The Biggest Loser

That's me!

Yeah, my Mom Logic post didn't make the cut in the Mother of All Blogger's contest. I'd be lying if I said it didn't hurt my ego, but it does. Just a little.

The thing is, I didn't feel I haaaad to win. I simply wanted to make the top 10, just to say I did.

Luckily, I had an epiphany, if you will*, so I'm not even hung up on the fact that I won't be getting a blog-over, even though the woman from The Pixel Boutique who will be making that happen for the winner is a fabulous blog designer. (She also shares extremely useful technical tips on her site for FREE!)

But, they were all good posts (go vote for your favorite) and we can't all win, so I'm OK with it.

Really.

PS: Thank you to everyone who helped get me nominated! That did help my ego, so it's right where it should be.

*Years ago, an editor changed a phrase in one of my newspaper articles. That's normal. I, too, am an editor and have done the same thing to writers. However, her word choice didn't fit with my voice, so when I saw that "light bulb moment" had changed to "an epiphany, if you will," I was ticked. I've never said "if you will" in my life. Now, it's a running joke in our house. I say it all the time.

You Get a D for Deficiency

I don't get out much.

It has been very cold from November until, well, just a few weeks ago. Now, even though it is warmer, it pours.

On Monday, a black cloud crept toward our back yard from the west. It brought a short, but active storm with lightning and some of the loudest, longest explosions of thunder I've ever heard. One crash lasted long enough for me to think, "Maybe a bomb went off. Maybe that wasn't the storm. Maybe we've been attacked." (Another reason I should stop watching the news.)

The strange thing about spring in Seattle is that the rain this time of year is bigger, heavier, wetter than the icy mist we get in the winter. And it's more erratic, too.

But this evening, it was only dark and cloudy with dry pavement, so I buckled T Junior in the BOB. And, ignoring past walking, er, pulling experiences, I decided to take Annie. She was giddy. She could not hold still, making it difficult for me to adjust her collar. I think she was antsy to get out the door and into the garage before we were discovered by the other two who were upstairs dancing around Mr. T's feet while he practiced his bagpipes.

The outing was not relaxing.

The dog did not do anything to help her "Why We Don't Take Annie For a Walk" case. And, when a black lab without an owner trotted up to us, I had to hang on to the leash for dear life while trying not to let go of T Junior's wily stroller.

Lucky for me, we weren't very interesting and she loped away with joie de vivre. She looked so carefree it made me smile, but she was an escapee. The whisps of honeydew-colored moss hanging from her collar gave her away. That's when it hit me. I knew this dog. I'd just never seen her with her nose in the air and tail wagging.

My cell was in the pocket behind T Junior, so I called his day care provider. Her pre-teen son answered and confirmed it was Brandy. The search was on, but the dog was nowhere to be found. "The vet will probably find her," I was told by the 12-year-old boy in flip flops.

We were headed home after the adventure when my phone rang. I fished around for it in the pocket, thinking it was Mr. T.

It was my doctor's office. Adrenaline shot through my core.

Last week, I had my blood drawn to test my TSH (again), so I was worried something showed up. Or I was relieved. I can't decide.

"Everything looks fine," said the nurse. I could tell there was a "but" coming. "But, you have a Vitamin D deficiency."

"Is that the sun one?"

She laughed. "Yes. Very common."

I nodded even though she couldn't see me. "That's not a surprise."

Who else is deficient?

Pipe Dreams (It's Not What You're Thinking)

He went for it.

Almost seven years ago, we had a bagpiper play during our wedding ceremony as we entered and left Ss. Peter and Paul church on a sunny afternoon in Rocklin, Calif. Later, Nurse Dave (he had a day job) piped at our reception during our entrance into my parents back yard.

Mr. T and I have known each other for about 14 years, so I can't remember when he first shared his desire to be a bagpiper. It probably wasn't when we were in college, but even then I knew he is passionate about his Scottish roots.

Yesterday, he paced all over the living room. At every woosh outside the front of our house, he ran over and looked through the peep hole.

"Why don't you go sit outside on the curb," I smiled at him.

Finally, the unmistakable sound of a UPS truck stopped in front of our driveway. Christmas morning flashed in Mr. T's eyes. I ran upstairs to get the camera.

He took his time opening the box, then carefully unwound bubble wrap from each pipe. I snapped away like my mom used to do on our first day of school.

He's been taking bagpiping classes for about eight months, but up until now used a practice chanter. (Think recorder from fourth grade music.)

Now he has the real deal. I'm proud of him.


I bet the neighbors aren't too excited, though.

Did you follow a dream? Are you chasing one now?

I'm Quitting

I'm just going to come out and say it.

I'm jealous.

I can't help it, it's my competitive nature.

During the teen years, this side of me was satisfied with sports like soccer. I had the cleat-shaped bruises all over my thighs to prove it. And, me and my teammate, Kelly, had the longest two-person "wall" sit time on our team at 14 minutes! Bragging rights, baby!

Then, sometimes during swim practice, kids competed to see for how many yards they could hold their breath. I could do two complete laps, or 50 yards. (I can't remember how much time that is, though.) At meets, I'd kick butt with a card game called Speed between my races.

But now that I'm older and don't play organized sports, my competitiveness doesn't feel as good. It feels like jealousy. I don't like it.

There are so many blogs out there, and a lot of them are by moms. They are all good. They are all interesting. Really! I like them for the same reasons I like memoirs. But, some of them look way cooler than the others.

These blogs wear the latest designs, know the right people and get all the comments. They are all cute and feminine or color coordinated or organized. I've always wanted to BE those things, but I'm 31 now so I don't think it's going to happen. But can't I, at least, have a BLOG that is cool?

I remember reading a post last summer by one of these cool mom bloggers about her desire to quit blogging. She talked about being consumed by it and feeling pressure to do more and better posts. I wish I could find her article, it was right on.

But, at the time, I was still a relatively new at this and I didn't get it. I thought, "What? How could you get burnt out on blogging? It's writing. I love to write!"

Oh, how naive I was! It's not all about writing, dumb new mommy blogger. It's more than that! It's about comments and page design and ads and BlogHer and photos and html code. Who has time for writing?

Lately I have been consumed with this blog, dreaming up ways of marketing it, promoting my brand and, somehow, making a little side money. 'Cause I could really use a mani/pedi.

Today, though, I came to my senses. I was talking to my mom over a crackly cell phone and telling her about the Mother of All Bloggers Contest. I was describing the world of mom blogs because she really had no clue about it. That she had never even heard of this whole alternate universe...that brought me back to reality.

I started this blog for ME. I had some things I needed to share with all you other mommies, and I don't think having a fab header or a catchy tagline is going to make you keep reading my posts. I think good writing is. So that's what I'm going to keep doing.

As for the obsession over the way this thing looks?

I'm quitting that*.

*But, say, I happen to win a blog makeover or something...I ain't gonna say no to that!

Stand In the Place Where You Live

My Mom Logic

Speechless is not a word my friends would use to describe me. Quietless is more accurate. I like to keep the conversation going.

But last week, I was thrown off my game when an elderly woman asked me: "How do you feel about the world?"

And so I was speechless. The only other time that happened was during a phone call with my 10-year-old nephew.

Me: How are you doing?

Him: Good, ma'am.

Me: Did you have a nice Christmas?

Him: Yes, ma'am.

Me (thinking): That's it, I'm out. Now what do I do?

Me: Is your dad there?

But, back to how I feel about the world: First of all, it was a very general question. Second, I hadn't had a chance to think about it. I was being put on the spot.

After about 10 seconds, I answered like my nephew, "Good."

The woman gasped. "Really?"

Her shock surprised me at first, but a few days later I wanted to change my mind.

I do feel good about my world. My little Kerrie world. It's really not too shabby. Mr. T and I both have jobs, we have a house, our health, our families, and T Junior at 11 months is thriving and happy (except when he's cranky).

My new answer, though, if I could go back, would be a little more lengthy than "good" because, really, the only way I can see all of the big world, Earth and all its places and people, is through information from sources like news media, books and the Internet. And it isn't a rosy picture.

I used to work at a newspaper. I read the wires. The things I saw bothered me. But then I went home and watched "America's Next Top Model," and all was right again.

That was before I was a mom.

Before I was a mom, I knew bad things happened and accepted it was just part of life. Before I was a mom, I could read the news without crying. Before I was a mom, sad stories didn't stick with me for days, weeks or even longer. They didn't suck the air out of my body. I could let go of what I saw or read or heard.

But not anymore.

Now, the trials of this world haunt me. Some more than others. Especially anything involving young children. It doesn't matter if I knew them. Their imaginary faces float in and out of my mind, keeping me awake at night, leaving me with a helpless heart.

Real Logic tells me these weren't my babies, there is nothing I could have done. Mom Logic, however, says they were.

But I guess that's just part of being a mother. Your thoughts become heavier, weighted down with worry, heartache and love.

I may have to stop watching the news.

Yes, I think that will be...good.

This post is in response to the Mother of All Bloggers Contest prompt sponsored by the Mom Logic Community and the Mom Bloggers Club. Wish me luck! :)

You Rock & a Top 5 List

Thanks to everyone who nominated me for the Mother of All Bloggers contest! The next step is to write a blog post about My Mom Logic. So, stay "posted"! (Pun totally intended.)

Meantime, here are 5 things going on at our house lately:

1. Walking This Way: T Junior is popping up on his legs a lot. Lately, it seems like every time I turn around, he's standing at the sliding glass door or next to refrigerator or by the couch. He hasn't learned to let go and stand by himself, yet. But, that is OK. I'm hoping he takes his time. A couple of weeks ago, another woman waiting her turn at the chiropractor's office told me that when her twins first started standing up, she used to knock them down!

2. Eating This and That: T Junior is trying out all kinds of foods. From high-brow cuisine like corn dogs to nutritious fruits and vegetables. He's a fan of broccoli! (I wonder how long that'll last.)

3. Sir Talks-A-Lot: T Junior is a Chatty Kathy, except he's a boy. Favorite words: dah (dog), buh (books), Diddeh (Tigger), yummm and mmmmm, daydoo (thank you), nana (banana), dahdeh (water), woof, moo, wa-wa-wa (quack, quack, quack), wooom (zoom), ahduhn (all done) and dada. (He only says mama when he's crying.) Today, he tried to say moose after Mr. T said it. He managed, "Ooosh." And, of course, he parrots what we say, especially after we holler, "DOGS, GET OUT OF THE KITCHEN!"

4. Finger Pickin' Good: T Junior recently discovered that his digits are conveniently sized to fit inside his nostrils.

5. Tantrum City: 'Nuff said.

At Least Give Me a Chance

I don't have a lot of time.

This contest is over tomorrow, April 19, at one minute to midnight.

I need 10 nominations just to be entered! So, pretty please with a pair of cherry red shoes on top, go here, my profile page on momlogic, and write your nomination on my Comment Wall (it's toward the bottom of the page).

Remember how I was just talking about getting a new look for this blog? Well, that's the prize! I could so use that ... and a mani/pedi, massage, shopping spree, but I'll have to enter that contest another day. First, the blog.

Clawing My Way Out One Ruby Slipper at a Time

I'm bored.

I'm tired of the way this blog looks. It's lame.

I get grand ideas about how cute it could be, but then I try to accomplish them and it does NOT come out like I imagined.

So, I've decided to change. I'm not sure how and I'm not sure when. But it WILL happen.

I also have been feeling this way about my physical appearance lately. I'm tired of dull. It's lame.

I'm tired of the same sweatshirt and jeans over and over again. Tired of white cotton socks and annoyed with layering long- and short-sleeve shirts.

So last week, I painted my finger and toe nails a cheery cherry color. I only like red polish on short nails, which I have. Long doesn't work for me. I pick at them when I'm thinking hard or if I'm nervous about something or when I'm riding in the front passenger seat while Mr. T is driving.

Yesterday, I went shopping. For me. NOT for baby clothes. (Although, I did just happen to be passing Gymboree on the way to my destination and so I did get these really great shorts on sale for T Junior. Powder blue with little orange embroidered crabs on them. Kind of like polka dots for boys. Probably last season, but I don't think he'll notice. Is anyone else crazy about blue and orange right now? I'm loving the combo.)

Anyway, I brought home a couple items for me, too. I finally found a pair of jeans like the kind I've been dreaming about in my head for more than a year. Jeans that look like trousers. Yes, trouser jeans. I knew they were out there, I just couldn't find them.

I also bought a lavendar blouse that came with a matching skinny belt that totally makes my legs look longer. Makes me look thinner. That is, after all, the point of clothes, isn't it?

Then today, I wore cute shoes. For about two months I've been exclusively wearing athletic shoes to help heal my back. You know the kind. The ones you wear to run or do aerobic walking? But it's OBVIOUS that I don't use them to exercise. They are more than a year old, too, and since I wear them a lot, including to dog shows and to work in the garden, they are dingy.

I love my red suede flats, however, and they have a blingy oversized silver buckle on the top that makes me smile. Very girly. (That's them in the photo up top.) They are probably inappropriate for my age. They were probably meant for high school teenagers who can wear skinny jeans with '60s-inspired smock tops, but I adore them. They make me feel like I've got a little style going on.

So, I'm changing.

I'm emerging from this new-mommy cocoon I've been in. I'm beginning to rediscover who I am and some of the things I like to do that have been hibernating inside me. Yes, like shopping. Soon, I'll be completely me again. But better. Wiser. With mightier wings.

And a prettier blog.

And Mom Guilt Creeps In

I have Easter let down.

Relaxed and uncomplicated is good. But I wonder if ours was a little too laid back. We went Fred Meyer at 4:30 p.m. for toilet paper.

This is not how I pictured my son's first Easter. Not that I had some big eggstravaganza (man, I hate it when publications do that) planned out weeks in advance. It's not like he'll remember.

Maybe a few days ago, though, I was imagining the three of us at mass in the morning. T Junior watching all the people, pointing to the other babos (babies), clapping after the singing stops. Then, we go home and I put the egg and sausage casserole in the oven and T Junior takes a nap.

When he wakes up, he gets his Easter basket. It is filled with all kinds of goodies, like colorful shiny eggs, messy green and yellow plastic grass, and maybe a stuffed duck or bunny.

Maybe we hit an egg hunt earlier in the day somehow, just to let T Junior watch the kids and socialize with our neighbor folks.

But that's not how it went at all.

Don't get me wrong. It wasn't bad. It's just that the day wasn't very exciting. Fried rice for Easter dinner anybody?

There was some fun. We spent a lot of the day playing with our son and his toys. He even tried out his legs, attempting to cruise a little. We sang. We danced. We laughed. T Junior tried strawberries. He got a bath.

There were no eggs, fake or dyed, no hunting, no ham, no annoying pastel grass or Peeps or Cadbury cremes. It was just us. In our house. With the constant rain locking us inside.

But.

Isn't that what it should be about? Just being around the ones you love?

I think, yes.

So why do I feel so guilty?

The Procrastinating Mommy's Easter Eve Interview

Easter is tomorrow. It will be T Junior's first.

Do I have his Easter basket ready?

No.

Surely, I must have all the pieces in a bag somewhere and just need to put it together.

Um. No.

I must have the local Easter Egg Hunt on the calendar.

Nope.

Did I buy T Junior a cute little argyle sweater and tan pants for Easter mass?

Sigh. No.

Do I have all the ingredients for a memorable Easter feast?

Definitely no.

Oh, OK. How about breakfast?

Only by accident.

Please Let This Be a Phase

This week, I have to keep reminding myself how lucky I am.

It's been a trying few days as T Junior is sick and going through a what I hope is a phase. Mr. T Googled "10-month-old" and "nap" the other day, and showed me that we aren't alone. The results were filled with words like "tantrum" and "screaming" and "won't sleep."

So, tonight, I am focusing on some of the moments I AM enjoying with my pre-toddler.

I love...

...how every single time we read the farm animal noises board book, T Junior grasps the page with the "pink piggy," pulls it to his open mouth and gives that oinker a sloppy, slimy kiss.

...that his eyes widen in exitement when I sing "Down by the Bay."

...that he makes Mr. T give "Diddeh" (Tigger) several good-night kisses every night.

...how he says "wooooooom" (zoom) when a car zips by.

...when T Junior grooves to children's tunes in his car seat.

...that he shares my fondness for "buh" (books) -- for the time being anyway.

...how he makes waves in the tub by frog-kicking his short, thick legs.

...that he uses his entire body to give the dogs hugs.

What are some of the ways you "love" your child when they scream and arch their back in a ridiculous fit of baby fury?

Look out Weeds, Here We Come!

I am looking forward to summer this year.

While that might be normal for most people, it isn't for me. I am more of a fall kind of girl. Red leaves, crisp evening air, cinnamon candles, plaid, football.

I grew up in northern-central California where the summer heat soared above 100 all the time. Dead weed smell hung unmoving in the heavy hot air. My stomach hurt the entire month of August. Makeup turned into sludge on my face. Even in the car, sweat trickled from behind my knees where they touched the leather seat. The goal was to go from air-conditioned automobile to air-conditioned house/store/movie theater as quickly as possible.

And, while the season here in western Washington is a lot more comfortable, there are hundreds of laborious tasks to do because it finally stops raining. Weed-pulling and painting and shoveling beauty bark. Ugh.

But last year, we didn't do any of those things. June, July and August of 2008 were a mixture of joy, sleepiness, confusion, worry, love, exhaustion and planning. Really, the only yard work that got done was mowing the lawn. And that was all Mr. T.

Everything going on in our lives was new and we spent many days indoors with weeks-old T Junior in a baby swing wondering, "Now what?" It was either that or Mr. T was running to Babies 'R' Us for some necessity we didn't know we needed like more swaddling blankets or Soothies.

This year will be different.

Me and Mr. T still mutter about not knowing what to do, but not as often as we used to. And, T Junior will be a year old. Maybe he'll be walking (although, he's not real interested in that right now). But we can go to the park and swing, swim at the community pool, go for walks in the jogging stroller with friends.

This year, there will be birthdays and tiki torches, fresh-cut grass, Coppertone, overall shorts, Little Swimmers, wide-rim hats and oversized glasses, sun tea and barbecued burgers.

I'm even cautiously excited about getting the yard under control. After a year of neglect, it needs it.

I'm Just Too Close to the Project

You know how when you see someone every day, you can't tell how much weight they are losing until a mutual friend says, "Did you know that Billy Joe Bob lost 100 pounds in six weeks; isn't that amazing?" And then you feel bad because you didn't notice, so you never said anything nice about it.

When I told the girls at the front desk this morning that T Junior will be a year old in just a couple of months, they were shocked.

"He looks so small."

I was confused by the comment. Small? Sure, he's not a cute chubby baby with marshmallow man rolls and pinchable chipmunk cheeks, but he's waaaaay above average in height. He's a noodle.

Unfortunately, they misread my face (which, by the way, never lets me get away with ANYTHING). I think they thought I was offended because they were trying to justify their comments: "Wait. How old is he? Yeah, I guess he looks like a 10-month-old;" "Well, my nephew was walking at 8 months, so..."

They really didn't need to say these things. Silly. It's just different perceptions.

I am with T Junior every day. To me, he's starting high school next week. To them, he's an infant. And, actually, I'd like him to stay that way, thank you very much.

Last night, when he refused to nurse before bed, I felt panicky. My baby! I kept trying to make him eat, but he wasn't interested. He wanted "buh" (books). When Mr. T came in the room to say goodnight, I softly exploded. It was a controlled cry because I didn't want T Junior to pick up on how rejected I felt, but there were tears and, yeah, there might have been some snot.

"He's just full," soothed Mr. T. "He had a big dinner. It doesn't mean he needs you any less."

Today, after I left the doctor's office, I remembered something another mom shared a few days ago. She said that when her son, now 3, became a toddler, he seemed so old. A big boy. But she told me that she recently looked at some pictures of him at that young age and realized: "He was just a baby!"

T Junior's doctor gave him the all-clear for whole milk this afternoon, which means he doesn't need formula at day care anymore. The mom part of me is sad about this transition. The normal part of me, however, is celebrating because do you know how much formula is? It's crazy expensive.

"He can pretty much have whatever you guys are eating," his doctor told me and Mr. T. "Cottage cheese, pudding, ice cream."

Ice cream! Mommy's favorite! Maybe that will fatten him up so he looks his age.

Worked for me...

He's testing out those spaghetti legs of his.
Don't worry, the fireplace is completely off.