NOT a hipster

Here's my man.

He shaves with a straight razor, wears a wool car coat with his slim-tailored suit, carries a vintage-inspired leather satchel, wears a fedora and now...

Fancy footwork: Mom Exhibit

I'm inviting BYU's football team to come workout in my house. It's guaranteed to keep 'em on their toes. It's impossible to walk in a straight line in any direction. If you don't keep your eyes down, you're sure to step on land mines (little plastic toys strewn across the floor).

Christmas came and went like a storm of tornadoes. And here's the aftermath.

Sorry—blurry pic.

Blogging obsessions

image source: http://www.loadingartist.com/2011/09/05/fans-fans-fans/

Hahaha! My feelings exactly. It's so true and also so pathetic. This is also me with comments, blog followers, twitter followers and twitter mentions/interaction. I need a new hobby.

Holiday meltdown: Mom Exhibit

Girl. Let me tell you.

I. am. pooped.

I've got one of those haven't-slept-well-in-nights headaches and my shoulders are so heavy. For the past 2 days, I've wanted to post about a million different things.

But, then I remember the whites that have been soaking in the washer for 2 days when it was only supposed to be over night, the dishwasher that has sat 1/2 full and the dirty ones in the sink I could just throw in real quick to get it started, the vacuum I need to pick up from the repair shop (30 min away) so I can finally clear the carpet of the 3-week-old food chunks, the gifts I still need to make for Christmas, the wrapping (ooohhh the wrapping—worst part, right?), the car that we still can't drive because it needs to go to the shop (it's been sitting in the driveway for close to 3 months), the realization that the kids have no clean winter clothes as of 4 days ago.

Tis the season.

It's too much to think about. So, sorry—it felt like too much for me to take a pic of the house, hook up the camera to the computer, download pics, edit lighting in Photoshop, save the image and upload to blogger. Just look back at other Mom Exhibit posts. Nothing's changed.

Take this, Charlie Brown: Mom Exhibit

Oh, Christmas tree...

You're looking pretty pathetic these days...pretty sparse on the bottom half. The girl's constantly rearranging and the boy whacks at ya with drum sticks. Your surroundings don't help.

What matters most, though, is that you're loved. Mostly loved. Because the girl "likes everything except for one thing: the bow on top." "Because I hate bows," she says.

So moms, don't stress or apologize to visitors. We understand. You tried to make it look nice. There's a time and season for everything. And this season isn't the season for Martha Stewart-esque decor.

Link up below and show me your "kid-proof" tree. Click the link below, "Click here to enter."

Who are "they" anyway?

Your older sister offers you her high-end used-one-time drop-rail crib for your new baby. "Oh, sorry, sis. But, they say the drop-rail cribs are too dangerous now. I need to buy a brand new one that meets all of their guidelines."

Your aunt is feeding your 6-month-old peas out of the Gerber jar. She closes it and puts it back in the fridge for tomorrow. You sneak in later & throw it out thinking, "They say not to double-dip in the jar because the saliva from the first feeding makes it go bad."

Or maybe your grandma makes your 11-month-old a peanut butter & jelly sandwich.

"Oh, grandma! She can't eat peanut butter! They say not to feed it to babies until they are at least 1 year old."

Your 1 1/2 year old son's legs are wrapped around his neck but you refuse to put him in a forward-facing carseat because "they say to wait until they are 2 years of age."

Who are "they" anyway and why are they in charge of everything in regards to the care for our babies and children?

Faking postpartum anxiety

Postpartum Anxiety.

PPA.

That's what I like to call my issue. However, deep down, I know that having babies only amplifies what I've had going on my entire life. I've always had anxiety. As much as I'd like to pretend and tell people it's only a postpartum issue (blame it on pregnancy and suddenly you're not crazy), it's really not.