hooray, halfway!
what a lovely day
to toast with a
bottle of water
root, toot!
the poots
are not so bad
even for this gassy otter
woohoo, high five!
I'll do a jive
and dance with that
guy that I'm lovin'
July, it's a date!
I can barely wait
to meet my lil'
bun in the oven.
Thursday, February 25
Wednesday, February 24
Simple pleasures
It's been a chill-chilly winter in these parts, but we just had a miraculously warm and gorgeous weekend. Sunshine! Blue sky! Happy birds! Short sleeves! It was delightful.
Yet something was missing.
What is it about a warm, sunny day and a comfy porch chair that just begs for a nice, cold beer? I feel like a lush for saying it, but it's true. Short of sushi, I really haven't been jonesing for anything on the do-not list, including my fave adult bevies. But I found I was practically salivating from the thought and some sweat even broke out on my upper lip. I got ansy and peered over my shoulder to see if anyone noticed my momentary meltdown. And I was at my house. Alone. What a goose.
But there is nothing like the first beer. Any after that are just another beer, but that first one is like a taste of all the joy and bliss and happy things floating around in the universe. Don't get me wrong, the trade-off for abstaining is unquestionable and the resistance has been effortless, but oooh, what a sweet and simple pleasure. I laughed at myself for the reaction I had...my body physically responded to the idea of having a cold snack. I managed to enjoy the porch with an Italian soda instead, but I thought about that cold cold delicious hoppy beer the whole time.
As of late, I've started feeling a lot warmer than is typical for me. My fingers and toes, generally capable of paralyzing my husband with their subarctic touch, have been, well, normal. My face is flush more often and I struggle to determine tomorrow's wardrobe the night before, trying to come up with the right combination of layers so I won't pant like a dog or nap on my keyboard. Plenty of women have already made the "just you wait" comments when I've said that I'm more tolerant of heat than cold. I suppose their "I told you so" remarks will be next, because these warm flashes have taken on a different feeling. It's like my entire body is becoming a radiating sun, layered by one of those crazy silver blankets used in medical emergencies. In other words, I'm a walking sauna with a sweaty lip. I like not having the Jack Frost appendages, but the one-size-too-small-snowsuit sensation is interesting to say the least. My little ball of energy is radiating some major sunbeams in there.
As always, it really could be worse. I am fortunate beyond my comprehension. So I'll keep looking at the bright side of this chill-chilly winter...these overcast skies are not so bad since I am my own sun these days. Maybe that's what people mean when they say I'm "glowing." Ha. Hand me a cold beer in a few months while my sweet baby snoozes in the warm afternoon sun and I'll show you a real glow.
Yet something was missing.
What is it about a warm, sunny day and a comfy porch chair that just begs for a nice, cold beer? I feel like a lush for saying it, but it's true. Short of sushi, I really haven't been jonesing for anything on the do-not list, including my fave adult bevies. But I found I was practically salivating from the thought and some sweat even broke out on my upper lip. I got ansy and peered over my shoulder to see if anyone noticed my momentary meltdown. And I was at my house. Alone. What a goose.
But there is nothing like the first beer. Any after that are just another beer, but that first one is like a taste of all the joy and bliss and happy things floating around in the universe. Don't get me wrong, the trade-off for abstaining is unquestionable and the resistance has been effortless, but oooh, what a sweet and simple pleasure. I laughed at myself for the reaction I had...my body physically responded to the idea of having a cold snack. I managed to enjoy the porch with an Italian soda instead, but I thought about that cold cold delicious hoppy beer the whole time.
As of late, I've started feeling a lot warmer than is typical for me. My fingers and toes, generally capable of paralyzing my husband with their subarctic touch, have been, well, normal. My face is flush more often and I struggle to determine tomorrow's wardrobe the night before, trying to come up with the right combination of layers so I won't pant like a dog or nap on my keyboard. Plenty of women have already made the "just you wait" comments when I've said that I'm more tolerant of heat than cold. I suppose their "I told you so" remarks will be next, because these warm flashes have taken on a different feeling. It's like my entire body is becoming a radiating sun, layered by one of those crazy silver blankets used in medical emergencies. In other words, I'm a walking sauna with a sweaty lip. I like not having the Jack Frost appendages, but the one-size-too-small-snowsuit sensation is interesting to say the least. My little ball of energy is radiating some major sunbeams in there.
As always, it really could be worse. I am fortunate beyond my comprehension. So I'll keep looking at the bright side of this chill-chilly winter...these overcast skies are not so bad since I am my own sun these days. Maybe that's what people mean when they say I'm "glowing." Ha. Hand me a cold beer in a few months while my sweet baby snoozes in the warm afternoon sun and I'll show you a real glow.
Friday, February 12
my furry kid
Po, po, puppeh dawg. Our Ollie Bear is sick. We didn’t know that the “kennel cough” shot was necessary twice a year. He will be fine after we load him up with the horse-sized meds and steroids the vet gave us, but we feel sick knowing we could have prevented it.
Ollie is a high-energy doggle, indicated early on by his wild puppyhood. Truly, you couldn’t pet him unless he was asleep. He’s also an enthusiastic eater/drinker, and an occasional gag or cough is typical. In the past few days, this has increased tenfold and he's been a bit lethargic. We didn’t put those clues together with the coughy-dog warning signs posted at the doggie daycare where he goes at least once a week. I took him twice this week, which means he had two days to share cooties with his dog buddies. More sick doggles on my mind. I called the daycare to confess and they graciously didn’t make me feel worse about it. But I still felt soooo guilty.
I laughed with a friend one time about my guilt complex, telling her I would have made a great Catholic girl since I can carry guilt like an ant…if it’s 50 times my body weight, lay it on me, Sister Mary Maria. I have now contaminated dog nation. Po, po, puppeh dawgs.
Of course, the natural progression of my thoughts led me to the panicky feeling I expect to have when my child gets sick. Oh, the heartache of it already! I vowed to not sweat the small stuff this year, which should include not worrying about my unborn child’s future ailments. Hmmmf. Much easier said than done….a lifetime of new worries is upon me.
Ollie was once sick when he was a puppy, and it was terrifying. He had the wrong things coming out of the wrong places. Again, my ability to carry the guilt of it all was astounding. What did I feed him? What did he chew up that I missed? What is in the backyard? Worry, worry, worry. Who knows what actually made him sick?! Ollie couldn’t tell me the problem and just stared back with the most pitiful puppeh eyes I have ever seen. I called in the details to the vet, who more or less said she'd charge a small fortune to tell me to wait it out. Stellar. So I watched his every move like a psychotic hawk, circling and circling and occasionally running into things. Luckily, he was back to his crazy self within a week and I could begin to breath easier, though never quite the same. I would have to be more attentive since I can’t speak doggle and he can’t speak English.
When he drives me crazy or scares the bejeezus out of me, I tell my husband he's his dog. But he’s still my puppeh dawg. We’ve had him since he was 8 weeks old and he’s been our trainer-kid…giving us — especially me — revelation after revelation of our strengths and weaknesses as caregivers. Reminding me that in spite of his shenanigans, this too shall pass and he's more than worth it. For now, I’m going to give him some extra lovins and hope he gets back to his doggone self soon. And maybe trust that I’m paying attention and honing the skills necessary to care for another when words are not an option. Ease off on the guilt and concentrate on making the right now better.
Rest up, Ollie Bear. Your dog buddies will be happy to see you again soon.
Ollie is a high-energy doggle, indicated early on by his wild puppyhood. Truly, you couldn’t pet him unless he was asleep. He’s also an enthusiastic eater/drinker, and an occasional gag or cough is typical. In the past few days, this has increased tenfold and he's been a bit lethargic. We didn’t put those clues together with the coughy-dog warning signs posted at the doggie daycare where he goes at least once a week. I took him twice this week, which means he had two days to share cooties with his dog buddies. More sick doggles on my mind. I called the daycare to confess and they graciously didn’t make me feel worse about it. But I still felt soooo guilty.
I laughed with a friend one time about my guilt complex, telling her I would have made a great Catholic girl since I can carry guilt like an ant…if it’s 50 times my body weight, lay it on me, Sister Mary Maria. I have now contaminated dog nation. Po, po, puppeh dawgs.
Of course, the natural progression of my thoughts led me to the panicky feeling I expect to have when my child gets sick. Oh, the heartache of it already! I vowed to not sweat the small stuff this year, which should include not worrying about my unborn child’s future ailments. Hmmmf. Much easier said than done….a lifetime of new worries is upon me.
Ollie was once sick when he was a puppy, and it was terrifying. He had the wrong things coming out of the wrong places. Again, my ability to carry the guilt of it all was astounding. What did I feed him? What did he chew up that I missed? What is in the backyard? Worry, worry, worry. Who knows what actually made him sick?! Ollie couldn’t tell me the problem and just stared back with the most pitiful puppeh eyes I have ever seen. I called in the details to the vet, who more or less said she'd charge a small fortune to tell me to wait it out. Stellar. So I watched his every move like a psychotic hawk, circling and circling and occasionally running into things. Luckily, he was back to his crazy self within a week and I could begin to breath easier, though never quite the same. I would have to be more attentive since I can’t speak doggle and he can’t speak English.
When he drives me crazy or scares the bejeezus out of me, I tell my husband he's his dog. But he’s still my puppeh dawg. We’ve had him since he was 8 weeks old and he’s been our trainer-kid…giving us — especially me — revelation after revelation of our strengths and weaknesses as caregivers. Reminding me that in spite of his shenanigans, this too shall pass and he's more than worth it. For now, I’m going to give him some extra lovins and hope he gets back to his doggone self soon. And maybe trust that I’m paying attention and honing the skills necessary to care for another when words are not an option. Ease off on the guilt and concentrate on making the right now better.
Rest up, Ollie Bear. Your dog buddies will be happy to see you again soon.
Tuesday, February 9
Choosing a good beverage
Some people love the taste of NO. They sip it like fine wine, swirl it around their gums and teeth, lick their lips excessively, savor it for hours on end. To them, it is a delicious glass of drunken power that, ironically enough, is always at least half full and ready to party.
I have a coworker who savors that flavor, with whom many a conversation seem to require delicate negotiations and an act of Congress. We'll call this person Piddles McDeebag. Today Piddles spilled a big ole' glass of NO before I could even finish the question. I'd like to say this was a first, but it wasn't. I stumbled for a moment, amended the question at hand and was again interrupted with a sloshing NO. It reminded me of that Austin Powers movie when Dr. Evil is repeatedly interrupting his son with shushes..."Knock knock. Who's there? Shh! Even before you start. That was a preemptive Shh! I've got a whole bag of Shh with your name on it!"
That was funny. This was not.
I almost hung up on Piddles, a practice I try to avoid because I think it is ru-u-ude. I'm pretty sure it's unprofessional, too. But I was so aggravated that Piddles belched a NO before hearing me out. Not cool, Piddles, not cool. I feel like I'm a fairly patient person, with a high tolerance for absurdities, be they funny or not. But I don't do negative people very well. I've always been very sensitive to other people's energy and will find my otherwise collected self suddenly scrambling to get away from Piddlesque peeps. But today, I felt horns sprout from my head, such was my desire to slam the phone down. Take that, Piddles!
Then I heard my mom's voice in my head: don't stoop to their level. Fiddlesticks. So, I didn't. I kept my cool, finished the 'conversation' and griped to myself for a few minutes. Then I reached for one of my favorite beverages: Seth Rogen's laugh. Boy howdy, did I chug. Gulpity gulp gulp.
And you know what? When Piddles' name later showed up on the caller ID, I didn't answer. You know why? Because I already drank Piddles under the table [burp].
I have a coworker who savors that flavor, with whom many a conversation seem to require delicate negotiations and an act of Congress. We'll call this person Piddles McDeebag. Today Piddles spilled a big ole' glass of NO before I could even finish the question. I'd like to say this was a first, but it wasn't. I stumbled for a moment, amended the question at hand and was again interrupted with a sloshing NO. It reminded me of that Austin Powers movie when Dr. Evil is repeatedly interrupting his son with shushes..."Knock knock. Who's there? Shh! Even before you start. That was a preemptive Shh! I've got a whole bag of Shh with your name on it!"
That was funny. This was not.
I almost hung up on Piddles, a practice I try to avoid because I think it is ru-u-ude. I'm pretty sure it's unprofessional, too. But I was so aggravated that Piddles belched a NO before hearing me out. Not cool, Piddles, not cool. I feel like I'm a fairly patient person, with a high tolerance for absurdities, be they funny or not. But I don't do negative people very well. I've always been very sensitive to other people's energy and will find my otherwise collected self suddenly scrambling to get away from Piddlesque peeps. But today, I felt horns sprout from my head, such was my desire to slam the phone down. Take that, Piddles!
Then I heard my mom's voice in my head: don't stoop to their level. Fiddlesticks. So, I didn't. I kept my cool, finished the 'conversation' and griped to myself for a few minutes. Then I reached for one of my favorite beverages: Seth Rogen's laugh. Boy howdy, did I chug. Gulpity gulp gulp.
And you know what? When Piddles' name later showed up on the caller ID, I didn't answer. You know why? Because I already drank Piddles under the table [burp].
Sunday, February 7
movement
At the doctor's on Thursday, I was asked if I've felt any movement. Having no previous experience with movement, other than those digestive in nature, I told her no.
Yesterday, I felt like a chorus of "Beans, beans, the magical fruit" was on the way, but I'm not convinced it was gas. Not delightful, but not uncomfortable either. Mainly in one place instead of the typical bubbly trek across my abdomen. Could it be? I'm close to this 18 week mark she spoke of, when first-time moms start feeling something.
Among the baby books I'm currently browsing, I'm also reading a book called The Host by Stephenie Meyer, though I'm not sure how much more of it I can take. I read her Twilight series with surprising enjoyment, even though they are written for a younger audience. This one is not nearly as funny (I don't think they are intended to be comical, though). Anyhoot, the premise of the book is an alien invasion where "Souls" are implanted into human bodies. The main character, the Soul called Wanderer, has been placed into Melanie's body. Well, Melanie wasn't ready to resign. And so begins an internal dialogue between Soul and Host, with the Host gradually getting stronger and influencing the Soul, even occasionally regaining control of a bodily function or two. I'm ready for the part where she punches herself in the face, but so far no dice.
Enough about the story, or lack thereof...the premise of two souls in one body is intriguing and has had me thinking. It's one thing in early pregnancy to see your body physically changing...in my case, an expanding waistline, a bustier bust [ah-hem], the beginnings of cankles (yay, sock lines! sexy!). And it's a whole different thing to feel your body changing, to get more than just a visual confirmation that something's up. Feeling that first kick, or punch, or whatever fly new break dance move the baby is trying out. To consider that there is thought behind the reflexes.
I didn't necessarily start this blog to exclusively talk about pregnancy, and I'm not ready to wax philosophical on the beginnings of a soul...I've got bigger things to ponder, like what to make for dinner and when to go shopping for mom jeans. But it is on my mind, and it is mind-boggling cool to think about a new soul sharing your space...operating independently of you, it's own identity shaping itself, it's spirit and energy concentrating into a new life. Granted, I've had gas before that felt like it had its own personality, but this is far, far more fun.
So bust a move, baby! I'm ready for the soul train. Dah-nah-nah!
Yesterday, I felt like a chorus of "Beans, beans, the magical fruit" was on the way, but I'm not convinced it was gas. Not delightful, but not uncomfortable either. Mainly in one place instead of the typical bubbly trek across my abdomen. Could it be? I'm close to this 18 week mark she spoke of, when first-time moms start feeling something.
Among the baby books I'm currently browsing, I'm also reading a book called The Host by Stephenie Meyer, though I'm not sure how much more of it I can take. I read her Twilight series with surprising enjoyment, even though they are written for a younger audience. This one is not nearly as funny (I don't think they are intended to be comical, though). Anyhoot, the premise of the book is an alien invasion where "Souls" are implanted into human bodies. The main character, the Soul called Wanderer, has been placed into Melanie's body. Well, Melanie wasn't ready to resign. And so begins an internal dialogue between Soul and Host, with the Host gradually getting stronger and influencing the Soul, even occasionally regaining control of a bodily function or two. I'm ready for the part where she punches herself in the face, but so far no dice.
Enough about the story, or lack thereof...the premise of two souls in one body is intriguing and has had me thinking. It's one thing in early pregnancy to see your body physically changing...in my case, an expanding waistline, a bustier bust [ah-hem], the beginnings of cankles (yay, sock lines! sexy!). And it's a whole different thing to feel your body changing, to get more than just a visual confirmation that something's up. Feeling that first kick, or punch, or whatever fly new break dance move the baby is trying out. To consider that there is thought behind the reflexes.
I didn't necessarily start this blog to exclusively talk about pregnancy, and I'm not ready to wax philosophical on the beginnings of a soul...I've got bigger things to ponder, like what to make for dinner and when to go shopping for mom jeans. But it is on my mind, and it is mind-boggling cool to think about a new soul sharing your space...operating independently of you, it's own identity shaping itself, it's spirit and energy concentrating into a new life. Granted, I've had gas before that felt like it had its own personality, but this is far, far more fun.
So bust a move, baby! I'm ready for the soul train. Dah-nah-nah!
Sunday, January 31
The light within
Yoga and I have never been completely harmonious. I've taken plenty of classes, both at private studios and the gym. I've bought dvds from respectable sources and read more than a few articles and books on the subject. I've tried to establish a daily practice with limited success. And yet, something as simple as child's pose still eludes me. For the love of Gravy, it's called child's pose.
I understand the principles of yoga, but that's not the same as truly getting it. Once I'm squeezed into the necessary spandex my exercise regime requires, my sports-driven, cardio-intensive mindset struggles to slow down and focus on each pose. I'm surprisingly deficient at stamina, proper technique and breathing. I'm easily lured to sleep when the lights are dimmed, and, to top it off, I'm flatulent...and still juvenile enough to get the giggles when I toot in public.
Now that I have a new prana, I joined a pre-natal yoga class at a local studio. And for the first time, both yoga and pregnancy kind of made sense. Stay with me.
For starters, everyone there was further along than me and had visible baby bellies. Yes, I knew it was a pre-natal class, but I felt slightly awe-struck that there were only pregnant women there and I'm sure I gave more than one the creeps with my enthusiastic newbie smile. The instructor was great...she had a smooth voice, an easy nature, and a sense of humor. It was nice to have her tell me what was a good idea for a pre-mama to do and not do. I'm not really getting those tips in my other exercise classes and I've always had hearing loss when it comes to listening to my body...no pain no gain, the drive of an athlete, blah blah blah. It was nice to know what was a good stopping point in a posture before I got to the gone-too-far *ouch* moment.
The poses were thoughtful and slow and easy to modify depending on how pregnant you were. There were poses that required partnering with someone else similar in size. I was paired with the woman having twins soon. I like to think it was because of our similar height. Anyhoot...I felt like I was breathing correctly throughout the class, and that pleased my inner teacher's pet. But it also made me feel like I might actually be tuned in. It was nice to begin to focus my breath and awareness on and around my baby.
But my favorite part was the end of the class. Not that it was over, but because of the last super-relaxing position and the words of the instructor. She told us we are part of the universe, and we should be extra-open to letting it embrace us during this time in our life. Ohhh, I liked that. I already believe we are star-stuff. I waited too many days to write this post, so I don't remember everything she said that tingled my spidey senses, but I loved that she said things about being still and part of the universe, about being happy and at peace and present in the moment with my baby.
Normally my place in this universe is most clairvoyant when I'm on the beach, below the waves, in the woods or under the stars. For the first time in my yoga universe, the stars aligned: the poses were fluid, the breathing was right, the gas did not pass. But what are stars if not balls of gas, right?! So it would have been okay if I had. The universe was in balance and I started making real room for a new little star.
Child's pose takes on a different meaning when there's an actual child in the center of it.
Namaste.
I understand the principles of yoga, but that's not the same as truly getting it. Once I'm squeezed into the necessary spandex my exercise regime requires, my sports-driven, cardio-intensive mindset struggles to slow down and focus on each pose. I'm surprisingly deficient at stamina, proper technique and breathing. I'm easily lured to sleep when the lights are dimmed, and, to top it off, I'm flatulent...and still juvenile enough to get the giggles when I toot in public.
Now that I have a new prana, I joined a pre-natal yoga class at a local studio. And for the first time, both yoga and pregnancy kind of made sense. Stay with me.
For starters, everyone there was further along than me and had visible baby bellies. Yes, I knew it was a pre-natal class, but I felt slightly awe-struck that there were only pregnant women there and I'm sure I gave more than one the creeps with my enthusiastic newbie smile. The instructor was great...she had a smooth voice, an easy nature, and a sense of humor. It was nice to have her tell me what was a good idea for a pre-mama to do and not do. I'm not really getting those tips in my other exercise classes and I've always had hearing loss when it comes to listening to my body...no pain no gain, the drive of an athlete, blah blah blah. It was nice to know what was a good stopping point in a posture before I got to the gone-too-far *ouch* moment.
The poses were thoughtful and slow and easy to modify depending on how pregnant you were. There were poses that required partnering with someone else similar in size. I was paired with the woman having twins soon. I like to think it was because of our similar height. Anyhoot...I felt like I was breathing correctly throughout the class, and that pleased my inner teacher's pet. But it also made me feel like I might actually be tuned in. It was nice to begin to focus my breath and awareness on and around my baby.
But my favorite part was the end of the class. Not that it was over, but because of the last super-relaxing position and the words of the instructor. She told us we are part of the universe, and we should be extra-open to letting it embrace us during this time in our life. Ohhh, I liked that. I already believe we are star-stuff. I waited too many days to write this post, so I don't remember everything she said that tingled my spidey senses, but I loved that she said things about being still and part of the universe, about being happy and at peace and present in the moment with my baby.
Normally my place in this universe is most clairvoyant when I'm on the beach, below the waves, in the woods or under the stars. For the first time in my yoga universe, the stars aligned: the poses were fluid, the breathing was right, the gas did not pass. But what are stars if not balls of gas, right?! So it would have been okay if I had. The universe was in balance and I started making real room for a new little star.
Child's pose takes on a different meaning when there's an actual child in the center of it.
Namaste.
Saturday, January 23
The things we say and do. Or not.
A friend said a flavorful swear word in front of me the other day, then quickly added, "Oh, I'm going to have to stop saying that around you, aren't I?" and glanced at my belly.
It was funny until it occurred to me that I was going to have to start watching what I said around me. Which in turn led me to think of things my husband commonly says, the phrases that simultaneously cause eye rolls and giggle fits, like "we'll play it by ear" and "if push comes to shove"...things I don't necessarily want to hear my child say. Things I thought only parents said.
Whoa.
We're going to be parents. Soon.
The unfinished to-do list of what I was going to do/be before I had a child rattled off in my head. I was supposed to already:
1. be bilingual
2. have traveled to at least 5 of 7 continents
3. completed a triathalon
4. have conquered laundry.
The list is much, much longer, but out of these, I'm most unnerved about #4. It's tied up with a whole batch of bad habits that I don't wish to pass along, habits my mother tried to re-wire in me since the beginning of time. Don't get me wrong, I don't mind washing my clothes, or drying them. It's the next steps I've battled my whole life: fold and put them up. My husband (bless his patient and neat soul) has often said that the floor and furniture wear my clothes more than I do. And sadly, he's right -- Quick honey, look! I put it in writing on the world wide web!
If I get something out to wear and change my mind...does it go back on the hanger? Oh nooooo. I put it in a pile. A pile! I'm a master stacker (that's a whole different post). Ironing? No thanks. I have never reached the Zen state of mind my mother claims to have when she irons. My husband and I still do our laundry separate. He knew all too well it could end our marriage. I have a mental block on laundry fulfillment. Always have.
Mom used to have a sweet little cross-stitched sign hanging in the kitchen that said, "DO IT NOW." I try to abide by that when I lose steam on completing day-to-day chores...except laundry. Starting today I'm going to focus on improving this bane of my homemaker existence. Okay, maybe tomorrow, but still, it's moving to the top of the list. I can order a meal in Spanglish; I've been to 3 continents; I can run, bike and swim even if I haven't put the three together in one day.
So laundry, here I come. I will conquer you, if push comes to shove.
It was funny until it occurred to me that I was going to have to start watching what I said around me. Which in turn led me to think of things my husband commonly says, the phrases that simultaneously cause eye rolls and giggle fits, like "we'll play it by ear" and "if push comes to shove"...things I don't necessarily want to hear my child say. Things I thought only parents said.
Whoa.
We're going to be parents. Soon.
The unfinished to-do list of what I was going to do/be before I had a child rattled off in my head. I was supposed to already:
1. be bilingual
2. have traveled to at least 5 of 7 continents
3. completed a triathalon
4. have conquered laundry.
The list is much, much longer, but out of these, I'm most unnerved about #4. It's tied up with a whole batch of bad habits that I don't wish to pass along, habits my mother tried to re-wire in me since the beginning of time. Don't get me wrong, I don't mind washing my clothes, or drying them. It's the next steps I've battled my whole life: fold and put them up. My husband (bless his patient and neat soul) has often said that the floor and furniture wear my clothes more than I do. And sadly, he's right -- Quick honey, look! I put it in writing on the world wide web!
If I get something out to wear and change my mind...does it go back on the hanger? Oh nooooo. I put it in a pile. A pile! I'm a master stacker (that's a whole different post). Ironing? No thanks. I have never reached the Zen state of mind my mother claims to have when she irons. My husband and I still do our laundry separate. He knew all too well it could end our marriage. I have a mental block on laundry fulfillment. Always have.
Mom used to have a sweet little cross-stitched sign hanging in the kitchen that said, "DO IT NOW." I try to abide by that when I lose steam on completing day-to-day chores...except laundry. Starting today I'm going to focus on improving this bane of my homemaker existence. Okay, maybe tomorrow, but still, it's moving to the top of the list. I can order a meal in Spanglish; I've been to 3 continents; I can run, bike and swim even if I haven't put the three together in one day.
So laundry, here I come. I will conquer you, if push comes to shove.
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