tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7239019139490188222024-03-05T07:38:05.437-05:00Mondays with Loveweekly thoughts from a creative momDesignerMamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05580026156999701597noreply@blogger.comBlogger30125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-723901913949018822.post-34744613509411739132015-09-15T12:43:00.000-04:002015-09-15T12:51:33.322-04:00Date NightStreet lights glowing overhead, we stood at the crosswalk watching the cars pass. I grabbed his hand and we looked into each other's eyes. <i>"That was one of the best dates I've ever had,"</i> I told him. He smiled, gripping my hand, and we proceeded to cross the street.<br />
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Exactly 90 minutes earlier, we had managed to escape the family and spend some one-on-one time at a local Mexican restaurant. It was early on a Tuesday, not too busy. We chatted enthusiastically while sipping drinks and crunching tortilla chips. Tacos and shrimp arrived quickly, and, as expected, were eaten at a snails pace... "Take a bite," I reminded him several times in the pauses of this long-awaited conversation.<br />
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We try to have a date night (or day) once a month. Scheduling can be tricky, but I make sure it happens. We deserve it. HE deserves it. He deserves my undivided attention, at least once in a while.<br />
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With three kids, I'm always struggling with this concept; of how exactly I can give myself to everyone at all times. To pay attention, <i>really</i> pay ATTENTION. To press the pause button on the chaos, and momentarily zoom in to one child's world: to hear them, respond to them, give to them—and only them. Some days I am shocked by my inability to find even one minute to do this, which can result in an overwhelming sense of guilt. But I'm only one person, and this mothering/working thing is pretty darn crazy. So, that's why I go on dates with my sons.<br />
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With a date night on the calendar, we all feel a sense of relief. The kids know they will have their time. And I look forward to these dates like nothing else.<br />
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Last Wednesday morning (after our date), I looked at Wesley and thought: Wow, this kid is the real deal: kind, sweet, goofy, smart, and incredibly attentive—honest to goodness, an amazing date. Plus, he thinks Shirley Temples are the best drink ever. Doesn't get any cuter. ;-)<br />
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<br />DesignerMamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05580026156999701597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-723901913949018822.post-46024675314177157872015-05-18T11:12:00.000-04:002015-05-18T11:12:18.803-04:00The One Who Keeps Me UpSometimes I'm in bed, floating in that dreamy headspace just before sleep, when, from out of nowhere, my thoughts turn to distress. In a millisecond, a sudden, anxious nightmare plays out—the worst possible visions of my innocent child getting hurt. It startles me to consciousness, and I lay there, heart racing, reviewing the scene in my mind... <i>he ran into the street without holding my hand, the car is coming too fast, he didn't look both ways... </i>Stop, I tell myself. Stop. It's just my mind playing tricks. Back to sleep I try, but all too often the nightmare continues or repeats itself, replaying every detail until I'm left sweating, fully awake with a knot in my stomach.<br />
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I've endured these pre-sleep nightmares for about 4 years. And, assuming I might be mentally insane, I never mentioned them to anyone. But, since this is a year of honesty for me, I decided to tell a few friends last week. To my surprise (and immense relief), they said they suffer from exactly the same thing; sudden, nightly, gasping thoughts of worry for their children.<br />
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I've never indulged these intrusive nightmares with further analysis or worry. I now know it's just anxiety working its way through me, via a complex network of fears and responsibilities I feel as a mother. Maternal stress. I get it. However—there is one detail that always strikes me about these nightmares. It's one small aspect, but significant enough that I can't ignore it. And, in full disclosure, it's hard to admit.<br />
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The truth is that I've never had an anxiety dream about Wesley. Or Edith.<br />
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It's always Chandler. My sweet five year old—my little Charlie Chaplin—is the one I worry most about. I'm not sure why; it's certainly not intentional. It's just how it is.<br />
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How do I say this? He is <i>that</i> child—the one that cuts to the core of me, every day, on every level. I love my other children just as much (and on some days, I prefer their company—believe me), but he's the biggest challenge I've faced as a mother. And despite my reluctance to give over that much power to a child, I know he is the driving force for most of my days. He is equally the sweetest child I've ever met, and the most demanding. I have to accept both parts, because that is who he is.</div>
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It's hard for the outside world to understand the whole of him; he's complicated. He has an unusual drive for creativity and perfection for his age; a nuisance at 5 years old, particularly since his peers don't understand his standards. So he hits them. He might even bite. The consequence of building a (truly remarkable) Lego skyscraper in a room full of inquisitive pre-k kids.<br />
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"Use your words," we say, on repeat. "I DID," he insists, "They didn't listen. But look at what I made!" Much of our days are filled with beauty and discipline, beauty and discipline; a markered masterpiece followed by a long talk or time out.<br />
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This boy is the reason I have gray hair and have read every parenting website and book. He's strangely clumsy and sensitive for such an active, extroverted kid. He gets hurt so frequently that I often do not flinch when he screams. (I'm the mom ignoring their crying kid at the playground.) His cry has one volume: ear piercing. I'm almost certain he is the cause of some recent hearing loss. When he's really chatty, his speaking voice can be heard for blocks. And let me be clear: he wants it to be heard for blocks. He wants you to look at him, standing in his self-induced spotlight. And thank goodness for that, because charisma practically pours out of this kid. I can't keep my eyes off him.<br />
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He says he wants to "grow up fast." He shares with me his dreams of playing drums, traveling on road trips, living in Hawaii and visiting Bora Bora. "Chandler, you can do that. But you are only five. Enjoy it." I say, holding back tears of dread for when he is old enough.<br />
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Chandler carries with him the burden of being the one to whom I give my deepest love, but also open my deepest wounds. He knows I would carry the weight of the world for him. And I do. I know this is as exhausting for him as it is for me. We let each other know these things in various ways, and it's not always pretty. Or quiet.<br />
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A few weeks ago he told me he had a nightmare, and I could hardly believe his words. "Mommy, I was crossing the street and forgot to hold your hand. You screamed for me and I ran back to you."<br />
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"Chandler, please, <i>please</i> always hold my hand," I reminded him urgently, forgetting to say all the appropriate motherly things, like 'It was just a dream,' or 'That must have been scary.' Because I worry so much that one day he will forget to hold my hand, and—even worse—he <i>might not </i>run back to me. And I need to make sure he does.<br />
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I suppose that's why he's the one I worry most about.<br />
<br />DesignerMamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05580026156999701597noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-723901913949018822.post-10419407077634654992015-02-09T15:29:00.002-05:002015-02-09T16:09:18.608-05:0010 Tips for Surviving a Renovation (With Kids)<div class="p1">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">When we were planning our kitchen renovation last year, I spent hundreds (ok, thousands) of hours online, in glorious, creative bliss. The inspiration! The ideas! For the greater part of a year, my browser was permanently opened to Houzz, Pinterest, and Apartment Therapy. I'd be in the middle of writing a work email and suddenly interrupt myself to research back splashes and wall sconces. I was completely obsessed—and nervous as hell. I knew from experience that a renovation is a BIG deal, and this time...well, this was going to be my dream kitchen. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Our plan was to knock down the wall between our dining room and kitchen, remove a wall between the back hallway and dining room, and remove the back (unused) second staircase. Everything would shift and open up to create a large living space, adding a much needed area for adults to lounge while our kiddos enjoy the family/tv room. </span><br />
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<i style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">{before: our old dining room and tiny kitchen}</i><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">We knew we couldn't do it alone, so we enlisted the help of our talented friend <b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/BostonHomeDesigns" target="_blank">Bonnie</a></b>, a <a href="https://www.facebook.com/BostonHomeDesigns" target="_blank">kitchen designer</a>. When the plans were approved, we hired a <a href="http://www.stealthconstruction.net/" target="_blank">contractor</a> and had a start date. It was all coming together, so exciting! But then </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">reality</span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> hit me like a rock in the face. In order for my dream kitchen to become a reality, we would need to live <i>without</i> our current kitchen. Without a lot of things, in fact. What in the world were we thinking? We had a crawling baby, two energetic boys and a dog. How were we going to live in a construction site? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Moving to a rental was not in the budget. Accommodations in our town range between $2-$3k per month (the cost of a new stove and granite countertop). We decided to stay put, suck it up and get creative. And that's what we did. Aside from a weekend away, we stayed in our home for the entire renovation... nearly ten weeks. From September through November we lived without a kitchen, dining room, foyer, coat closet and washer/dryer. For much of the time we didn't have access to our living room, cable, internet, the driveway and our backyard. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">We were lucky: ten weeks is not long by construction standards. It flew by. Well, kind of. Alright, to be brutally honest</span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">, it was a dirty, noisy, unrelenting, post apocalyptic dust bowl that I could not imagine tolerating for any longer than we did. (And I know that many, many people do.) But when it was over... it was worth it.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> To my friends embarking on a renovation, here are my 10 tips for surviving it: </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">1) <b>Talk about the renovation. </b>Discuss it with the kids. Make it a topic of conversation for at least a few weeks, so they can really process the information. We talked about how noisy and dirty things would get, and what kind of food we could eat without a range. We l</span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">et them draw on the walls.</span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> Additionally, i</span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">t's important to discuss your plans with neighbors. Tell your family, friends, your children's friends—and their parents. You will need as much advice, support and encouragement as you can get.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">2) </span><b style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Invest in supplies.</b><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> We would not have survived without a mini fridge, keurig, microwave, packaged food, paper goods, plastic cups and utensils. Disposable wipes were absolutely indispensable. It's not the most environmentally friendly set-up, but give yourself a break. It's temporary.</span><br />
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<i style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">{the kids loved drawing on the walls before demo; we set up a mini kitchen and playroom in our 3rd floor office.}</i><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">3) </span><b style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Get your contractor on board. </b><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Make sure they are truly supportive of your decision to stay at home. Talk to them about your family's needs, including dust and dirt containment, </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">your waking and sleeping hours,</span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">the times you will need access to the driveway, and your absolute essentials during the week and weekends (i.e., water, heat).</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">4) <b>There will be dirt. </b>There's no way around it: y</span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">ou will not have a clean house. </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Dust, dirt and debris will permeate every crevice of your home—long after demolition. Use your existing broom, mop, sponges and dusters during the renovation, and expect to buy new ones after. </span><br />
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<i style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">{weeks 1-6: a plastic sheet helped contain the dust; demolition; framing; drywall ready for plastering; testing stains on new wood floors; beautiful (but stinky) newly stained floors after a weekend away!}</i><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">5) </span><b style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Know your foreman. </b><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Our foreman, "G", was amazing. We were in communication nearly every day—for better or for worse—which helped connect us to the process and feel somewhat in control. Some of the workers would talk to the kids, show them tools, and tell jokes about the holes in the walls. The guys led my boys safely through the site and showed them the inner workings of our home: the studs, wires, pipes, and beams. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">6) <b>Accept help. </b>To our amazement, we had neighbors and friends who happily hosted our family of five for dinner at least once a week. It was so nice to get out of our cramped quarters and eat real food cooked on a real stove. We also had a friend take Penny for doggie play dates at her house. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">7) </span><b style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Have realistic expectations.</b><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> What I mean is: prepare yourself. </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">For instance, doing dishes in the bathroom sink or bathtub is only fun the first time. After that, it's a terribly confining and disgusting task (no garbage disposal or strainer). Also note: a mini kitchen is not that cute when you must simultaneously make breakfast for five people and school lunches for two. </span><br />
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<i style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">{weeks 7-9: cabinets, granite and sink installed!}</i><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">8) <b>Find little luxuries.</b> Amongst the chaos, find at least one thing that makes life easier. I discovered a drop-off clean and fold laundry service. Who can go hang out in a laundromat for hours with 3 kids? We also spent the last few weeks of the renovation getting a breakfast of muffins and coffee at our local coffeehouse. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">9) <b>Plan time away. </b>You will need to get out. A lot. Take day trips. Go out to lunch. Go out to dinner. Spend more time at the playground or the gym or IKEA. The contractor may ask you to leave your home overnight at some point. We had to stay away for 2 nights while our floors were being stained. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">10) <b>Deep breaths.</b> Y</span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">ou will undoubtedly feel like you're losing your mind during the course of construction.</span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> No matter how prepared you are, it's inevitable that something—or someone—will push you over the limit. Just remember to take a deep breath and keep your eyes on the prize. It will be over before you know it. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">We've been through several renovations before, but this one takes the cake. </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">We love our new space so much, and can't imagine living anywhere else.</span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">How about you? Have you lived in a renovation with kids? Do you have any tips?</span><br />
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<i style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">{the result: totally worth it.}</i><br />
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DesignerMamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05580026156999701597noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-723901913949018822.post-7060533137751852122015-01-05T13:05:00.001-05:002015-01-22T11:50:41.879-05:00The Year I Turn 40<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I never stick to my resolutions. Honestly, never. Not a single one in my adult life. Despite knowing this, I eagerly create a long list of resolutions every single January—legitimately motivated and excited by the prospect of self-improvement. I'm not exactly sure why, but within weeks (days) I always convince myself it's perfectly ok to give up. It's not really my fault, I say. I was born lacking the requisite steadfastness and willpower. (Truly, I was.)<br />
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I'm not sure if this makes me pathetic, rebellious, or just plain normal. Either way, it's the same story year after year. Diets canceled, dress sizes unchanged, good deeds incomplete, bad habits continued. And up until now I haven't really cared or apologized for any of it.<br />
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But this year is different. It has to be. This is the year I turn 40—the age I've been subconsciously saving all my resolutions for—the one that <i>really</i> matters. In my head, this age carries so much responsibility and promise. In the most exhausting way, I will not—cannot—quit anything this year. Amazing or unsettling, failure isn't an option. And it's stressful as shit.<br />
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Part of this stress stems from one (particularly influential) childhood memory:<br />
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It was 1984. I was 9 years old and at a sleepover with a group of girls—my first real girlfriends. It was late and (after playing Truth or Dare and Light-as-a-Feather-Stiff-as-a-Board<i>) </i>we started talking about the future. As in, the VERY VERY FAR AWAY FUTURE. We fantasized about where we would be living, what our jobs might be, and—most importantly—who we would marry. Our idea of the future was thrilling and, although I don't recall exact details, I know the conversation was too exciting to sleep.<br />
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Our young minds found the concept of living in a new century completely unfathomable. So we sat up in our sleeping bags, doing math out loud in the dark. We calculated what year we would graduate from high school, how many years we'd date our boyfriends, and what year we would travel to Paris or New York. Then we figured out our future ages: How old would we be in 1999? 2010? And 2015?<br />
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In 2015 we would be 40. I remember our reactions like it was yesterday. 40 was completely beyond our grasp. 40 was old and EVERYTHING—all our dreams—would be accomplished by then. 2015 was the furthest we reached into the future. There was nothing more to say that night, and I'm pretty sure we fell asleep shortly after that.<br />
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So here we are. I'll be 40 in May. Which means that I'm living into—and beyond—a time that my younger self couldn't comprehend. And even though I've had 39 birthdays leading up to this one, I still feel distinctly immature, that 40 is STILL beyond me. Not because I can't imagine it, or that I haven't lived the life I dreamed of, but because I am. And that's scary to me.<br />
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My husband, my children, this home and career; they are all so real and present. And I'm responsible for all of them. Which means I need to GROW UP even more than I already have—to be that person who actually commits to things, and is—dare I say—a healthy, happy role model. Coming from a person who can't even stick to one resolution, it really is stressful as shit. But I knew it was coming, so this year I'm going to count my blessings and, for the first time ever, stick to my resolutions. Luckily the list isn't that long. :-)<br />
<br />DesignerMamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05580026156999701597noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-723901913949018822.post-15080335741857035692014-09-18T21:52:00.003-04:002015-01-28T20:18:22.645-05:00In The Thick Of It<img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitNron6io2eTYmRzBRn4hIQkKlNE_ifAfX42fZfDlyt-pE8oPCnLgb1ZTSgFAMgtlnkpU0KFLNd2YcWjF3KXB4rEGEj6jB9ff-d-WNb0KSy0dEn7WCXg3ipthHTpxz6gsjFnTm2eTVGMp_/s1600/IMG_2548.JPG"><br>
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Ten months have passed since this little princess arrived. Ten LONG months. Wonderful in many aspects, but definitely long. I have to say, time does not fly when I'm postpartum. Like a wet slug, each day drags along a foggy trail of seconds, minutes and hours. Slow and exhausting. </div>
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As any mom will attest, the months after birth can be a blur and easy to forget. One day you look at your toddler and think, <i>Wow two year olds are so hard. Remember when she was just a little newborn, so new, so portable, so easy? </i>Funny how that happens. Mother Nature is a big trickster, changing our memories like that. </div>
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So let me capture a little postpartum moment in time: Edith is 3 months old. I'm in the rocking chair, blinking my eyes, staring at the clock—eyelids drooping with a heavy coat of fatigue and anxiety—and I cannot, for the life of me, figure out if it's 11pm or 11am. For several minutes I honestly do not know. I lower my gaze to watch her nurse, questioning if she is getting enough milk. I close my eyes. I open them again. It's 12:30. Desperate to pee, I attempt to break her loose, but for fear of losing a nipple I keep her on the boob. </div>
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I proceed to the bathroom with the little one attached to my chest like a large tick. Impressed with myself after successfully wiping one-handed, I notice she has a really good latch. So I stay seated. </div>
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Moments later (still on the toilet), I begin to fantasize about sleep in a way that nears sexual fantasy, and realize that everything—absolutely everything—would be better, if I could get some. If sleep can't happen, then I'll settle for a shower. The idea of a hot shower brings tears to my eyes. I decide to make sure I shower as soon as she's asleep. Or at the very least brush my teeth and put on clean underwear. </div>
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Finally she's off my (very sore) nipple. I stand up and catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror for the first time in days. Alas there I am—and it's worse than I thought. Much worse. Irreversible damage has been done. Who IS that woman in the mirror wearing my clothes? Too depressed to investigate, I place Edith down in her crib, and decide to use my spare time to put in a load of laundry, for which I reward myself with a bag of chips (because after all, I'm nursing and can eat whatever I want right?). </div>
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After more chips (and chocolate), I begin to make a list of things I must do immediately to change the way I look and feel: make hair and nail appointments, hit the gym, get a sitter for date night, get dressed up and do pretty girl things like wear make-up every day. <i>Oh yeah it's all going to happen</i> I say out loud, perkily. I'm going to be THAT MOM. The one who totally has it all together, looking gorgeous with a perfect newborn girl and two wonderful boys in tow...</div>
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But, before I can even pick up my phone the baby wakes up. </div>
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And I didn't even brush my teeth. </div>
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Edith is ten months old this weekend and the fog has lifted (well, almost). It took a while this time around, but just like my other two sweeties, she is showing me how big my heart can be, and why it's all worth it. And anyways, just look at her. </div>
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<br>DesignerMamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05580026156999701597noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-723901913949018822.post-40445309326018529402014-02-15T17:14:00.000-05:002014-02-16T13:01:37.032-05:00Before I Forget (39 weeks pregnant)<span style="background-color: #fdfdfd; color: #666666; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px;">Written Monday, November 11, 2013:</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: #fdfdfd; color: #333333; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px;">I don't want to forget this pregnancy, in all of it's beauty and pain. It's the last time my body will grow and carry a child: a feat so crazy, miraculous, and emotional that one assumes you won't ever forget. But you kind of do. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: #fdfdfd; color: #333333; font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px;">I remember my other pregnancies, but not completely. </span></span><span style="background-color: #fdfdfd; color: #333333; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px;">So I write this post today to help me remember... </span><span style="background-color: #fdfdfd; color: #333333; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px;">this exact feeling of fullness, tightness, breathlessness. And the strangely perfect combination of contentment and utter exhaustion. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: #fdfdfd; color: #333333; font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span style="background-color: #fdfdfd; color: #333333; font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px;">After all these weeks of braxton hicks contractions, acute hip and back pain, and annoying reflux, I'm feeling spent. Seriously. And</span></span><span style="background-color: #fdfdfd; color: #333333; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px;"> I'm guilty of wanting to self-induce.</span><span style="background-color: #fdfdfd; color: #333333; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px;"> It'</span><span style="background-color: #fdfdfd; color: #333333; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px;">s taking serious acceptance and patience—and a major mind adjustment... so difficult for any woman at this stage. Today, patience is impossible to achieve; I am restless, obsessive. I want to meet her now. I want to have labor today. I want to change a diaper tonight. Hold her at my chest and breathe a long sigh of relief that we made it, we're on the other side. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: #fdfdfd; color: #333333; font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px;">But for now, I will rock on my birth ball and await things beyond my control, knowing next week could be very different. This baby girl will be born full term, healthy and ready. It's not easy, but we've come so far. And she'll be worth it. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: #fdfdfd; color: #333333; font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px;"><i>:: photo by the talented Leslie Kutzen</i></span></span>DesignerMamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05580026156999701597noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-723901913949018822.post-43037733752273723322013-10-21T12:51:00.001-04:002013-10-21T12:51:52.020-04:00Bed Rest with Kids<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixkP3vsEemTE5757NOHeaI0cUjYanmJWwB6YQYYUGQ2Uje0fQrfgmtNvs6XOoHB6RU1G-7Strmim86Ij66FCwglPXhpOAlqhIu8gwRhYA78JQFoDy9WVW-TWczU3FlhEEd_ZGar3yLBsml/s1600/photo+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixkP3vsEemTE5757NOHeaI0cUjYanmJWwB6YQYYUGQ2Uje0fQrfgmtNvs6XOoHB6RU1G-7Strmim86Ij66FCwglPXhpOAlqhIu8gwRhYA78JQFoDy9WVW-TWczU3FlhEEd_ZGar3yLBsml/s1600/photo+1.JPG" /></a><br />
<i><span style="color: #999999;">{Running myself another bath. </span></i><i><span style="color: #999999;">35 weeks + 4 days.</span></i><i><span style="color: #999999;">}</span></i><br />
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Bed rest seems to agree with our little girl. As of today, she has not yet made an appearance, and instead might be settling in for the long haul. I'm so relieved, after a month of stress, concern, contractions and... bed rest.<br />
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Prodromal labor started in week 31 with painful and frequent Braxton Hicks contractions that caused my cervix to dilate (only 1cm). Modified bed rest was recommended. Week 33 I lost my mucus plug, and then the cramping began, accompanied by constant 10 minute-apart contractions (which are still ongoing). To prevent further dilation, I've been told to keep my feet up until week 37, just in time for Halloween. I've never been so excited to go trick or treating with my boys!!!<br />
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So... ten more days of sitting around on the sofa, napping, taking baths, lying down, having my husband do the dishes, sweep the floors... Sounds like a dream, right? Far from it.<br />
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To the folks who said they'd love to switch places with me: let me assure you that bed rest is not what you imagine. Contrary to what the name suggests, it does not leave you feeling rested. In fact, it is both physically and emotionally exhausting. On many levels. I want to do SO much—for myself, with my children, in preparation for this baby, for my husband, my home—and I can't. I fantasize about going for a walk or a run, carrying baskets of laundry, lifting groceries, using my muscles (before they completely deteriorate). I've had a few "screw this" moments—only to find myself keeled over, breathless and contracting at the top of our third floor staircase. (Not worth it.)<br />
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Being on bed rest with kids is a challenge. Sitting around all day clearly doesn't promote great parenting, but it does actually force you to stay still, in one place. I never realized how much cleaning and running around I normally do. To be honest, I think the boys like me better this way. When they aren't at school, we have many, many hours to kill—and I've had to learn how to spend quality time with them, without putting them on bed rest too.<br />
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Some of my strategies for bed rest with kids:<br />
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<li>I keep their art supplies permanently on the dining room table, with stacks of paper, pencils, markers, scissors, and tape. Everything is ready for them to use, whenever. I'm not in there, but I can hear what they're up to. </li>
<li>I multi-task my pee breaks: during the short walk to the bathroom I fill a tray with snacks and drinks. If they need a snack, they come to me (instead of climbing the cabinets or scouring the fridge).</li>
<li>I have fully embraced and accepted screen time (TV and tablet), but I try to break it up with reading them books, playing Lego, coloring. </li>
<li>They will sit with me and my laptop, watching nature or science videos on YouTube, Discovery or TheKidShouldSeeThis.com.</li>
<li>We sit and do homework. </li>
<li>I've signed them both up for ABCMouse.com. They sit with me, either together or one at a time, for about 30-45 minutes to do the activities. </li>
<li>Scavenger Hunts. I write a list and they collect items. Very often I'll include items on the 3rd floor that I need, such as Tums or a blanket. </li>
<li>Play music. As long as I'm sitting and watching, my kids will sing, dance and perform for me. This is my favorite past time. </li>
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I guess when you weigh the risk of having a premature baby with the complaints of a couch potato mom, it's clear that I can just suck it up for a while. And that's fine. It's only a week and a half. I totally got this.DesignerMamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05580026156999701597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-723901913949018822.post-90090409953565313982013-09-19T11:59:00.000-04:002013-09-19T11:59:46.694-04:00The Best Laid Birth Plans <div style="text-align: left;">
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 19.1875px;">You know that quote about the best laid plans?* </span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 19.1875px;">Yeah, me too. It's</span></span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 19.1875px;"> been sounding off in my head for several weeks now, driving me crazy. I try my best to ignore it—</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 19.1875px;">a</span><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 19.1875px;">s I write my birth plan, </span></span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 19.1875px;">speak to my doula,</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 19.1875px;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 19.1875px;">read my Hypnobirth book, practice breathing techniques, </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 19.1875px;">tour the hospital, try birth squats and </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 19.1875px;">attend prenatal yoga classes. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 19.1875px;">I know. I get it. I can't actually </span><i style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 19.1875px;">plan</i><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 19.1875px;"> a birth. (It's a big waste of time, will make me feel like a failure, blah, blah, blah.) But t</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 19.1875px;">his is my third and final birth experience—and I'm deeply excited about it.</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 19.1875px;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 19.1875px;">Even when all my good sense is in tact (admittedly, a rare occurrence), I cannot stop myself from planning, preparing or talking about natural birth. Am I deluded? Yes, according to my friends, family and acquaintances. (Isn't it </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 19.1875px;">odd that people are so opinionated about someone else's birth choices? Not just mine, but in general. I don't get it. It's a mother's <i>choice</i>: their baby, their body, their family. Each birth is amazing to me, from c-section to home birth... and pregnancy and birth are so personal. But I digress.</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 19.1875px;">)</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 19.1875px;">Reading through</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 19.1875px;"> my (ridiculously detailed) bullet points for a serene, intervention-free, dimly-lit, natural arrival for our little girl, I am fully aware of the reality (ie, it will hurt like hell and I will want the drugs). </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 19.1875px;">BUT, w</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 19.1875px;">hat kind of pregnant woman would I be if I didn't try to control everything—even things that are clearly out of my control? And more importantly, what kind of mama bear would I be if I didn't at least <i>try</i> to plan my version of the best, safest, most amazing birth for my baby? </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 19.1875px;">Something tells me this time will be different, s</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 19.1875px;">o I'll be sticking with my birth plan. Mostly because I've never been so prepared for anything in my life. We're talking serious "A" for effort here. </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 19.1875px;">We finished our Hypnobirth course two weeks ago. After fifteen hours of class and countless hours of reading and practice, Andrew and I have acquired an arsenal of skills that should take me through labor and delivery without a hitch. I know how to breathe through surges (Hypnobirth term for "contractions"), focus on </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 19.1875px;">positive </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 19.1875px;">affirmations, and allow the pleasant feeling of light touch massage to take over any negative sensations my body feels. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 19.1875px;">I'm not going to lie. I still need a LOT of practice. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 19.1875px;">There's obviously no way to predict how I will perform in the moment, but I feel optimistic. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 19.1875px;">I've been through it twice before, and know firsthand that it truly doesn't matter how these little ones arrive to us. We just want them healthy. In fact, here's one last bullet point to the birth plan: <i>If all plans fail, it's OK</i>. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyLLt8qYwvy2FkPsSbCNMJI0NvJj7KILFOIBBRQmbd7q9TpoeAKE49ZIcovuwy-ACaYNbT1I00VPzZU9ukUY7bgSSJgMAdEH-sQCtrWX17-zCFHW8bhKF04I77RgQkO4Kh1kA9GiDNGpUR/s1600/wes+just+born.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyLLt8qYwvy2FkPsSbCNMJI0NvJj7KILFOIBBRQmbd7q9TpoeAKE49ZIcovuwy-ACaYNbT1I00VPzZU9ukUY7bgSSJgMAdEH-sQCtrWX17-zCFHW8bhKF04I77RgQkO4Kh1kA9GiDNGpUR/s1600/wes+just+born.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 19.1875px;">*In case you have pregnancy brain like me, the real quote is: </span></span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-style: italic; line-height: 19.1875px;">The best laid schemes of mice and men o</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 19.1875px;"><i>ften go awry.</i></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19.1875px;"><br /></span>DesignerMamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05580026156999701597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-723901913949018822.post-70395874825422763852013-08-20T09:06:00.000-04:002013-08-20T10:02:01.576-04:00Not Gender Neutral<br />
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<img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiNwugWPaAFohRypOSs5PlGjGhDRJPfLd2kW4Y93IIBwGZpd0LnMRZ013SGI4vUSqF_Kkl5Fmz08ARXim9b3NnXTwqE6peJ8MP6iA92hRhd2od_HTOiNAk4q5p6CgrRdZk88YyfwMV6eIe/s1600/il_fullxfull.468075210_bx15.jpg" /></div>
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I was absolutely fine with keeping the gender a surprise. Really, I was. But then something happened to me around 22 weeks. I suddenly had a deep desire to know exactly what sort of babe was moving around in there. I felt detached and found it strange to say "<i>the baby</i> kicked me" and "do you want to feel <i>the baby</i>?" I needed a pronoun. More than that, I wanted a name. (We had a short list of lovely girl names to choose from, but absolutely no boy names. Which of course meant that we were definitely having a boy. In my head at least.)<br />
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One afternoon, while sifting through several storage containers of baby boy clothes, I started to fall in love with the little boy in my belly. The tiny clothes brought me back to those magical new baby moments with Wes and Chan. I draped a soft blue onesie over my belly and imagined this new growing boy. Perhaps he would be just like his oldest brother in demeanor, with Andrew's giant green eyes and born with a head of blonde hair and big feet? Or maybe he'd be darker, more Native American, like my dad's family?<br />
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Two hours later and I had placed all the clothes for our baby boy away in the dresser, waiting for his November arrival. I was convinced we were having a boy and proceeded to brainstorm boy names. Of course, we didn't actually know it was a boy; I was just a crazy pregnant lady reminiscing about my previous children. But to say something specific about the baby—<i>his </i>feet, <i>his </i>hands, <i>his </i>head—made me settled for a little while.<br />
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After nearly a week of boy-fantasizing (still unable to come up with a name), I surrendered and called the lab for the gender results from our 18 week ultrasound. Two minutes later I hung up feeling weak-willed and embarrassed after being told they didn't obtain or save the gender in their records... since we specified that we didn't want to know the sex. Silly me. Of course they wouldn't save that information; it's not vital for the doctor to know. And therefore it shouldn't be for us either. It's either a boy or a girl, not that complicated. I was disappointed with myself for caving in and gladly re-convinced myself that nature will give us the most wonderful surprise and I was so lucky.<br />
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I was feeling content once again with my gender neutral pregnancy. Until the OB informed me of the routine second ultrasound for women over 35. And that was it: the crazy pregnant lady with no willpower was back—and wanted to know for certain... to decorate, to shop, to nest.<br />
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Wesley came to the ultrasound with me, and we both confidently announced we thought it was a boy—before watching with awe at the 3D image of this beautiful baby... big cheeks, sweet nose, dainty hands. We were in love. To quote the lab technician, "It's not a boy!" And SHE most definitely is not.<br />
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Oh my gosh, it's a girl. A girl!!!<br />
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<i><span style="color: #666666;">Vintage Camera Onesie :: <a href="http://www.etsy.com/listing/153618760/baby-onesie-vintage-camera-gender?ref=related-7" target="_blank">Hen&Co</a></span></i>DesignerMamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05580026156999701597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-723901913949018822.post-44448156797998566752013-08-05T13:38:00.000-04:002013-08-05T13:38:27.515-04:00House Rules: Part 2, The Bunk Bed<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9KylueFct4vr5muR8Tdm0DUAdEqQPAqLoG4llqslxbGV4_yCGwJFXhRx11s9KEi4lkiJO222UrJ_XdZ1HjYRzGB-tTfTmm8-46D_V4Mp0ePLopbaz8gEWVNwI5VtCC9dUCYei8TFIJ-M9/s1600/photo+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9KylueFct4vr5muR8Tdm0DUAdEqQPAqLoG4llqslxbGV4_yCGwJFXhRx11s9KEi4lkiJO222UrJ_XdZ1HjYRzGB-tTfTmm8-46D_V4Mp0ePLopbaz8gEWVNwI5VtCC9dUCYei8TFIJ-M9/s1600/photo+1.JPG" /></a></div>
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<b>The boys have bunk beds! </b>After sleeping separately since birth (aside from a failed two-week trial), it was time to get these two in one room. For over a year, they have waited patiently, knowing their beds would eventually convert to bunks (we wanted to wait until Wesley turned 5). With some apprehension—and a lot of family discussions—we decided to just do it. It made sense for them to adjust to this setup now, rather than when there's a newborn in our midst.<br />
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We wrote the Bunk Bed Rules (see below) before their first night sleeping together. It was impressive and reassuring to hear how many rules the boys came up with. Apparently they were a little nervous about the arrangement too, and the rules helped them feel more at ease. I designed a poster and taped it in clear view from both the top and bottom bunk. Since Chandler cannot read, we say the rules aloud together every night before bed. If they stick to the rules for a week they get a prize. Two nights down and so far only one rule has been broken (the last rule - Chan is SO noisy when he wakes up).<br />
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Sharing a room has had a visible effect on them already: they are in really good spirits, have a better sense of each other's space and are so excited for bedtime! Seeing this from a mother's perspective just melts my heart and makes me remember how comforted and happy I was sharing a room with my younger sister. For most of my childhood we would talk, giggle and joke until falling asleep. She and I have always been at ease with each other and have a special bond today—sometimes we joke that we have the same brain. I wonder how much of that is due to sharing a room?<br />
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I'd love to hear other room sharing and bunk bed stories... What ages did you do it? Did you have rules? Have your children continued to like their bunk beds as they get older? How old is too old for a bunk?<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhomQd9CG7AkHwdzVYSfacemaVTuBRsi-H12cPP7UqbJgOXwTcXe52SlZ3uOu9BIchFtG8hyse7ItjxnYuuToLDwmMv2-fGjAA4F7AJPNMIlEzZ8U-b3orsIkIMPNfsjXDDlak-SgZ4xuOg/s1600/bunk+bed+rules.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhomQd9CG7AkHwdzVYSfacemaVTuBRsi-H12cPP7UqbJgOXwTcXe52SlZ3uOu9BIchFtG8hyse7ItjxnYuuToLDwmMv2-fGjAA4F7AJPNMIlEzZ8U-b3orsIkIMPNfsjXDDlak-SgZ4xuOg/s1600/bunk+bed+rules.jpg" /></a></div>
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<i><span style="color: #999999;">If you'd like a printable version of this Bunk Bed Rules Poster for your kiddos, just let me know.</span></i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZSXVfBbZWOPI41ROR7iUIsGEyVP4enLYNhfrU13w3Tmy3dJW3PVtnjvPN4ehOqmh6NKs2PHfuo6O9hwyP47MTLv8vIf3E-ghscvtbiJwe93JvAuJ7bh7qhVoTk38pUBF02h1aQ50TFKUu/s1600/bunk+bed+rules.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></div>
<br />DesignerMamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05580026156999701597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-723901913949018822.post-28413284851752473752013-07-26T11:37:00.001-04:002013-07-26T12:36:39.620-04:00From Two to Three<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnwDyjf-AutGkN72zUW9c7mcWNtJYh-O2hBLLYT6gmgQ5cF5g0a6Cp2PH1jDfLJcA-thiLjWBUCIB7KfFHh3kfKdVOT3ZOGaAtQDdbajskrQUXTOdO_ZYhFR7cZibaq4FuLwbOkj_8QcLQ/s1600/DSC_1367.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnwDyjf-AutGkN72zUW9c7mcWNtJYh-O2hBLLYT6gmgQ5cF5g0a6Cp2PH1jDfLJcA-thiLjWBUCIB7KfFHh3kfKdVOT3ZOGaAtQDdbajskrQUXTOdO_ZYhFR7cZibaq4FuLwbOkj_8QcLQ/s1600/DSC_1367.JPG" /></a></div><span style="text-align: center;">All sources have informed me that the transition from 2 to 3 children is </span><i style="text-align: center;">so </i><span style="text-align: center;">much easier than 1 to 2. This makes sense to me; I'm now (kind of) a pro at multi-child tasking and my kids are used to sharing (two main hurdles of having more than 1 kid). Three kids will be just more of the same... Feedings, laundry, baths, carpooling, bedtime. Oh, thank goodness. I totally got this. What a relief! </span><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: left;">However. I'm not sure if this is actually true. At least for me. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJLYeDGgSIN4P6v1nY-FY923EzG6WtFLJiOlzSpznUGuhRauwHOrAAz6FMbfw7XiTVO9bxHRz-G4ihvxa7mvrqOXu6vlpo0xlajbIR7F0EZ0uDx-yyCu7zUISIOA3907l2p28L8mwbNoU2/s1600/DSC_1383.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJLYeDGgSIN4P6v1nY-FY923EzG6WtFLJiOlzSpznUGuhRauwHOrAAz6FMbfw7XiTVO9bxHRz-G4ihvxa7mvrqOXu6vlpo0xlajbIR7F0EZ0uDx-yyCu7zUISIOA3907l2p28L8mwbNoU2/s1600/DSC_1383.JPG" /></a></div>Truthfully, I never found the transition from 1 to 2 to be that difficult. We tried to get pregnant when Wes was 9 months old. Before his first birthday I was mentally preparing for his sibling. They're only 18 months apart, more like twins. When Chan arrived, I changed two diapers at once, nursed or fed two bottles at once. The first few months were not easy, but it went by too fast to notice.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3XdOtxY93xeFducmBvxwz93doiFK3xdFaewb-qDSYSFxrkypiYjeF5FZCMg7w1zicf8eAkagiOqU4Z8Dy8nyxLDsevt7pBxeMkpERB9D-wlkyrllxDPIbN633ejb8MQl2Zbu9bPzi6bi0/s1600/DSC_1374.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3XdOtxY93xeFducmBvxwz93doiFK3xdFaewb-qDSYSFxrkypiYjeF5FZCMg7w1zicf8eAkagiOqU4Z8Dy8nyxLDsevt7pBxeMkpERB9D-wlkyrllxDPIbN633ejb8MQl2Zbu9bPzi6bi0/s1600/DSC_1374.JPG" /></a><br />
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And now, after several years of living with these two, we've found a comfortable groove that might be difficult to shift. These boys are my world—and each other's best friends. They do nearly everything together and/or with us. We are a strong foursome. So I guess it makes sense that I'm really worried about the change in family dynamics when the baby arrives. It's almost frightening... and certainly exciting. There are so many unknowns. Perhaps this is how most moms feel before number 2?<br />
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Of course, it might be just completely wonderful and easy.<br />
No matter what, I'm fairly certain Little Bean Number 3 is going to rock our world.DesignerMamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05580026156999701597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-723901913949018822.post-39342819778795785952013-07-17T11:15:00.002-04:002013-10-18T10:49:53.225-04:00What-to-do Wednesday: Handmade BoatsThis week I'm looking for afternoon projects that aren't too physical, time-consuming or wasteful. It's brutally hot at the moment and after a morning at camp the boys are tired (but bored). We need a craft we can make now and play with later outdoors. Look what I found - Handmade Boats! Perfect.<br />
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I discovered this twig boat a couple years ago at <a href="http://www.minieco.co.uk/handmade-boats/" target="_blank"><b>Minieco.co.uk</b></a>, but the boys were too young at the time. These are beautiful and with the right paper for a sail, they would look great on display in the boys' rooms. We only need twigs, string, a lollipop stick and paper! <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkHPtathoYFcjdFXR9uXJKXN5BU7NjfjADCAFHASzXOMDAfeDWMJroG_nfmPYmf0dE7dh2exC0v5QrhUNH_0s3EpBCcdm12vAUNB1n_-IKzlX9-z25XhRHkPYxCW9wvUv8AT_IgYNOCP06/s1600/boat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkHPtathoYFcjdFXR9uXJKXN5BU7NjfjADCAFHASzXOMDAfeDWMJroG_nfmPYmf0dE7dh2exC0v5QrhUNH_0s3EpBCcdm12vAUNB1n_-IKzlX9-z25XhRHkPYxCW9wvUv8AT_IgYNOCP06/s1600/boat.jpg" /></a><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj55EGOAUn63iveqvUkCP-C_uBd5K6dR50UFnvBe7oFvsM0coNih5yEzU3byV0unjV0nt4z1kDVJvGe3zQ1EQ_PeF_IRccrJaJcWKhPR9iOnMMm-vBV8G_K7O8Qfd9SPIbL4RRuc4m1lUVB/s1600/boat-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj55EGOAUn63iveqvUkCP-C_uBd5K6dR50UFnvBe7oFvsM0coNih5yEzU3byV0unjV0nt4z1kDVJvGe3zQ1EQ_PeF_IRccrJaJcWKhPR9iOnMMm-vBV8G_K7O8Qfd9SPIbL4RRuc4m1lUVB/s1600/boat-2.jpg" /></a></div>
<span style="text-align: center;">Over at <a href="http://www.shortstuffblog.com/tag/summer-crafts-for-kids/" target="_blank"><b>Short Stuff </b></a>I found more great ideas. Today our recycling bin is full, so we'll go through it for a version made from an OJ carton (but I'll use the popsicle stick from above for more stability on the sail). So excited! </span><br />
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DesignerMamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05580026156999701597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-723901913949018822.post-70453828913922345482013-07-11T17:26:00.000-04:002013-07-11T17:26:58.288-04:00Vacationing with KidsVacationing with kids is not exactly a <i>vacation, </i>wouldn't you agree?<br />
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For our family, getting away has always been harder than staying at home. Traveling is just too utterly exhausting. And it involves packing, the very thought of which can trigger a panic attack. Dramatic, I know. But seriously, getting all our stuff together is truly a week-long challenge of memory and skill. Kind of like Jenga—but with clothing, suitcases, car seats, toys and strollers. And we haven't even left the house yet. Once our pile is configured, we then have to endure the joys of travel (read: car sickness).<br />
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The hardest part though is when we arrive to our destination. The boys struggle with change—to their food, sleeping arrangements and environment. After a few days of picky eating, sleeplessness and overstimulation, they are pretty darn unhappy and/or insane. At this point Andrew and I are usually fresh out of patience and resources—internal and otherwise. We question what we are doing wrong... and why on earth does it look SO much easier for everyone else? How have we, once again, found ourselves defeated?<br />
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We watch in awe at people who take their kids everywhere... camping trips, weekends skiing, weeks overseas, multi-state road trips, a month at the lake. How do they do it? (Please, tell us!) My parents used to take 5 of us on vacation. FIVE! I'm a good mom, but I could never handle that. What am I doing wrong? Is it down to practice? Attitude? Energy? Whatever the case, these folks appear to be getting the real deal—a genuine vacation.<br />
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After a particularly wearing trip last year, we declared we'd never (ever ever) go away again. But I quickly had a change of heart, for the sake of our family's future. I mean, if we didn't succeed with 2 kids in tow then what chance would we have when number 3 arrives?<br />
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So last week we ventured to Cape Cod with redefined expectations and low hopes. And wouldn't you know it was the best family getaway we've had. It wasn't perfect, but it was certainly a <i>vacation</i>. This time, we did things differently. We rented a cottage with all the modern conveniences. We left the dog at home with a sitter. We invited visitors to break up the week, and we made a list of activities so we were never bored. The packing still sucked, and Chan did throw up in the car, but the boys' initial adjustment period lasted only 1 day—a promising start.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxQ1anJiCpDCJQspZc72NRU1ykykm8W84OOx8L0xEFbSWusQY8hfOh3DpOmhs0w_2tx1f0eJ8fGoIxilpLuFgusJyCmtrCoWaByE6Wxl3ws2S7Md4_7YNjKhu8kmd97cjuyoHNw14epF1l/s1600/vacation.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxQ1anJiCpDCJQspZc72NRU1ykykm8W84OOx8L0xEFbSWusQY8hfOh3DpOmhs0w_2tx1f0eJ8fGoIxilpLuFgusJyCmtrCoWaByE6Wxl3ws2S7Md4_7YNjKhu8kmd97cjuyoHNw14epF1l/s1600/vacation.jpg" /></a><br />
<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrD8SW4fabWiPJIFscp3TZWWaCTsObGZffNjajcAoTvVXKKLJ9VWGGQTB7Ecr_nlmONzbic8kH32T2Wlfl5sodQsi90VJ1dP_cVqVs8YcJnzqffCLHhCufLjOaUqPiPVR2gZ4dLUH-88OL/s1600/vacation2.jpg"><br /></a><br /><br />I'm not exactly sure how it happened, but we finally embraced a real vacation attitude. Laissez-faire, if you will. The boys stayed up late every night, ate a lot of junk, skipped naps entirely and watched too much tv. They played water guns constantly and slept in sand-filled bathing suits. Andrew and I ate way too much seafood, got sunburned twice and took turns napping and sleeping in. We had several long beach days, a couple rainy days in the bowling alley, some evenings at the arcade, picnics nearly every day, and lots of ice cream. And for the first time, we let the boys stay up late enough to watch the 4th of July fireworks—on the beach in Hyannis. They were in awe of the sunset and night sky over the harbor. And we were in awe of them, staying up until 10pm like big boys. The whole thing was pretty darn spectacular. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrD8SW4fabWiPJIFscp3TZWWaCTsObGZffNjajcAoTvVXKKLJ9VWGGQTB7Ecr_nlmONzbic8kH32T2Wlfl5sodQsi90VJ1dP_cVqVs8YcJnzqffCLHhCufLjOaUqPiPVR2gZ4dLUH-88OL/s1600/vacation2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrD8SW4fabWiPJIFscp3TZWWaCTsObGZffNjajcAoTvVXKKLJ9VWGGQTB7Ecr_nlmONzbic8kH32T2Wlfl5sodQsi90VJ1dP_cVqVs8YcJnzqffCLHhCufLjOaUqPiPVR2gZ4dLUH-88OL/s1600/vacation2.jpg" /></a><br />
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Our little foursome finally enjoyed a vacation, and not a moment too soon. We needed these memories.</div>
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<br />DesignerMamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05580026156999701597noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-723901913949018822.post-91981971115695063602013-06-11T21:59:00.001-04:002013-09-24T12:38:24.688-04:00Peace at Home <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;">If there is to be peace in the world... </span></div>
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<span style="color: #0c343d; font-size: large;">There must be peace in the home. </span></div>
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<i><span style="color: #0c343d;">Chinese Philosopher Lao-Tse (6th century)</span></i></div>
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I've been thinking lately about peace... world peace, inner peace, peaceful sleep, peaceful children, peace & love. In trying to wrap my head around a subject that should be so darn simple, I've discovered it to be quite complicated—and emotional. Perhaps it's the pregnancy hormones.<br />
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Or perhaps I'm just traumatized. The Boston Marathon—an event we decided last minute not to attend—opened my eyes once again to the paralyzing truth: we are never completely safe in this world. Like an aftershock from 9/11, it shook me to the core, with the same anxiety, nausea and trepidation—it all came back. Except this time, I have children. Which made the coping SO much worse.<br />
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And because I owe my children a world that is beautiful and loving—one where I'm not left sobbing with crippling empathy over a 5 year old boy who dies from an explosive—I kept the news shut off. Shielded from the drama and sadness nearby, our home was a sanctuary of safety and blissful ignorance. While terrorists were fleeing, we played Lego and watched Team Umizoomi.<br />
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It was during these moments (of trying to be a brave mommy while hiding my emotionally distraught self) when I fully realized that it's my job to ensure there will always be peace in our home. It's every parent's job, in fact.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH8lT3HlJb5xJ_vBuBAR7LCsbt1RqNsChOOYtP4LqePA7MGuVg2_ARc_YpWIzch3s-NoI3ON9OcVoxBLQNgAz_AxOiuDPUG_wCIAGd__TYC2IpirezxCtjaMzzLQ1_KlIRhWtZiOuSIvou/s1600/photo+%25283%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH8lT3HlJb5xJ_vBuBAR7LCsbt1RqNsChOOYtP4LqePA7MGuVg2_ARc_YpWIzch3s-NoI3ON9OcVoxBLQNgAz_AxOiuDPUG_wCIAGd__TYC2IpirezxCtjaMzzLQ1_KlIRhWtZiOuSIvou/s1600/photo+%25283%2529.JPG" /></a></div>
Since then, I've taken note of the ways we achieve peace in our home... and it doesn't seem to take much. Apparently it's the small, simple things that seem to define moments of harmony. For the boys, it's watercolors on paper while listening to music. Or floating in the bath. Or our seemingly endless tickle sessions. For Andrew, it's watching soccer with the boys, or returning from a long trail run. As a couple, we both find calm at bedtime... the sweet silence of sleeping children and a few moments to chat uninterrupted.<br />
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On occasion, we find peace at the dinner table... we are all in tune with each other, the kids are interested in eating, talking, listening and appreciative of the food on the table. We all sit around chatting forever, listening to music. Deep inside all of us, I know we feel content, lucky, blessed.<br />
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That's peace for us... and I guess we're off to a good start.<br />
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<br />DesignerMamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05580026156999701597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-723901913949018822.post-2152416915115695402013-05-20T10:13:00.000-04:002013-05-20T10:13:36.942-04:00Gotta Love the Second TrimesterAfter 8 weeks of morning sickness (aka unrelenting nausea that lasts all day), I can shout from the rooftops: We are expecting number three!!!<br />
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Up until last week's ultrasound I honestly didn't believe it myself. My mind had settled in a state somewhere between disbelief and happiness. We told Wes and Chan straight away and their support and excitement helped make it real for us, reinforcing our reasons for wanting a third child. Nearly every day they ask about the size of their sibling (Bigger than a grape today Mommy?) and like to make guesses on the gender (their opinions frequently change). Being boys, they find it hilarious to call me "the pregnant lady" or point out how big my "boobies" are.<br />
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They want t-shirts that say "Team Big Brothers," which is an awesome idea. They are going to be the best brothers any kid could wish for. This is an awesome time and we feel very blessed.<br />
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<br />DesignerMamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05580026156999701597noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-723901913949018822.post-58212499123964794752013-04-11T18:41:00.001-04:002013-04-11T18:41:56.776-04:00Just another day as a graphic designer.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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So much for blogging on Mondays. I have been slammed with work for several weeks, and all spare time has gone out the window. While the boys are at school, I'm in the studio designing {<a href="http://www.tasteoftheseacoast.com/subscribe.html" target="_blank">this</a> magazine}—and then I'm back up there again after their bedtime. It's stressful and exhausting at this point, since all of the fun and creative art direction took place months ago. Now it's all edits, formatting, converting images, etc. Just another day as a graphic designer. I'm happy to have work. But I'm pooped.<br />
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Today I managed to squeeze in a 2-hour afternoon play date with a good friend and her boys. It was very nice to chat over a cup of tea, and think about something other than InDesign files. Also, it proved to be a healthy reminder to shower. Seriously, I need to shower. Right now, in my post-dinner haze I am thinking about showering. The kids are fed... they will be bathed shortly... the magazine is looking good... and therefore I can take 15 minutes to shower. Maybe even moisturize. Let's do this. (And then back to work.)<br />
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<i>This poster hangs in my studio :: "Another Day Another Dropshadow" by <a href="http://amerikanmadeprints.bigcartel.com/product/another-day-another-dropshadow-vol-2" target="_blank">Amerikan Made</a></i>DesignerMamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05580026156999701597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-723901913949018822.post-19502421468550113112013-04-01T13:05:00.002-04:002013-04-01T13:05:52.557-04:00House Rules: Part 1, Mutiny<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It's official. My sweet, precious children have finally turned on me. They have stopped listening, behaving, obeying, following the rules (even accepting bribes). Perhaps they are stir crazy after five months indoors. Either way, they've given up. And I can't blame them... It's difficult to be good all the time, to follow the rules. </div>
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We've been through this phase of mutiny before, a couple times in fact. In the past, I've consulted mommy friends, countless parenting books, and even asked my parents for advice. But this time I'm wiser. It's not the kids. It's me. I've become a lazy parent. This is why: The rules that my children have to follow are the same rules that I need to follow<i>—</i>and <i>enforce</i>. This requires dedication and steadfast labor. It's EXHAUSTING.<br />
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I find all other aspects of parenting to be a breeze, compared to providing discipline. Here I am, this supposedly free-spirited, creative person—and out of my mouth comes this booming voice saying "Don't hit your brother!" "No playing on the stairs!" "Don't jump on the sofa!" "Use your inside voice!" Seriously??<br />
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This wasn't what I envisioned for myself as an earth mama. It's not calm, cool or laid back. But the reality is that I'm a mom and my children need to be well-behaved so they feel in control of themselves and understand what is acceptable at home and in the outside world. I love my children so much that I must discipline them so they can function well now and into adulthood.<br />
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So to help my little family, I'm going to get energized about this in a way that excites me: and create a House Rules sign. I've found some inspiration, now I just need to come up with the rules! (That'll be Part 2)<br />
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<i>:: meal time rules via <a href="http://www.notonthehighstreet.com/thecontemporaryhome/product/meal-time-rules-retro-metal-sign" target="_blank">The Contemporary Home</a></i><br />
<i>:: rules for brooke berryman via <a href="http://www.notonthehighstreet.com/morethanwords/product/personalised-family-house-rules" target="_blank">More Than Words</a></i><br />
<i>:: various signs by order of the mgmt via <a href="http://shop.johnwgolden.com/" target="_blank">John W. Golden</a></i>DesignerMamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05580026156999701597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-723901913949018822.post-36037759669967128342013-03-25T11:47:00.000-04:002013-03-25T11:47:01.633-04:00In Love With... Old LEGO Ads<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfgphGrYfmmVHpuW49NgHPFvNCUcVvcoBcPj_BVPvilnRay1K37O4IVQT_Nj-LK_rE_OcPHjHdBWtbw3F6JS5SJNvsZLlKiEKdnbYkF9xbpFh-MAxqO1Or4MqMFHo6Ajf_0vba8uaBd_1h/s1600/lego-ad-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfgphGrYfmmVHpuW49NgHPFvNCUcVvcoBcPj_BVPvilnRay1K37O4IVQT_Nj-LK_rE_OcPHjHdBWtbw3F6JS5SJNvsZLlKiEKdnbYkF9xbpFh-MAxqO1Or4MqMFHo6Ajf_0vba8uaBd_1h/s1600/lego-ad-2.jpg" /></a><br />
I've been working on a magazine project for the last several weekends, so the boys have had a lot of much-cherished Daddy Time. They absolutely adore playing with their father; he's a kid at heart and would play all day if he could. Their number one activity is LEGO. From battleships and rockets to architectural masterpieces, they ROCK LEGO.<br />
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I came across these ads from the late 70s and early 80s. A brilliantly simple ad campaign. The Art Director in me is obsessed—the copywriting, the sweet photographs, the font choices. There's nothing slick or fake about these kids.<br />
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What is even cooler is that it's 2013 and we have all this technology, but my kids prefer to create and build over anything else. There is nothing cooler as a mom than seeing your 4 year-old beaming with pride, and telling you, "Mom, it's a Mega Zord Battle Ship. I made it myself!"<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAZpZo81kBGzE15X0t_7nsMm2dJ4sPlKFIBYBlKHYjoZ00xORDM_TQ9MfDELoVDiX-Scn37LPvQ9YeN8sNjtIdNVScFE3Ls3lHddL3J7B1Chp3FT52vPmccufIaSVUSywttIffd14hpXG6/s1600/lego-ads-1979-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAZpZo81kBGzE15X0t_7nsMm2dJ4sPlKFIBYBlKHYjoZ00xORDM_TQ9MfDELoVDiX-Scn37LPvQ9YeN8sNjtIdNVScFE3Ls3lHddL3J7B1Chp3FT52vPmccufIaSVUSywttIffd14hpXG6/s1600/lego-ads-1979-3.jpg" /></a></div>
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<br />DesignerMamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05580026156999701597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-723901913949018822.post-40429302455019247222013-03-21T11:16:00.001-04:002013-03-21T11:16:44.637-04:00Just One More<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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After my second son was born, I swore up and down that I was "done" having kids. It was a really tough transition, from one to two. When the blur and exhaustion of the first six months wore off, and I settled into my role as mom-of-two, I declared that "two is perfect". I would smile and say "our family is complete." And although I felt fulfilled beyond description, with my "two arms for my two sweet boys," I knew deep down that I wanted another child. <i>Just one more.</i><br />
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I hoped the feeling would pass. After all, two children was <i>our plan</i>. Andrew and I are educated, supposedly responsible adults, and decided that two children is a smart and manageable size for a family... from house size to vacations to college tuition. Two is perfect. And our children are perfect. Why would I want to change that?<br />
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So I let a year go by without saying anything. I began to notice how pregnant women and newborn babies started to make me feel envious and sad. I visualized myself giving birth one more time, even planning the birth (perhaps a home birth this time, I thought). I convinced myself that all women think these things, even those that don't have children. It's maternal instinct. Right?<br />
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The following year I got our family a dog, hoping to fill the void. It didn't work.<br />
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Wesley asked me one night at dinner if he could have a baby sister. I cried.<br />
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Around this time a good friend told me when you are done having children, you know it. You start to <i>admire</i> pregnant women—you don't want to be pregnant yourself. And you feel sorry for mothers of newborns, because of all the hard work and sleepless nights.<i> </i>She said: if you want another child, if you can't stop thinking about it, then you need to do it. Now.<br />
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And so, last Winter I cried to my husband. I'm not done. In my bones. In my heart. In my blood. There is one more child to fill the empty seat at our table... to fill our hearts. Another cheek to kiss goodnight. Another voice to be heard. Another best friend for our boys.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT1zgSAvz0YH6_v4IqJVjckqeFDby4iP_oqPpWmyQp9eAQemj6iwj0yyLfdxwTb4ZFMiF0x1dC4XDI7hTB9BsDxMy3KLIz7v3TP1RgcLj-nGvBYRA77T1dW8VtK8llYMcM39qgrVmYJ21o/s1600/il_fullxfull.187773696.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT1zgSAvz0YH6_v4IqJVjckqeFDby4iP_oqPpWmyQp9eAQemj6iwj0yyLfdxwTb4ZFMiF0x1dC4XDI7hTB9BsDxMy3KLIz7v3TP1RgcLj-nGvBYRA77T1dW8VtK8llYMcM39qgrVmYJ21o/s1600/il_fullxfull.187773696.jpg" /></a></div>
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Andrew questioned <i>our plan</i>. He wondered how we would pay for college. I explained that this was SO much more than that. Reminded him that he was the third child in his family. A few months later, he told me he truly wanted <i>just one more</i> too. And with happiness and determination, we've been trying ever since...<br />
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<i><span style="color: #666666;">:: Aren't these paintings on motherhood </span></i><i><span style="color: #666666;">by <a href="http://www.etsy.com/shop/kmberggren?ref=seller_info" target="_blank">Katie M. Berggren</a> just beautiful? </span></i><i><span style="color: #666666;"> </span></i><br />
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DesignerMamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05580026156999701597noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-723901913949018822.post-87009447434256200132013-03-11T15:22:00.006-04:002013-03-11T15:22:56.366-04:00Not-So-Hot Mommy Monday<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEuRjCFJQ39oIa_QzdtfTTTtLnY9qWA5OUmD4bGbNHJ85RM9AXUiN2GVRaNreFImLp_QjJzLGxwONnWAit1NbLAPIhyscMeZY-hwy-4b0BExktjBodpvLW5BwicGhoJKsxJV7VAAq4_S9w/s1600/sullivan+family.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="496" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEuRjCFJQ39oIa_QzdtfTTTtLnY9qWA5OUmD4bGbNHJ85RM9AXUiN2GVRaNreFImLp_QjJzLGxwONnWAit1NbLAPIhyscMeZY-hwy-4b0BExktjBodpvLW5BwicGhoJKsxJV7VAAq4_S9w/s640/sullivan+family.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
Hope everyone enjoyed their weekend. We were hit with an unexpected 2-feet of snow on Friday; luckily it's melting rapidly under this glorious sunshine and warm weather.<br />
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I, however, am not feeling so glorious. Currently battling a funny tummy, so no blogging for me today. Perhaps I will post later this week, but certainly for next Monday.<br />
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<i>Family Size</i> will be the topic, so until then... check out this photo of m<span style="background-color: white;">y maternal grandmother and grandfather with 7 of their children (they eventually had 10). </span><br />
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<br />DesignerMamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05580026156999701597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-723901913949018822.post-23337967194077867822013-03-04T17:24:00.001-05:002013-03-04T17:24:40.842-05:00In Love With... Broyhill Brasilia<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgewNy0Q_NAMuxDmcaLiHgRa6nx9z_CGWC-yI-XUWeiaX1XzYnUmUuwQoa7LA7JKVdw2RdCF9t5km3xwM5WBuw9ncpxOjNbLfBFasax4PL3Z1ZBNp6siSX4qBmLrEK3UkPfQjUpfzl7925M/s1600/broyhill-brasilia-vintage-furniture-ad.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgewNy0Q_NAMuxDmcaLiHgRa6nx9z_CGWC-yI-XUWeiaX1XzYnUmUuwQoa7LA7JKVdw2RdCF9t5km3xwM5WBuw9ncpxOjNbLfBFasax4PL3Z1ZBNp6siSX4qBmLrEK3UkPfQjUpfzl7925M/s1600/broyhill-brasilia-vintage-furniture-ad.png" /></a></div>
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<span style="text-align: center;">There is something so charming, so incredibly handsome about Broyhill Brasilia... the smooth arches and clean lines... the real wood... the history. I fell in love with this sturdy line of furniture a few years ago, while discovering that certain pieces of midcentury furniture don't really stand the test of time. Oh sure, they look pretty for the most part, but when your child wants to jump on a coffee table circa 1962, you start to second-guess the inherent strength of those slim, tapered wooden legs (live and learn). </span><br />
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This Spring we are adding built-in bench seating to our dining room bay windows. With this new seating arrangement we needed to find a "perfect" table to fit the space. I do not use perfect lightly. The list of criteria was not short: </div>
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<li>It must be a circle, but also have leaves to extend to an oval. </li>
<li>It must have a pedestal base, since straight legs would restrict seating. </li>
<li>It must fit the space, which will have the bench on one side and chairs on the other. </li>
<li>It must be real wood (no more laminate or MDF for this IKEA family). </li>
<li>Lastly, please be something vintage, preferably midcentury.</li>
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Of course I knew the table I wanted. The Broyhill Brasilia round dining table. But it was nowhere. And when I thought I found it, it was out of our price range, sold or a fake. But after a two month search, one showed up on Craigslist last week that was available. And wouldn't you know that the cool cat sellers delivered it all the way from Providence, RI that very day. The world is a good place.<br />
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<i>Here is our new table with one leaf inserted. Handsome, right? </i><br />
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<br />DesignerMamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05580026156999701597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-723901913949018822.post-32047281367483278432013-02-24T17:34:00.002-05:002013-02-24T17:44:55.854-05:00Boredom and a Box<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Winter has been a challenge. Let me rephrase that: Winter has been categorically ROUGH. We've endured snow or rain (or both) every weekend for many weeks, and our family has hardly done well with the confinement. Being indoors isn't all bad, it's just hard to keep everyone entertained. All. Day. Long. So while I fantasize about Spring hikes and patio parties, I try my best to find creative ways to keep boredom at bay.... yesterday resulted in a long-awaited pirate ship! </div>
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A very large boot shipping box was the perfect size for a vessel worthy of their adventures. Ahoy, my little mateys!</div>
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We used what we had in the house: colored construction paper, Elmers Glue, cardboard tubing and rope. It was quite the family affair... Wesley helped cut red stripes and apply glue. Andrew cut out their swords and a steering wheel. Chandler didn't really help per se, but rather anxiously fiddled with paper scraps and tested all the design elements, including the rope doorknob. Needless to say, these boys were EXCITED to get inside and play when we were done. Boredom averted, for today at least. </div>
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DesignerMamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05580026156999701597noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-723901913949018822.post-30149301653472297892013-02-17T17:08:00.000-05:002013-02-17T17:22:53.038-05:00Living with Children and a Dog<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Dear Penny,</div>
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As of today, you haven't been walked in two weeks—because of the snow, yes, but also because we haven't taken the time between shoveling, doing laundry, making meals and caring for the kids. Also, last month we forgot your birthday. For the second year in a row. (I'm so sorry!) It's not because we don't love you, but because we have human children who need the majority of our attention. </div>
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I want you to know that while I feed the boys breakfast every morning, I watch you through the window, roaming our backyard on your own. I imagine (and hope) you are hunting squirrels and rabbits, sniffing their tracks and having fun. You always return to our door with so much enthusiasm and anticipation (perhaps you expect strokes and treats), but it fades quickly when you realize I'm too busy for you. You may not know it, but I see those big brown eyes turn weary—and it breaks my heart.</div>
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You deserve to be treated like the sweet and loyal soul that you are…. perhaps I should hire a walker and groomer, or buy you a trendy collar and personalized food bowls. But something tells me you don't really care about that stuff. Deep down I know what you need. But I just can't give it to you right now.</div>
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Some day soon you will get the right kind of attention. For now, the boys will continue to jump on your back and pull your tail (despite my attempts to stop them). Chan will pull your beard from time to time when I'm not looking (ouch). And I know that Wes hugs you with his full body weight and it takes your doggie breath away (I see your desperate eyes glancing at me helplessly, and once again I'm sorry). </div>
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My goodness Penny, you tolerate this family so well! Maybe it's because you know how much we love you. Or how much I look forward to those 10 minutes at bedtime when you snuggle up to me and help me fall asleep. When we first adopted you, Wesley asked if "we will keep Penny forever and ever" and I said YES. Because even though we can't be the best dog owners right now, I hope you know we are committed to loving you for a very long time. </div>
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Love, </div>
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Your Family xoxo</div>
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DesignerMamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05580026156999701597noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-723901913949018822.post-25315244596322669772013-02-03T15:16:00.001-05:002015-01-28T08:59:51.582-05:00Mommy! What Should We Do?<div style="text-align: left;">
"Mommy! What are we doing today?" Ah, the weekend mantra of my boys. They are 3 & 4 at the moment, and have SO much (too much) enthusiasm at 6.30am. I tell them to hold their horses until Mommy & Daddy wake up... then I hit my imaginary snooze button and fall back to my beautiful slumber—until I'm forced awake again.<br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">After a cup of coffee and a good eye-rubbing, I take a look at my boys over breakfast and finally answer their question—with another question, "What do YOU want to do today?" This never goes well. They either: a) look at me blankly (as if they've never played in our home before); b) argue over whose turn it is to decide what they're doing (a rule they made up on their own); or c) decide they want to do something outdoors when it's clearly raining / snowing / freezing outside. And <i>that's</i> about the time when I start to reel off all the options I can think of (which is not many, remember it's <i>really</i> early).</span></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWWK80WLvYxwGDWoXKFZxuO_KTAZ3Prmi94DKP7Es6qMnrmwh17imG9KQ8-PmclewUT-VoxJE9l-KVMpz41cw5pv46D0WnXwBQJ0ZjBbUMIZTnCKWhttrf5BqfPOk2PqPBSUOAfZDZMyF1/s1600/what+to+do2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWWK80WLvYxwGDWoXKFZxuO_KTAZ3Prmi94DKP7Es6qMnrmwh17imG9KQ8-PmclewUT-VoxJE9l-KVMpz41cw5pv46D0WnXwBQJ0ZjBbUMIZTnCKWhttrf5BqfPOk2PqPBSUOAfZDZMyF1/s1600/what+to+do2.jpg" /></span></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilVkvPld5BUcspZtO-sfUEFFVjZftMayKyjrwUUK6GGPxCXe3jr8oQk2DHxKnz13lDyEAy0yQil-h-dUAVbpRaTaSYX4CzwZSLXvNCMlwsByBvd0OV89Nz3PqHmbq4VTeZi_4xTNfp0_NQ/s1600/what+to+do.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilVkvPld5BUcspZtO-sfUEFFVjZftMayKyjrwUUK6GGPxCXe3jr8oQk2DHxKnz13lDyEAy0yQil-h-dUAVbpRaTaSYX4CzwZSLXvNCMlwsByBvd0OV89Nz3PqHmbq4VTeZi_4xTNfp0_NQ/s1600/what+to+do.jpg" /></span></a><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Last month, for the sake of my sanity, we started a little game. We wrote down 5 things they each wanted to do. The next day we decided it would be fun to write them on cards and choose them with our eyes closed. A week later, I created the <i>What Should We Do?</i> basket (see below). </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; text-align: left;">Some days my boys wake up and play on their own with no input. I'll find them in costumes, making forts and hunting dragons. I LOVE those days. But for the days when I'm left listing options endlessly... the basket has been a lifesaver. They shake it crazily and always seem so excited with what they choose! </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">On a day like today (a snowy Sunday) they've already chosen their fifth activity. As they parade around upstairs on their scavenger hunt, I sit down with (another) cup of coffee and write this blog. Hooray!</span></div>
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DesignerMamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05580026156999701597noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-723901913949018822.post-24157697218912226762013-01-27T21:19:00.003-05:002013-01-27T21:19:17.705-05:00In Love With... Recycled Jars<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmK1D1DlYsiLPSU0PzUovBuUwhjvtq-N3LUpD19Hcn3RFkZsf1dG4ha8OLjCwY1hMlzB43aFs5OunjwGVVQ95G8GdG1YLSHCm5KDkAsxWqF0mpZFdHvSKq6m6KvYTCaIfXIovJXQX5r1bs/s1600/Childs-bedroom-craft-jars.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmK1D1DlYsiLPSU0PzUovBuUwhjvtq-N3LUpD19Hcn3RFkZsf1dG4ha8OLjCwY1hMlzB43aFs5OunjwGVVQ95G8GdG1YLSHCm5KDkAsxWqF0mpZFdHvSKq6m6KvYTCaIfXIovJXQX5r1bs/s1600/Childs-bedroom-craft-jars.jpg" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjymo_KQhXbaIrPYGeTk7Cdu3nlugI7RaMbrjs6NwIytFXSX5Wnzcy83T53EtoPyrxpchriUdYR3XQYD0MEaal-C7RvhJd19Kaeg_4Vj2fsdJV1na04DhNHuGkp6a6Ek_6MP9NfFF39_UZp/s1600/number+7+8+candle+jars.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjymo_KQhXbaIrPYGeTk7Cdu3nlugI7RaMbrjs6NwIytFXSX5Wnzcy83T53EtoPyrxpchriUdYR3XQYD0MEaal-C7RvhJd19Kaeg_4Vj2fsdJV1na04DhNHuGkp6a6Ek_6MP9NfFF39_UZp/s1600/number+7+8+candle+jars.jpg" /></a></div>
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The ubiquitous recycled glass jar. Creative ideas abound online for this delightfully transparent trend, for which I cannot stop pinning and bookmarking. (My appreciation never wanes when it comes to something so highly functional, free and eco-friendly.)<br />
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As a creative mom I felt compelled to transform a few of my own last year (see below); and ever since I've been kind of, well, addicted. Seriously. I'm now incapable of pitching a single glass vessel into our recycling bin. In my eyes (not always my husband's), each jar has potential — to be something more than just a peanut butter container, jar of artichokes or bottle of olives.<br />
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Rescued jars have found new purpose all around our house: holding nuts in the kitchen, toothbrushes in the bathroom, markers in the art closet, thumbtacks in the office, wooden spoons next the stove. This probably sounds strange, but it gives me joy to see these jars with newfound lives: not just in our home, but everywhere else.<br />
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How are you recycling your jars?<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUZJvqlL9ijAU5aVAMfwWeptm-N3qfj0UJUtOECZi2aYFWT8No9HLktMlVwY75wtcbbOTTT8fIdNtFTZKqwkZ9Qs4s3Icet4CI5MYlRflxe2zpmUMzhj6c1gn8yk_-PcN372_vaEEgsM6A/s1600/DSC_1340.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUZJvqlL9ijAU5aVAMfwWeptm-N3qfj0UJUtOECZi2aYFWT8No9HLktMlVwY75wtcbbOTTT8fIdNtFTZKqwkZ9Qs4s3Icet4CI5MYlRflxe2zpmUMzhj6c1gn8yk_-PcN372_vaEEgsM6A/s1600/DSC_1340.gif" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxcf4jfbfwJqSl-G46dnGV7Xvke0NApM-WEG7wvRG3v0han4S84yANsnMgCp2R8E4kOISmOak2XupcVAPZSVsi0sZlzK4OyF3VsNxRwvXEQ7IY3SHDTFm_IeBCHUJYx1IDUn0zBNiJ-yvq/s1600/POPCORN.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxcf4jfbfwJqSl-G46dnGV7Xvke0NApM-WEG7wvRG3v0han4S84yANsnMgCp2R8E4kOISmOak2XupcVAPZSVsi0sZlzK4OyF3VsNxRwvXEQ7IY3SHDTFm_IeBCHUJYx1IDUn0zBNiJ-yvq/s1600/POPCORN.gif" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqOJmiEWyFBpRcOoVuybRCx5tzLFTE6ukUTPuk8UD8Rx7Xlo8teVftTxMRoicNvFRqdNN9B6nRo_CAZmctESgq25_OMZvTgkU9jbnbSWuSdbd9Ze0eDRwRqUNfLlU74EipXCfHFYSEJJAq/s1600/on-shelf.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqOJmiEWyFBpRcOoVuybRCx5tzLFTE6ukUTPuk8UD8Rx7Xlo8teVftTxMRoicNvFRqdNN9B6nRo_CAZmctESgq25_OMZvTgkU9jbnbSWuSdbd9Ze0eDRwRqUNfLlU74EipXCfHFYSEJJAq/s1600/on-shelf.gif" /></a></div>
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<i>:: kids jars via <a href="http://www.housetohome.co.uk/room-idea/picture/playful-playroom-storage-ideas/9" target="_blank">House to Home</a></i><br />
<i>:: antique pickling jar terrarium via <a href="http://www.potterybarn.com/products/found-mason-jars/?pkey=e%7Cpickling%2Bjars%7C1%7Cbest%7C0%7C1%7C24%7C%7C1&cm_src=PRODUCTSEARCH||NoFacet-_-NoFacet-_-NoMerchRules-_-" target="_blank">Pottery Barn</a></i><br />
<i>:: glass jar chandelier via <a href="http://lafactoriaplastica.com/" target="_blank">La Factoria Plastica</a></i><br />
<i>:: numbered jar candle votives via <a href="http://downtoearthstyle.blogspot.com/2011/11/old-recycled-jars.html" target="_blank">Down to Earth Style</a></i><br />
<i>:: groomsman placemarker jars via <a href="http://www.etsy.com/listing/90618651/groomsman-best-man-favor-table-marker?ref=sr_gallery_41&ga_search_query=glass+jar&ga_view_type=gallery&ga_ship_to=US&ga_page=2&ga_search_type=all" target="_blank">Michele's Cottage</a></i><br />
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DesignerMamahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05580026156999701597noreply@blogger.com5