or funny pictures of my kids, or diy birthday party cakes. Those posts, my regular posts, will be saved for another day. <br />
<br />
This is my post about how much I love my city. And how much it breaks my heart to see her in the shape she’s in. <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="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-jXrq-beIeYQ/Ucdqm0NrvKI/AAAAAAAACfQ/Ex41MqMbr1E/s1600-h/calgary%25255B4%25255D.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="calgary" border="0" height="360" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-LdpFZZuAqVo/Ucdqn2bDsgI/AAAAAAAACfY/alDhdFD8Uo8/calgary_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-color: -moz-use-text-color; border-style: none; border-width: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="calgary" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr align="right"><td class="tr-caption"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">photo credit: Edmonton Journal</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
For those not aware, the city of Calgary and her surrounding areas are in a state of emergency due to terrible flooding that began a few short days ago. Whole neighbourhoods are under water, our downtown core was entirely evacuated, and even animals at the zoo were moved to higher ground. <br />
<br />
Over 75 000 people were evacuated from low-lying areas within the city, with hopes that many of those will be allowed back today. The flooding is extensive and destructive, and will cost millions in infrastructure replacement alone. <br />
<br />
I am a born-and-raised Calgarian, as are my husband and children. And I am devastated. <br />
<br />
My own little family has been blessed. We live in a neighbourhood on the outskirts of the city, on high ground and far enough away from the two major rivers that being flooded was never a concern. We’ve had to deal with the “inconveniences” of long gas line-ups and going from store-to-store looking for water (in the event of a boil water order, which has thankfully not happened), but that is all. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-AuFuW8FFyc8/Ucdqo8RSmlI/AAAAAAAACfg/oXReO44rnUo/s1600-h/IMG_1410%25255B3%25255D.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="IMG_1410" border="0" height="480" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-7-0cRqU143E/UcdqpzjtnNI/AAAAAAAACfo/pmkob5q5Q-o/IMG_1410_thumb.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-color: -moz-use-text-color; border-style: none; border-width: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="IMG_1410" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Water lineups at 7:15am Friday</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-FvI8cgKrqlw/Ucdqq1A-U6I/AAAAAAAACfw/bMUSr0aiqZA/s1600-h/IMG_1430%25255B5%25255D.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="IMG_1430" border="0" height="450" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-2GGJiL4HQBA/UcdqrfeuIwI/AAAAAAAACf4/C0R8UFkBCQ4/IMG_1430_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-color: -moz-use-text-color; border-style: none; border-width: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="IMG_1430" width="338" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">30 minute gas lineup Friday afternoon</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
My home is dry, safe and warm, with electricity as needed and my children still able to play in the streets after dinnertime. In the grand scheme of things, we’ve been handed a reprieve and for that, we’re thankful. <br />
<br />
However, the sheer madness of what has transpired only a short drive away astounds me. Landmarks, history, and memories were disposed of in a matter of hours. Dear friends, colleagues, fellow bloggers and many of my students have been evacuated from their homes, with no way yet of knowing the extent of damage or loss. My husband’s workplace, the Calgary Saddledome, to many a benchmark in the city, is currently sitting in so much water that it’s reached the 8th row of seating in the arena. <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="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-uQCoh-T0_-o/Ucdqr09YdEI/AAAAAAAACgA/7lg0-g5SzUo/s1600-h/calgary3%25255B4%25255D.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="calgary3" border="0" height="400" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-wIDbGe-Y7sI/Ucdqsdj7ksI/AAAAAAAACgI/07EBo3LBm1w/calgary3_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-color: -moz-use-text-color; border-style: none; border-width: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="calgary3" width="620" /></a></td></tr>
<tr align="right"><td class="tr-caption"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">photo credit: Edmonton Journal</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Even the fun-filled, what-every-student-looks-forward-to-all-year final week of school has been impacted city-wide, with school boards closing their doors as both a precautionary and empathetic measure for their families and staff. I did not have school Friday and most definitely will not tomorrow, but this is not the reason I would have chosen for this to happen. <br />
<br />
And yet. <br />
<br />
And yet, with all this sadness and wreckage around us my city has risen from the flood waters and stood tall. <br />
<br />
Said Ralph Waldo Emerson, “<i>When it is dark enough, you can see the stars”.</i> And no city has proven this more than Calgary. <br />
<br />
Over 75 000 people became evacuees within a matter of hours Friday. Of those, only 1500 have required the use of shelters. <br />
<br />
<i>Only 1500. </i>Of 75 000. <br />
<br />
This means that enough non-evacuated Calgarians opened their homes to aide an overwhelming 98% of displaced residents so they had somewhere safe to stay. <i>98%. </i>That number is <i>staggering. </i><br />
<br />
Or how about this much-publicized tweet from the City of Calgary yesterday: <br />
<a href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-hHbPSea47wg/UcdqtNP6III/AAAAAAAACgQ/nqdXCDtAFaU/s1600-h/IMG_1454%25255B7%25255D.jpg"><img alt="IMG_1454" border="0" height="322" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-6EyWFNCf7hQ/UcdqtV9gCxI/AAAAAAAACgY/rqjaA7nBnIA/IMG_1454_thumb%25255B4%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="IMG_1454" width="350" /></a><i>Are. You. Kidding. Me. <br /> </i><br />
My fellow Calgarians. You are awe-inspiring in your generosity. <br />
<br />
There are in fact <i>countless</i> examples of the open and giving nature of the people of this city, and it really takes being here, immersed in it all, to grasp how truly spectacular this spirit is. It is both entirely unnatural and somehow entirely <i>natural </i>to see Calgarians band together in this way, and it makes me so proud to call this city “Home”. <br />
<br />
We know we are only at the beginning stage of a long and eventful process. I am already seeing Facebook and Twitter statuses of friends making a call-to-arms, asking for support in clearing out debris from their’s or neighbour’s homes; people are enquiring about temporary office space rentals, clothes for kids, housing for pets. There will be a great need in the next few days once the flood waters have receded and the extent of damage assessed, for more volunteers than maybe even <i>this</i> city can provide. There will be refuse to clear, buildings to gut, longer-term temporary housing to be found. We, as Calgarians, are aware of the challenges ahead. <br />
<br />
And we will face them full strength. <br />
<br />
If nothing else, this disaster has proven the mettle of our citizens. It has shown that we unite as a whole, face adversity with resolve and, most importantly, <i>truly</i> care for the welfare of others. Our city’s slogan is “Heart of the New West”; in many ways we could be summed up with one of those words: Heart. <br />
<br />
This city has <i>heart.</i> <br />
<br />
And rest assured, this heart <i>will</i> keep on beating strong.<br />
<br />
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">For more information on the Southern Alberta Floods or where to donate:<br />- follow the #yychelps and #yycflood hashtag on Twitter</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">- donate money directly to <a href="http://www.redcross.ca/">www.redcross.ca</a></span></i><br />
<br />
<a href="http://s983.photobucket.com/albums/ae311/thedomesticproject/?action=view&current=Blogsiggie.png" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" src="http://i983.photobucket.com/albums/ae311/thedomesticproject/Blogsiggie.png" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2344725018767224005.post-84295838044540662782013-05-26T17:00:00.000-06:002013-05-26T17:00:00.621-06:00Think Kids Are Gross? Try Raising Butterflies.Butterfly, fly away (please. Fly far, far away …) <br />
<br />
If you <a href="http://instagram.com/thedomesticproject#">follow me on Instagram</a> (and why wouldn’t you? I take oversharing to the next level on <a href="http://instagram.com/thedomesticproject#">Instagram</a>, peeps!) then you would have seen this nice little pic last week: <br />
<a href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-GivuD4CYF8E/UaJ-lkQRorI/AAAAAAAACbM/ktntA1SRiqQ/s1600-h/IMG_1090%25255B3%25255D.jpg"><img alt="IMG_1090" border="0" height="480" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-FzGcxNFAcjM/UaJ-mQYi7cI/AAAAAAAACbU/Ne4-wbvD_Es/IMG_1090_thumb.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="IMG_1090" width="360" /></a>with the description: <br />
<br />
<i>It's May, which means its butterfly-raising season in my classroom once again. #shudder #idoitforthekids</i><br /><br />After posting, I realized a follow-up explanation might be in order. After all, most people <i>love</i> butterflies. Heck, <i>I </i>loved butterflies once, too. <br />
<br />
Until. <br />
<br />
Until I made the life-changing decision to raise some in my classroom a few years ago. And since then, my opinion of those lovely, ethereal creatures-who’s-only-purpose-in-life-is-to-brighten-summer-days was forever altered, and my hate for them goes so deep that I now want to ruin them for everyone else, too. I’m vindictive like that. <br />
<br />
It started off innocently enough. “Hey, wanna grow butterflies with your students this year?” asked one of my teacher-friends at school. “I’m ordering some Painted Ladies this week, so if you want some, let me know!”. Ignoring the obvious you’re-ordering-Painted-Ladies/hookers-for-the-kids? joke she’d just lobbed my way, I instead eagerly replied “Yes!” (I’m nothing if not professional). A true ingénue to the world of butterflies, I had visions of smiling students at our sunlight-drenched release ceremony filling my head. It would be spectacular, the photos would be incredible, the students would love it. I was in. <br />
<br />
A few weeks later, our caterpillars arrived. And my idealistic dreams crumbled instantly. <br />
<br />
For one thing, Painted Lady butterfly larva <i>are gross</i>. In terms of cuteness they are just slightly above maggots and about par with meal worms, if that gives you an idea. And what’s worse: <i>they only get grosser with age</i>. <br />
<a href="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-NVBJO4mrNLg/UaJ-nScwHaI/AAAAAAAACbc/B8jkyQv8CbQ/s1600-h/IMG_1140%25255B3%25255D.jpg"><img alt="IMG_1140" border="0" height="480" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-y5NT5gzwDKc/UaJ-oB3ybAI/AAAAAAAACbk/8gc8UDC5xpE/IMG_1140_thumb.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="IMG_1140" width="480" /></a> <br />
Like your Uncle Saul, they get fatter and hairier every day they’re alive. Their homes are soon covered in feces and feces-covered webs, and they spend their days molting and wiggling and pooping. Yum.<a href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-BJoLgyWOcwM/UaJ-okSpRCI/AAAAAAAACbs/ZA8ueG7nqu4/s1600-h/IMG_1526%25255B3%25255D.jpg"><img alt="IMG_1526" border="0" height="480" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-7bNTTuuaf8U/UaJ-pN2sWUI/AAAAAAAACb0/dcW1AB-v2-c/IMG_1526_thumb.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="IMG_1526" width="360" /></a> <br />
I was thankful when the caterpillars finally built their chrysalis because swallowing vomit every time I sat at my desk and saw them, resting there, was starting to get old (*<i>side note:</i> I <i>was</i> pregnant and in my early-2nd trimester with Avery at the time so that may have had a <i>teensy</i> role to play in my nausea, but I prefer to think it was 100% caterpillar-induced). <br />
<br />
I’d also grown weary of playing the its-a-natural-thing-guys-chill-out card with my students as they’d scream “<i>Eewwwwwwww!</i> Ms. C! Why is he <i>eating</i> his own <i>poo</i>?!” each time we did our observations. <br />
<br />
I was thankful … until I learned what came next. <br />
<br />
“Ok Andra, today we have to peel the chrysalis out of the cups and attach the lids with tape to the top of your butterfly enclosure” my larva-purchasing-probably-sadistic-now-former-friend said as she bustled into my classroom early one morning. <br />
<br />
“Peel? What do you mean “peel”? Don’t the lids just pop off?” I asked, stirrings of new horror deep in my stomach. <br />
<br />
No, dear readers, I learned the lids do <i>not</i> just “pop off”. Rather, they must be forcibly pried due to the apparent Schwarzenegger-strength of those strands of webbing the productive caterpillars leave in their chrysalis-making wake. Most of the time you have to use scissors to snip away at the threads until the lid comes clear, and woe be the teacher who pulls too hard, as I did, out of sheer frustration. Because then the damned, disgusting chrysalis actually <i>falls off the lid and flip-flops all over the ground</i> like some oversized Mexican Jumping Bean<i>.</i> And then you’re left, screaming and dry-heaving and in a panic <i>having to actually </i>touch<i> the flip-flopping cocoon, </i>and attempt to reattach it to it’s lid with tape<i>. </i>And you’re cursing your teacher-friend and calling out to Jesus for help and it all ends with you, an emotional mess on the ground in the corner of your classroom, as your students walk in for the day. <br />
<br />
Or maybe that’s just me.<i> <br /> <br />*shudder* </i><br /><br />Strolling into my room two weeks later I was finally past the terror that was the chrysalis-removing and had become excited, like my students, for the first signs of our butterflies emerging from their cocoons. I eagerly leaned over my desk to take a peek at the enclosure and <i>SWEETHEAVENLYFATHEROHMYGODNO!! AAAARGH! </i><br /><br />Inside the cage, it looked like a massacre had happened. <br />
<br />
Where once there were dangling pupas there were now empty shells, butterflies upside-down and spread-eagled on the ground, and what looked like <i>red blood sprayed all over the inside of the cage. </i> <br />
<br />
“Aaaaargh!” I screamed again. “Oh my god, what happened?!! What happened to the butterflies?!!! Why is there <i>blood</i> everywhere?!!” <br />
<br />
Turns out my mini-heart attack was for naught. No, some butterfly-killing psycho had not swept through my class the night before. <i>Apparently</i> (thanks, butterfly-ordering-sadistic-<i>definitely</i>-no-longer-my-friend teacher for omitting <i>that</i> important bit of “info”), when butterflies emerge from their chrysalis they tend to expel copious amounts of red meconium. <br />
<br />
That’s right. Meconium. Sticky, tar-like poo just like human babies except, <i>oh yeah, IT’S RED. </i> <br />
<a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-oOFnQiG0bmU/UaJ-qAaelEI/AAAAAAAACb8/ziaft-z2q4o/s1600-h/IMG_1531%25255B3%25255D.jpg"><img alt="IMG_1531" border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHp3WDvx4o31X5BO6M2agB4468skU3IR_-nC-4WXVnn0XJ-v5N0o-2alGOw3WcScNaFBHx_mz7zEHVgMea5e-04HN2RZkhMD04QgZ8kFDdErzatc-KmV39V4ITe9AHuY-Vs0ClLut2I2I/?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="IMG_1531" width="360" /></a>(I wish I had a better picture to show you of the red-meconium-sprayed butterfly cage but students’ faces were in my other ones. And to be honest, you’d probably lose your dinner at the sight of it anyways so <i>you’re welcome</i>). <br />
<br />
And the upside-down spread-eagled butterflies? Just an indication of their overall intelligence and will to live, folks. <i>Every. Damn. Morning</i> I’d have to retrieve them from their flipped-over idiocy, poking and shuffling them around the enclosure to assure they were alive lest I traumatize my students with the good ‘ole facts of life and death. I swear those insects were doing it to me out of sheer hatred, because no other teacher in the school had the extent of “butterflies on their backs” problems that I did. <br />
<br />
But. <br />
<br />
But finally, the Great Day came. The day I’d been looking forward to for over a month, the Day Of The Great Butterfly Release. <br />
<br />
<i>I knew</i> all my hard work and persevering would pay off. <i>I knew</i> seeing our classroom butterflies pour forth from their cage into the vast blue sky above as my wonder-filled students looked on, would make up for the weeks of disgust and vomited lunches I’d endured to get there. <br />
<br />
As we headed outside, I reminded the students of the Butterfly Release Rules. “Remember guys … the butterflies are <i>delicate living creatures.</i> We must be <i>very gentle</i> with them. <i>Do not</i> under <i>any</i> circumstances <i>touch</i> the butterflies, just watch them and observe with your magnifying glasses”. <br />
<br />
It was with bated breath that myself, the kids and the two classroom staff gathered ‘round the butterfly cage on the grass and slowly unzipped the top. <br />
<a href="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-9Hr0XMzlcKw/UaJ-rpomdLI/AAAAAAAACcM/LbVvCXQN_Gs/s1600-h/1%25255B3%25255D.jpg"><img alt="1" border="0" height="480" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-fR52yUhwuAw/UaJ-sc3RjbI/AAAAAAAACcU/5dHb-EL5WaI/1_thumb.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="1" width="212" /></a> <br />
We held our breaths, lifted the top and …. nothing.<a href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-CWtwNfe8x5I/UaJ-tH0zSkI/AAAAAAAACcc/K1ivyRmboYo/s1600-h/2%25255B3%25255D.jpg"><img alt="2" border="0" height="480" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-LVdsazyEpuk/UaJ-twirfRI/AAAAAAAACck/1ZQ_CxKOXFA/2_thumb.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="2" width="281" /></a> <br />
Not <i>one</i> damned butterfly <i>moved</i>, let alone flew. <br />
<br />
“Uh … Ms. C?” asked one of the students finally . “When’re they gonna, y’know, come out?” <br />
<br />
I told the kids that the butterflies were probably nervous, and to just give them a few minutes. So we waited. <br />
<br />
Eventually, after no movement from the inside we decided they perhaps needed a little <i>persuading</i>, so to speak, to embark on their adventure. So I picked the cage up, and began gently shaking it. <br />
<br />
Still nothing. <br />
<br />
Desperation sinking in I began shaking the cage harder and harder, ignoring the still-tiny baby in my belly as I violently brandished the basket up and down in an effort to get <i>some</i> sort of response from the insects. <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPVhQGP_v5XPTVPgiTFtFY2l5fECavJXpjTG1uV4GujZfP64YCE-wszkBtt8Czemyt9OTC40e4VTM7beF4U1N2J3fnclOAyFTmOZOXNJqfd4zbyv3sw5OaMeK4cw1ssVmZAGESo0TZN1c/s1600-h/3%25255B3%25255D.jpg"><img alt="3" border="0" height="480" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-y-VmGmPtDzY/UaJ-vQiVDfI/AAAAAAAACc0/alIS71L_9CI/3_thumb.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="3" width="328" /></a> <br />
When that didn’t work, one of my classroom staff stepped in to help, the two of us agreeing that “two shakers is better than one!”. <br />
<a href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-dj5Y4PbEKGE/UaJ-wHwTVVI/AAAAAAAACc8/jq108BTfH5A/s1600-h/4%25255B3%25255D.jpg"><img alt="4" border="0" height="345" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-XY_ynC2GT6Y/UaJ-wt-qqYI/AAAAAAAACdE/3oJSbmDmLCQ/4_thumb.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="4" width="640" /></a> <br />
Nothing. The students began quietly edging backwards as the two of us continued to pull and jerk the cage, to no avail. <br />
<br />
We then decided on a new method, with me shaking and her poking and scraping the butterflies in the manner you would the last bits of peanut butter in a jar. <br />
<a href="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-pWpnu6hucME/UaJ-xvNyySI/AAAAAAAACdM/jE_XnY1rA0I/s1600-h/5%25255B3%25255D.jpg"><img alt="5" border="0" height="451" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-aqqBnRJyyYA/UaJ-yV7RPSI/AAAAAAAACdU/VNYdp9aJn3w/5_thumb.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="5" width="640" /></a> <br />
Those butterflies. They’re tenacious little devils. <br />
<br />
Ten minutes later, exhausted and confused (maybe our butterflies are too dumb? Maybe they spent too many nights upside-down in their bowl of sugar water?) we finally resorted to handing each child a straw, and gave them free-reign to gently coax each individual insect onto their sticks and out of captivity. <br />
<br />
It worked. <br />
<a href="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-OBfgrxwrR5Q/UaJ-0KoQrSI/AAAAAAAACdc/ow9TQ_SYhOE/s1600-h/6%25255B3%25255D.jpg"><img alt="6" border="0" height="480" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-KwvRnlQcGvY/UaJ-03vKisI/AAAAAAAACdk/tjcnvdCF3Ng/6_thumb.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="6" width="615" /></a><br />
<a href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-jIFSK7fzkFY/UaJ-13_QKTI/AAAAAAAACds/FJUF5WiKvwo/s1600-h/DSC_0294%25255B3%25255D.jpg"><img alt="DSC_0294" border="0" height="480" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-o-haM9eXPa4/UaJ-2sN1QlI/AAAAAAAACd0/5O7dgvQ0cAs/DSC_0294_thumb.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="DSC_0294" width="319" /></a><br />
And as I watched my students chase joyfully after the orange-and-brown winged creatures they’d helped grow from larva, saw the excitement in their eyes as one would alight on their shoulder or finger, I thought to myself. <br />
<br />
“Over my <i>dead</i> <i>body</i> am I raising these things again”. <br />
<br />
And yet, two years later and here we are. Not only did I <i>ask</i> to order butterflies last month (from my teacher-friend-who-I’ve-since-forgiven-for-sins-of-the-past), but I made sure to double my gross-out factor by bringing a few home so my <i>own</i> children can experience this “miracle of life”. <br />
<a href="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-vAx0Gecx3tI/UaJ-3Ser0EI/AAAAAAAACd8/imwi-IbT24I/s1600-h/7%25255B3%25255D.jpg"><img alt="7" border="0" height="480" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-zca16hSkJNY/UaJ-4J7vYnI/AAAAAAAACeE/3kwkqfbGcN0/7_thumb.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="7" width="350" /></a><br />
Yes, those <i>are</i> six disgustingly-hairy caterpillars making a home on my kitchen table. Its not like the kids ate much at dinner, anyways. <br />
<br />
So why? <br />
<br />
Well, because that’s what parents do. And that’s what teachers do. Regardless of your <i>own</i> feelings on a topic, if you know your kids are going to benefit you’ll move heaven-and-earth to bring it into existence. And that’s what I’m doing. <br />
<br />
Just don’t expect me to like it. But, for the sake of the children, I’ll <i>pretend</i> to.
<br /><br /><a href="http://s983.photobucket.com/albums/ae311/thedomesticproject/?action=view&current=Blogsiggie.png" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" src="http://i983.photobucket.com/albums/ae311/thedomesticproject/Blogsiggie.png" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2344725018767224005.post-80193820918143812992013-05-13T19:17:00.000-06:002013-05-13T19:17:12.192-06:00Baby Wisp Giveaway Winner!It's Monday, which means its time to announce the official winner of our <a href="http://www.babywisp.com/index.php" target="_blank">Baby Wisp</a> giveaway! And the winner, chosen randomly by rafflecopter.com is .... Jocelle S.!! Jocelle, an email has been sent your way. <br /><br /><br />Congratulations, and thanks to everyone who entered!<br />
<a href="http://s983.photobucket.com/albums/ae311/thedomesticproject/?action=view&current=Blogsiggie.png" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" src="http://i983.photobucket.com/albums/ae311/thedomesticproject/Blogsiggie.png" /> </a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2344725018767224005.post-68479388027733526472013-05-12T18:00:00.000-06:002013-05-12T18:10:37.654-06:007 Useless Words My 18 Month Old Knows Instead of "Yes" or "No"When most kids learn to talk, the bulk of their early vocabulary is made up of highly-communicative words such as “no”, “yes”, “more”, “that”, “up”, “down” etc. Essentially, standard-issue language that makes understanding their needs simpler for all involved. <br />
<br />
Sounds pretty basic right? <br />
<br />
Wrong. If your name is Avery. <br />
<br />
May I present: <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>7 Useless Words My 18 Month Old Knows Instead of “Yes”, “No”, Or Anything Else That Would Help Us Understand What The Eff She’s Screaming About.<br /><br /></i></div>
<div>
<table align="center" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="width: 400px;"><tbody>
<tr> <td valign="top" width="400"><div align="center">
motorhome</div>
</td> </tr>
<tr> <td valign="top" width="400"><div align="center">
wiggle</div>
</td> </tr>
<tr> <td valign="top" width="400"><div align="center">
opening verse to “Barbra Ann” by The Beach Boys</div>
</td> </tr>
<tr> <td valign="top" width="400"><div align="center">
vulva <i>{don’t ask}</i></div>
</td> </tr>
<tr> <td valign="top" width="400"><div align="center">
bum</div>
</td> </tr>
<tr> <td valign="top" width="400"><div align="center">
keys</div>
</td> </tr>
<tr> <td valign="top" width="400"><div align="center">
Ellen <i>{as in, Ellen Degeneres}</i></div>
</td> </tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div>
<br />
So …. yeah. Communication is going swimmingly over here.<br /><br />--------------------------<br /><br />On another note, from my home to yours, I hope Mother’s Day was everything you
imagined it would be. Barring that, I hope you at least got to pee in
privacy.<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="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-CLyougBOgiQ/UZAurD8BDYI/AAAAAAAACa0/aU9TPviDSCs/s1600-h/MothersDay%25255B2%25255D.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="MothersDay" border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFxEfGORi0xMtwCiEW1uqT83TgLgkv_kDRI6bUZRFij47NrZTue3cIHWXUXEcbRy5QDeJ92KCpfSUxZNPWeZPYKlfgkxEJVGWIUGPgMq0r-V3oJ7W8bM4aVxIEMaDFaaSvx6is_M_Wj2Y/?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-color: -moz-use-text-color; border-style: none; border-width: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="MothersDay" width="295" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Motorhome!"</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<a href="http://s983.photobucket.com/albums/ae311/thedomesticproject/?action=view&current=Blogsiggie.png" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" src="http://i983.photobucket.com/albums/ae311/thedomesticproject/Blogsiggie.png" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2344725018767224005.post-59071242035600399032013-05-05T18:00:00.000-06:002013-05-06T21:04:31.320-06:00Mamas of Girls: A Baby Wisp Giveaway!<a href="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-SsKQmC_hvMk/UYXfwGeipgI/AAAAAAAACMs/3RlXC6sRdKA/s1600-h/BabyWispTitle%25255B5%25255D.jpg"><img alt="BabyWispTitle" border="0" height="550" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVnOyNJjExR2OMrjR5HWFGRZODpCb2FRLGEJW8phXmnU0Ph_fGk9UIOw_F4OLMeXmlw6xe8lIUPUEJjtw5Rp2uD78QbWLn6VBlefaceFjBoTQSO5TFKbLtYrDQskQoWykBBF35dEQgdjw/?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="BabyWispTitle" width="366" /></a><br />
I don’t usually do giveaways on my blog, but for products I absolutely <i>love</i> I’ll make an exception. And I love, love, love <a href="http://www.babywisp.com/index.php">Baby Wisp</a> (and think you will, too). <br />
<br />
<a href="http://thedomesticproject.blogspot.ca/2013/04/tales-of-bald-and-beautiful.html">Bald-though-she-may-be</a>, Ave’s had <a href="http://www.babywisp.com/index.php">Baby Wisp</a> hair accessories since she was 8 months old. I was first introduced to this Canadian company through an on-line mommy group I belong to; one poster <i>swore</i> their hairclips worked on even the <a href="http://thedomesticproject.blogspot.ca/2013/04/tales-of-bald-and-beautiful.html">baldest of babes</a>, so of course I had to see for myself. <br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.babywisp.com/index.php">Baby Wisp</a> uses satisfaction-guaranteed <a href="http://www.babywisp.com/products.php?cat=10">latch clips</a> for many of their hair accessories, stating that they will <i>not</i> fall off<i>.</i> Still in disbelief that they would work on my at-the-time totally hairless child, I ordered one single clip (a tester, if you will). My choice? A <a href="http://www.babywisp.com/proddetail.php?prod=ML-BLOSSOM&cat=10" target="_blank">Mini Latch Clip Crocheted Blossom</a> cutie: <br />
<a href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-Z4wyXgwC3PU/UYXfxriuKgI/AAAAAAAACM8/MYukbVaODQU/s1600-h/babywispcrochet%25255B8%25255D.jpg"><img alt="babywispcrochet" border="0" height="225" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-GO7eyvNlxZ8/UYXfyOFEE0I/AAAAAAAACNE/d5e3FG3B2ww/babywispcrochet_thumb%25255B6%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="babywispcrochet" width="300" /></a> <br />
The consensus? <br />
<br />
<i>It. Held. <br /> <br />Firmly.</i> <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="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-32cO0oFF1kM/UYXfzHhraZI/AAAAAAAACNM/8snOdehWYqM/s1600-h/babywisp%25255B3%25255D.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="babywisp" border="0" height="480" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-0prCi5WehPk/UYXfz95rIJI/AAAAAAAACNU/qPfwdjCng2Y/babywisp_thumb.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-color: -moz-use-text-color; border-style: none; border-width: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="babywisp" width="343" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cellphone pic of Avery wearing her Baby Wisp the first time, right out of the package</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
And so began my love-affair with <a href="http://www.babywisp.com/index.php">Baby Wisp</a>, and why I was thrilled when the company contacted me last week about doing a giveaway for my readers. I was all “<i>Of course</i> I’ll do a giveaway! You guys are one of the few reasons my daughter isn’t <a href="http://thedomesticproject.blogspot.ca/2013/04/tales-of-bald-and-beautiful.html">constantly mistaken for a boy!”,</a> and they were all “And would you like to test out our <a href="http://www.babywisp.com/proddetail.php?prod=LLC1-SEQ-BFLY">Sequins Butterfly Large Latch Clip</a>?” and I was all “Sqweeeeeeeeeeeeee!”. <br />
<br />
I really need to learn to play it cooler. <br />
<br />
Anyways, we took the accessory for a test-drive at a birthday party the other day and, as with all their other products, it held amazingly. <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfVMYx6igOCV3d1v9HrDKXSKkFUP-y-1SVGh4cyH6dof9VpBKQHSQGL5275eXP1YwSj4yI4IT6SVvU33x6m0dvH_FOUSAh4GmUJG1h6Hi_0enitXy-VvYqv0ff4JzKIDpn9dfjzduIjCM/s1600-h/DSC_1907%25255B3%25255D.jpg"><img alt="DSC_1907" border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6Ir35GjsLKiyldBipBJIG8ingntwdtrIku0TKcKkjMVIHf3XJSBcZadJD68JMqluMH6KOKaZYC5e5aUgHYUz5NWb7A0aHS_p6lWJ5ofih9JusJcV_lYQjSjD93OV1hbVriFRHw81GJ6A/?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="DSC_1907" width="319" /></a> <br />
<a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-VSUtnZdDV74/UYXf3x90H-I/AAAAAAAACNs/pKPIk6hI9pQ/s1600-h/DSC_1889%25255B3%25255D.jpg"><img alt="DSC_1889" border="0" height="480" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-K45sbQ7SB0o/UYXf4WCYfHI/AAAAAAAACN0/aEwGCUh1yss/DSC_1889_thumb.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="DSC_1889" width="319" /></a> <br />
<a href="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-y6wYwEf8ad8/UYXf5BaR_zI/AAAAAAAACN8/y1GJh10cI4Q/s1600-h/DSC_1922%25255B3%25255D.jpg"><img alt="DSC_1922" border="0" height="480" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-4BsaeDEPHkg/UYXf5tYKu3I/AAAAAAAACOE/51RQ42oTMpQ/DSC_1922_thumb.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="DSC_1922" width="319" /></a> <br />
<a href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-uExjUZ-rjF0/UYXf6cq_3_I/AAAAAAAACOM/Q0kVeIArjWw/s1600-h/DSC_1918%25255B3%25255D.jpg"><img alt="DSC_1918" border="0" height="480" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-cMdfw_y4JiU/UYXf7VAmVVI/AAAAAAAACOU/2ShHmzNI_sE/DSC_1918_thumb.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="DSC_1918" width="319" /></a> <br />
<a href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-cbEUE2QBkG4/UYXf8P5wxcI/AAAAAAAACOc/1CJTO1nY0RY/s1600-h/DSC_1946%252520-%252520Copy%25255B3%25255D.jpg"><img alt="DSC_1946 - Copy" border="0" height="480" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-KfVdQZ_k8hs/UYXf8gVywlI/AAAAAAAACOk/dZB53UAj-rk/DSC_1946%252520-%252520Copy_thumb.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="DSC_1946 - Copy" width="308" /></a><br />
Apparently Avery didn’t crack a smile the whole party, but the clip looked great. :P <br />
<br />
This giveaway is unique in that the more entries there are, the more goodies will be up for grabs: <br />
<br />
1st Awarded Prize <br />
<a href="http://www.babywisp.com/proddetail.php?prod=MLC1-SEQ-BFLY">Mini Latch Clip Sequins Butterfly (any colour)</a> + 50% off coupon code, good toward any regular-priced item <br />
<a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-HJOorFu5al0/UYXf9EcP8HI/AAAAAAAACOs/4VLO4lGK6Fo/s1600-h/babywispbutterfly%25255B5%25255D.jpg"><img alt="babywispbutterfly" border="0" height="225" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-OtLRi2LT4lI/UYXf-PNsNUI/AAAAAAAACO0/XU_YHoJAu0c/babywispbutterfly_thumb%25255B3%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="babywispbutterfly" width="300" /></a><br />
<br />
<br />
2nd Awarded Prize <br />
<a href="http://www.babywisp.com/proddetail.php?prod=LCC1-MVELVGLITTUX&cat=87">Mini Latch Clip Glitter Velvet Tuxedo Bow (any colour)</a> + 50% off coupon code, good toward any regular-priced item <br />
<a href="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-rxd1Ey47JDg/UYXf-sSMPFI/AAAAAAAACO8/1pZYyjfMbac/s1600-h/babywisptuxedo%25255B5%25255D.jpg"><img alt="babywisptuxedo" border="0" height="222" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijDb5EBTWTzRcFmECXaQPtrPeif9L2z5DZtH50pqZmsqggSJ-zbo-O3cAfdXqGfu7lkJe2NxY5Pw6LJ5WTiI2afCsQ-wcnbu54mnAs85F05SK9D1TNDl0mGWaH2quxZJ2d5UkKEaFpRa4/?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="babywisptuxedo" width="300" /></a> <br />
<br />
3rd Awarded Prize <br />
<a href="http://www.babywisp.com/proddetail.php?prod=SSCVELVGLITBTQ&cat=89">Small Snap Clip Velvet Glitter Boutique Bow (any colour)</a> + 50% off coupon code, good toward any regular-priced item <br />
<a href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-7l7tjQoAteo/UYXf_ka2eGI/AAAAAAAACPk/EvHZZQCll5I/s1600-h/babywispboutique%25255B5%25255D.jpg"><img alt="babywispboutique" border="0" height="225" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-U6YZ0Xbpe7Y/UYXgAD6gugI/AAAAAAAACPo/dO_knjC1CU0/babywispboutique_thumb%25255B3%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-color: -moz-use-text-color; border-style: none; border-width: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="babywispboutique" width="300" /></a><br />
More than 20 unique entries releases the first prize, 50 or more releases prize 1 & 2, and 100 or more releases all three so pass this info along to friends! <br />
<br />
Entering is easy: <br />
<a class="rafl" href="http://www.rafflecopter.com/rafl/display/23c9bd1/" id="rc-23c9bd1" rel="nofollow">a Rafflecopter giveaway</a>
<script src="//d12vno17mo87cx.cloudfront.net/embed/rafl/cptr.js"></script>
<br />
<br />
Contest closes next Sunday, May 12th. Winner(s) will be selected randomly, and will be announced next Monday, May 13th (wouldn’t that be a nice, albeit late, Mother’s Day surprise!). <br />
<br />
Good luck! <br />
<br />
<i>{Disclosure: I was provided with the <a href="http://www.babywisp.com/proddetail.php?prod=LLC1-SEQ-BFLY">Large Latch Clip Sequins Butterfly</a> to test and review, but opinions are my own}<br /> </i>
<a href="http://s983.photobucket.com/albums/ae311/thedomesticproject/?action=view&current=Blogsiggie.png" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" src="http://i983.photobucket.com/albums/ae311/thedomesticproject/Blogsiggie.png" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2344725018767224005.post-48267216234849088072013-05-01T07:30:00.000-06:002013-05-01T07:30:04.891-06:005 Things Moms REALLY Want For Mother's DayIn honour of today being May 1st and the official start of “<i>The Entire Month in Celebration of The Beauteous and Ever-Loving Mother</i>” (at least, that’s what I keep telling Jamie. But he just shakes his head and walks away. “Jamie, where are you going?” I ask as he runs to the other room. “Jamie, I’m talking to you! Get back here! It’s <i>my</i> month, you hear me? <i>Mine!</i>”), I’m re-posting one of my favourites from last year …. <a href="http://thedomesticproject.blogspot.ca/2012/05/what-moms-really-want-for-mothers-day.html" target="_blank">5 Things Moms REALLY want for Mother's Day</a>. <br />
<br />
Because we’ve all had just about enough of this “cut-out handprint-shaped-into-a-flower-I-wuv-you-mommy” crap<i>.</i> <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="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-J4saTH0jrHI/UYAVDAVWbFI/AAAAAAAACG8/8CM9s4G54Ls/s1600-h/5-Things-Moms-REALLY-want-for-Mother%252527s-Day%25255B4%25255D.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="5-Things-Moms-REALLY-want-for-Mother's-Day" border="0" height="480" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-spBFbGV2zeo/UYAVD-8pjYI/AAAAAAAACHE/MegQ8cL2Ey4/5-Things-Moms-REALLY-want-for-Mother%252527s-Day_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-color: -moz-use-text-color; border-style: none; border-width: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="5-Things-Moms-REALLY-want-for-Mother's-Day" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Snapshot of my typical 5pm. Aaaannnnd commence vodka drinking ... <i>now!</i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><a href="http://thedomesticproject.blogspot.ca/2012/05/what-moms-really-want-for-mothers-day.html">*originally posted May 10, 2012*</a></i></span> <br />
The other day Jamie asked me what I wanted for Mother’s Day, and in my mind I went through all the standard ideas: Flowers. Chocolates. A personal masseur named Javier. Not having to tell my husband what I want for gifts. You know … the usual. <br />
<br />
But they just didn’t seem <i>right,</i> or indicative of what I really desire (except Javier. He’s right on so many levels). <br />
<br />
And then I realized something --- the reason I’m struggling with this decision is because what I <i>really</i> want, what would <i>truly</i> fill my soul are things that are impossible to buy. And no, I’m not talking about “world peace”. I’m talking about real, pressing, important matters that <i>any</i> mother would <i>kill</i> to have. <br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>1. Our Asses Back.</b></span><br />
<br />
I’m not sure what chemical reaction occurs during pregnancy that causes Ass Shape Transformation, but something’s flowing through our systems and it ain’t pretty. Once a woman’s had a baby, her ass is never the same. <br />
<br />
“Mom Butt” comes in two very distinct shapes: The bubble, and the square. The bubble takes the form of a rapidly-inflating balloon that grows larger with each subsequent pregnancy. Adding more than just a little jiggle to your wiggle, it causes pants to stretch tightly at the seams, and ass-cheeks to perform startling impersonations of condors’ wings spreading and taking flight. <br />
<br />
The square goes in the opposite direction – literally. Where once there was a pert little behind, now sits a sagging and misshapen derriere with the apparent M.O. of stretching to your knees before your next birthday. Flat, square, long and lumpy …. mmmm, mmmm! Just de way dem boys like ‘em!<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>2. Perky Breasts.</b></span> <br />
<br />
We’re not fussy at this point; we could care less what size they are, so long as they’re pointing to the horizon and not our toes. With all the appeal of tennis balls hanging in tube socks, what once was our most provocative feature has now become a symbol for all that’s limp and deflated in the world. Move over, National Geographic cover models! The sight of our ta-ta’s swinging side-to-side should have you running for cover! And when we lay on our backs … hoo boy! There’s nothing like the feel of your nipples nestling into your arm pits. Thank you, gravity!<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">3. A “Mom-Ergency Siren”.</span></b><br />
<br />
Bear with me on this one. Wouldn’t it be <i>amazing</i> to have a siren you could put on your car whenever your kids started screaming/crying/fighting? This siren would signal to others that you had a “Mom-Ergency ™” (and yes, I’m trademarking that mofo), and that they need to clear the hell out of the way because one crazy beotch is comin’ through. Given how much <a href="http://thedomesticproject.blogspot.ca/2012/03/never-in-my-wildest-dreams.html">Avery loves car rides</a>, you know I’ve given this one a lot of thought. <br />
<br />
The Mom-Ergency Siren could be used in other sticky predicaments, too. Does your <a href="http://thedomesticproject.blogspot.ca/2012/05/holy-eff.html">recently-potty-trained toddler</a> desperately need to use a public washroom with a huge lineup? Don’t stress about cleaning up poo-balls on the floor … use the Mom-Ergency Siren, and get those dawdling toilet-users the eff out before the accident happens! (And no. Don’t ask where I got the idea for that “example”).<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">4. A Universal Mute Button.</span></b><br />
<br />
For toys, tvs and children, the Universal Mute Button is a must for today’s hearing-overloaded mom. Whether you’re in the kitchen and just-need-to-get-dinner-finished-for-the-love-of-god-shut-up, or its past bedtime and your kid’s using every stall tactic in the book, the UMB helps you obtain that inner peace and calm only formerly reached with some sweet-assed Mary Jane and a fifth of vodka. Ahhhhhhhhhh …. silence.<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">5. Our Dignity.</span></b><br />
<br />
Last but certainly not least, our dignity. Every mother loses hers at some point, usually early-on in the parenting journey. Whether its buying Depends (size XL) in the final weeks of pregnancy or crapping on the table during labour, dignity is easy to lose and hard to replace. Once gone, there’s little a mother wouldn’t do if the need called: cupping their hands under a child’s mouth to catch vomit; using their finger to pick snot out of a baby’s nose; cleaning poo-balls off the floor of a public coffeeshop (don’t ask, I said!). So give us back our dignity. Please. <br />
<br />
<br />
And there you have it ... five tips for Mother's Day, from my home to yours. I can't wait to see which one Jamie surprises me with this year. I'm in suspense, y'all! <br />
<br />
What do <i>you</i> really want? Come on, be honest!<br />
<a href="http://s983.photobucket.com/albums/ae311/thedomesticproject/?action=view&current=Blogsiggie.png" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" src="http://i983.photobucket.com/albums/ae311/thedomesticproject/Blogsiggie.png" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2344725018767224005.post-65100605487010518772013-04-28T18:00:00.000-06:002013-04-28T18:00:00.252-06:00Tales of the Bald and the BeautifulToday I want to talk to you about hair.<br />
<br />
Hair … or rather, <i>lack of</i>. And no, this post is not an ode-to-my-husband-and-his-rapidly-diminishing-follicles. Its about my daughter.<br />
<br />
My bald, that’s-a-boy-right? nearly 18-month old daughter.<br />
<br />
When Avery was born, she had the same smattering of fluff that most newborns have … a little cul-de-sac that went from the sides to the back, with a few faint strands on top. <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="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-2fbbP1_QEBI/UXzAr6ZpT1I/AAAAAAAACGE/44OspWBi6-Y/s1600-h/baby-sleeping2.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="baby-sleeping" border="0" height="425" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-zYUPd6ue2zM/UXzAshFAe4I/AAAAAAAACGM/IcErt62n7fY/baby-sleeping_thumb.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-width: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="baby-sleeping" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">All newborns sleep on wood plates, don't they? </td></tr>
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It was even <i>dark</i>, for pete’s sake. <br />
<br />
“Yay!” I thought innocently. “I shall have my tiny brunette mini-me, and things shall be lovely, and we shall run across rainbows together!”. <br />
<br />
And then. <br />
<br />
And then her head continued to grow, and her hair … did not. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-E70ClByp-54/UXzAtJ-3iJI/AAAAAAAACGU/mPZQ4KGLiRQ/s1600-h/bald2%25255B4%25255D.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="bald2" border="0" height="560" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-fuwtfpzqi0U/UXzAtp-L9MI/AAAAAAAACGc/M1C9OaNXrIQ/bald2_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-color: -moz-use-text-color; border-style: none; border-width: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="bald2" width="372" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Headbands, pink, and frills = necessity</td></tr>
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<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-Ap_-d_tYLOM/UXzAutBAfSI/AAAAAAAACGk/slW2xTmVhvM/s1600-h/bald%25255B3%25255D.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="bald" border="0" height="520" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-rKWzK8ALhD4/UXzAvczPYAI/AAAAAAAACGs/-873EftaULg/bald_thumb%25255B1%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-color: -moz-use-text-color; border-style: none; border-width: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="bald" width="372" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I've got the hair of a 97 year old man, huzzah!</td></tr>
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<br />
By the time she was 6 months old, I had long grown weary of the embarrassed stammer of strangers as they tried to decipher just <i>what</i>, exactly, I had birthed. “My, that’s a healthy little … er … <i>fellow?</i>” they’d say, as my dressed-head-to-toe-in-pink-and-wearing-a-shirt-that-read-“I’m a girl, asshole”-baby laughed heartily and then <a href="http://thedomesticproject.blogspot.ca/2012/09/50-shades-of-ave_11.html">tried to bite their arm</a>. <br />
<br />
At one point I even had an individual ask me if I “was sure” Ave was a female. <br />
<br />
“I’m sorry?” I asked, not certain I’d understood the question. <br />
<br />
"I mean, it has <i>no hair</i>. Don’t girls usually have <i>hair</i> by now?” the man replied. <br />
<br />
Yeah. Woe be to the mother of a bald-headed baby girl. <br />
<br />
On occasion older women would come up to me and, after asking specifically about Avery’s gender, would launch into tales of their <i>own</i> bald daughters, most of whom were hairless until they were four. “But don’t <i>worry,</i>” they’d say. “<i>Now</i> she has the most <i>gorgeous </i>head of hair, and all my stressing was for naught.” <br />
<br />
And the thing is, inherently <i>I know</i> Avery isn’t going to be bald for the rest of her life. On my List of Things Andra is Currently Freakin’ About, my daughter’s hair length doesn’t even crack the Top 20 (spot #19 is currently filled by “Will The Biebs make it past this emotional hurdle of breaking up with Selena Gomez, or is he doomed to continue his downward spiral forever more?”, in case you wanted to know). <br />
<br />
But. <br />
<br />
Here’s my deep, dark, very anti-feminist-movement secret: <br />
<br />
<i>I just want to be able to do fun, stylish things with my daughter’s hair</i> <i>fortheloveofgodshes1.5yearsoldalreadygoddamnit.<br /> <br /> </i>There. *<i>deep exhalation of breath</i>* I feel better now. <br /><br />And to be fair, I think I only have 6 months to a year left to wait, judging by Ave’s current hair growth. It's <i>finally</i> coming in, though it’s chosen a very odd back-to-front follicle dispersal method, leaving her with a highly discernable line of hair vs. baldness at the top of her head. Sort of a <i>DMZ Line</i>, if you will. <br />
<br />
At this point I’m thankful she appears to be a blonde, ‘cause if she was brunette … she’d be looking like an aged hippy. And for that, I guess we can all be thankful.<br />
<a href="http://s983.photobucket.com/albums/ae311/thedomesticproject/?action=view&current=Blogsiggie.png" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" src="http://i983.photobucket.com/albums/ae311/thedomesticproject/Blogsiggie.png" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2344725018767224005.post-75570291160540471742013-04-21T18:00:00.000-06:002013-04-21T19:30:43.048-06:00A Birth Story: Pooping, Noises and Noses, Oh My!One of my closest girlfriends had her very first baby (a gorgeous little girl with a thick shock of black hair) a few days ago and as often happens in these circumstances, its made me reflective of my own initiation into motherhood 3.5 years ago. The thing is, its never really an “initiation”, is it? <br />
<br />
I think “hazing” is a more-apt term. <br />
<br />
Or possibly “trial by fire”. Or even “sucking every ounce of lifeblood out of you, by any means and/or orifice possible”. <br />
<br />
Trust me. Its yummy stuff, y’all! <br />
<br />
When Jamie and I drove to the hospital that warm August evening back in 2009 we had no idea what “walking out with a baby” truly meant. At the time we were solely focused on the labour process, suddenly realizing with shock that “Omigod, this baby is coming out <i>one way or another</i> in a matter of hours. And its probably going to be <i>out the hoo-haw</i>”. <br />
<br />
I recall being admitted at 7 cm dilated, insanely proud of myself because the nurses kept commenting on how well I, a first-time mother, was handling the pain. I was all “YEAH! {chest bumping Jamie} Hell yeah! EAT IT, everyone in triage. SUCK. IT. I am AWESOME at this labour stuff, ya hear me? AWESOME”. <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="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-HlxFc6K_EOY/UXRhpOXxq-I/AAAAAAAACE8/BhwwnUusnyM/s1600-h/labour-and-delivery%25255B3%25255D.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="labour-and-delivery" border="0" height="375" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-uVamhr8Og3E/UXRhptRbWcI/AAAAAAAACFE/OhbYGNrORIU/labour-and-delivery_thumb%25255B1%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-color: -moz-use-text-color; border-style: none; border-width: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="labour-and-delivery" width="500" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jamie chose the scariest-fucking shirt he possibly could to welcome our first child into the world</td></tr>
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What can I say? I’m ever-so-slightly competitive. <br />
<br />
That was around 1am. By 6am, after labouring all night sans epidural, I just about came across the room at Jamie after the nurse asked me how my night went and he replied “Ugh, not great. No offense, but these chairs aren’t exactly made for sleeping in”. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-1wHsCl_cQkg/UXRhqfVWI6I/AAAAAAAACFM/HvLszR5vQdw/s1600-h/labour%25255B2%25255D.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="labour" border="0" height="480" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-8maxCHUnCUY/UXRhq_F1FQI/AAAAAAAACFU/2nS7eoI-alg/labour_thumb.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-color: -moz-use-text-color; border-style: none; border-width: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="labour" width="360" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In full labour? Check. Make-up bag with lipstick inside? Check.</td></tr>
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“Jamie,” I whispered, barely audible from my place on the bed. And then my voice rose to a shrill scream. “Are you <i>FUCKING kidding me? She was asking ME how my night went. ME, the person IN LABOUR over here! I’ll tell you how my night went. It. Suuuucked! And you wanna know what made it worse? Listening to your god-damn SNORING while I was working through FUCKING CONTRACTIONS all by MYSELF!”. </i><br />
<br />
<i> </i>An hour later I asked for the epidural. A quick assessment told the doctor that I was fully-dilated and, in fact, ready to push. The team encouraged me to go without it, promising me that the contractions would feel better once I was pushing. “Really?” I asked the nurse. “Really. I promise.” she replied. And awaaaay we went. <br />
<br />
<i>Three. Hours. Later.<br /> <br /> </i>Three hours later, the baby was finally “almost there”. And I learned a few things about myself: <br />
<br />
(1) I learned that I <i>really fucking hated it</i> when Jamie would count “1, 2, 3 …” and then take a 1 second break to swallow before continuing on “…4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10”. “<i>Jamie”</i> I finally hissed through contractions “Jamie, for <i>fuck’s sake </i>either count the whole way through or <i>don’t fucking count at all.</i> You just made me push a <i>whole second longer.</i> Get some water or <i>stop fucking counting</i>!”. <br />
<br />
(2) I learned that I did not, in fact, want to “see the baby crowning” with a mirror. “But Andra, that’s what you said you’ve always wanted! Are you sure? {turning to the doctor} I’m sure she really d …” “I do <i>not</i> want to see the <i>fucking baby crowning!</i> Are you fucking <i>kidding me?</i> Like I want to <i>see that shit </i>while it’s ripping me apart?! <i>Fuuuck!”</i>. And then the doctor told me it was “time to use the squat bar again” and I just about punched him. <br />
<br />
and lastly <br />
<br />
(3) I learned that, swearing aside, labour makes me <i>keenly aware</i> of just how important other people’s opinions of me are. In fact, I had three separate things I was focusing on throughout the duration of the pushing stage: poop, noises, and my nose. <br />
<br />
Weeks before, while worriedly discussing the prospect of defecating on the table to my girlfriends they told me “Oh god, don’t even worry about <i>that</i>. <i>That’s</i> the <i>least</i> of your worries during labour! When the time comes, <i>and it always does</i>, you won’t even care. Trust us”. So imagine my surprise when it was one of the <i>main</i> things on my mind the <i>entire</i> labour. I kept apologizing to the nurses: “I’m <i>so sorry</i> if I’m pooping right now. I’m so sorry! I can’t even tell! I’m so, so sorry. Just tell me if I’m doing it and I’ll stop. Please? I just can’t tell!”. And I really couldn’t. And to this day I have no idea if I did or not. Jamie swears “not”, but he’s also well-aware that I would never talk to him again if he told me “yes” so he’s wisely remained silent. <br />
<br />
I was also overly-aware of the noises I was making that last hour of pushing. The deep moaning and animalistic sounds emitting from my body were unlike any I’d ever heard before. “Oh Jesus,” I thought. “Oh, lord! Oh Jesus!I’m <i>freaking out</i> some poor woman in the next room. I sound like a crazy person! I sound like a <i>caveman! What the fuck?!</i>”. <br />
<br />
And in those final moments, just prior to Mason making his grand entrance, the inside of my nose started to itch. Badly. Looking back I’m sure it was some sort of weird stress-reaction brought on by exhaustion but at the time it was <i>driving me crazy</i>. And crazily enough, spred-eagled and hanging over a squat bar while a doctor and two nurses probed my insides I was still <i>embarrassed</i> to put my finger into my nose to scratch it. I kept saying “I’m so sorry. I swear, my nose is just really itchy. I’m sorry, I don’t usually put my finger in my nose” to which the doctor replied, laughing “I can honestly say that after 20 years of delivering babies, I’ve <i>never</i> had a woman, no epidural and with the baby crowning, complaining about an itchy nose. Just go ahead and scratch it … what’s the big deal?”. <br />
<br />
And then I told him (and I swear this is true) that I <i>didn’t want him to think I was a coke addict. <br /> </i><br />
He was like “Uh … what?”. And, still pushing, I replied “You know …. like how coke addicts always have itchy noses. I don’t want you to think I’m some sort of coke addict.”. <br />
<br />
Because that’s reasonable, right? <br />
<br />
Sometime around 9am, Mason finally arrived. <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="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-zMJ76kgX5pE/UXRhrjLCbaI/AAAAAAAACFc/_HWFghR9URM/s1600-h/labour-and-delivery2%25255B3%25255D.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="labour-and-delivery2" border="0" height="375" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-pGWHKFD10m8/UXRhsq9tlbI/AAAAAAAACFk/73luQDy-IKs/labour-and-delivery2_thumb%25255B1%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-color: -moz-use-text-color; border-style: none; border-width: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="labour-and-delivery2" width="500" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Even at 0.5 minutes old, Mace already had more hair than his dad.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<i>This </i>was the moment I’d been waiting for. <i>This </i>was the moment when I at last became a mother. <i>This</i> was the moment I would cherish forever, as I’d been told by countless parents before me. <br />
<br />
And I looked at my new baby. And I went “Uh …. hmmmm.”. <br />
<br />
Because here’s the thing: Three hours of being stuck in the birth canal not only sucks for mom, but makes baby come out looking like a prizefighter who just lost in the ring. <br />
<br />
Badly. <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="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-PY0pS-bHajU/UXRhtJq3tcI/AAAAAAAACFs/1ceZTPh9r4o/s1600-h/DSCN3775%25255B3%25255D.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="DSCN3775" border="0" height="375" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-XpdsePnuAkc/UXRhtohOb_I/AAAAAAAACF0/ouHAtXO11EE/DSCN3775_thumb%25255B1%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-color: -moz-use-text-color; border-style: none; border-width: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="DSCN3775" width="500" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This was his good side.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
But you know what? Even though I didn’t really know this little person who’d been unceremoniously dumped from my body (not literally, I hope), I still knew I would fight to the death for him. And I think that’s what being a parent, biological or not, is all about. If you’re willing to lay your life down for this tiny creature, you’re in the club. And welcome to it. <br />
<br />
Those of you who know me personally know that Mason’s birth story does not actually end here. However, I’ve yet to decide whether I want to share the full account of “Part 2” on this platform, as I usually reserve this space for humour. In a nutshell, minutes later I had a massive post-partum hemorrhage, lost over 1/3 of my blood, wound up in the O/R, and required four blood transfusions within 24 hours. Other-worldly shit, believe me. <br />
<br />
So for today, I will end here. And as I snuggle into my bed tonight, I will rest easy with the knowledge that for me, my days of delivery are done. Those of you pregnant and trying … good luck. The torch has been passed. <br />
<br />
Just don’t poop. Whatever you do, <i>do not poop.</i>
<a href="http://s983.photobucket.com/albums/ae311/thedomesticproject/?action=view&current=Blogsiggie.png" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" src="http://i983.photobucket.com/albums/ae311/thedomesticproject/Blogsiggie.png" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2344725018767224005.post-35664410648737172192013-04-14T18:00:00.000-06:002013-04-21T16:15:13.888-06:00Shopping Tales and SwimsuitsI’m still alive! Woot, woot! Alive, and continuing to try and find enough time to sit down and stomp out a few blog posts for my loyal, persistant (possibly stubborn? You should really get that checked) readers. And what has brought me from seclusion this time? <br />
<br />
My mother. <br />
<br />
As I sit here listening to Maestro Fresh-Wes smoothly telling me to “Let Your Backbone Slide” (I wish I were joking), I think about my mother. <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/AVvXsEiBTRatPj4OQaynE2pWo7CkQ9uh5jV_SdjIPBwClYx1y2scMtVM_sMgEuWquMGPl5EodH2lIh4J8-s6MUaLT7PCkFiy7s9I08TIrgiz_2rM1gmapx9tGA6Y_nv82B11399xf0-bLAK3HyM/s1600-h/amom%25255B2%25255D.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="amom" border="0" height="427" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-HiMSQdX8PIE/UWpZkckcO9I/AAAAAAAACDY/hkFtCgdWEJg/amom_thumb.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-color: -moz-use-text-color; border-style: none; border-width: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="amom" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mom and I at my wedding shower 6+ years ago. Because we both looked rockin'</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
My wonderful, caring, helpful and ever-giving mother. Who also happens to love a bargain. In particular, clothing bargains for her grandchildren. <br />
<br />
"Well Andra,” you say. “That doesn’t sound so bad. <i>I </i>love a bargain. Have you become so snooty that you’d turn up your nose at a deal?” <br />
<br />
No, dear readers, no. I, too, love me some good pricing. I look through flyers, eagerly download coupon apps and lust after particular items at stores that I just *know* will drop in price later, thus contenting myself with watching and waiting until then. <br />
<br />
However, I can tell you that <i>very few people</i> hold a candle to my mom when it comes to tracking down deals. Or at a minimum, <i>very few people</i> hold a candle to my mom in the <i>telling and re-telling </i>of how great a bargain was had. <br />
<br />
“Andra,” she’ll gasp through the phone (because the-telling-of-deals can never wait for a face-to-face-meeting. It must occur immediately after said purchase, usually within 2.75 minutes of leaving the store). “Andra, <i>wait until you hear</i> about the bargain I got at {insert store name}”. She will then launch into a 24 minute epic retelling of <i>The Day Of The Great Sale</i> (typical sub-plot: <i>The Store Marked The Price Tag Wrong But I Fought It At The Till</i>) that makes “War & Peace” look like a 4th grade short story. <br />
<br />
This saga will ebb and flow, with highs and lows, edge-of-your-seat moments (The other lady wanted it too! But mom courageously fought her off, the two of them later becoming friends as they bond over a mutal love of lowlowlow prices and grandkids), and the occasional tear. The conclusion is always the same: A financial breakdown of the exact original price and all previous sales prices, followed by the final, momentous, what-did-she-<i>actually</i>-get-it-for cost. <br />
<br />
As she’s often shopping for my children (particularily Ave … that woman is thrilled to bits she’s got a girl to buy for once more) its fortunate that mom usually manages to snag cute outfits. <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="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-AGGu30RhIr4/UWpZl5Bb6DI/AAAAAAAACDg/_6OvuOjBfgc/s1600-h/asummer%25255B6%25255D.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="asummer" border="0" height="357" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-Q8lZr5_yvGA/UWpZmd3KJ2I/AAAAAAAACDo/6obKOmzQGlk/asummer_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-color: -moz-use-text-color; border-style: none; border-width: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="asummer" width="500" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">If I had triplets they'd be so coordinated, y'all!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
See? Trendy, age-appropriate, and will surely look wonderful on Her Royal Highness come summer. <br />
<br />
The thing is. <br />
<br />
The thing is, sometimes the lure of a bargain clouds the normally-sane judgement of my mother. <br />
<br />
"Uh … mom?” I ask as I pull out an outfit a modest Hutterite would covet from the pile of garments. “Uh … what was the thought process behind this one?”. She’ll squint at it, trying to remember the pricing breakdown and drama involved in it’s aquisition. “Oh, <i>that</i> one! Don’t you think it’s cute? Can you believe there was an <i>entire rack</i> of those left? And all marked down to $0.99 from $29.99, too! Sometimes I don’t know <i>what</i> the store is thinking. That’s almost a 100% savings!”. <br />
<br />
I’ll tell you what the store was thinking. <br />
<br />
“We’ve got to burn our purchaser alive for buying this crap” followed by “… and then we’ve got to do everything short of <i>pay</i> our goddamned customers to take these out of the store so we don’t have to spend more money disposing of them later. Fu-uck. Where’s my drink?”. <br />
<br />
Mom’s rare missteps for Avery fall into one of two categories: (a) the <i>So Modest The Taliban Would Tell You To Loosen Up</i> attire, or (b) the <i>Class ‘A’ Whore</i> togs. There is no in-between. <br />
<br />
I was thinking of this earlier today as I went through my bin of summer clothes that mom had bought for Ave last year. One-by-one I took the garments out, pulling off sales tags (many, many, <i>many</i> sales tags. Damnit mom. Get yourself under control) and smoothing out wrinkles. And then I stumbled across this rather-innocuous little number: <br />
<a href="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-jn22Oz71op4/UWpZn3jaFTI/AAAAAAAACDw/nkMUArE-yBA/s1600-h/aswimsuit%25255B5%25255D.jpg"><img alt="aswimsuit" border="0" height="480" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-fow8lhE-e9c/UWpZomyz8QI/AAAAAAAACD4/6GpXfBMGUWQ/aswimsuit_thumb%25255B1%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="aswimsuit" width="320" /></a><br />
Except that it’s <i>not </i>innocuous. Not when you realize its the baby-version of the Ultimate Whore bathing suit, the Cut Away: <br />
<a href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-4_9qzQ2TP7o/UWpZpBrLuZI/AAAAAAAACEA/_3xbwp63EK8/s1600-h/abeyonce%25255B9%25255D.jpg"><img alt="abeyonce" border="0" height="480" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-0_rmaXIjPlg/UWpZp_E-tUI/AAAAAAAACEI/ibGakKY3XKA/abeyonce_thumb%25255B5%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="abeyonce" width="360" /></a><br />
<br />
and <br />
<a href="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-BzKaxn5MLdE/UWpZqhu7jDI/AAAAAAAACEQ/_73GTtO8MD0/s1600-h/asummera%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img alt="asummera" border="0" height="370" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-iMLjXCjO5Tg/UWpZrJ1Eh0I/AAAAAAAACEY/COa4BqjpONE/asummera_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="asummera" width="290" /></a><br />
<br />
and even <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/AVvXsEgRGGi9Mf83gjV65phuZXYq8d1UKh0RmMKLREK4br0RdRvrW2-STOW0xb6TbL6hurMJey0MijYdIbtnKJc3OhEd8m2tK-rZB0iGcZtXjTjqYh31gXwd9l4nXZFuxPlRX3-oXLBXHjOz4Qo/s1600-h/asummerb%25255B6%25255D.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="asummerb" border="0" height="357" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-wEbK-SngN5A/UWpZsHymAnI/AAAAAAAACEo/INWotdPg3o0/asummerb_thumb%25255B4%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-color: -moz-use-text-color; border-style: none; border-width: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="asummerb" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jesus, Kate Upton. Or ... Kate Upton loves Jesus? I'm confused in my state of anger.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
See? I let my 1.5 year old out on the beach in that, and it’s only a short drive and a few years from Dressing Like A Whoreish Nun And Loose Morals Land. <br />
<br />
I realize it’s my own judgement as to whether an outfit is slooty or not. But lets keep in mind that the woman who raised me, the woman who helped develop my sense of what’s appropriate and not, <i>the very woman who </i><a href="http://thedomesticproject.blogspot.ca/2010/05/shopping-for-dignity.html"><i>decries the colour purple as “a whore’s colour”</i></a><i> </i>picked out this swimsuit. She <a href="http://thedomesticproject.blogspot.ca/2010/05/shopping-for-dignity.html">won’t buy purple bras</a>, but she’ll sure-as-hell buy a cut out swimsuit for her baby granddaughter if the price is right. <br />
<br />
Priorities, mom. Priorities. <br />
<br />
And with that in mind, let me get back to my intensive exercise program. Because while a cut away swimsuit is too lady-of-the-night for my daughter, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to have the body to rock one myself. Or the lowered moral standards.<i> </i> <br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>*note: Before I get called out as a wholly ungrateful person, please know this was written tongue-in-cheek and with a large dose of admiration for my mom and her bargain-hunting-ways. Sure, there might be the occasional slip-up/cut out swimsuit, but that woman’s saved me countless dollars and more importantly, time that can be better spent with my family. Given how busy I am most days now, thats worth more than gold. So, neener neener neener, haters.*<br /><br />*side note #2: I'm stil<span style="font-size: x-small;">l a posting fanatic <span style="font-size: x-small;">on<a href="http://instagram.com/thedomesticproject#" target="_blank"> my Instagram account</a>, and would love to get more followers! You <span style="font-size: x-small;">can find me <span style="font-size: x-small;">under t<a href="http://instagram.com/thedomesticproject#" target="_blank">hedomesticproject</a><span style="font-size: x-small;">.<span style="font-size: x-small;">*</span></span></span></span> </span></span></i></span><br />
<a href="http://s983.photobucket.com/albums/ae311/thedomesticproject/?action=view&current=Blogsiggie.png" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" src="http://i983.photobucket.com/albums/ae311/thedomesticproject/Blogsiggie.png" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2344725018767224005.post-86217020799664289082013-02-04T18:00:00.000-07:002013-02-04T18:00:04.863-07:00Smoke & Mirrors, Baby.It’s been nearly a month since mat leave ended and let me say: Back to work is kicking my ass. <br />
<br />
While it comes as no surprise, I’m amazed at how exhausted I am at the end of each day. Awake at 5:30, at work by 7, home with the kids at 5. And then … <i>oh joy!</i> There’s still dinner to make, bedtime routines to complete, and last-minute teacher prep for the following day. <br />
<br />
My life right now is either some person’s idea of a sick joke, or <i>just about every.other.mom’s.day. <br /> </i>So I guess I’m going to suck it up, buttercup. <br />
<br />
Oddly though, even with the limited time available to me I still find that I’m trying my damndest to maintain an outward appearance of control and “isn’t my life great?” attitude for the sake of society. <br />
<br />
Which is ridiculous. And yet I still do it. <br />
<br />
I was thinking about that this weekend as I uploaded a new photo to my <a href="http://instagram.com/thedomesticproject/">Instagram feed</a> (*sidenote: I got rid of my Blackberry two weeks ago and <i>haven’t turned back.</i> I am my Iphone 5’s whore) (*sidenote #2: Hey! Speaking of Instagram, why don’t you follow me?! Yeah! You! You can find me under <a href="http://instagram.com/thedomesticproject/">@thedomesticproject</a>) (*sidenote #3: Wait … what were we talking about again?)(*sidenote #4: Nevermind. I remember). <br />
<br />
It was one of those idyllic images Instagram is renowned for. Little sister and big brother, walking hand-in-hand with the sun setting and the filters a-flyin’. <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="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-TbZVaq1pkiM/UQ7FNJvxC5I/AAAAAAAACBc/BXfEXbmIuZc/s1600-h/2013-02-03_1359852617%25255B2%25255D.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="2013-02-03_1359852617" border="0" height="480" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-iQe9iRPOaOE/UQ7FNgnzOSI/AAAAAAAACBk/g5WKhF1WLO0/2013-02-03_1359852617_thumb.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-color: -moz-use-text-color; border-style: none; border-width: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="2013-02-03_1359852617" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Come, Avery. Let's walk into the sunset together"</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
It was authentic, it was real, I was nearly in goddamned tears as I snapped it. <br />
<br />
The thing is. <br />
<br />
The thing is, what my followers <i>didn’t</i> see was what transpired almost immediately after. As in, Mace bailed on a slippery piece of ice and dragged his baby sister head-first down onto the cold pavement. <br />
<br />
As gorgeous and isn’t-my-life-wonderful?-ish as that Instagram photo looked, only moments later I was crouched on the sidewalk with two screaming kids, one with a bloody head and the other with a bloody knee. And yet I chose to upload that image, anyways. <br />
<br />
<i>Isn’t that effing crazy?</i> <br />
<br />
But that’s what I do. And now that I’m back at work, I’m realizing that’s what a <i>lot</i> of moms do. It doesn’t matter that we can’t find the time to pee let alone complete all the mundane household errands needed day-to-day. <i>We will make it look like it ain’t no thang, if its the last thang we do. </i> <br />
<br />
I thought about it in the hours that followed and later that night as the kids were bathing I decided to take a new pic, showing the aftereffects of that photo on Avery’s head. <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/AVvXsEjeUX-qxGI8Dc5h9QQ9FuSGMSb-u8JDuYD_31MBbsJ4cLFkQcWTXbdiaR_6de-3Hp4Bf9985HOdK5NSBsS8y3YJlADUt8Bo6AXRB3Bez2AR700hw1ssBUdWoWBfMc-8genGh7bNzgQmetk/s1600-h/2013-02-03_1359856478%25255B2%25255D.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="2013-02-03_1359856478" border="0" height="480" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-_aa2Gvf1nPM/UQ7FOx3tsTI/AAAAAAAACB0/vyZmuyzalHk/2013-02-03_1359856478_thumb.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-color: -moz-use-text-color; border-style: none; border-width: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="2013-02-03_1359856478" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I went with the ever-popular "jaundice" filter</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
(damnit … couldn’t find a good setting to show how bruised and scratched her poor little head was). <br />
<br />
I posted that latest pic to Instagram, and felt immediately better. <br />
<br />
And I’ve made a commitment to myself that for the next few months, I’m going to stop trying to “do it all”. If I’m tired, I’ll say I’m tired and forgo after work outings. If the kids have to survive on a few more take-out meals than usual, it won’t kill them. And if I want to have a pee in private, then damnit I’m going to <i>lock the bathroom door. <br /> </i>Because smoke and mirrors only work for so long. <br />
<br />
<i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">*but it <u>was</u> a cute photo* :)</span></i><br />
<a href="http://s983.photobucket.com/albums/ae311/thedomesticproject/?action=view&current=Blogsiggie.png" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" src="http://i983.photobucket.com/albums/ae311/thedomesticproject/Blogsiggie.png" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2344725018767224005.post-342325917723979872013-01-03T18:00:00.000-07:002013-01-03T18:00:01.389-07:00Screw You, Toy StoryWelcome to my first post of 2013 and to yet another year of callous, sarcastic mommy-life-commentary (with just a dash of DIY for funsies! Because nothing says “I craft like Martha” like a potty-mouthed mother). And in case you weren’t sure: If you’re reading this, congratulations! You’ve successfully <a href="http://thedomesticproject.blogspot.ca/2012/12/an-update-and-5-reasons-my-family-wont.html">survived the Apocalypse.</a> Phew. We were all worried for a second. Especially <a href="http://thedomesticproject.blogspot.ca/2012/12/an-update-and-5-reasons-my-family-wont.html">me and my tampon stockpile</a>. <br />
<br />
Apart from continuing my teacher prep in anticipation of mat leave ending in four days (ack! Don’t even get me started! So much to do, and so little time), I’ve been closely following a new year tradition that, I’m sure, most of you’ve done as well. <br />
<br />
You know which one I’m talking about, right? The annual throw-out-as-much-toy-crap-as-possible-to-make-room-for-all-the-new-toy-crap-accumulated-from-Santa-and-other-sadistic-personalities-in-December one? <br />
<br />
Unfortunately, this year something’s been thwarting my attempts at dislodging our home from a mountain of old playthings. <br />
<br />
<em>Friggen’</em> <strong>Toy Story.</strong> <br />
<br />
Yes, the movie. All three movies, actually. Know why? <br />
<br />
<em>Because they make you feel guilty for throwing out, selling, or even donating toys. </em> <br />
<br />
Seriously. WTF? <br />
<br />
I used to send toys to the donation bag or garbage pile with careless abandon, building on years of being an anal-retentive control freak. <em>Hasn’t been used in two months?</em> Donate! <em>Ave broke a piece off?</em> Chuck it out! Fa-la-la-la-la la-laaa-laaa-laaaaaaaaa. <br />
<br />
And then Mace got into the <em>Toy Story</em> series this past month, and it’s all changed. For me. <br />
<br />
It snuck up out of the blue a few nights ago as I was bagging items in the basement for donation. <em>Chuck, donate, chuck, donate, donate. </em>Things were going well until one innocuous little toy fell out of the bag and onto the floor. <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="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-KNgs_CsuX68/UOYJOkki2hI/AAAAAAAAB-4/C2B5XbA3HOI/s1600-h/DSC_0372a%25255B3%25255D.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="DSC_0372a" border="0" height="480" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-bxb5ydEkrBg/UOYJPUdHGmI/AAAAAAAAB_A/nXyvjOVPG9w/DSC_0372a_thumb.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border: 0px currentColor; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="DSC_0372a" width="343" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Hi! I'm Red Horsie! I'm really good at sucking and swinging!"</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
One of Ave’s old highchair toys. And as I bent over to retrieve it, I caught sight of it’s little face. <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/AVvXsEjpBW3hyCgtQw6sptiwd9pSud1RVx5Vd-bqv8KqtnO7w_AW2mpHV7m9SWBGArwRJgJJQGZRtq24a2FICYYtc2VdbrZauyiITrSmmNwBBOSE1B5fTWQJyzyUmDVWT9ArumzKfs7Aj1zzIzc/s1600-h/DSC_0374a%25255B3%25255D.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="DSC_0374a" border="0" height="425" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-UgVORJkrUx8/UOYJS4CjakI/AAAAAAAAB_Q/bjI0iXxYtsM/DSC_0374a_thumb.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border: 0px currentColor; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="DSC_0374a" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Aren't I sweet? SAY IT! SAY I'M SWEET!"</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
It’s tentatively-smiling, hoping-with-all-it’s-might-“See?-I’m-still-cute!-Please-don’t-Old-Yeller-me” little face. <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/AVvXsEjGZFX84Fuo-bobTVRhbkjCAxPomInHeDe_t-z8pUTCx07hAoH8YtIsQnIk4rhdkaLgy8VSvIVkLgRJqN49qi5pyPMTJp3ws64xC9PxwUfictxCpEnHQFs-ZCZ4HsaOY6VDnjIqTnEYBN0/s1600-h/DSC_0375a%25255B3%25255D.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="DSC_0375a" border="0" height="457" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-f3H0s_uIGPE/UOYJWwK9JFI/AAAAAAAAB_g/JMYQmqA2V9w/DSC_0375a_thumb.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border: 0px currentColor; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="DSC_0375a" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"I will haunt your dreams ... and nightmares"</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Like I said. <br />
<br />
<em>Screw. You. Toy Story.</em> <br />
<br />
Screw you and my newly-named pile of “memories” that I’m now saving for grandchildren. You can all go straight to hell. <br />
<br />
Though of course, I would no longer have the balls to send you there. <br />
<br />
Aaaargh. <br />
<br />
Am I seriously the only parent who’s crazy enough to have this problem because of the movie, or are there any more of you out there? <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
And on a totally (<em>Totally.</em> Like, not even in the same family) unrelated note, I’ve recently joined the <a href="http://365project.org/">365Project</a> and would be honoured to get some followers. You can find me at <a href="http://365project.org/thedomesticproject/365" title="http://365project.org/thedomesticproject/365">http://365project.org/thedomesticproject/365</a>, or just do a user search for <em>thedomesticproject </em>and BAM! There I’ll be. <br />
<br />
Haven’t heard of it? <br />
<br />
The <a href="http://365project.org/">365Project</a> is a site where people attempt to document 365 days straight of their lives with one daily photograph. It’s a really neat idea, and for someone who already shares her personal life like she’s being paid (which I’m not. And why the hell is that, anyways? Oh yeah … because I love oversharing. I’m an oversharing whore. <em>*hangs head in shame*</em>) it’s a natural fit. <br />
<br />
What can you expect from my <a href="http://365project.org/thedomesticproject/365">365Project page</a>? On good days, a nice DSLR shot of whatever’s striking my fancy at the moment. Such as today: <br />
<a href="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-6fL3H1C4-QY/UOYJXrtfcNI/AAAAAAAAB_o/oRtRHB5ksB0/s1600-h/DSC_0381a%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img alt="DSC_0381a" border="0" height="520" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-BsVMomsFk10/UOYJY6oZAbI/AAAAAAAAB_s/gJKRLpIEE_4/DSC_0381a_thumb%25255B1%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border: 0px currentColor; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="DSC_0381a" width="372" /></a> <br />
Mmmmm. Love me some pomegranates. <br />
<br />
Of course, chances are good that a vast majority of pics will be taken with my Crapberry, of my kids doing something cute. <br />
<br />
Or gross. <br />
<br />
Or, you know, both: <br />
<a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-dJpya1bgygQ/UOYJZciRygI/AAAAAAAAB_4/fLfeqBHA1LI/s1600-h/0blackberry%25255B5%25255D.jpg"><img alt="0blackberry" border="0" height="480" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-kEhTzWUKvak/UOYJb9Y2vlI/AAAAAAAACAA/Q1Bejgls9lY/0blackberry_thumb%25255B1%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border: 0px currentColor; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="0blackberry" width="360" /></a> <br />
She gets her classiness from her mother. <a href="http://365project.org/thedomesticproject/365">And you know you wanna follow.</a>
<br />
<a href="http://s983.photobucket.com/albums/ae311/thedomesticproject/?action=view&current=Blogsiggie.png" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" src="http://i983.photobucket.com/albums/ae311/thedomesticproject/Blogsiggie.png" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2344725018767224005.post-2003605867406700912012-12-20T18:00:00.000-07:002012-12-20T20:36:57.606-07:00An Update, and 5 Reasons My Family Won't Survive The ApocalypseI’ve been an absentee blogger, and I apologize. The business (busyness? WTF? Why doesn’t that look right?) this time of year combined with last-minute attempts at getting things done before mat leave ends <em>and</em> finding out that I’ll be teaching an entirely new grade upon my return … well, lets just say I’m running around looking like the crazed person I really am. And it ain’t pretty. <br />
<br />
For what it’s worth, dear readers, this will probably be my life for the next while as I get back into the swing of being a working mama come January 7th. I can no longer promise regularly-scheduled posts, but <em>will</em> promise to try for weekly ones. If that works for you, than it works for me! I still love, love, love writing, and still enjoy putting my thoughts down on paper (well, computer screen), so if you’re willing to stick around for less-regular posts, I would be thrilled! And if you’re not, than that makes me sad. But I get it. But it still makes me sad. <em>But I get it. <br /><br /> </em>With some recent changes to Facebook policies, I’d also like to encourage y’all to consider subscribing to my RSS feed (see that little orange circle up there in the top-right that looks like radio waves?) or by email (see that little “Follow By Email” box mid-way down, just below all of your lovely photos?). It turns out, just because you’re a subscriber to my Facebook Fanpage <em>doesn’t mean you’re getting notifications about all my posts.</em> Weird, huh? And seeing as I won’t be able to post as regularly now, do you <em>really</em> want to be missing out when there's a new one? Do ya? <br />
<br />
Aaaannnnyways …. enough about blog updates. Lets get to the real crux of today’s post. And that would be:<strong> The Impending Apocalypse</strong> (see how I capitalized and bolded it? That’s to make you realize the sheer magnitude of this event. Are you in awe? Also, aren’t I the topical one with this coming up tomorrow morning and all? High-fives all around, guys!). <br />
<br />
In case you haven’t heard, on Friday, December 21st the world is supposed to come to an end. Those smarty-pants Mayans supposedly predicted this so it must be so, right? Guess we won’t know for sure until we raise our heads from our pillows Saturday morning (and oh, what a jubilant morning that will be!). One thing I <em>can</em> guess, if this impending apocalyse happens, however: <br />
<br />
My family doesn’t have a hope in hell of surviving. <br />
<a href="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-fu76_duCjIo/UNKiEkDjbMI/AAAAAAAAB9I/ZZg80kJNXNw/s1600-h/apocalypse%25255B3%25255D.jpg"><img alt="apocalypse" border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3WDtuzN5z5uAscTj-IPwtO5b8HAI9Y2CShr5xVBv_q9TiHzPFnJnoW7lnqr73oBGTWvTf7X0NPXE5WB_5b79kGj2kYghPSCbA0piaseXFEfUSKFcAJDbvLcrz6ntpeVya_5b2u7KoJFI/?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border: 0px currentColor; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="apocalypse" width="640" /></a> <br />
<strong>1. We’re stockpiled for periods and bowel movements, not zombies and death-battles. </strong><br />
You heard it here first: Come to our house looking for supplies after the apocalypse goes down and you’ll be sadly disappointed. Apart from a few stray cans of baking soda and vaseline, the only thing you’ll find will be toilet paper. <em>Lots and lots of toilet paper</em>. And tampons. For some odd reason. <br />
<br />
We actually have so much toilet paper in our furnace room right now that I’ve started to question whether I have some weird T.P. fetish. Or maybe I’m just really, really afraid of running out at an especially needy time? <br />
<br />
I don’t know, I’m not a psychologist. But there’s a <em>lot</em> of toilet paper. <br />
<br />
And the tampon thing? Can’t even explain that. Its just, like … they go on sale and I’m all “Oh hey! I use these once a month! Lets buy a truckload! I can’t control myself when it comes to my lady bits! Wheeeeeeeee!”, and then I giggle and skip down the aisle of Wal-Mart. <br />
<br />
So yeah. Toilet paper and tampons. Unless the post-apocalyptic world somehow forces us to survive on paper and cotton, we’re screwed. <br />
<br />
<strong>2. My husband passes out at the sight of blood </strong><br />
I don’t know what kind of world you envision when picturing the months following an apocalypse, but I see a violent one. And while this could be due to the fact that Jamie and I are avid fans of The Walking Dead television series, it is what it is. It stands to reason that when we’re fighting off zombie predators and trying to protect our babies I’m going to need a cohort who’s willing to hack off walkers’ limbs, smash faces and all sorts of other disgusting, blood-inducing duties (you know … <em>the simple things</em>. Just like we wrote in our wedding vows). Know what <em>won’t</em> help our survival percentages? <br />
<br />
A dude who gets sick after needles.<br />
<a href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-GkDg0LHQzX8/UNKiHU6uCdI/AAAAAAAAB9Y/5l1eqxqQwVA/s1600-h/P1170100a%25255B3%25255D.jpg"><img alt="OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA" border="0" height="480" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-8LParzLN22o/UNKiIGXiICI/AAAAAAAAB9g/ZBG17Yau4Aw/P1170100a_thumb.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border: 0px currentColor; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA" width="359" /></a>The above picture was taken six years ago when we were getting our blood drawn for our wedding in Mexico. And I wish this was a one-time thing … but that’d be a lie. <br />
<br />
I guess what I’m saying is, Jamie <em>won’t</em> be crackin’ heads and takin’ names come December 22nd. Which really sucks because his beloved wife has her <em>own</em> “I’ll suck at the apocalypse” issue: <br />
<br />
<strong>3. I run <em>just slightly</em> faster than a one-legged turtle. </strong><br />
Along with it being violent and bloody, I also have a feeling that the post-December-21st-world will be one where the ability to run fast will be an asset. <em>An asset? Nay ... a necessity.</em> <br />
<br />
The problem is, my three-year-old can now easily lap me in games of tag, and the one-year-old isn’t far behind. <br />
<br />
“But Andra,” you say “You’re so <em>tall.</em> What about those long <em>legs</em> you have? Surely they must be good for <em>running?” <br /> </em> <br />
Preachin’ to the choir, people. Preachin’ to the choir. <br />
<br />
I don’t know what the deal is or why my “long legs” can’t unravel themselves fast enough, but I’m slow. S.L.O.W. Slow. Disappointing countless track coaches for years in school, they’re basically two useless tree stumps I manage to drag along every now and again. So, you know. Pretty sucky for running from zombies. Those buggers are <em>fast.</em> And I'm ... not.<br />
<br />
But don’t think the kids get off easy in this, oh no! May I present the final two reasons our family won’t be surviving the apocalypse: <br />
<br />
<strong>4. Unless it’s grilled cheese, Mason ain’t eatin’ it<br /><br /> </strong> and <br />
<br />
<strong>5. Avery, otherwise known as The Child Who Screams A Lot<br /> <br /> </strong>Here’s two more little tidbits about the post-apocalyptic world to add to your rapidly-growing knowledge base: (a) food is scarce and (b) you need to be quiet because you’re sneaking around trying not to become someone else’s food (re: zombies’). <br />
<br />
In both these areas, <em>my kids will kill us. </em><br />
<br />
We’ll be walking along (because there’s no sense running if I’m part of the group), trying to revive Jamie after he’s passed out for, like, the 50 billionth time. I’ll be all “Jesus, Jamie, <em>get over it.</em> Its a hangnail … it’ll stop bleeding soon” while trying to convince Mason to eat some canned corn we scavenged from the last farmhouse. He’ll be crying “Yuuuucck! I don’t waaaann it, mom! I want grilled cheeeese! Whhhhy can’t I have grilled cheeeeese?”, at which Avery, hearing the Call of Her People, will begin screaming because, well, why not? And you know what happens next? <br />
<br />
Bam. Zombie lunch. <br />
<br />
So if you’re wondering if I’m just a <em>little</em> bit scared of what’s to come December 21st, I ask you this: <br />
<br />
Given what you’ve just read, wouldn’t you?<br />
<a href="http://s983.photobucket.com/albums/ae311/thedomesticproject/?action=view&current=Blogsiggie.png" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" src="http://i983.photobucket.com/albums/ae311/thedomesticproject/Blogsiggie.png" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2344725018767224005.post-64905832264266995332012-12-02T18:00:00.000-07:002012-12-02T18:00:00.476-07:00I Have My Own Weapon Of Mass DestructionJealous? Don’t be. Chances are you have one, too. <br /> <br />It’s called … A Child. And they are <em>all</em> on the same mission. <br /> <br /><em>Seek-and-destroy (your house).</em> <br /> <br />See this picture? <br /><a href="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-CTOcw1MoFg0/ULveRTKqKCI/AAAAAAAAB7U/fDdD8q9fsp4/s1600-h/DSC_0213a%25255B3%25255D.jpg"><img alt="DSC_0213a" border="0" height="456" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqy-7x7PEUzKdQh1AP75kzGhaeOJtZfk0VT4p2i21psvDDMvCFJiXz5e8nyOeBlfqlO1auUynHcAfFbbS35RN8OeaSavD7yjV4azL0D5zwhHpfJMiYTXezRo3r4xDfY8us_Q6zE5mtMVM/?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border: 0px currentColor; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="DSC_0213a" width="640" /></a> <br />That, dear friends, is my formerly-organized, formerly-tidy, formerly-fitting-of-my-anal-retentive-personality bathroom drawer that now looks as though a bomb was dropped inside it. And I'm <em>sick and tired</em> of cleaning it up, so this is how it shall stay. Notice the nice jars, baskets and bags? <em>Those are meant to hold things. <br /> <br /></em>Want to know who snubs her nose at objects of organization? <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY4LgQ3S2ccipmg-qPOaV5kjQ-vvGRyxvO-yLkMNCJ2S2kAmjhz14m2nPadPBpb-gVOGGEu0eGO5dFObwW13VR8P4gJ6LgpE5qeT6iOApBgKXzaSBGry0KLAsxFs7SYOtt5A3xLafBbtU/s1600-h/DSC_0290a%25255B3%25255D.jpg"><img alt="DSC_0290a" border="0" height="457" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-b_ixitadjRM/ULveUSGiZnI/AAAAAAAAB7s/kg1JV-Qf5WM/DSC_0290a_thumb.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border: 0px currentColor; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="DSC_0290a" width="640" /></a> <br />The most-skilled of my Destructive Weapons. <br /> <br />The 13-month old. <br /> <br />Putting tornados to shame she sweeps through the house, opening drawers, emptying cupboards, leaving a trail of chaos in her wake. Her attention is fleeting. A peek inside her head: <br /> <br />"Ooooo, what’s this? Shiny! I like it! I shall carry it with me always and call it my pet and …. Ooooo, what’s this? Noisey! I like it! I shall carry it with me always and …. Oooo! What’s this?” <br /> <br />And so on and so forth, ‘til the end of days (it would seem). <br /> <br />Seriously peeps. I forgot how much <em>stuff</em> these itty-bitty toddlers get into. Like, <em>stuff you didn’t even know you had.</em> I had blocked from my mind all those months of tracking Mason, bending and scooping and picking up remnants of my home as he wandered through. I forgot the agony of having just put the toys away, only to come back to them emptied from their basket and strewn ‘round the floor like small carcasses of my tidy-house dreams. I forgot the dumpster-diving, toilet-water-playing, anything-off-the-floor-munching, what-the-<em>hell</em>-is-that-in-your-mouth period in every child's life.<br /><br />I forgot … or chose not to remember? (Hmmm, that’s a deep one. Go ahead … chew on that for a while.I don’t mind. I’ll wait). <br /> <br />And while I sit here pondering how <em>someone</em>, for the love of god, can <em>forget she’s holding something in her hand</em> <em>and just drop it wherever</em>, it makes me worry: What else have I forgotten? What other “things” will be returning to me life these next few months, things I tried hard to forget? <br /> <br />I already know the temper tantrums are on their way <em>(oh, are they ever.</em> <em>Help us all)</em>. And I vaguely recall something called A-Lot-Of-Screaming-Because-Somebody-Wants-To-Communicate-But-Doesn’t-Know-Many-Words-Yet. But that’s about it. The rest of my memories of the 1 – 2 year old stage is fairly sunshine-and-roses. <br /> <br />So tell me: What do I have in store?<br /><br />And while I wait for your response, just let me go clean up my house. Again. <br /><br /> <br />
<a href="http://s983.photobucket.com/albums/ae311/thedomesticproject/?action=view&current=Blogsiggie.png" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" src="http://i983.photobucket.com/albums/ae311/thedomesticproject/Blogsiggie.png" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2344725018767224005.post-41737091478390977002012-11-28T17:30:00.000-07:002012-11-28T17:30:02.650-07:00All 3 Year Olds Are Assholes, Right?<br />
It’s not just my child who’s particularly “blessed”? <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="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-VQ4yAkZp4Dg/ULZ3dKgDxHI/AAAAAAAAB50/VY3Q1OKxnzE/s1600-h/DSC_0032a%25255B3%25255D.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="DSC_0032a" border="0" height="425" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-FFfnRKDzNHw/ULZ3ePY4u-I/AAAAAAAAB58/cWCjOcF_faw/DSC_0032a_thumb.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border: 0px currentColor; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="DSC_0032a" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Mace in all his "Crazy Hair Day" glory. He probably threw that rice at me afterwards and demanded I get back in the kitchen.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I kid, I kid … sort of. <br />
<br />
Ok, not at all. I’m being deadly serious. <br />
<br />
There is an exceptionally bitchy, exceptionally <em>hormonal</em> 12-year-old girl with some <em>serious attitude</em> trapped inside the body of my 3-year-old son (I call her “Britney”. <em>It’s Britney, bitch!</em>). Lil’ Britney shows up randomly throughout the day, copin’ ‘tude, rolling eyes, huffing and puffing at any and all requests. She'll scream “Why don’t you just <em>SHUT UP!!</em>” when I’m telling her (for the fifth time, I might add) that no, she may <em>not</em> have a cookie 5 minutes before dinner starts. Denials of requests result in such positive feedback as “YOU are making me VERY ANGRY, <em>mom!</em> Now you <em>do what I say</em>!”, and she can go from happy and chillin’ to weepy and emotional in a matter of seconds, with no apparent cause. <br />
<br />
In milder moments Mason's told me to “stop singing because I don’t like the way you sound, <em>mom</em>”, and that he’s “irritated” with me because I won’t let him stay up late to watch Spiderman. Well, guess what <em>sweetheart</em> … if you’re “irritated” with mommy, chances are mommy’s doing everything in her power not to throttle you right now, too. <br />
<br />
Out of frustration, two days ago I posted the same title of this post as a new thread on a mommy forum I follow (whoah, slow down with the run-on sentences Andra. Jeezus), and the results have been nearly-unanimous: <br />
<br />
Yes. <br />
<br />
3 year olds are assholes. <br />
<br />
And if yours <em>isn’t</em>, then apparently he-or-she will <em>voraciously</em> make up for it at 4. So good luck with that. <br />
<br />
Other moms wrote responses that literally had me crying with laughter (and commiseration), detailing slammed doors, bitchy attitudes, random punches to the face and my favourite, a little one who started the morning off by opening his bedroom door, sobbing, and yelling “I DON’T LIKE MY FAMILY!”. <br />
<br />
To a silent, just-formerly-sleeping house. <br />
<br />
So yeah … no situational involvement on that one. That was <em>all</em> 3-year-old. <br />
<br />
*sigh* <br />
<br />
The thing is, there are points in the day when I’m just <em>in awe</em> of my child. He will do something, or say something, or respond to a situation in such a way that I think, <em>Wow. I actually created this</em> amazing <em>little creature!</em> And I will be floored, and overcome with emotion.<em> </em>His humour, his random acts of kindness, the way he treats his sister … sometimes I’m just like, <em>You’re welcome, world. Jamie and I’ve done a </em>great<em> job with this kid, and we’re going to send him your way in about 15 years. </em>I’ll pat myself on the back and, holding back tears, give him an emotional hug for a job well done. <br />
<br />
To which he'll reply “Arrrgh! <em>Mommm!</em> Get <em>offfff</em> me! I’m tryin’ to watch my <em>show!</em>”. <br />
<br />
And with that bitch-slap-in-the-face back to reality, we go about our day. <br />
<br />
So tell me … how’s life with <em>your</em> 3-year-old?<br />
<a href="http://s983.photobucket.com/albums/ae311/thedomesticproject/?action=view&current=Blogsiggie.png" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" src="http://i983.photobucket.com/albums/ae311/thedomesticproject/Blogsiggie.png" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2344725018767224005.post-43097978618146007112012-11-25T18:00:00.000-07:002012-11-25T18:00:04.218-07:00Update: Once A Month Cooking<div dir="ltr" style="margin-right: 0px;">
<em>*note: If you missed my original post about trying Once A Month Cooking, <a href="http://thedomesticproject.blogspot.ca/2012/10/why-i-spent-weekend-reliving-torture-of.html">check it out here first</a>* </em> <br />
<br />
Many of you have emailed asking my feedback on the <a href="http://onceamonthmom.com/">Once A Month Mom</a> cooking blitz a friend and I did back in October and now, 5 weeks later I’m ready to give my review. <br />
<br />
Ready? </div>
<a href="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-1azrxM5bv-w/ULG0jmjY-OI/AAAAAAAAB4E/ebJ5-v3QuBY/s1600-h/Untitled-1%25255B7%25255D.jpg"><img alt="Untitled-1" border="0" height="356" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-tN0ZiQEjf3g/ULG0lg4g6hI/AAAAAAAAB4M/6oQEHsc0Iak/Untitled-1_thumb%25255B1%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border: 0px currentColor; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="Untitled-1" width="640" /></a> <br />
<a href="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-L-l3ew7RlUs/ULG0oOUK2GI/AAAAAAAAB4U/5H5B6wH2drg/s1600-h/Untitled-6%25255B3%25255D.jpg"><img alt="Untitled-6" border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghKBeQ-k9faFq9IVtKxOSxjKA45j3O3lRsJtP5yATV8BBEriFblc8tAEX0nwf8J1iloPvltXxRc1lQ4PHDoamcpQRer_UwK6HqMqLMgyWji2Zl4Ez5tPqX5zvZsRmO00OWGynEDyvKq5s/?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border: 0px currentColor; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="Untitled-6" width="617" /></a> <br />
<br />
It. Was. Awesome. <br />
<br />
Seriously. <br />
<br />
Yes, the full day of cooking and the evening of prep and shopping prior sucked, but all that hard work paid itself back <em>in spades</em> the days and weeks following. Spades, people. <br />
<br />
I hate cooking. I also hate meal-planning, mostly because it forces me to think about all the damn cooking I’m going to have to do in the week ahead. But you know what? <br />
<br />
<em>I didn’t hate cooking this month. In fact, sometimes I enjoyed it.<br /> <br /> </em>And yes, I <em>did</em> cook these past 5 weeks. I’ve been using approximately 3 frozen meals per week, with the other nights taken up with regular cooking, leftovers, and eating out. By virtue of the fact that I only had to truly “cook” two or so meals each week, I actually enjoyed the process of recipe hunting and baking rather than dreading it like I normally do. And by having so many meals on-hand to grab from as needed, I found a lot more time available to myself for other things. <br />
<br />
Like playing with my kids. <a href="http://thedomesticproject.blogspot.ca/2012/11/averys-twinkle-twinkle-little-star.html">Or planning Avery’s 1st birthday party.</a> Or, you know, even <em>relaxing</em> from time-to-time. <br />
<br />
Crazy, I know. I was actually <em>living life</em> rather than watching it go by from the kitchen (ok, I know that’s a bit of an exaggeration but honestly, that’s how I feel when I’m forced to cook. I can’t say it enough: <em>I hate cooking</em>). <br />
<br />
"But how were the <em>meals</em>, Andra?” you plead. “You can go on and on about how it saved you all this time, but if the meals were crap it’s kind of not worth it, right?” <br />
<br />
Here’s what I’ll say: The meals, which were all taken from the <a href="http://onceamonthmom.com/whole-foods-october-2011-oamm-menu-oamc-freezer-cooking-bulk-cooking-power-cooking/">OAMM October 2011 menu</a>, had about a 75% success rate in my house. The ones that were <em>hits</em> and that I’d <em>highly</em> recommend you try: <br />
<br />
<a href="http://lickthebowlgood.blogspot.ca/2010/01/monica-monica-pumpkin-eater.html">Cream Cheese Pumpkin Bread</a> (so, so good) <br />
<a href="http://onceamonthmom.com/pistachio-chai-muffins/">Pistachio Chai Muffins</a> <br />
<a href="http://onceamonthmom.com/white-cheddar-chicken-pasta/">White Cheddar Chicken Pasta</a> <br />
<a href="http://onceamonthmom.com/oven-baked-fried-chicken/">Oven Baked Fried Chicken</a> <br />
<a href="http://onceamonthmom.com/italian-sausage-tortellini-soup/">Italian Sausage Tortellini Soup</a> (omg, AMAZING! I now dream about this soup in my sleep) <br />
<a href="http://sweetannas.com/2010/04/slow-cooker-white-chicken-chili.html">White Chicken Chili</a> <br />
<br />
I quite enjoyed the <a href="http://onceamonthmom.com/pumpkin-black-bean-tamale-bake/">Pumpkin Black Bean Tamale Bake</a> and <a href="http://fullbellies.blogspot.ca/2006/11/monterey-chicken.html">Monterey Chicken</a>, but Jamie was only so-so on them (the kids are always a draw, as Avery will eat just about anything and Mason will eat just about nothing). <br />
<br />
Jamie loved the <a href="http://www.asweetpeachef.com/beef/hearty-beef-stew/">Hearty Beef Stew</a> but I found something about it lacking (and he’s a whore for stew, anyways. A big stew-whore, that one). <br />
<br />
The <a href="http://www.rachaelraymag.com/recipes/rachael-ray-magazine-recipe-search/dinner-recipes/garlicky-bean-enchiladas">Garlicky Bean Enchiladas</a>? Kind of dry and flavourless, which is surprising seeing as they’re a Rachel Ray recipe. <br />
<br />
And the <a href="http://recipes.sparkpeople.com/recipe-detail.asp?recipe=137114">Sundried Tomato Goat Cheese Frittata</a> and <a href="http://onceamonthmom.com/marinara-sauce-a-la-seaton/">Spaghetti Squash with the Homemade Marinara</a> we haven’t actually gotten around to sampling yet (oops). <br />
<br />
Here’s the thing … apart from the enchiladas, <em>all</em> of the meals were ones we would willingly eat again. And they didn’t have that strange this-meal-has-been-previously-frozen "feel” I was worried about. Ya know? <br />
<br />
Carmen and I both found it beneficial enough that we’re doing it again next weekend, and will be following the <a href="http://onceamonthmom.com/whole-foods-november-2011-oamm-menu-oamc-freezer-cooking-bulk-cooking-power-cooking/">November 2011 menu</a> from OAMM. This time around, we’re going to learn from our mistakes and try and fine-tune the process: <br />
<br />
- rather than shop and prep the same night, we will shop one evening and prep the next. It’s not that you <em>can’t</em> get it all done in one night, just that it would be a lot less stressful to spread it out over two (with the Big Cooking Day on the third). <br />
<br />
- we’re going to do a better job of reading the recipes prior to our shopping trip, as we bought a number of things that we wound up not needing because we already had it in our homes. <br />
<br />
- we’re not going to trust the amounts given on the shopping list spreadsheet (which you plug in your total meals to, and its supposed to calculate). Some things were way too much, some were way too little … all I can say is, thank god we caught the problem two hours before we left for our grocery trip! Reading through the OAMM site this seems to be a common problem based on the reader comments, though I would hope/assume the “paid-for” menus (beginning January 2012) have this issue resolved. I’m not even upset about it as the menus we used were freebies, and everything else on the site worked amazing! Just something to be aware of next time. <br />
<br />
- we’re going to make sure we actually have significant space in our freezers to accommodate all the incoming meals, rather than having to shuffle things around and slot them in like it’s a damned game of Tetris. <br />
<br />
And that’s about it! With any luck, this month’s Big Cooking Day will go off without a hitch, and I’ll have one last chance to roll in premade-freezer-meal-happiness before finishing my maternity leave at the end of December. <br />
<br />
Gulp.<br />
<a href="http://s983.photobucket.com/albums/ae311/thedomesticproject/?action=view&current=Blogsiggie.png" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" src="http://i983.photobucket.com/albums/ae311/thedomesticproject/Blogsiggie.png" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2344725018767224005.post-86016785390321618412012-11-20T18:00:00.000-07:002012-11-20T18:00:04.039-07:00I Literally Have A Lazy AssA number of you have emailed asking how the <a href="http://thedomesticproject.blogspot.ca/2012/05/run-andra-run.html">Couch to 5k running program that I began in May</a> was going. To put it briefly: it went great, and then my body fell apart like a decrepit old woman. <br />
<br />
After dutifully following (and loving!) the program I entered my first 5km race in July, ignoring the slight twinges I’d been having every now and then in my right hip. At the 2.5 km mark the slight twinges turned into full-on, hurt-like-a-nasty-bitch-seeking-revenge pain and I knew I was done. I crossed the finish line just under 32 minutes later using a combination of walking/limping for the last-half of the course, and spent the next two weeks hobbling around, barely able to walk let alone jog. <br />
<a href="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-PEJOmnhW8gM/UKwN_8DY-BI/AAAAAAAAB2k/B-6rLBgLhEo/s1600-h/DSC_0754%25255B3%25255D.jpg"><img alt="DSC_0754" border="0" height="480" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-yTXKM7T5KcM/UKwOA6OLEaI/AAAAAAAAB2o/YTiXNXNyAXo/DSC_0754_thumb.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border: 0px currentColor; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="DSC_0754" width="319" /></a><br />
<blockquote>
Since that race day back in July my hip has only gotten worse. Obviously I haven’t been running since then, but even walking extended distances now puts me to limping afterwards. <em>Which sucks.</em></blockquote>
<blockquote>
I guess, to be fair, its given me a nice sense of camaraderie with elderly women using walkers at the mall. I’m all “OMG, is that the Nimbus 2000? I’m soooo jealous! Rock it, sista’, rock it!”. But then they never let me sit with them in the food court, and I get all embarrassed and have to limp my way off into the sunset, pretending that I never actually <em>wanted</em> to join them, anyways. Whores. </blockquote>
<blockquote>
The point of this story is that a few weeks ago I finally decided to see a physiotherapist about my hip. She was super-nice, had me do a few moves in front of her and then walk from one side of the room to the other. Less than 10 minutes after entering her office, she had a diagnosis. </blockquote>
<blockquote>
<br />
“You don’t engage your glutes when moving your legs” she stated. <br />
<br />
"I’m sorry … what?” I asked. <br />
<br />
"You should use your glutes to help move your legs, but you use every other muscle group first and only engage the glutes at the very end. That’s what's causing your hip pain. They’re doing more work than they’re supposed to, and its slightly rotated them outwards.” <br />
<br />
"Oh. Uh … ok” I replied, absorbing this new information. “So, basically I’ve got a lazy ass? I’ve literally got Lazy Ass Syndrome?”. <em>Holy shit,</em> I thought. <em>All my gym teachers were right. </em> <br />
<br />
A small smile crossed her face. “Well, lets just call it “Biomechanics”. Your body was born this way, and we’re going to teach it to move differently so you can run and exercise again. Ok?” <br />
<br />
"Wonderful” I replied, all the while thinking <em>Fuck.</em> <em>Jamie’s going to</em> <em>die</em> <em>laughing when he hears this. His wife has just been told by a professional that she has a lazy ass. That’s going to go over great at poker night. Hardy har har.</em></blockquote>
<blockquote>
As expected, Jamie was less than sympathetic about my diagnosis. And Mason’s been thoroughly confused by the stretching exercises I have to do every day. But you know what? <em>This lazy ass</em> wants to get back to running and moving and living without hip pain so I’m doing my best to fix things, and have fingers crossed that it gets better. <br />
<br />
Its one thing to be called a lazy ass. But to <em>literally have a lazy ass?</em> That’s the kind of thing that could only happen to me.</blockquote>
<a href="http://s983.photobucket.com/albums/ae311/thedomesticproject/?action=view&current=Blogsiggie.png" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" src="http://i983.photobucket.com/albums/ae311/thedomesticproject/Blogsiggie.png" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2344725018767224005.post-66924394340508361192012-11-18T18:00:00.000-07:002012-11-18T18:00:03.437-07:00Scented Glitter Playdough RecipeAlright y’all. <br />
<br />
Playdough. <br />
<br />
I promised a tutorial about the peppermint glitter playdough we had at <a href="http://thedomesticproject.blogspot.ca/2012/11/averys-twinkle-twinkle-little-star.html">Avery’s birthday party</a>, and here it is. <br />
<br />
Super-easy to make, cheaper than store-bought, <a href="http://thedomesticproject.blogspot.ca/2012/11/averys-twinkle-twinkle-little-star.html">makes great party favours</a> and stocking stuffers. And I’ve got the squishiest, smooshiest recipe for you to try. Its fabulous. Seriously. Even more fabulous than your Aunt Betty’s blue hair. <br />
<br />
Ready? <br />
<br />
<strong><u>Scented Glitter Playdough</u></strong> <br />
<br />
<em>1 cup flour</em><br />
<em>1 cup water</em><br />
<em>1/4 cup salt</em><br />
<em>2 tsp. cream of tartar</em><br />
<em>1 Tbls. vegetable oil</em><br />
<em>food coloring (about 4 drops) or 1 pkg. of kool-aid mix (adds colour and a nice smell)<br />glitter, maybe 1/3 cup (use big flakes vs. the super-fine ones if possible) <br /> <br />*optional: a few drops of peppermint extract*<br /> </em> <br />
Throw it all in a pot, mix it around on medium heat until it firms up. Done. <br />
<br />
<br />
For the more visual of the bunch, I present this photo-essay-of-sorts: <br />
<br />
Assemble the first 5 ingredients, mix it all in a pot. <br />
<a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-sXB0N94gZxE/UKhqncuvRkI/AAAAAAAAByw/TdA0483lD_E/s1600-h/DSC_0370a%25255B3%25255D.jpg"><img alt="DSC_0370a" border="0" height="480" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-nBfQK0u60eU/UKhqoF8YfoI/AAAAAAAABy4/8pFckHV9VVs/DSC_0370a_thumb.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border: 0px currentColor; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="DSC_0370a" width="319" /></a><br />
Whisk, whisk, whisk to get rid of the lumps. Lovely Lady Lumps = Great. Lovely Playdough Lumps = Icky. <br />
<a href="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-8-6iwk3eeow/UKhqpCaneKI/AAAAAAAABzA/z6x2wVAnvyI/s1600-h/DSC_0371a%25255B3%25255D.jpg"><img alt="DSC_0371a" border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJzSVUYX7qCefhGAoGmZ3WJQtUvU9ypROc_V6Iv_OExY6ureAQBaBQPojpcAqWV2BFjBQUFnNnVdujc-5gu4YeBVVvYyWIwjWoC5E0e3-gU8AEspSbr6jF0xn6L0k-hhi0z_WHqQfs9LU/?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border: 0px currentColor; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="DSC_0371a" width="319" /></a><br />
Stir in your food colouring <em>or</em> kool-aid package for colour (I didn’t have any kool-aid on hand, so food colouring worked fine for me). If you didn’t use kool-aid, a few drops of peppermint or other extract will add a nice smell to the dough (we used peppermint for Ave’s party). <br />
<br />
Dump in the glitter and stir. <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjpyKmIv-nETbucYdt5Phh8QtQPgj10s6fYZLSMaI2MCm3QM0SQWwpf6iXeMYo-mMUaS1ZhRin2LGbR68g4C7JS0qr6rcT4Kd6UC50C-nhGX_HjaUHTUK9JdowTmfoSe9o9CG_IirxFe8/s1600-h/DSC_0372a%25255B3%25255D.jpg"><img alt="DSC_0372a" border="0" height="425" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-ZXzD03FTkhQ/UKhqswFuqvI/AAAAAAAABzY/fvrfBUJu2mY/DSC_0372a_thumb.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border: 0px currentColor; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="DSC_0372a" width="640" /></a> <br />
Use as much or as little glitter as you’d like (or none, if you feel that way. And then head right on back to your Land-Of-No-Fun, thank you very much. I mean, it’s <em>glitter</em>. <em>Who doesn’t love glitter? </em>Oh, people who call it the herpes of the craft world? Touché). <br />
<br />
Put the pot on the stove. <br />
<a href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-5ahCAB1AJco/UKhquJ1FW2I/AAAAAAAABzg/MVsQ2mo9BF8/s1600-h/DSC_0374a%25255B3%25255D.jpg"><img alt="DSC_0374a" border="0" height="425" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-rZyd7YHdBpI/UKhqvShpRAI/AAAAAAAABzo/nOnsD3SCQdM/DSC_0374a_thumb.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border: 0px currentColor; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="DSC_0374a" width="640" /></a> <br />
You’ll notice the glitter doesn’t show as well initially. Don’t panic, peeps. All those little bitties are just ‘a hiding. They’ll pop up again soon! <br />
<br />
Turn the heat onto medium and begin stirring and scraping the bowl while the mixture cooks. It’ll start to get thicker, then lumpy, and all of a sudden solidify into one big clump (took about 5 minutes for me). Take it off the heat now! <em>*note: I cooked it for a few seconds longer than that 3rd image, as it was still just a bit too “wet”*</em> <br />
<a href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-qUFx25IPQrg/UKhqv39etCI/AAAAAAAABzw/w8rlfM6C228/s1600-h/Untitled-4%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img alt="Untitled-4" border="0" height="233" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZHcgHyZF3puFDXguLbSqJ9PWwKCgyUaffhunCklSTEDPOdosheSAySzBcB9L-ao5bANSu2F4N2LOrHaHpfd8MCD5-nHcA9heuO3otJUW7-zyUJgJuXIlY2nY7iO60eXnkST_24N866p0/?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border: 0px currentColor; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="Untitled-4" width="690" /></a> <br />
Dump the playdough onto waxed paper and allow it to cool. <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5-5iK68fO3-DCbLOO3oDFSnRbrB8hOLb89C-gDwVaxTeSudSpJqmhdFc5_Bz3K_4UOiaAmW3jDZMhFtGfqspFRNqOtxlIyu298hynzIcsYk_Ib7QLk927xh5bDvLHPH35SKbjqU19Sns/s1600-h/DSC_0378a%25255B5%25255D.jpg"><img alt="DSC_0378a" border="0" height="602" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-RqpzH2cIIFg/UKhqyFbv_KI/AAAAAAAAB0I/yjHDaQAyk7c/DSC_0378a_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border: 0px currentColor; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="DSC_0378a" width="400" /></a> <br />
Once cool to the touch (about 10 minutes), use your hands (or, you know, whatever body part you want. If you're into that sort of thing) to knead it a few times until it’s smooth. <br />
<br />
And voila! Your very own scented glitter playdough! <br />
<a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-8dcGOyk-Q7o/UKhqzGoANDI/AAAAAAAAB0Q/G928hrLFUEE/s1600-h/DSC_0386a%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img alt="DSC_0386a" border="0" height="445" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-TL3sKuRGXsk/UKhqz5AarCI/AAAAAAAAB0Y/_qoIL59z_9Y/DSC_0386a_thumb%25255B1%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border: 0px currentColor; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="DSC_0386a" width="670" /></a> <br />
So simple to make, and can be kept for 3-4 weeks at room temperature in an airtight container. <br />
<a href="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-zxXmX0HY8no/UKhq00dD56I/AAAAAAAAB0g/mHlPQTYoUf4/s1600-h/DSC_0387a%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img alt="DSC_0387a" border="0" height="445" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-fAV7S5DrksI/UKhq1wU0vLI/AAAAAAAAB0o/siBEJsNsIvY/DSC_0387a_thumb%25255B1%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border: 0px currentColor; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="DSC_0387a" width="670" /></a><br />
With the holidays coming up, wouldn’t these make gorgeous stocking stuffers? <br />
<a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-awJLp43lVdg/UKhq32c9t1I/AAAAAAAAB0w/xGjeFcKb85g/s1600-h/DSC_0398a%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img alt="DSC_0398a" border="0" height="445" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-9BI5QrxDPkY/UKhq40OsCfI/AAAAAAAAB04/Peu0lTK358E/DSC_0398a_thumb%25255B1%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border: 0px currentColor; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="DSC_0398a" width="670" /></a><br />
<br />I think so. <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0JUcctLUjB-COOvu1Wj31Zvb65wp97EXm8G0ihNTwaF-SCbQK0rA7LY3NYCywoTGYtLBpPTYMk5se4lYG6DBBbf4eer4zR9-z9HInw7B2FuWpD4mYa2UZZbNAl-NmiD6T1-1P2CPwYB0/s1600-h/DSC_0396a%25255B3%25255D.jpg"><img alt="DSC_0396a" border="0" height="480" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-3QssEL6-dvo/UKhq6lZUSII/AAAAAAAAB1I/PL4-56K-WRQ/DSC_0396a_thumb.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border: 0px currentColor; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="DSC_0396a" width="319" /></a><br />
*sigh* Soooo purdy.<br />
<a href="http://s983.photobucket.com/albums/ae311/thedomesticproject/?action=view&current=Blogsiggie.png" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" src="http://i983.photobucket.com/albums/ae311/thedomesticproject/Blogsiggie.png" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2344725018767224005.post-38365064090103968542012-11-14T18:00:00.000-07:002012-11-14T18:00:03.748-07:00Avery's Twinkle Twinkle, Little Star Birthday Party<em>*Note: If you’re only interested in party pictures, skip to the next Note in this post. This first part is just some background info to the actual day-of that I felt pertinent to the story* <br /> </em><br />Here’s the funny thing about events … you can plan and plan ‘til your heart’s content, but sometimes life just gets in the way. <br />
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Little-known fact about me: I’ve been a migraine sufferer since I was two years old. So, you know, as long as I can remember. And when I woke up Saturday morning my first thought was <em>God, no</em>. Because I knew one was coming. <br />
<br />
On my daughter’s 1st birthday. <br />
<br />
On the day of her party. <br />
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On the day when our house would soon fill with celebrating family and friends. <br />
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I tried my best to head off the migraine with copious amounts of medicine and caffeine and managed to make it through the set-up but once the actual party started at 4 pm, I was done. I welcomed the guests, got a few photos of-and-with Avery, snapped some quick pics of the decor and dragged myself upstairs to lay down in darkness while the party went on without me. I crawled back downstairs for the birthday song and Ave’s first taste of cake, and then returned to the solace of my bedroom in utter agony and to be fair, sadness. I effectively missed my child’s first birthday party, y’all. <em>Which sucks. </em>And getting hit with a wicked flu the day after? <em>Another kick in the pants.</em> <br />
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But you know what? Nothing can be done about it now. I did my best, but things happen. Ruminating on it only makes them worse, and we’ll give it a go again next year! I’ve heard the party was a success, with happy children, full guests and an adorable birthday girl so that’s all that matters. And so, may I present to you … Avery’s 1st birthday party! (the official post): <br />
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<em>*Note 2: Given the migraine I unfortunately didn’t get quite as many photos as I’d planned to, and most of them were taken just as the party started so bear with me and try to use your imaginations to fill in the holes* </em> <br />
<br />As with <a href="http://thedomesticproject.blogspot.ca/2012/08/masons-disney-cars-birthday-party.html">Mason’s party</a>, I’d set up a <a href="http://pinterest.com/ayla78/avery-s-1st-birthday-little-star-theme/">board for Avery’s birthday</a> on my <a href="http://pinterest.com/ayla78/">Pinterest page</a> a few months ago. I got the idea for the theme simply because sometimes on rare (<em>very</em> rare) occasions in the car she’d stop crying if I sang <em>Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star</em> to her. Which makes it as good an endorsement as any for her favourite song, dontcha think? It also seemed like a sweet and simple concept to follow. Just … stars. Everywhere. <br />
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<a href="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-2H5HdZnkELI/UKP4TO8U3pI/AAAAAAAABr0/ls_wfolhPRI/s1600-h/DIY%252520Star%252520Mobile%252520-The%252520Domestic%252520Project%25255B6%25255D.jpg"><img alt="DIY Star Mobile -The Domestic Project" border="0" height="527" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-WE4XBK2Lclg/UKP4UKuQ_fI/AAAAAAAABr8/WH459W9eJMU/DIY%252520Star%252520Mobile%252520-The%252520Domestic%252520Project_thumb%25255B3%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border: 0px currentColor; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="DIY Star Mobile -The Domestic Project" width="350" /></a><br />See that? That was my diy star mobile, an idea that was sparked upon seeing <a href="http://pinterest.com/pin/172755335676721698/">this image</a> from Sandra Kleist’s blog, <a href="http://sandrakleist.blogspot.ca/">The Winding Road</a>. It hung from the light over the sweets table, and added the perfect touch to the decor. I considered using regular string like I see most mobiles done with, but in the end went with twine because (a) it fit my more-rustic theme, and (b) I don’t have a sewing machine, and there’s <em>no way on this green earth</em> that I will spend the time hand-stitching stars one-by-one. Which reminds me … I think I took photos of the creation process for the mobile, so if enough people are interested I could make a post about it. Just let me know! <br />
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Since we’re at the table, here’s what the set-up looked like: <br />
<a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-lR7rMPoP7_8/UKP4Waw0XrI/AAAAAAAABsE/rTNo3r49qlA/s1600-h/Star%252520Party%252520-%252520The%252520Domestic%252520Project%25255B3%25255D.jpg"><img alt="Star Party - The Domestic Project" border="0" height="441" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-cUwVNEYDStg/UKP4XixdBII/AAAAAAAABsM/KMRhMZR6NVg/Star%252520Party%252520-%252520The%252520Domestic%252520Project_thumb.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border: 0px currentColor; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="Star Party - The Domestic Project" width="640" /></a><br />A large fruit tray was added later. (See all that snow in the background? Nice. Welcome to Canada). This table housed the treats, cake, favours and guest book. The tablecloths were two plastic ones purchased from the dollar store … I ruffled the pink one by grasping small sections with my fingers and pulling them apart slightly, and simply pinned the gold to create swag. <br />
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For favours each child received homemade peppermint glitter playdough and a star-shaped cookie cutter (which was attached to the back of the jar, and is kind of hard to see in this photo. Migraines, you know?). I found the containers at the Dollarstore; twine, a star cutout and sparking gold washi tape completed the package. <br />
<a href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-N1m_I7JhhoQ/UKP4Zk7IrVI/AAAAAAAABsU/UbWqIm-fgXA/s1600-h/DIY%252520glitter%252520playdough%252520-%252520The%252520Domestic%252520Project%25255B3%25255D.jpg"><img alt="DIY glitter playdough - The Domestic Project" border="0" height="444" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7Xr0h3U-pNslqdpeGaYwm_eiGsji7VLmMfOElsgS32S6lwGUPqOga5kA8oa-ypypU2vDgjh7pOmQkiuYHqHjQX_HhdpxPF16oZ6Un7yAd__q0l4U4YYKL-dKcBdEruncZJu3y70E9pvo/?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border: 0px currentColor; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="DIY glitter playdough - The Domestic Project" width="640" /></a> <br />
Please never, ever buy playdough again … I’ll be doing a blog post on this in a few days since I’ve got an awesome extra-squishy recipe to follow and I want y’all to learn how simple it is to make! <br />
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Soft sugar cookies (made by my mom!) were iced in light pink with edible gold and pink flakes. <br />
<a href="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-hpGD9NNLwt0/UKP4dNFjsxI/AAAAAAAABsk/CA_z4yBqFEk/s1600-h/Star%252520Soft%252520Sugar%252520Cookies%252520-%252520The%252520Domestic%252520Project%25255B3%25255D.jpg"><img alt="Star Soft Sugar Cookies - The Domestic Project" border="0" height="470" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-_UeNkoRSdLM/UKP4ePILcqI/AAAAAAAABss/vhQ6ABWTq9U/Star%252520Soft%252520Sugar%252520Cookies%252520-%252520The%252520Domestic%252520Project_thumb.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border: 0px currentColor; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="Star Soft Sugar Cookies - The Domestic Project" width="640" /></a><br />
I made a batch of star-shaped Rice Krispie pops a few weeks prior, drizzled them in melted pink chocolate and then froze them until needed. I’ve done this a few times now, and they always taste wonderfully fresh, so trust me! <br />
<a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-LRMM-rNY0MQ/UKP4fOKl_hI/AAAAAAAABs0/tCzblzNTT8Q/s1600-h/Star-shaped%252520Rice%252520Krispie%252520pops%252520-%252520The%252520Domestic%252520Project%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img alt="Star-shaped Rice Krispie pops - The Domestic Project" border="0" height="511" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-W-XBLvtQE6c/UKP4gB76X0I/AAAAAAAABs8/axveGbuKnGs/Star-shaped%252520Rice%252520Krispie%252520pops%252520-%252520The%252520Domestic%252520Project_thumb%25255B1%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border: 0px currentColor; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="Star-shaped Rice Krispie pops - The Domestic Project" width="460" /></a><br />We asked guests to sign the book <a href="http://www.amazon.ca/Someday-Alison-McGhee/dp/1416928111"><em>Someday</em> by Alison McGhee</a><em> </em>for Avery with a wish, hope, or dream they had for her. <br />
<a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-2t24P2_fKCs/UKP4iJUR2uI/AAAAAAAABtE/AI5W62xTI6s/s1600-h/Star%252520Party%252520guest%252520book%252520-%252520The%252520Domestic%252520Project%25255B3%25255D.jpg"><img alt="Star Party guest book - The Domestic Project" border="0" height="440" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-8wO5F6GC4OQ/UKP4jBW_O6I/AAAAAAAABtM/z6p189mT5uI/Star%252520Party%252520guest%252520book%252520-%252520The%252520Domestic%252520Project_thumb.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border: 0px currentColor; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="Star Party guest book - The Domestic Project" width="640" /></a> <br />
I used an inexpensive plastic frame (you know those $0.99 ones you can buy at Wal-Mart or the Dollarstore?) turned on it’s side to hold the sign. The label on the inside of her book read: <br />
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<em>Sweet Avery, the wishes in this book were written for you by loved ones at your 1st birthday party. Cherish them always! November 10th, 2012<br /></em><br />And now, my favourite part of the decor … the cake! <br />
<a href="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-atiG__J1lgs/UKP4kN7w-KI/AAAAAAAABtU/-qvoQjjfhb4/s1600-h/Ruffle%252520cake%252520-%252520The%252520Domestic%252520Project%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img alt="Ruffle cake - The Domestic Project" border="0" height="602" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitS8RXCkEoEcmf9O90gtXsOmGsDrXnACyyrSKGguilLoz_Qj3T8LIyNKi5uztprCaz-zOVn1aUwLwVbwNO-JpMBMrrh9oB-Cd-woSj5_pWHOa18WMVIhjtGpz7AAqd5hDE6389I8Wsbpw/?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border: 0px currentColor; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="Ruffle cake - The Domestic Project" width="400" /></a><br />Ahhhhh …. gorgeous. Seriously. I am in love. And isn’t that the cutest itty-bitty smash cake for the birthday girl? I wish the colour showed more true-to-life than it does in these photos. A beautiful pale pink cake, softly ruffled in fluffy, shiny icing. <br />
<a href="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-z9uIhPiDOws/UKP4l1CFX7I/AAAAAAAABtk/t_ZgvJtjNUo/s1600-h/Star%252520cake%252520bunting%252520-%252520The%252520Domestic%252520Project%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img alt="Star cake bunting - The Domestic Project" border="0" height="602" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv5vwI8IC1JcEqLLf3X2yLqkgtuIlOErlH6ePfraidvQ9AaYg57SsldI4kMaCAxcYGoe_t27zXAlWi8C0PSbHbGOsaS4WRd5jyPOOgOgm3nM38yLCfTzfPMKp7ujWCqSBqJoTP00Icqgw/?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border: 0px currentColor; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="Star cake bunting - The Domestic Project" width="400" /></a> <br />
This was my first time working with Swiss Meringue Buttercream, and it was to.die.for. I 100% followed the “Swiss Meringue Buttercream” <a href="http://sweetapolita.com/2011/04/swiss-meringue-buttercream-demystified/">tutorial and recipe</a> given by the amazing Rosie at <a href="http://sweetapolita.com/">Sweetapolita</a>, and I urge you to do the same. While intimidating to make, it was actually quite simple and tasted ah.mah.zing. Light, buttery and just a hint of sweet … my guests were <em>raving</em> about it, many saying that they don’t normally “like” icing. The actual cake was <a href="http://sweetapolita.com/2010/11/rich-ruffled-chocolate-celebration-cake/">Sweetapolita’s Chocolate Celebration Cake</a>, and I followed her tips on how to ice it in the style I did. And believe me, it was simple. Simple, simple, simple. I won’t be doing a tutorial on this as the links at Sweetapolita do a better job than I ever could, but trust me … you <em>need</em> to try the buttercream. <br />
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*sigh* Yummy memories. <br />
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Party decor followed the star theme. My fireplace was awash in sparking celestial bodies with ribbons hanging down as backdrop. <br />
<a href="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-WUaxLy7f548/UKP4nuXldtI/AAAAAAAABt0/RxUsPcfMmFI/s1600-h/Ribbons%252520as%252520backdrop%252520-%252520The%252520Domestic%252520Project%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img alt="Ribbons as backdrop - The Domestic Project" border="0" height="500" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-g3C-P4ZbLXg/UKP4oTylaUI/AAAAAAAABt8/tO5I8dTVHRc/Ribbons%252520as%252520backdrop%252520-%252520The%252520Domestic%252520Project_thumb%25255B1%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border: 0px currentColor; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="Ribbons as backdrop - The Domestic Project" width="350" /></a> <br />
<a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-QiLABgBWkvU/UKP4pHJdDqI/AAAAAAAABuE/ynt5GZ65jqw/s1600-h/DIY%252520star%252520garland%252520-%252520The%252520Domestic%252520Project%25255B3%25255D.jpg"><img alt="DIY star garland - The Domestic Project" border="0" height="480" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-bTKyywxtkVA/UKP4p5jr3vI/AAAAAAAABuM/BvpXVNcWQhk/DIY%252520star%252520garland%252520-%252520The%252520Domestic%252520Project_thumb.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border: 0px currentColor; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="DIY star garland - The Domestic Project" width="426" /></a> <br />
<a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-n_DdJqbEiY4/UKP4rWOcDWI/AAAAAAAABuU/UC9r9Qtedy4/s1600-h/Birthday%252520photo%252520banner%252520-%252520The%252520Domestic%252520Project%25255B3%25255D.jpg"><img alt="Birthday photo banner - The Domestic Project" border="0" height="425" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-ITQTl7G5HRU/UKP4sMX8UII/AAAAAAAABuc/H6JirqhfvBk/Birthday%252520photo%252520banner%252520-%252520The%252520Domestic%252520Project_thumb.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border: 0px currentColor; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="Birthday photo banner - The Domestic Project" width="640" /></a> <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZbkGR10HcZgLrL-y2H5VJbPwGZ6jPSzTHF67Q65MiFqITkt7C5C8RHjO57eIVAPnlBy30HSLd5l2fXsahP9byPTtlXlyVHhWVjdRIyDkH5aV4skY0e1_L182sL9dkTPDXs-T-hO2K52Q/s1600-h/The%252520Domestic%252520Project%252520%25252823%252529%25255B3%25255D.jpg"><img alt="The Domestic Project (23)" border="0" height="480" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-bIgavcY5UXg/UKP4tyDI0WI/AAAAAAAABus/T9IVhh4QoVc/The%252520Domestic%252520Project%252520%25252823%252529_thumb.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border: 0px currentColor; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="The Domestic Project (23)" width="319" /></a> <br />
This ruffled pink “1” (made with cupcake liners!) was supposed to be hanging on the front door, but at the last minute we decided to keep it inside. <br />
<a href="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-Yn0z1QQaVtA/UKP4vAGEJvI/AAAAAAAABu0/gNdWr_8VtLg/s1600-h/Cupcake%252520liner%252520number%252520-%252520The%252520Domestic%252520Project%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img alt="Cupcake liner number - The Domestic Project" border="0" height="602" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-MPiLoNim6MU/UKP4v-zY34I/AAAAAAAABu8/oerZwcm2LO0/Cupcake%252520liner%252520number%252520-%252520The%252520Domestic%252520Project_thumb%25255B1%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border: 0px currentColor; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="Cupcake liner number - The Domestic Project" width="400" /></a> <br />
Hundreds of stars (ok … maybe 20) hung from the ceiling throughout the main floor. <br />
<a href="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-Ff0P9PGlL1w/UKP4w4-w7-I/AAAAAAAABvE/uv71flhg-fs/s1600-h/The%252520Domestic%252520Project%252520%25252827%252529%25255B3%25255D.jpg"><img alt="The Domestic Project (27)" border="0" height="413" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-mkV9apIO1bk/UKP4xoW5NvI/AAAAAAAABvM/7NeBljZrePs/The%252520Domestic%252520Project%252520%25252827%252529_thumb.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border: 0px currentColor; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="The Domestic Project (27)" width="640" /></a> <br />
And party guests used glitter glue to paint star ornaments (homemade from <a href="http://www.crayola.com/things-to-do/how-to-landing/model-magic.aspx">Crayola Model Magic</a>). <br />
<a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-yMDA_RZsR6M/UKP4y3kS2VI/AAAAAAAABvU/v-x4LxSTSg4/s1600-h/Star%252520party%252520activity%252520-%252520The%252520Domestic%252520Project%25255B3%25255D.jpg"><img alt="Star party activity - The Domestic Project" border="0" height="425" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-RO-L7BtdApU/UKP4z_WcdNI/AAAAAAAABvc/fA9A9mX6TA4/Star%252520party%252520activity%252520-%252520The%252520Domestic%252520Project_thumb.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border: 0px currentColor; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="Star party activity - The Domestic Project" width="640" /></a> <a href="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-PjWD0pv2cz0/UKP40xvMizI/AAAAAAAABvk/uJcTh-rbxls/s1600-h/The%252520Domestic%252520Project%252520%2525282%252529%25255B3%25255D.jpg"><img alt="The Domestic Project (2)" border="0" height="480" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-wTDzYee3MZY/UKP41jMaZlI/AAAAAAAABvs/ulVtCELjU88/The%252520Domestic%252520Project%252520%2525282%252529_thumb.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border: 0px currentColor; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="The Domestic Project (2)" width="313" /></a><br />A few more party pictures: <br />
<a href="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-uV3Bdv6WoRU/UKP42nhmbTI/AAAAAAAABv0/3qE6bNRkTiA/s1600-h/The%252520Domestic%252520Project%252520%25252813%252529%25255B3%25255D.jpg"><img alt="The Domestic Project (13)" border="0" height="480" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-7YVcaewxgko/UKP43VjVk1I/AAAAAAAABv8/9FV_kX8VGec/The%252520Domestic%252520Project%252520%25252813%252529_thumb.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border: 0px currentColor; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="The Domestic Project (13)" width="319" /></a><a href="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-nq9TZUW944U/UKP44tS1YII/AAAAAAAABwE/XidompC0eBE/s1600-h/Star%252520party%252520-%252520The%252520Domestic%252520Project%252520%2525281%252529%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img alt="Star party - The Domestic Project (1)" border="0" height="506" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-aAmv_exqFY0/UKP45jhOskI/AAAAAAAABwM/c_5-883J3y4/Star%252520party%252520-%252520The%252520Domestic%252520Project%252520%2525281%252529_thumb%25255B1%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border: 0px currentColor; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="Star party - The Domestic Project (1)" width="650" /></a><a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-MhDv-uWhCEA/UKP47H6ZEjI/AAAAAAAABwU/M4nFsgQ_hd4/s1600-h/The%252520Domestic%252520Project%252520%25252819%252529%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img alt="The Domestic Project (19)" border="0" height="433" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-Fc3WwF7tchw/UKP470C2YlI/AAAAAAAABwc/3_2dnY5kWPk/The%252520Domestic%252520Project%252520%25252819%252529_thumb%25255B1%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border: 0px currentColor; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="The Domestic Project (19)" width="600" /></a><a href="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-1Cl0KEOVEOE/UKP49Ou3YSI/AAAAAAAABwk/V0pSjjAK_OM/s1600-h/Star%252520Party%252520-%252520The%252520Domestic%252520Project%252520%2525283%252529%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img alt="Star Party - The Domestic Project (3)" border="0" height="791" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-DnAZgH5VQ88/UKP4-WY9dHI/AAAAAAAABws/aj4fP5izb4U/Star%252520Party%252520-%252520The%252520Domestic%252520Project%252520%2525283%252529_thumb%25255B1%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border: 0px currentColor; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="Star Party - The Domestic Project (3)" width="600" /></a><a href="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-2mjfmRPtx70/UKP4_f4qfPI/AAAAAAAABw0/SO6XSM5KO6s/s1600-h/Star%252520party%252520-%252520The%252520Domestic%252520Prooject%252520%2525282%252529%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img alt="Star party - The Domestic Prooject (2)" border="0" height="506" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-YMHvLp9N4ko/UKP5AYClnbI/AAAAAAAABw8/plbqLCKNZ5s/Star%252520party%252520-%252520The%252520Domestic%252520Prooject%252520%2525282%252529_thumb%25255B1%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border: 0px currentColor; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="Star party - The Domestic Prooject (2)" width="650" /></a><br />And here’s the closest we got to a family pic this celebration: <br />
<a href="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-rw6-mneIQik/UKP5BYnz2LI/AAAAAAAABxE/8OnnUDe16y0/s1600-h/The%252520Domestic%252520Project%252520%25252839%252529%25255B3%25255D.jpg"><img alt="The Domestic Project (39)" border="0" height="425" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-CJxd6XYiIpw/UKP5CDeAEzI/AAAAAAAABxM/pZXGbUwxpMQ/The%252520Domestic%252520Project%252520%25252839%252529_thumb.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border: 0px currentColor; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="The Domestic Project (39)" width="640" /></a>Yah … oops. <br />
<br />
Well, that’s all I’ve got, peeps! While my attendance at the party didn’t work out like I’d hoped (but how ‘bout my fake-it-til-ya-make-it photo appearances?), it is what it is. Baby girl’s one, that’s all that matters. We’ll get ‘im next year, tiger! <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikwLfD9Q4FFCpdOrfhUp_ADis-_Qcu3lPbkOP3YxKUQwsGyYPnYGiZrvIDNrvdCohKVhISQgjOswielQtoP2HIo0LoXPVjxRgpDud6shwPXkwQGRvimA_LAEzbA5IyQEnP6Phfx4h9ZlY/s1600-h/The%252520Domestic%252520Project%252520%25252830%252529%25255B3%25255D.jpg"><img alt="The Domestic Project (30)" border="0" height="413" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-n7_gN8Mkg3E/UKP5EJJmslI/AAAAAAAABxc/NkspoFxMCxY/The%252520Domestic%252520Project%252520%25252830%252529_thumb.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border: 0px currentColor; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="The Domestic Project (30)" width="640" /></a>
<a href="http://s983.photobucket.com/albums/ae311/thedomesticproject/?action=view&current=Blogsiggie.png" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" src="http://i983.photobucket.com/albums/ae311/thedomesticproject/Blogsiggie.png" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2344725018767224005.post-57920166311509623762012-11-13T18:00:00.000-07:002012-11-13T18:00:02.320-07:00Sick ... Birthday Post Tomorrow<em>(Ok, so I posted what's below as my status on the <a href="https://www.facebook.com/thedomesticproject" target="_blank">Domestic Project's Facebook page</a> today, and then slapped my forehead and went "Duh. Why didn't I just make it a post?". And then I realized that
I never, ever make short posts so doing so would be kind of an anomaly. And then I thought "Well, bring it on, anomaly-haters!". And thus ... I give you my Facebook status from this afternoon. Now please excuse me while I go lay down and allow my 3 year old the run of the house. Good luck, 1 year old.) </em><br />
<br />
Ugh ... so, so sick. I'm sorry, I know there's a few of you who've been patiently waiting for Avery's birthday party post, and I'll have it to you tomorrow. I honestly haven't even had the energy to upload the photos yet, which is crazy bc normally I'm all "Must. Upload. Photos. Immediately". So that shows you how ill I've been. Anyways, to appease you I have Ave's 1st birthday video montage that we showed at her party. Its about 7 minutes long so, you know, if you have the time enjoy yourself! And if not, I won't be offended. ;)
<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="344" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/Gc4gdqXClKo?fs=1" width="459"></iframe>
<br />
<a href="http://s983.photobucket.com/albums/ae311/thedomesticproject/?action=view&current=Blogsiggie.png" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" src="http://i983.photobucket.com/albums/ae311/thedomesticproject/Blogsiggie.png" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2344725018767224005.post-54017824390139832802012-11-10T15:15:00.002-07:002012-11-10T15:15:52.022-07:00A Letter To My Daughter On Her 1st Birthday<a href="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-Rrwl5Lp1RIw/UJ7QU5UxuHI/AAAAAAAABp8/zPQf2KU5KzI/s1600-h/lettertoavery5.jpg"><img alt="lettertoavery" border="0" height="363" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-3LNqUHaASPc/UJ7QV-xKLZI/AAAAAAAABqE/2qK3NCrQGdU/lettertoavery_thumb2.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-width: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="lettertoavery" width="640" /></a> <br />
Baby Girl, <br />
<br />
Wow. <br />
<br />
One year. <br />
<br />
One. Year. <br />
<br />
One year ago today you arrived in our lives, a month early with the cord looped twice around your neck and mad as hell. And at 5 lb 11 oz, you were the tiniest little thing your daddy and I’d ever held. <br />
<br />
Which reminds me … since we’re on the topic of your dad, I’m sorry about the porn ‘stache in all your newborn photos. <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="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-9tEMV_QvJ8g/UJ7QWnEqpuI/AAAAAAAABqM/CRkqaerS-CU/s1600-h/DSC_0309---Copy3.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="DSC_0309 - Copy" border="0" height="480" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-LH3_6b6EAn8/UJ7QXY-mecI/AAAAAAAABqU/wbNZNbtPAP8/DSC_0309---Copy_thumb.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-width: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="DSC_0309 - Copy" width="319" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">His mustache brings all the girls to the yard ...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I can assure you your father wasn’t trying to join the likes of Ron Jeremy before your birth … just raisin’ some dough for prostate cancer during Movember. The thing is, Movember’s supposed to be over at the end of November, which would’ve given daddy <em>loads</em> of time to shave off the ‘ol lady tickler <em>if</em> a certain “someone” hadn’t kicked her way out of the womb a full month in advance. So if you’d come when we were expecting you, your daddy wouldn’t have looked like such a creeper at the hospital. I’m just sayin’. <br />
<br />
Speaking of apologies, I’m going to apologize in advance for your teen years. If you take after your dad and I, ages 13 – 17 are going to be … awkward. I wish I could give some sage advice about this upcoming stage in your life but here’s the thing: As your mother I’ll spend all day talking about how looks aren’t important (which they aren’t) and how you’ve just got to work at being a good person (which you do), but the truth of the matter is, other teenage girls can be real bitches. <em>And bitches be cruel.</em> Having been-there-done-that, I also know that no amount of soothing talk about just “ignoring” things will help. So here’s what I’ll say instead: <br />
<br />
I’m sorry. The teen years are hard. Please know that <em>every day</em> you go to school I wish I could be there alongside, defending you, standing up for you and helping you find your way through junior and senior high. <em>Every day</em> I pray you come home from school happy and joyful, not beaten down and alone. <em>Every day</em> I wish you the strength to courageously rise above the chaos and pettiness of teenage life and trudge ever onwards, using wisdom beyond your years to know that this is but a brief period in your long existence. You <em>will</em> make it through, you <em>will</em> come out on the other side, and you <em>will</em> be a better person for it. Trust me. <br />
<br />
And if that’s not enough to help you push on, keep this in mind: <em>Karma’s a bitch.</em> And Karma likes to send her friend, Miss. Ginormous-Ass-Once-You-Hit-College, to really close the deal. So take heart if you’re picked on, and be kind to others if you’re not. Everyone gets their comeuppance. <br />
<br />
Yes, sweetheart, the teen years are going to be rough on us all. At some point you’re probably going to hate me, but you know what? That’s ok. Its kind of a rite of passage between girls and their moms. It’ll sneak up on us; one day we’ll be gossiping about how cute Justin Bieber looked in his latest video and the next … wait, what? The Bieb’s <em>thirty-five</em>? And <em>bald?</em> What’s that? Only <em>old</em> people listen to him? Are you saying <em>I’m</em> old? Well, if <em>I look old</em> it’s only because I’ve had to put up with <em>you and your brother’s crap</em> these past 17 yea ….. Oh, wait. You’re still only one, and I’m just imagining this all in my head. Ok. *deep breath* <br />
<br />
Your brother. From the day we first told him there was a baby in mommy’s tummy he was in love with you. He informed us you were a girl long before we had an ultrasound to confirm it, and he stood by that even under intense pressure to change his answer. He just knew. And he adored you. “Oh, wait ‘til the baby comes!” everyone warned us. “He likes the baby now, but once he realizes its here to stay he’ll be over <em>that</em> fast”. <br />
<br />
Except he wasn’t. He was in awe of you, called you his “favourite girl” right there in the hospital room, cuddled you, snuggled you, protected you and made you laugh all through this first year of your life. “Mom, why are you telling me this during <em>my</em> first-year letter?” you ask, a little pissed that the focus is taken off you. Well dear daughter, its because right now, at this point in your life, you probably think he’s an asshole. <br />
<br />
Truth be told, he probably <em>is</em> an asshole (to you. Not to me. Never, ever to his mother). But through all the noogies and wrestling holds and slammed doors and teasing and dutch ovens and whatever the hell else you guys fought about over the years, he loves you. He probably doesn’t say it, he may not even believe it (“<em>Gross</em>, mom! <em>As if</em> I love my sister!”), but deep down that kid loves you. Always has, always will. And deep down, you know you feel the same. <br />
<br />
So for god’s sake, will the two of you just hug and make up already? <br />
<br />
Now let’s see … what else do mom’s write about in these letters? Hmmmmm …. oh yes, <em>wishes. </em>I’m supposed to write about my wishes and dreams and hopes for you. <br />
<br />
Well, first of all, I truly, <em>truly</em> hope with all my heart that you outgrow your current fascination with dipping your hands into toilet bowls. Seriously kid. It’s gotta stop. <em>Its getting weird.</em> Woe be the person who neglects to close the bathroom door while taking their morning constitutional at our home right now. To their ears will fall the quiet pit-pat-pit-pat of your still-unsteady gait as you round the corner, a grin on your lips and hands outstretched and grasping. “Grasping? Grasping for what?” you wonder as you watch her tread ever closer. And then the cold, tiny fingers of our toilet-bowl-fiend will forcefully attempt to shove their way through your legs and down into the water below, and you will know. <br />
<br />
So yeah. Lets move on from that mmmkay? Gettin’ a little embarrassing over here. <br />
<br />
I also hope you stay true to the personality we’ve seen develop over these past twelve months. Eight weeks in I would’ve said “God no!” as I sat (upright because that’s the only way you would sleep) in bed, desperately trying to catch 20 minutes of slumber as I held my screaming baby. Or even eleven months in as I listened to you cry in the car for, like, <em>the eleventh month straight</em>. Anyone who knows us personally knows this was a tough, hard year with more than our fair share of tears and frustration (particularily from me). However, I’ve come to recognize that the very personality traits we find difficult in babies (demanding, passionate, my-way-or-the-highway) are the same ones we hail in adults for their leadership abilities, strength and fortitude. That or in white-collar criminals, I guess. So … yeah … uhh … Where was I? Oh yes … stay true to your personality. Its who you are and more importantly, it’s who we love. <br />
<br />
Honestly, I just want you to be happy. There will be ups and downs throughout your life but when you look back on it near the end, I hope with all my heart that you see it was filled with joy. Finding humour in whatever life throws at you can help immensely with this, and I hope growing up in the family you have you will see this modelled day after day. Humour is the key. Believe me. If you can laugh at yourself, you can move forward in life without all those nasty chips on your shoulder that weigh down so many others. So laugh. Laugh often, and laugh loud. But not <em>too</em> loud, because that can get annoying. But, you know, just moderate your volume and have at ‘er. <br />
<br />
Avery-bear, its been a crazy, hard, wonderfully chaotic year and I’m so happy you chose me as your mom. I love you, little girl, and I always will. Wherever I am in the world, whatever the case, you will always be on my mind and in my heart. So happy, happy, joyous birthday baby! And may the next year hold even more laughter and blessings than you’ve already experienced! <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="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-uu-hFelhXII/UJ7QYakJDKI/AAAAAAAABqc/URkG1E-XJCQ/s1600-h/comparison2%25255B3%25255D.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="comparison2" border="0" height="394" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-k3Aovv3QjLQ/UJ7QZOnuesI/AAAAAAAABqk/pphd4oBy77A/comparison2_thumb.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border: 0px currentColor; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="comparison2" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The big baby ate the little one, clearly</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
But maybe, <em>just maybe,</em> we could knock off the car ride crying?<br />
<a href="http://s983.photobucket.com/albums/ae311/thedomesticproject/?action=view&current=Blogsiggie.png" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" src="http://i983.photobucket.com/albums/ae311/thedomesticproject/Blogsiggie.png" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2344725018767224005.post-25130855162905815752012-11-07T18:00:00.000-07:002012-11-07T18:00:05.230-07:00Breakin' For A B-Day and Some Overdue Photo TreatsSorry I’ve been MIA the past week … Avery’s 1st birthday is coming up this Saturday and my mommy guilt at leaving things until the last minute has gone into overdrive. With <a href="http://thedomesticproject.blogspot.ca/2012/08/masons-disney-cars-birthday-party.html">images of Mason’s parties</a> running through my head, I’m now determined to put Ave’s birthday on par with her brother’s, and am dedicating the majority of my free time to classic Andra-esq crafting. Or, you know, one step away from an anxiety attack at any given moment. <br />
<br />
Ah, the life of a perfectionist. <br />
<br />
<a href="http://thedomesticproject.blogspot.ca/2012/08/mo-fo-helium.html">As with Mason’s</a>, I’ll give you one tiny sneak-peek into what I’ve got going on over at my house right now: <br />
<a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-yZFJNEIHEXE/UJrQR7arHMI/AAAAAAAABlY/R_yzPTsbWS8/s1600-h/DSC_0397a%25255B3%25255D.jpg"><img alt="DSC_0397a" border="0" height="480" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-IS2hkGALiUQ/UJrQS7DM7OI/AAAAAAAABlg/lX8RwjCi6Tc/DSC_0397a_thumb.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border: 0px currentColor; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="DSC_0397a" width="319" /></a><br />Aaaannnnnd … that’s all you get ‘til my post-party post next week! I know, I’m a tease. <br />
<br />This mommy guilt at my second child’s birthday has shown itself in a number of ways lately. With the prospect of 25+ adults coming to our home this weekend, I’ve also started stressing about the number of photos of Avery around the house. And by “number of photos” I mean <em>none </em>(well, except for the ones in her actual bedroom but those don’t really count). <br />
<a href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-iNYn3LqlpJI/UJrQUeUi6NI/AAAAAAAABlo/qmLqZ8wPTk8/s1600-h/Untitled-1%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img alt="Untitled-1" border="0" height="659" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-yeoUhxmtfm4/UJrQVdsnT-I/AAAAAAAABlw/T8SJGUde638/Untitled-1_thumb%25255B1%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border: 0px currentColor; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="Untitled-1" width="500" /></a> <br />
Granted, the photos I have on display of Mason aren’t exactly “current” but as it stands, if someone were to break into our house they would go through 95% of it believing that they were robbing a family of 3. And then they’d get upstairs to the nursery and be all “Oh, snap! There’s a <em>second</em> kid in this place! For reeeals?!!”. <br />
<br />
And then, to be honest, they’d probably continue looting the premises, but maybe doing it while remembering that <em>their</em> family never actually had any pictures up of <em>them</em> in the house, either. It was all “Michael this” and “Michael that”, and “Oh Billy, look how amazing your big brother Michael is!” and “Oh Billy, why couldn’t you finish high school like your brother Michael”. And of course Michael went on to become a successful heart surgeon, bringing us to the present day career choice of thieving for Billy. <br />
<br />
Or maybe I’m just exaggerating things. <br />
<br />
But regardless, I realized I needed to get some pics up of Ave, if only so I look like a good mother to potential home robbers. I added that to the pile of crap I’ve been working on this week, and am happy to report that Avery now has an existence amongst out family photos. And it only took a year, y’all! <br />
<a href="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-uWzqPad9xJA/UJrQWr7SfwI/AAAAAAAABl4/rKVu_8MD05c/s1600-h/Untitled-2%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img alt="Untitled-2" border="0" height="659" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-qaLKhqClvkk/UJrQXvXO-JI/AAAAAAAABmA/4ToQcY3SGG0/Untitled-2_thumb%25255B1%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border: 0px currentColor; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="Untitled-2" width="500" /></a>And speaking of photos, that one in the top-right of our photo wall is my favourite family picture <em>ever. </em>You might remember <a href="http://thedomesticproject.blogspot.ca/2012/06/today.html">we had pictures taken a few months ago</a> by <a href="http://ambphotos.ca/">photographer Amber Bourett</a>? Well, that’s one of her beauties up there. <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1sDvjw7RYFPVs0b17-kOgNPCtEoztiGKBU6_Xt556XUTS2r2kXgVHNMIoEQhO_tqnK8gT_D_PmfEwEsq4igJ117KOTDP1OqMYkeJujKvxEVsXfiVdqrYcBuWmV89G0p53-NUtFo883iQ/s1600-h/15%25255B5%25255D.jpg"><img alt="15" border="0" height="426" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-DeXwlS4X-BE/UJrQZ1y7zZI/AAAAAAAABmQ/OZ3bVj6T1vA/15_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border: 0px currentColor; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="15" width="640" /></a> <br />
I adore it. I absolutely, freakishly adore it. Its just … my life, captured by a <a href="http://ambphotos.ca/">talented artist</a>. Not sure if that makes sense, but I hearts it. And here’s a few more I hearts, as seen through Amber’s lens: <br />
<a href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-0MlX4oJiJl4/UJrQbNTfXfI/AAAAAAAABmY/UpSQEHFWiMU/s1600-h/10%25255B5%25255D.jpg"><img alt="10" border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLjuEVTaCZ4-lx1J4T_NV2FXX7tnhylCI7UYRUe9hfBFGPRsZ_PlqK1qnzYX1MlRWJTMEhnIyW6G5dBNEBviZ5X_HaLW1xHF9LJl9g0PmssDqsys_dqtCrAyAskB1DQPWMCT23hLJZYIM/?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border: 0px currentColor; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="10" width="640" /></a> <br />
<a href="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-E1vYse5WhlY/UJrQdHohjEI/AAAAAAAABmo/1z8vUaGBGiI/s1600-h/14%25255B5%25255D.jpg"><img alt="14" border="0" height="426" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-0viWMdYwnYE/UJrQd9Ws5hI/AAAAAAAABmw/3hmheKEpMnc/14_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border: 0px currentColor; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="14" width="640" /></a> <br />
<a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-SBf2WsxZ84o/UJrQfKzGrMI/AAAAAAAABm4/CyMLABS1s6U/s1600-h/17%25255B5%25255D.jpg"><img alt="17" border="0" height="480" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-pEXbqEedFns/UJrQf48SETI/AAAAAAAABnA/IeZbzyi7TIs/17_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border: 0px currentColor; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="17" width="319" /></a> <br />
<a href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-qfsUE8-Jfgo/UJrQhW1aJsI/AAAAAAAABnI/Jego-voQKKY/s1600-h/24%25255B5%25255D.jpg"><img alt="24" border="0" height="426" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-RzH79yMThGc/UJrQiEWMtcI/AAAAAAAABnQ/pG31N1IKK3w/24_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border: 0px currentColor; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="24" width="640" /></a> <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwFkn0d8S6h0pFab8WsPpPmDr7Ytu5FKbCmSP2z5EMm1zqMRBvzfuKEHRtyZq3kdh_JFOQxlSOH628OiMDoMh3-EKWXqCO03rLq3nlzJCg4w8ikB-l0TFsnuYBOXrCLxtO5dzaqCohc2A/s1600-h/28%25255B5%25255D.jpg"><img alt="28" border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtfBnjJ8idA8CxAhIirgxZDjotPCEDdlCKtL4Dr0cTkAbNiAKRv6f-rZcMNCT0OB9AuhTCYFxHia-Cqh0dEfKiLqpAUr4QpM_qEZNnR9m3G0Au0cvdTxC_pWkIVCnHcoyGM3WQIRRHFh4/?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border: 0px currentColor; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="28" width="640" /></a> <br />
<a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-SnitjzkgLqU/UJrQk2vzjrI/AAAAAAAABno/7EJjddng0gM/s1600-h/31%25255B5%25255D.jpg"><img alt="31" border="0" height="426" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-kht4hLnJVWA/UJrQlixX1LI/AAAAAAAABnw/Vb2YKdSA8uM/31_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border: 0px currentColor; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="31" width="640" /></a> <br />
<a href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-yBMGLSQfXAE/UJrQm9I8KdI/AAAAAAAABn4/ebo4B5mLIok/s1600-h/41%25255B5%25255D.jpg"><img alt="41" border="0" height="426" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-nMKNkPd5UdY/UJrQn9FNAOI/AAAAAAAABoA/-3v2CbZqcN4/41_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border: 0px currentColor; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="41" width="640" /></a><br />
<a href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-0yIkpRabtBU/UJrQpqX5z2I/AAAAAAAABoI/NxA4JAHPgac/s1600-h/44%25255B5%25255D.jpg"><img alt="44" border="0" height="426" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-iE1h6h-5lAs/UJrQqszD2nI/AAAAAAAABoQ/MMpk7Tf6kx0/44_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border: 0px currentColor; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="44" width="640" /></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0ODxGBKZAwvlsSkwHlv4is5oBaaE7IgS-3VhdAmN-Jhyphenhyphenq2b66_EFvqZNaUhtqzsGWGeD-dpZKYX2NQefhpMm38Pt3aamFQGXtseowEO33ddUf3kUR48ElZDjTO0Z6vreQehYdSaI_wis/s1600-h/55%25255B5%25255D.jpg"><img alt="55" border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLO05pe1_kqR_m6yjEtEYDrPCZl4Qs_GxQz9HAhqTjNFD_lNYDyR9eUwg6FkJ53wuMpYzDxKjHvn7t8CpxR4DFNnWfYDPYekAYZnwc5ah41bikEweILvPXboWyhWu36vuRdSyn8QwHTkA/?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border: 0px currentColor; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="55" width="640" /></a><br />
<a href="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-OlMvYpv6z3w/UJrQtxAlQLI/AAAAAAAABoo/VU4BT3Xr1f8/s1600-h/60%25255B5%25255D.jpg"><img alt="60" border="0" height="426" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-OJabh17pnwY/UJrQu0fACjI/AAAAAAAABow/H4E-Ip1H6ZI/60_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border: 0px currentColor; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="60" width="640" /></a><br />
Gah. Makes me feel all squishy inside. I can’t believe I never showed these until now! Didn’t she do a fabulous job, y’all? Love <a href="http://ambphotos.ca/">Amber’s work.</a> Love. <br />
<br />
Anyways, thats my update ‘til Avery’s party Saturday. If I have time I’m going to pop off a quick post on the actual day (one of those “A Letter To My Daughter”-type thingys), and then I’'ll be back Sunday or Monday with a recap of the entire shebang. Holy hell, do I have a <em>lot</em> to do before then.<br />
<a href="http://s983.photobucket.com/albums/ae311/thedomesticproject/?action=view&current=Blogsiggie.png" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" src="http://i983.photobucket.com/albums/ae311/thedomesticproject/Blogsiggie.png" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2344725018767224005.post-86225914564785943442012-10-28T18:00:00.000-06:002012-10-28T18:00:00.134-06:005 Mommy Looks Scarier Than Any Halloween CostumeWith Halloween only a few days away, costume selections are getting scarce and time is running out. <em>Whatever shall I be?</em> you wonder as you peruse the racks at Value Village. <em>I don’t have time to put together an outfit. </em> <br />
<br />
Well never fear, Domestic Project-ians mommies! If you’re one of the lucky few mentioned below, you just may be in a stage of your life when your everyday look rivals any Halloween costume on the market. Lucky you! <br />
<br />
Insulted? Don’t be. Every mother has worn <em>all</em> the following “looks” at one point or another. May I present: <br />
<a href="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-t7POUAHqp0Q/UI22hPGuPAI/AAAAAAAABkE/PlReFCN_aUA/s1600-h/2595%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img alt="2595" border="0" height="354" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-AizcoE2hDF4/UI22hifcjeI/AAAAAAAABkM/zPwzjIq4NvI/2595_thumb%25255B1%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border: 0px currentColor; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="2595" width="500" /></a> <br />
<strong>1. Final-Days-of-Pregnancy-Good-Lord-What-Happened-To-You? Mommy <br /></strong>Hear me now. <em>Every pregnancy</em>, regardless of how easy or hard it was or how cute or not-cute the woman looked, winds up the same way those last few weeks: Mommy-to-be suddenly bloats like a puffer fish scaring off predators, with everything from her feet to her once-chiseled jawline disappearing under a mass of rapidly-expanding flesh. Add minimal sleep, waddling gait, weird pigmentation and copius amounts of body fluids exiting from <em>all</em> orifices to really up the “wow” factor. And yes, that’s right. I went there. <em>Body fluids from all orifices.</em> Think about it. And then don’t get back to me. <br />
<br />
<strong>2. Delivery Room Mommy<br /></strong>Going into the delivery room is like going to your first college party. You start off nervous but excited, in full control of yourself and wary of showing <em>too</em> much skin. Twelve hours later you’re naked and spread-eagled to strangers, wondering who the guy is between your legs and hoping that’s not the smell of poop.Frizzed hair, sweaty face and breath that smells like the inside of a garbage truck only serve to complete the picture. Beautiful. <br />
<br />
<strong>3. One Week Post-Partum Mommy <br /></strong>A week after the birth of her baby mommy’s beautiful “pregnant glow” has morphed into mommy’s “hormonal crash and night sweats” combined with mommy’s “floppy, still-bloated-just-shoot-me-now tummy skin” and mommy’s “no-I-don’t-work-at-Hooters-but-my-boobs-think-we-do breasts”. Walking gingerly thanks to swollen nether regions and her first bowel movement, she stumbles down the hall like a zombie, squirt bottle in one hand and frozen brick/pad in the other. Not a spec of makeup nor the cleansing of a shower has touched her body in seven days, and the only thing she has to look forward to is the comfortable embrace of her hospital-issue mesh panties. Ahhhhh. Mesh panties. <br />
<br />
<strong>4. Three AM Feeding Mommy <br /></strong>This is not the mommy you want to run into down a dark alley at night. Bitter and angry about being woken up for the fourth time in six hours while “dear husband” pretends to sleep, she wears a pillow-creased face, squinted eyes and a scowl. Her faded robe is stained with two circles of dried breastmilk, while her back and hair sport streaks of baby vomit. Far from the quiet image of a mother cradling her infant by a moonlit window that she envisioned months ago, she just.wants.to.sleep.damnit. <br />
<br />
<strong>5. I’ve-Given-Up Mommy <br /></strong>With the newfound motto of “Meh. Whatever"”, this mommy may be the scariest of them all. High-waisted jeans, ponytailed hair, <a href="http://thedomesticproject.blogspot.ca/2012/10/in-other-news-has-anyone-seen-my.html">slip-on Sketchers</a> and a Dora the Explorer bandaid … this woman epitomizes the impact that children can have on your life. No longer the vivacious and spunky 20-something of years yore, she now finds herself shuffling along behind her kids in their name-brand clothes, losing arguments to 2 year olds and hauling 5 lb. purses filled with snacks, wipes, toys and crumbs. Is her dignity in there? Not that we can see. <br />
<br />
I'll give you <em>one </em>guess which one I'm going as this year.*sigh* <br /><br />Have any others to add to the list? I’d love to hear ‘em!<br />
<a href="http://s983.photobucket.com/albums/ae311/thedomesticproject/?action=view&current=Blogsiggie.png" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" src="http://i983.photobucket.com/albums/ae311/thedomesticproject/Blogsiggie.png" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2344725018767224005.post-63625147635337697842012-10-24T18:00:00.000-06:002012-10-24T18:57:21.677-06:00I'm Certifiably Insane“Shar,” I said to my friend as we left our weekly zumba class, “I need to hit Wal-Mart after this. You wanna come? We can grab a coffee first.” <br />
<br />
"Sure!” she replied (*<em>side note: this is why I love Sharlene. She’s always down for random shopping trips on our Girls’ Night Out as she, like myself, appreciates the luxury of doing such things child-free. I kid you not, we once drove to another town just to toodle around Costco and bask in the quietness. It was heaven.*).</em> “What do you need to get?” <br />
<br />
"Twine” I answered. <br />
<br />
"Twine? As in, twine-twine? What the hell do you need <em>twine</em> for?” she asked. <br />
<br />
"Oh, just this thing I’m making for Avery’s birthday party. Hey listen, do you think it’d look weird to hang gold stars from twine? I’m hoping it’ll look kinda rustic, y’know?” <br />
<br />
"Oh Jesus,” she sighed “Andra, coming from anyone else I’d say yes, but for you … probably not? I don’t know, you always come up with these crazy ideas that wind up working out”. <br />
<br />
Well, that’s as good of an endorsement as any, I’d say. Thanks, Shar! <br />
<br />
Which is how I found myself last night, painstakingly gluing sparkling cardstock together and then punching stars out of them, one by one. <br />
<a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-Xn1T8ya6F1A/UIhY77YlHDI/AAAAAAAABhw/QUmJSa1n-Ws/s1600-h/DSC_0170a%25255B3%25255D.jpg"><img alt="DSC_0170a" border="0" height="480" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-fs-bJXuxW_k/UIhY8q2ZycI/AAAAAAAABh4/fXHpgX0373M/DSC_0170a_thumb.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border: 0px currentColor; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="DSC_0170a" width="319" /></a> <br />
Why yes, yes I am crazy. Why do you ask? <br />
<br />
The thing is, Ave’s turning one in about two weeks … and I’ve done <em>nothing</em> for her party. Not one thing. Last week I finally had an “Oh, shit” moment when I realized I hadn’t even invited anyone yet so emails were sent out, but other than that … nada. <br />
<br />
Given how big all of Mason’s parties have been (<a href="http://thedomesticproject.blogspot.ca/2012/08/masons-disney-cars-birthday-party.html">including his recent Cars Movie themed 3rd birthday</a>) I’m actually feeling pretty guilty about leaving Ave’s so late. Lets just add this to the growing pile of Reasons It Sucks To Be the 2nd Child, I guess? <br />
<br />
Anyways, even though there won’t be time left to execute all that I’ve got in my head (we’re going with a Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star theme), I’m trying my damndest. There’s gonna be punched-out stars and crap hanging from twine all over the house, just you wait! My current stumbling block is that my large stars just aren’t sticking together on the twine right now: <br />
<a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-vUzZEf0ll3c/UIhY9jOGnQI/AAAAAAAABiA/Oj5yjQMn6Yc/s1600-h/DSC_0172a%25255B3%25255D.jpg"><img alt="DSC_0172a" border="0" height="480" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-kZ0GoCIUe3U/UIhY-ec0J4I/AAAAAAAABiI/Vv32dxFvsuI/DSC_0172a_thumb.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border: 0px currentColor; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="DSC_0172a" width="319" /></a>And yes, most people would be ok with that, but not if you’re Anal McAnalson like myself. It just ain’t.gonna.fly. <br />
<br />
Aaaanyways, Avery-bear is turning one on November 10th, same day as the party. Let’s see how much I can pull out of my ass in this short amount of time. <br />
<br />
And speaking of Ave, she got her first real taste of winter yesterday: <br />
<a href="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-0ihsP-gBBmc/UIhY_J0O_UI/AAAAAAAABiQ/YTnYQ-mmpuU/s1600-h/DSC_0159a%25255B3%25255D.jpg"><img alt="DSC_0159a" border="0" height="480" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-rLi9T8PoqZ0/UIhY_qoUEVI/AAAAAAAABiY/Vzzt4qxt0sQ/DSC_0159a_thumb.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border: 0px currentColor; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="DSC_0159a" width="319" /></a> Why yes that <em>is</em> a crapload of snow that just got dumped on our city a few days ago. Living in Canada is awesome, y’all. Awesome. <br />
<br />
Her mood didn’t improve even when Mace was holding her: <br />
<a href="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-OPdsRy52N30/UIhZAq3ZpII/AAAAAAAABig/0cWOjzo0xas/s1600-h/DSC_0162a%25255B11%25255D.jpg"><img alt="DSC_0162a" border="0" height="480" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-mOSEh5VRjno/UIhZBGPSQ3I/AAAAAAAABio/aETP2EU8mlA/DSC_0162a_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border: 0px currentColor; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="DSC_0162a" width="319" /></a> <br />
Of course, you might be feeling the same way if your brother had just allowed you to drop face-first into a pile of ice crystals. And I’m sure it had <em>nothing</em> to do with the fact that her snowpants were a full size too big: <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD_6XDo-BBB3HKdB1ELRt5-nAZaO2bWKaeMUXCD70W0fV_uupD3ocArMBwrlgFWQL0P2XzjxgHO-MCvqfWWqXYFVI2fbD1wAJ7MbGp-0NeiQRm4hJg-PTde1aGxcJ_la0wSgXyJNzSUCs/s1600-h/DSC_0155a%25255B3%25255D.jpg"><img alt="DSC_0155a" border="0" height="480" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-SUw6dBbo2Uw/UIhZDVtJTRI/AAAAAAAABi4/Psb4P5ShfTM/DSC_0155a_thumb.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border: 0px currentColor; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="DSC_0155a" width="331" /></a><br />
Regardless, her reaction was still a <em>million</em> times better than Mace’s the first time I plunked him in snow: <br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="344" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/dhURx7Vq438?fs=1" width="459"></iframe>
<br />
<br />
And for that, I guess we can all be thankful.<br />
<a href="http://s983.photobucket.com/albums/ae311/thedomesticproject/?action=view&current=Blogsiggie.png" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" src="http://i983.photobucket.com/albums/ae311/thedomesticproject/Blogsiggie.png" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2344725018767224005.post-19033048159397424192012-10-21T18:00:00.000-06:002012-10-21T18:00:05.116-06:00In Other News, Has Anyone Seen My Pleated Slacks? <blockquote>
I went shoe shopping yesterday. <br />
<br />
No specific style in mind, just knew I needed something casual. Something to keep up with the kids, ya know? I was replacing a pair of worn-out flats, shoes that had seen so much use there were actual holes in the soles. <br />
<br />
Wandering the aisles at my store of choice I came across a selection of sneaker-esq shoes in a variety of colours. I say “sneaker-esq” because they all had the stylin’s of your typical running shoe, minus the time-wasting hassle of laces. Slip-ons, if you will. <br />
<br />
<em>Bingo. And they have it in black … perfect. </em> </blockquote>
<blockquote>
<em> </em>Before even trying them on, I knew they would be mine. <br />
<br />
Easy to put on? <em>Yes.</em> Comfortable? <em>Looks like it.</em> Grippy soles so less worries of slipping while holding baby? <em>You betcha.</em> And with the practical choice of black for the colour, I could easily go from the park to shopping to a casual dinner if need be. <br />
<br />
<em>Check. Check. Check. Aaaaaannd …. check.</em> </blockquote>
<blockquote>
I squatted down to find my size amongst the stack of boxes, and it was then that I noticed the writing on the label:<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="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-T-6LlzUjCLU/UIObvYxQshI/AAAAAAAABfA/oGH9ylw0EFE/s1600-h/IMG-20121020-00731%25255B3%25255D.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="IMG-20121020-00731" border="0" height="480" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-MS_agKStMu4/UIObwDlsctI/AAAAAAAABfI/eL5Rbw2-h0s/IMG-20121020-00731_thumb.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border: 0px currentColor; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="IMG-20121020-00731" width="360" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Add "Ball Gag" and this might a box for something entirely different</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<em>Holy. Shit.</em> </blockquote>
<blockquote>
"Easy entry. Padded sock. Rubber sole.” <br />
<br />
Seeing it written out, coinciding almost exactly with what I had been looking for I realized <em>how incredibly lame</em> I’ve now become. <br />
<br />
And I know I’ve written about this many times before but it was a cold, hard realization as I crouched there in The Shoe Warehouse that snowy Saturday afternoon. The tired mid-30s mother, wearing her $35 Costco jacket with a purse full of used tissues and snack crumbs, grabbing a stolen hour of time on a weekend to go shopping for some desperately-needed shoes. <br />
<br />
The woman who’s wants have become <em>so predictable</em> that they’ve literally been written on the side of a discount-priced shoe box. <br />
<br />
“Easy entry. Padded sock. Rubber sole.” <br />
<br />
And then I actually pulled the box from its place, and stared in horrified awe at the image on top. <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="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-7vEKZ3LVTVA/UIObwz0eRNI/AAAAAAAABfQ/PiYXOtXj54Y/s1600-h/IMG-20121020-00732%25255B3%25255D.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="IMG-20121020-00732" border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijch4LUi_24312PactV0qKj8h3r9qjRIUnxnEOtD_sXptjCPIoKCu_UL63g05arRPPZw0IjrbWmFDibSFfngAXrlGOXkh57LFZcbDk6XkLgVpLWyhM4N2J6eG3pmoTZ-0vRFr7UxKj1QI/?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border: 0px currentColor; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="IMG-20121020-00732" width="360" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">OMG, Zumba is awesome y'all!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</blockquote>
<blockquote>
Well. <br />
<br />
If ever there was a stereotypical mid-30s mom model, this would be she. Kudos to you, Sketchers marketing team. Kudos. <br />
<br />
“Look at me, world!” she seems to be saying. “I’m Sassy Mom! Sassy with a capital “S”! I wear my easy entry, padded sock, rubber soled shoes with pride because you know what? Ain’t nobody got time for doin’ up laces when there’s kids running around!” <br />
<br />
And her outfit-of-choice? Maybe its yoga wear, maybe its jeggings and a tank. But we’ve all seen it, every mom has something similar, and the very combination screams “I get my 20 minutes of Jillian Michaels in while the kids are napping, bitches!”. <br />
<br />
So yes. My selection, quite clearly, was Mom Shoes. Suburban Mom Shoes, more specifically. <br />
<br />
Am I proud of this fact? No. <br />
<br />
Did I buy them anyways?</blockquote>
<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="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-gqPF1-DmVUE/UIRjwlaR6kI/AAAAAAAABgg/vJzVj5FxzHE/s1600-h/Untitled-2%25255B3%25255D.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Untitled-2" border="0" height="432" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-HlOndgVpRpA/UIRjxWKeTWI/AAAAAAAABgo/VUcMoTb_QN4/Untitled-2_thumb.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border: 0px currentColor; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="Untitled-2" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The toilet paper in the background really classes this up</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
You bet your sweet ass I did. <br />
<blockquote>
<br />
Ain’t nobody got time for doin’ up laces when there’s kids running around. <em>Nobody.</em></blockquote>
<a href="http://s983.photobucket.com/albums/ae311/thedomesticproject/?action=view&current=Blogsiggie.png" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" src="http://i983.photobucket.com/albums/ae311/thedomesticproject/Blogsiggie.png" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2344725018767224005.post-32121965654826237182012-10-16T18:00:00.000-06:002012-10-16T18:00:06.190-06:00Closed For BusinessFor baby business, that is. <br />
<br />
As of last week, Jamie and I finalized our decision to have only two kids. And while that had always been the plan long before we’d had children or even gotten married, it was with one fell swoop that we officially closed shop. Better yet, no doctors or snip-snip procedures were necessary (did you hear that sound? That was Jamie’s man-region breathing a sigh of relief). <br />
<br />
So … how? How did we guarantee that we would permanently remain a family of four? <br />
<br />
I’ll give you a hint: <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="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-vKy8Mfmq7ts/UH3trgIBoLI/AAAAAAAABc8/o0ouuY58JN8/s1600-h/DSC_1201%25255B3%25255D.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="DSC_1201" border="0" height="425" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-7z0EdzK8bLY/UH3tsTG0r9I/AAAAAAAABdE/meS0cUqumDQ/DSC_1201_thumb.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border: 0px currentColor; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="DSC_1201" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">There may have been a kid in those bags, too ... but weren't going to double-check</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Those, dear readers, are 6 bags of baby clothes and toys left on our doorstep early one ‘morn for a donation truck. Nothing says “We’re done having kids” more than giving away 100% of your baby stuff, because there is <em>no effing way</em> we’re going to put ourselves in the position of having to re-buy everything. So like I said, Shop=Closed. <br />
<br />
I’ve actually been donating clothes to various friends and charities for a while now, but last week was the first time we began giving away and/or selling those larger items like swings and highchairs. It took a bit of discussion, making sure that each of us was in agreement that we were doing this. And to be truthful, I thought I’d be a little teary-eyed about the whole thing. But you know what? <br />
<br />
<em>It felt marvellous. <br /><br /> </em>Seriously. It was like removing a growth. A large, baby-puke-and-mom’s-tear-stains-covered growth. <br />
<br />
Don’t get me wrong. I’ve spent a few reflective moment in the past week, thinking about how this “having a baby” stage of my life is now over. It <em>does</em> feel strange to say that I’m done because it feels like I spent so much of my early adulthood building up to that point in my life, you know? Before having children I always (<em>always</em>) thought about how it would feel to be pregnant, to deliver a baby, to hold my newborn and see them for the first time. I wondered what kind of mother I’d be, what personalities my children would have, and what family resemblances they would carry. <br />
<br />
I’m going to miss the way I look pregnant. <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="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-dcUQFqEX6Qw/UH3tuQTemjI/AAAAAAAABdM/6QPw0Q9jyjA/s1600-h/pregnancy%25255B3%25255D.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="pregnancy" border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgqlpaAXoX0pFibNC7dFadRicT-u-wZ7x5LmwXwKJ1k2qbEQ9537oQXjMwGzfjEjN-oBlSp0_NEKitGspFsYYqy99houK7SVRHfNuobDAEfPnXz3lUEVUZy_twBlkqtJJsBveLXIIXudc/?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border: 0px currentColor; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="pregnancy" width="615" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ah, to be able to eat whatever I want again ...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
And I know this means no more of those magical moments in the hospital when you see them for the first time. <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="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-lbhq9biE_vk/UH3twJwI-oI/AAAAAAAABdc/aWHOmZy9Do0/s1600-h/pregnant1%25255B4%25255D.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="pregnant1" border="0" height="830" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-_Z0BafNAQFg/UH3txOSIB2I/AAAAAAAABdk/9ANKaoFKHJ8/pregnant1_thumb%25255B1%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border: 0px currentColor; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="pregnant1" width="500" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Note Ave's photo was downgraded to a quick cell phone pic. Sucks being the 2nd, doesn't it Ave?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />Or those days when they’re just so damned cute you want to bite their little cheeks and inhale all of their squishy baby-ness. <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="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-zXNkaSqJYRU/UH3tyaxg-CI/AAAAAAAABds/1f4AnllX4x4/s1600-h/pregnant2%25255B3%25255D.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="pregnant2" border="0" height="462" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-crGRfAn5Bkw/UH3tzAkm-EI/AAAAAAAABd0/P0liiitmfWg/pregnant2_thumb.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border: 0px currentColor; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="pregnant2" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'm good at manufacturing children with skin as white as snow</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
But I also know that while I may have <em>looked</em> cute pregnant, I <em>felt</em> like absolute <em>ass</em> most of the time (especially with Avery … man, that kid really gave me the gears). I also recognize that I had two very high-risk deliveries and that, clearly, my body just isn’t cut out for safely producing humans.<br /><br />I also know that while babies are cute and adorable some of the time, we were lucky enough to be blessed with not one but <em>two</em> very colicky kiddies (one of whom has apparently not yet gotten the message that she’s allowed to stop screaming oh, any day now), and there is <em>no way in hell I’d wish that on my worst enemy. </em> <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="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-c8hH9yIRL2o/UH3t0cC-W2I/AAAAAAAABd8/ei9GT9LtFxM/s1600-h/pregnant3%25255B3%25255D.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="pregnant3" border="0" height="448" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVSjdoI9uWyEomE9-sB4s5kYMN3DuJzccGBq2h-H1oTBarZPQg_lPtcLH1_MPLiM3qDDT9nOO3Yip9jcmiNnOdf7ZFl6pEmcmtigo2g7NXbsIGmzTmp0wp5K0JHROvZAxwRL3Pe44TSd8/?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border: 0px currentColor; display: block; float: none; margin: 0px auto; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="pregnant3" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Screamin' Demons</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<em><br /></em>Nor are Jamie or I foolish enough to believe that we’d get lucky with the third. Our babies scream a lot, that’s just the way it is. I like to think they’re developing their lung capacity and will one day be future Olympians. We’re going to be a freakin’ Olympic swimming <em>dynasty. <br /><br /> </em>So yes, our baby days are now almost totally behind us (speaking of which, Ave’s turning one in less than a month. A month!), but we’re ok with it. We absolutely, without question freakin’ <em>adore</em> our children. Love ‘em. Love ‘em to bits. And you know what? Our family feels complete. In a comfortable, no-regrets sort of way, we are whole. We are one entity, enclosed within ourselves, and it feels good. <br /><br />It feels so, so good.<br />
<a href="http://s983.photobucket.com/albums/ae311/thedomesticproject/?action=view&current=Blogsiggie.png" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" src="http://i983.photobucket.com/albums/ae311/thedomesticproject/Blogsiggie.png" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3