House Tour + Insta-gratification

It's been a good long while since I posted an old school straight-up mommy blogger style post. And I'm sorry for that!

I'm still trying to find the right balance to keep you, my faithful old friends, satisfied and entertained without traumatizing my new audience at CNA. Because let's be honest, I'm not going to radically alter my voice or content, but some trauma you have to ease into.

The new blog is almost up and running, the design is going to be beautiful, and I can't wait to show it to you. In the meantime, I'm still "here," and so I figured why not post a little fluff to pass the time?

Oh, also, I finally embraced the modern world and joined Instagram yesterday. Welcome to the 90's, Mr. Banks. (And you all were right: it's the most fun of all social media.)

So something that I really, really love (because I'm a creeper?) is seeing other people's homes. I'm a would be decorating junkie and an HGTV addict, so there's nothing more fun to me than seeing somebody else's style/space and being able to envision them more accurately in their natural habitat when I'm reading their words. (If you're trying to decide if you're disturbed or flattered, go with flattered: I want to see your living room.)

Anyway, do you want to see my house? It's been enjoying a little TLC while I KonMari'd the shit out of my wardrobe/kitchen/bookshelves/decor, and I'm much happier with the way it looks now as opposed to 2 weeks ago. Much.

It's still not perfect, you know, because it's a work in progress. But it makes me happy to coax it along; I get a rush of satisfaction from finding a new spot for a tired piece of furniture or a neglected vase. Cheapest of thrills.

So, here you go, a virtual tour of casa del coffee:

First up, the living room/front entry way.

I just bought gorgeous (and cheap!) long white curtains at IKEA and I'm dying to get them up around that bay window. I have aspirations of hanging them high and wide and framing the gorgeousness of all that natural light that floods into the front of our southern facing house. And since we have a blackout shade we can close at night for privacy and light control, I was free to go with my heart and choose impractical ineffective and oh-so-lovely white. 

The oriental rug was a wedding gift and, while beautiful and expensive, is totally not my taste, but it's here and it's lovely and so I work around it and let it do most of the heavy lifting in terms of pattern/color in this room.

Next up, the family room. The blankest of blank canvases right now because I just spent an afternoon "quieting the space" ala Myquillyn and now it's sitting pretty and plain and waiting for the right touches, not just putting up with whatever I happened to have on hand the weekend we moved in. Not that there's anything wrong with going ahead and throwing something up on the walls, but after a year of not quite right, I'm happy to let it sit semi-undone for a bit while I figure it out.

(I should have disclaimed this sooner, but me + my iPhone 4 are do not a professional photographer make, and I'm not really that skilled on the layout end of things, either, in terms of uploading images. So if this looks like the work of an amateur, at least I'm transparent.)

Most of our stuff is thrifted, and here's the big fat caveat with that: it takes multiple visits to multiple thrift stores over multiple weeks and months to arrive at a "finished" product, at least for me it does. So even though I've found some amazing stuff over the past year and a half since we moved in here, it did take lots of time and patience to get there. Not thrifted: the white china platter (wedding gift), the leather couch (our first repatriation purchase upon arrival Stateside, American Furniture Warehouse), and the round framed mirror (Walmart. Shudder.) Everything else: Goodwill/Saver's/Homegoods/mom and dad's hand me downs.

Next: the opposite of a gourmet kitchen. But whatev, it's a decent-ish size and I have a huge pantry, and my husband is really gifted in the charism of doing dinner dishes before bed. So I've got no complaints. Wait, no, I do have one; the heinous "white" linoleum hanging onto the beleaguered floor for dear life. At least it's not carpet?

Heading down the hall we find ourselves in the master bedroom. It's big enough to fit our king sized bed (the luxury!) but not really big enough to fit anything else, and that's fine by me. I keep it as visually uncluttered as possible because I feel 100% less stressed when it's clean and calm.

(How do I get such amazing shots? I'm telling you, it's the 2 year old camera phone and the steady caffeinated hand. #gifted #blessed)

Oh, I forgot, here's a shot of the basement which contains two semi finished guest rooms, an avocado green full bath with some missing ceiling tiles, and a laundry room and play room. 

That stairwell, my friends, is the reason there's zero toy clutter on the main floor. (That and I'm ruthless with the donations. Ruthless.)

Moving on to the nursery wing.

How cool is the boys' dresser? It weighs 200 lbs and our landlords didn't want to bother taking it with, so we inherited it. Legend has it the original owner/saint decopauger is now happily tucked away in a convent somewhere, none the wiser that her lovely original piece now primarily houses Pull Ups and filthy pajama pants.

And my favorite space in the whole house? (Well, at least until this past weekend's decluttering fest); Genevieve's room.

We don't have a dining room because we're not fancy like that. Actually, it's because I opportunistically transformed the space into my gym/home office while nobody was paying attention. I'm sure if we were trying to fit teenaged boys around our kitchen table we might need this space, but for now I'm super super lucky I can use it this way. Nothing fancy, but it's a happy place that lets me get my work done.

And finally, some random shots of the front porch and our front yard, where the children frolic as I survey my kingdom from behind the storm door or the bay window. I'm sure the neighbors can't handle how hands on my parenting is.

Okay one last shot: Evie can stand! If anyone is still hanging on after this endless stream of blurry cellphone pics, you deserve to see something cute.

What about you? Up for showing a little behind the scenes of your home? Maybe you could throw a little something together and drop a link down below? I'm all eyes, because the only thing better than Pinterest is personalized Pinterest, you know?

Lent in the age of excess

As much as I loathe the trend of turning the penitential season into a social media campaign, and as obnoxious as hashtags can be, I still find myself 2 days out from Ash Wednesday wondering if maybe a little virtual peer pressure might be just what I need this year.

I have a decidedly first world problem, and it's mostly to do with food, but also to do with leisure time and belongings and disposable income and wifi connectivity. The unifying theme? I have too much of it. All of it.

Food, in particular, is my Achilles heel. In varying ages and stages past, I've struggled by turns to rule my appetite and, having failed in the struggle, to let it rule me.

In adolescence I would have sworn up and down that it was I who called the shots, but in the throes of an eating disorder that stretched well into the college years, I was blind to the harder truth that I was, in reality, every bit a captive to the rigid rules and cravings and triggers that dictated my daily life.

When I got pregnant with my first child the month after my wedding, no sooner had the test turned up positive then I was happily filling the freezer with ice cream, delighted both by the impending glory of motherhood and the freedom to eat carbs again. I gained an ungodly amount of weight that, surprisingly, did not simply melt away under the efficient assault of non-stop nursing and never sleeping ever again. So odd. So ... disappointing.

So realistic.

I tried between each pregnancy to regain some semblance of my "normal" body, but around the time my old jeans start fitting, that pink line shows up again.

Which is a huge blessing! Don't get me wrong. But, it's becoming increasingly obvious that pregnancy, for me, is not a temporary blip on the radar screen of real life. The kids are going to keep coming, so long as we discern we are in a position to welcome them, (or, more to the point, so long as we discern the absence of a grave reason which would prevent their coming) and so I need to adjust my lifestyle to better reflect reality.

And the reality is, if I put away pints and pints of the finest gelato American dollars can buy, I'm going to be enormous at 40 weeks. And after three repeat performances, I can confidently report that those lb's don't actually melt away once one exits hotel hospital.

There's something else though, and it's not just about excess weight gain and late night visits to the freezer section: when I remove any semblance of discipline from the dietary realm, I stumble and atrophy in other areas of my life.

It's hard to say no to oneself, which is, in part, a large reason for the existence of Lent. It's an annual dose of concupiscence-be-gone; a chance to recalibrate, to dissolve unhealthy attachments and form better practices, to hone more heavenly habits.

So while it's terribly cliche to give up entire food groups and call it one's penance (I'm looking at you, Eastern Church), I'm going to go ahead and push the reset button on this pregnancy, here on the precipice of 15 weeks, and hope that by making better choices in the kitchen, I might be strengthened to grow and stretch in other areas of my life, too.

Plus, I'm straight up exhausted from all the carbs and sugar.

So thus begins the countdown to Lent:Whole40.

Terrible, right? I know it is ... and yet I have such hope that eating in a way that is so utterly penitential and unappealing to me, particularly when I'm in a family way, will open up spaces in my day and in my mind for Him. And that while I'm saying not my will over and over again, all day long, from the moment my feet hit the floor and I start dreaming about depressing the lever on the toaster till the moment I collapse onto the couch after bedtime stories, jonesing for Ben and Jerry, I'll be gaining some sorely needed self mastery, if not a more reasonable number on the scale come delivery day.

I could have chosen other vices to exorcise this season, believe me. God knows I could spend less time on social media, that I could be more committed to daily mental prayer and staying on top of the laundry than I am to answering text messages and emails. But this feels most fundamental, and most essential to bringing order in the rest of my life as a result.

I'm pretty much counting on it. Because there's a laundry list of a dozen other character flaws, shortcomings and patterns of sin to examine, but I'm too lethargic from the half tub of Trader Joe's chocolate cat cookies (that aren't even good, by the way) consumed during tonight's viewing of Downton Abbey to commit them all to paper. And wise enough to know that at Lent, sometimes less is more.

Happiest, fattest Tuesday to you all this week, and may your sacrifice choose you this year, and may you know it when you see it.

Sun's out, guns out

Not to taunt you East Coasters and Midwesterners too mercilessly, but we're kind of basking in the gentle glow of January in Denver right now.

So there's been lots of this

And this

And not much writing.

But I'm also fighting nasty nasty bronchitis which rears its wheezing head at approximately 10 pm till I don't even want to tell you every night, so I'm immensely grateful for climate change right now, and the opportunity to turn the ruffians into the yard for the entire afternoon so I can scrub the kitchen, pay bills, and hunch over an essential oil diffuser, huffing thieves oil and shooting lemon water and trying not to (TMI TMI) pee my pants.

Pregnancy is much less glam the fourth time around.

Any homeopathic remedies you want to throw my way, I can almost guarantee I'll try them. My doctor took enough pity to prescribe an inhaler, but not so much that he released any codeine into my clutches. Tiny, drug-seeking violin.

How's your longest month going? Any resolutions still kicking?

I'm still clean and sober, 27 days strong. My confused eldest son has started calling the grocery store "Target," so I think that tells you how ingrained his loyalty habits are from a young age.

Oh, I also joined the future and borrowed an ebook from the library. Technology. And I wait listed 19 best sellers that I will be awarded in approximately 14 months, give or take the line ahead of me. I guess that's why people buy books? But not having Amazon prime has been clutch for curbing my little dalliances with impulse spending.

On the relocation front, I'm going to be hanging out here, temporarily, on CNA. I'll still be cross posting everything on the blog until the technical stuff all wraps, but it seems like all systems are go for eventually being able to type in Mama Needs Coffee and still landing in my hood. The only potential snag I can see is that the feed itself will change, so if you read in Bloglovin or Feedly or some other reader, you may have to resubscribe. I'll figure out all the details for you though, fret not.

And finally, did you see Grace's news? I loved the graphic she found. I actually told a friend earlier today that he was off the hook for needing to offer congratulations since this is #4, and he could just say "of course you are." Which I infinitely prefer to "don't you know what causes that?"

Between her, Hallie, Blythe, Kendra, and me, we're going to singlehandedly repopulate the blogosphere. And then, the earth.

Oh, and speaking of world domination, I can't believe you guys voted me into the most undeserved category for the Sheenazing awards, but I'll take it. I couldn't believe it when Bonnie emailed me, especially given the company I was keeping in that nomination category. So thank you, truly.

Promotions and Upgrades

I already shared with you guys the crazy news about my promotion to Catholic News Agency/EWTN, which should be fully in effect (read: new site will be live) the first week of February.

As these things often go, technical details abound and so it might be a little bit past the projected start date when things come on line. But then, anything good is worth waiting for, right?

Evie concurs. Or at least, she'll get there.

See, she's been promoted, too (along with her older brothers, who are already veterans in the role), and while we've been given a tentative start date for her new position to take effect, God only knows the precise timing.

Probably you see where this is going?

(It's also the reason I may be a tad behind on my comments and emails. But you'll forgive a tired, pregnant blogger, won't you?)

Baby Bing #4, debuting sometime early August. God is good.

Blog Roll

I don't know about you guys, but I always love seeing who other bloggers are reading. I haven't updated ye olde sidebar blogroll in...uh, ever, actually, but I do have a fat handful of regular reads that I'd like to share, though I'm guessing you're already all over lots of them.

So, I present to you in no particular order, my regulars.

First up, my pick for girl most likely to be my bff/ person I'd most love to sit down to a beer with: Bonnie. (Don't be creeped out Bonnie, it's just that, I love you.) I always click if she has something new, because she always manages to be classy, forward (but not too forward, you know? Like me, for example), charitable, funny as hell, and real.

Best fashion blogger/I needed to laugh: Duh, it's Grace. And because she's always mucho self deprecating and all kinds of humble, I don't even hate her for looking like a teenage supermodel, 4 mewling babes notwithstanding.

Best life in the trenches/sprinkles of profound faith: Ana. Plus, we knew each other in real life, first! (Remember when I crashed your wedding Ana? I mean yes, technically I was invited, but I think I RSVP'd like one week out? And then came as they third wheel to my sister and (now) brother-in-law, because I'd just gotten dumped. Charmed, I'm sure she was.) Oh, Imma add Kathryn to this category too, as a late entry, because my brain failed. Her stuff during her sweet boy's NICU stay is especially poignant.

Best photography/design/boy mom stories: Carolyn. Love her stuff. And she's also a resident maternal supermodel, but again with the humility and grace.

Most supportive "we got this"/here's how you DIY it: Jenna. Can't believe I forgot her!

Favorite crunchy mama. Well this one's a toss up. I love Nell and Haley both so much, and I think it's incomplete to call either of them "crunchy" so I think I'll go with eclectically organic with a heaping side of orthodoxy. Both so fascinating and wise. Nell gets extra points for being the cheerleader of the entire internet, and mad props to Haley for her sick social media guru skills (I participated in one of her FB parties once and holy interactive, batman.) So, it's a tie.

Most likely to make me look around and sigh, wishing she were sitting in my living room drinking coffee (or wine) and watching Downton Abbey with me: Christy. Love her writing, can't believe how much she reads, and can't fathom the length of her winters.

Blogger I wish would post more frequently: oh gosh, this one's another tie. Kaitlin and Regina are both two of my favorites, and are both so busy and important they never have time for my blog reading pleasure. Ahem, ladies.

Most underrated Catholic blogger: Michele. And I don't mean underrated like "nobody reads her and they need to be, "(though if you're not, you do need to be!) but just that she seems to fly under the radar and her stuff is so, so good. She's also a published author so prooooobably she is focusing her energy on loftier stuff than blogging, but when she takes the time to write, you are never sorry you clicked over. Plus her daughters are darling.

Favorite local blogger: New-to-me fellow Denverite Megan. Love her writing, love her story, love her solidarity as I boycott Target and salvage our family finances.

Experienced (read: doesn't wring her hands and sob at bedtime every night daddy works late) mother I'd most like to apprentice to. Jen or Hallie. Really either of them could teach me everything I ever needed to know about not losing my damn mind in the next decade or so, I believe. Colleen would probably also slap some sense into me.

Sporty blog: I love Susan and her beautiful reflections on motherhood and running and being a rockstar wife.

Living faith: Molly. She handles the gritty, non-always-easy and sometimes makes your throat catch. But always beautiful.

Unknown(ish): Kristine's is a blog I've been creeping for years, I think I found her originally through Jen's old blog, but I honestly can't remember. Anyway she has 4 beautiful babies, runs ultra marathons and dresses like a runway model so...I can't look away. Also, minimalism + clean eating. Can't get enough.

Fav non-Catholic blog: another one I've been reading literally for years and years is NieNie's. She's LDS and definitely super into it, but I just skim the heavy religious posts, and honestly, her commitment to her faith and her family is admirable. Also, her clothes/house/kids/pics are stunning. She and her husband survived a horrific plane crash a few years ago and she's a burn survivor with an amazing comeback story.

Smartest blog: probably Anne. Her curated content is so interesting. I like Joanna too, but some of her stuff is morally questionable.

Fav male blogger: I don't read hardly any man blogs (sorry guys?) but I do like Daniel's and Dan's.

My political muse(s): Julie. Or maybe Mary. Gah, another toss up. Both are so smart and witty and generous in their coverage of "the other side." You'll be a better person for reading them.

Home decor: love the Nester. I really like Ashley's stuff too, and Caitlin's.

Girls I just want to close down the bar with: Kate. And Steph. And Katrina. And Lisa. And Cari. And Dwija. And Rosie. And Kelly. Okay, pretty much everyone on the aforementioned list.

Can I just tack a few more on here? I mean, who can remember the entire internet? Okay cool: Olivia,  Anne, Kendra, Mary, Agnes, Cam, Christine . . . (dot dot dot, because I'm sure I'll think up a few more.)

I'm sorry if I missed anyone! I tried to retrace my frequent trolling steps so I'll have to come back and add to this list if I encounter any omissions, because dang this got long, and my back hurts from siting, and the friggin Patriots just won and the friggin Seahawks are currently winning. Blergh.

Anyone you love who I'd love?

Soul Vitamins

Because who doesn't need a little pick me up by the week's end?

How about a womb-like spa experience for your fat-faced and adorably milk blistered newborn? The French would conceive something this decadent and beautiful.

Also, proof that not only is the world not a terrible place, but it's actually populated by beautiful people who look like indie movie stars and have hearts made of solid gold...and who name their baby sunflower.

Finally, I had the most amazing experience of deliverance prayer in spiritual direction a couple weeks ago. More about that some day, I promise, but for now, the heartiest of thanks to Dan Lord, (aka Hallie's sweetheart), for sharing his own story on Jen's show. This song was playing on the radio when I hopped in the car to leave afterwards. I'd never heard it before, and now I can't stop hearing it. Just the lyric video alone is hauntingly beautiful.

Ciao.

....Oh, fine, one more. Olivia nails all that it means to be a Barron. And then some. I'm old enough that I only got like 85% of these, but it was still funny.

Christmas is a BIG deal {and that's okay}

I know the days of being able to wow our kids with a couple of thoughtfully-curated, $20 something Christmas gifts are numbered. Or are they?

I want to keep our family's focus on the real meaning of Christmas: Him. But I also want to really party it up, you know? And to me, party = presents. Not a ton of presents, necessarily, but a decent handful of brightly colored packages strewn under the (absolutely must be real) Christmas tree.

When I was growing up I remember one of the most magical moments of the season being that predawn treck down the stairs to the sight of a figurative ocean of Christmas presents spilling out from under the tree and filling the entry way of my parent's home. My parents knew how to go big.

But not necessarily bank-breaking big. With 7 kids (did you guys know I'm the oldest of 7?) times 3-4 presents each, plus grandparent gifts, we're talking somewhere in the neighborhood of 35-40 packages under that tree.

And it.was.awesome.

There was something about the superabundance of gifts under the tree that communicated, to my childish heart, the significance of the event we were celebrating. And it didn't matter that some of them were from the dollar store, or that inevitably, grandma's gifts were going to be lame pajamas (that I would die of happiness to receive today. Go figure.)

It was the ridiculous too-much ness of Christmas morning that helped me realize that ... this is a pretty big deal.

Now this is not to say that you can't have a lovely, minimalist Christmas punctuated by handmade gifts and baked goods. This is simply my own alternative perspective on the whole "Christmas is too commercialized/we're not doing presents on principle!" line of reasoning that seeks, rightfully so, to reclaim the season for Christ.

I think it can be both/and, though.

I think you can have a meaningful, sacramental, beautiful Christmas filled with bright paper packages and hymns and carols.

And I think it's okay to want to fill the space under the tree with a couple - or more than a couple - thoughtfully chosen gifts for your kids and spouse, never forgetting for a moment that He is the gift par excellence.

Also, we believe wholeheartedly in Santa in this house. But that's another post for another time.

So, without further ado, I present to you our hundred-something dollar Christmas which I hope will wow the crowd appropriately. (And, in keeping to a 3 gift per child limit, I realize that the only way we can really up the number of packages under the tree is by upping the number of butts in the seats. Gulp.)

For Joey, age 4:

This camera, which I fully expect to blow his mind while at the same time preserving my ancient iPhone to live to snap another day.

This collection of Star Wars peeps. Because my little apple didn't fall far from the tree.

This watch. Because learning! And Lightening McQueen.

For John Paul, age 2.5:

This remote control car. He's going to sob with delight when he opens it. And it alleges to be easily controlled by fat little fingers.

This watch. Because Batman.

This liturgically significant catechetical toy. Which will be shared by the whole clan, and will be personally delivered by St. Nicholas himself on December 6th. (My kids write letters to St. Nicholas, aka Santa, and leave them in their shoes on the evening of December 5th. Little do they know they're getting more than gold coins this year.)

For Genevieve, age 11 months:

These sweet little shoes. She's still utterly uninterested in doing anything resembling standing, but I figured these might give her some motivation. Plus, John Paul had a pair of Pedipeds in Italy and I loved them so much.

These adorable knee socks, which I pray can summit her 3-inch long calves and secure themselves above her cankles, staying in the upright position like no sock has yet to do.

And finally, this cool looking thing, which will be her first official "new" toy, not counting a baby doll and a stuffed kitty cat (all my kids have been given a Jellycat stuffie from birth and they are the attachment object par excellence. Do yourself a favor and check them out.)

So that's it. And looking over it in a list like this, it looks like a lot! But it was less than $150 for everything, and it will make for a nice little pile of packages under the tree. 

We also adopt a family equal in size to our own each year at our church, and I have a sort of unwritten rule that whatever we spend on our kids, we spend on theirs. It helps temper my natural desire to BUY ALL THE THINGS, and will be, we hope, instructive to our kids as they grow up and see that whatever we do for them we will match in charitable giving. So they could technically get twice as many gifts, but then the other family would not get their Christmas. 

So that's it. An alternative perspective on the annual introspective about presents vs. Jesus. Maybe He's the big Present, and the smaller ones help little impressionable people connect with that on a heart-deep level. That's my hope, at least.

 Now, onward to Advent!

Talking sex (and marriage) with Fountains of Carrots

(I cannot WAIT to see the google search results for that title)

Hey, I got to do something really fun last month and chat it up with two of my favorite bloggers, Haley from Carrots for Michaelmas and Christy from Fountains of Home. They've recently launched a new weekly podcast, and I think it's going to be really good.

I really love finally hearing people's voices after I've "known" them by their writing voice alone, you know? It's almost always a huge surprise how they sound in real life. So, just to set your expectations nice and low, expect me to sound like a 15 year old girl from Southern California. (Except I'm double that age, and originally from the Bay Area.)

Anyway, enjoy my little brush with celebrity, and have a beautiful wine-drenched and pie-filled Thanksgiving.

Momdulgences

Yesterday I went to Macy's in search of, well, nevermind what I was searching for. What I ended up finding was a frigid little corner in the back of cosmetics populated exclusively by Origin's products, repped by a very enthusiastic elderly woman named Janice.

Janice had a flowing, blonde mane and deep rings of sea green eyeliner, which perhaps should have scared me off, but which somehow lured me into a false sense of security and wellbeing. Before I knew what was happening, I found myself reclining in a spring loaded beach chair, subject to a complimentary mini facial involving rice, tea tree oil, and numerous iterations of ginger.

Ginger is so hot right now.

As Janice worked powdered rice and eucalyptus oil into my dull, lifeless pores, she regaled me with stories of Japanese women washing their tired faces in dirty, standing water after hours of toil in the rice paddies. Wouldn't you know it though, the starchy rice water ended up being miraculously regenerative and had a stunning effect on the complexions of these poor field laborers. I'm sorry to say, I left that department store with a $30 tube of concentrated rice facial scrubbing paste in my clutches.

Janice was aaaaaaalso kind of into the occult, and she had a fairly distinctive facial and vocal tic which may or may not have been supernatural in origin, so I felt well within my rights praying a silent litany of Hail Mary's as she peppered me with stories about Native American healing energy and reiki treatments, all while spontaneously cackling and throwing her head back at a jarring 90 degree angle.

I'm not gonna lie, my face feels amazing, but it was not the most peaceful 45 minutes I've ever spent.

It was, however, fairly pleasant. And aside from the $80 I accidentally spent on products, it was free!

I was thinking of how lucky I'd been to stumble upon a bored aspiring cosmotologist with a "spiritual" side whilst wandering through racks of overpriced, middle-aged clothing when it occurred to me that even this small coincidence, this badly-needed moment of being "off duty" was a complete and utter gift to me.

It might not seem like God could - or would - work through a New Age aficionado of a beautician in a department store to fill a tired mom's cup, but that's precisely what He did for me yesterday afternoon, as the snow fell and the temperature dropped and my darling husband sat at home watching a losing football game and all three kids.

He's good like that.

I often find that when I'm searching and plotting and planning to pamper myself, when I'm actively seeking escape, those are the times when relief and relaxation are most inaccessible.

Do you ever have that feeling, when you've been given an unexpected childless hour to do ... whatever, and instead you fritter away precious minutes agonizing over what to do, how to spend it, where to do, how to squeeze the very most out of it that you can because dammit, you will never be alone again?

I feel that way all the time.

Almost every time my mother's helper comes. Those evenings when Dave graciously pushes me out the door for a solo trip to the gym. The stolen, infrequent hours when all three kids miraculously fall asleep at the same time.

I usually sit there frozen, paralyzed by my own fear of choosing wrongly how to spend this coveted and precious time. And I end up at Target or doing laundry or...something. Something so utterly banal and unfulfilling that even if I accomplish massive sections of my mental To Do list, I still come back home empty, restless, and unfulfilled.

I sound completely selfish and a little bit crazy, but I'm telling you, it's not easy to be "off." It's one of the hardest things about motherhood, for me, that even when I'm technically not on duty, my heart and my head and God knows, the anxiety levels, are still fully engaged in the business of mothering.

I'm trying to do better.

I'm trying to seek out pockets of calm, moments of grace that God wants to give me. Not stolen moments, or experiences carved out of long days with gritted teeth and a heart full of resentment, but gifts given. I'm really trying to see the opportunities He presents for peace, relaxation, and renewal, and to accept them with gratitude and with the expectation that He wants this. And it's okay if I turn my ringer off and just ... close my eyes and settle in. Whether it's for a few silent minutes in Adoration or for a hot peppermint mocha. Just breathe. Accept His invitation to surrender the reins and abandon post.

Even if Janice is rubbing rice powder into my eyes and asking about my chakras.

Whole 30: reentry and results

Okay I promise I'll shut up about the Whole 30 soon. Really soon. But first I wanted to share some stats and insights.

We officially ended our Whole 30 on Saturday evening (it was a vigil feast, I suppose you could say) in anticipation of Sunday. So it was a Whole 29. We ended up at the Rio because we are a. predictable and b. Mexican food is worth it.

Here's the weird part: the margaritas were good, but they weren't that good. And I only had one. That has never happened before. I only wanted one. And I'm not even pregnant.

So the clear, harsh light of Monday morning has broken and I'm happy? Confused? Resigned? to report that alcohol isn't really worth it. Dairy isn't really worth it. And grains of all varieties? Meh. I'm not really that relieved to have reintroduced anything back into my diet, save for tortilla chips. And even those don't hold the sway over me they once did. So going forward, I don't think it's going to be all that challenging to keep eating paleo most of the time. Not even the 80/20 ratio I was envisioning, but probably something closer to 95/5. I'm serious. And nobody is more surprised than me.

Dave is lactose intolerant and we've known about it for a while, but I'm totally wondering if I am too, now. And that kind of sucks but it's nice to know that if I want to feel really good, I know how to make that happen.

So on to the really exciting stuff (though honestly, feeling this good and clear-headed is surprisingly just as exciting as the weight lost. But I know what you came here to find out):

In 30 days of eating Whole 30 (with two intentional cheats) I lost 12 lbs. I went down one jeans size (and I'm flirting with the next size down). I lost 1 inch from my waist, 1 from my bust, and 2 from my hips. 

Dave lost 11.5 lbs so technically I won, but who's really keeping score? Ahem.

Basically it was a smashing success, and I'll probably keep cooking paleo for our main meals and have a glass of wine or two on the weekends. It's been a total life change for the better, and I'm so relieved to have seen it through to the end. I'll probably do another strict Whole 30 sometime in the future, but for now I'm so excited to have one under my (looser) belt.

Anyone else out there made it through the month of no fun? Feeling surprised about any part of it in particular? Cut any nastiness out of your diet permanently? Fed up with the whole thing and think it's totally overrated? Do tell.

Oh gosh, and here are some pictures. I didn't really take "before" shots because vanity, but oh, lucky you, here's roughly how I looked before our month of fun, courtesy of a 4 year old who always finds the iPhone AND the most flattering angle possible. Thanks, Joey:

Wow 

And wow-er.
(My little sister calls those our "arm legs." Family heirlooms bestowed on each female in the dynasty.)

And here's me now:

I feel really good. I'm back at pre-Evie weight, but I may have been a tad (ahem, 20 lbs or so) overweight when we conceived her, so I'd love to lose another 10 or 15 lbs. If I don't, no big deal, but I'm definitely going to keep working at it. 

I've also been working out twice a week with a trainer at our gym primarily to tone my core and strengthen my lower back. And by tone I mean dig around and see if there are any intact muscle fibers still connected in that region. It has been hard. But good. And it gives me hope that if we're blessed with another pregnancy or seven in the future, my spine isn't going to give out. 

So there you have it. One Whole 30 done, one whole new perspective on food and nutrition, and one very reformed beer aficionado who now prefers seltzer water. Most of the time.

Not done yet

You guys.

Thank you. Thank you for the overwhelming outpouring of support and encouragement (are those the same thing? Kind of.) that you shared via comments and emails the past couple days. Dave pointed out to me shortly after Monday's post that it seemed like kind of a Dear John letter for the 'ol blog, but nope, not the case.

I'm not going anywhere. Except perhaps to a shorter duration of total time spent on line. Which will probably and hopefully result in more good content here, not less.

In the interest of full disclosure, I just flopped a piece of bacon across my keyboard, quite by accident, and now my cursor is greased.

(Whole30 Day 12: Keepin' on keeping on.)

Breakfast: 2 eggs, 2 slices bacon, some dried apricots, 2 shots black espresso
Lunch: 1 million pistachhios, 1/2 cup of leftover beef stew (paleo-ized for compliance) half a cucumber, 2 strips of bacon
Dinner: Acorn squash soup and roasted veggies
Snacks: slices of ham, pistachios, apple slices

You're the best.

Recalibrating

I have a confession to make.

I've been suffering from a bit of blog drift lately, for lack of a better term. It crystalized for  me last night as I found myself cornered at a dinner party with a social media wizard asking me about content and SEO and stats and the like, and my only explanation as to what my brand was "about" was a sort of half-ashamed (or perhaps fully ashamed) mumbling of how I wasn't very professional or organized or monetized or anything-ized, and that I was "just a mommy blogger."

He wasn't very impressed.

Nor was I.

I've been experiencing a touch of discomfort whenever I log on lately because rather than getting right to the point and putting virtual pen to paper as I was long accustomed to, I've slipped into the habit of spending exponentially more time reading more and more content across a wider spectrum of all manner of digital publications.

This is not bad! This is good. It is absolutely necessary and essential and life-giving for a writer to read. And it's best practices to read what other players in your field, so to speak, are putting out there.

But so much of what I've been reading has been in the pursuit of entertainment and distraction and, almost imperceptibly at first, but inarguably now, comparison.

I'm finding that many nights as I sit clicking through to "just one more" article or post or essay that I'm not actually reading to learn things, or to grow in virtue, or to experience the world from another person's point of view; I'm reading (and I'm ashamed to admit this) to compare myself, to compare my life, to measure my abilities and my gifts and my accomplishments against a virtual composite of someone else's highlight reel. And I generally come up short.

I'm not anti-internet. I'm not anti-social media either, though I don't have personal accounts on Facebook or Twitter. I know myself well enough to know that I can't be trusted with an Instagram account, either, because the temptation to capture all the moments and edit all the scenes is just too great.

In short, I'm a crappy blogger. At least in the sense of the blog as a means to connect with a broad audience across a spectrum of channels, and to facilitate interactivity within the community that forms. When I started blogging 8 years ago it was simply an outlet for an overactive and overly-analytic brain that saw patterns and deeper meanings in everyday experiences. I never foresaw the social aspect of it, but I was delighted when people actually started reading the things that I wrote.

Now that readership and interaction are so crucial to the whole blog experience, I feel kind of like a stranger in my own land. Almost every time I sit down to write these days I find myself asking not, "does this matter to me?" But rather, "will this generate page views? Will people respond to this? Is this likely to perform well?" All of which are totally stupid questions for me to be asking because this blog is not monetized, it's not my job, and the internet isn't a popularity contest.

What I am emphatically not saying is that monetization or sponsorship or professionalism are negative things. By no means! I'm just working through my own neurosis here, trying to understand why I get a sinking feeling in my stomach whenever I see another fellow mommy from the digital trenches has risen to the top via a book deal or a cool collaboration.

A rising tide lifts the whole harbor and all that, yes. But my broken and selfish human nature sometimes prevents me from celebrating when others accomplish what I long to do.

The blog for me was never about becoming anything else, until I started to look around and see that for some people their blogs were becoming something Else. Something bigger and better and more exciting than tap tap tapping out funny travel stories or recaps of hard days in the mother hood.

I don't know where I'm going with this except to resolve to refocus on my original purpose for this space. Or, gosh, maybe to define that purpose, period. And maybe to clean out my feed reader from the superfluous 18 daily missives from Apartment Therapy and the likes. And to step away from the computer at a set time in the evening and just be.

I don't know. I just don't. But one thing is for certain; I'm so glad you're reading. And if you'll bear with me as this little space weathers digital menopause or whatever exactly is happing, I promise to stop making bad picture collages and trying to do design of any kind.

Except in my living room. Can't stop, won't stop, moving the couches.

You're the best. Really.

Booty bombs and clickables

Joey and John Paul have been engaging in a fascinating new pastime for the last 2 weeks. It involves climbing to the highest elevation in the room and launching off in a semi-squat position and landing with a sub-floor shaking thunder in the middle of the carpet. Did I say I was fascinated? That's probably not the right word.

Over and over again, JP in particular will shout to me, "Mommy, watch me jump! Look at this booty bomb!" (don't ask). And over and over again I have to look up, cringe, and wait for the seemingly ankle-crushing landing after increasingly long periods of mid-air hang time.

Little boys are terrifying. And endlessly entertaining.

I have all kinds of reflections and thoughts rumbling around in my head about this and how it is keeping within the very essence of their masculine nature to do things that are bold, potentially life-threatening, and limit testing. And I just have to sit back, sipping my coffee, and wondering whether or not I am indeed going to have to pick up that frequent flier punch card that the ER nurse warned me about at our last visit.

(It's been at least 4 months since then, injury fates, so I'd best shut my mouth.)

In lieu of anything more substantial to offer you this fine Sunday morning, I'll leave you with some of my fav clicks from the past week. And, if I could beg some of your prayers for my grandfather, who is dying, I'd be grateful. Most of our extended family was able to gather in his home last night for a private Mass and it was incredibly peaceful. I'm praying he doesn't have too much longer to suffer, and that he experiences a peaceful and happy death filled with reconciliation and forgiveness.

Onward to clickage:

Mary AMY (reeeeeeally bad with names, proof positive) from Motherhood and Miscellany (who I am pretty sure I met last weekend and who was absolutely delightful, if I'm remembering the right sweet face) wrote an excellent piece on a subject I'm mostly unfamiliar about, and, frankly, uncomfortable over. It's so important to remember that our crosses do not look the same! And that something that I perceive to be a struggle and a cross in it's own right (super fertility, to be precise) is actually, ironically, what other women are praying fervently to receive. Life is crazy.

This book was a gift in our swag bags last weekend, and while I rolled my eyes at the title, I found myself deeply and almost immediately engaged. I ripped through it in 3 days of bedtime reading, and I strongly encourage you fellow mamas to do the same.

This piece from Bonnie, recapping Edel and her own (identical to mine!) fears and anxieties about attending was so great. Plus, the playlist she compiled for me? Solid gold. Songs #1 and #2 are my fav so far.

probably laughing at something said by Bonnie. Photo credit: Kevin the awesome.

This song is catchy and basically awful. But you know who isn't awful? Hilary Duff. My little sisters and I have been fangirling over her since circa 2001, so please enjoy her really embarrassing return from retirement. (Props to her for not going the slutty n' sultry route, however.)

Happy Sunday to all! May your day be punctuated by cold beer, warm sunshine, and silent children in the pew.

How hating eggs is healing my relationship with food

(To be clear, I understand that food is an inanimate object and, as such, is not capable of sustaining the  aforementioned relationship. Bear with me, this goes somewhere, I promise.)

Just sitting around the homestead this afternoon pounding hardboiled egg and cucumbers for the least-satisfying lunch you could possibly imagine.

We're on day 11 of our latest venture down Paleo row and I have to confess: it's wearing on me. What I'm wearing, however, is falling off me, so I feel I have no choice but to continue this bold adventure into the land of previously unpronounceable vegetables and mineral water. And eggs. Oh so many eggs.

Here's a word to the wiser; if you're going to adopt thee most expensive nutritional lifestyle du jour, be sure you check out your bank account and then cross-reference it with the going rate for grass fed beef in your neck of the notfarmland, because if you don't have a 4 digit grocery budget, you are going to be dwelling for the next month in a special place I'd like to call poultry purgatory. Do you like eggs? You do? That's nice. I bet you like scrambled eggs with a little cheese on top and a side of buttery toast with a nice foamy latte on the side. And maybe even jam.  Now take away the butter, the toast, the jam, and the milk in that latte, and you have a perfectly Paleo breakfast! You could even add some banana-flavored eggs on the side.

Do you get the sense of desperation in my menu? Do you have a good sense for the quiet dread I feel when I step into the grocery store, knowing that for an additional 19 days I'll be circling the perimeter  loading up on meat, raw nuts, coconut milk, green things, and dozens upon dozens of eggs? Let me be clear: Trader Joe's is not any fun right now. Not any fun at all. But just as I was gearing up to write this whiney whine of a post about how much I wanted to chuck this whole experiment and drown my sorrows in a giant glass of prosecco, I decided I'd better do a quick weight and measurement check, just for posterity's sake, you know?

My clothes are definitely fitting looser and I have decidedly more energy in the mornings, which is a nice change from silently begging to be knocked unconscious when Joey busts in at o'dark thirty demanding cereal and cold milk. Always with the cold milk. Never lukewarm. So I hopped on the scale to sneak a peak at what all this paleo-ing and walking has accomplished thus far, and my eyes almost popped out of their sockets.

Because 6.5 lbs. In 11 days. Eating entire fistfuls of guacamole and sides of cows and more almonds and eggs and glugs of olive oil than you could shake a strip of bacon at. (And plenty of that too, by the way) And yet there it was, the irrefutable proof on the digital readout that this is working, and that, hard as it is to admit on a 90-degree day which just begs for a Corona with lime, this is so worth it.

I busted out the tape measure just to see if there was any movement on those numbers too, and behold, my wasted waistline is an entire inch and a half trimmer. In less than 2 weeks. I feel like I could have visibly observed the shrinkage if I had been paying close enough attention. I'm shocked.  Happy shocked, for sure. But also kind of appalled by how simple it really was to finally get that number moving in the right direction. Because for as much of my life as I can remember, I've struggled with my weight.

When I was 120 lbs and swimming competitively in high school, I struggled with my weight. When I was 50 lbs heavier and battling a severe eating disorder and binge drinking every night of the week in college, I struggled with my weight. When I was a healthy 135 and walking down the aisle in my beautiful wedding dress, I struggled with my weight. And when I was a first-time mom riding a desk full-time and pounding cheezits to keep the nausea at bay while close to 60 lbs packed themselves onto my petite frame, I struggled with my weight.

It's been a lifelong struggle, but for me, the real battle hasn't been with my own body or how I happened to be naturally shaped, but with food itself. Food has never been simply a nourishment and a gift, it has always felt more like a curse, like an abusive friendship that offers false comfort and momentary happiness but then talks about you behind your back and maybe steals your boyfriend. I am, and have been, I can now say pretty confidently, addicted to the use of food as a coping mechanism or comforter. I hesitate to say addicted to food itself because, well, it's kind of necessary to survival and intrinsically good. But have I been treating it right? Have I been using it as God designed and intended?

Decidedly, no.

So I'm putting this out there for a couple reasons. Accountability, sure, but also because I want to be able to look back and pinpoint where and when it was that I finally in some infinitesimally small way began to see the light about this. I also don't think I'm alone in this. And while I don't think that the world is populated exclusively by chubby young mothers who bury their feelings of angst and stress in a box of sea-salt almonds and red wine, (disclaimer, I do not drink boxed wine. Only boxed almonds) I do think that there are lots of different people who struggle similarly in their relationship with the inanimate objects in their refrigerators.

I think that there are probably plenty of skinny people who have the same struggle and perhaps just don't wear it as apparently around their waistline. And I think there are lots of perfectly average-sized people who would love to feel control around a buffet table at a party or on a date at a Mexican restaurant while facing down a bottomless chip basket, feeling like that thing in the middle of the table has way more control over them then it should (and, coincidentally, way more of their attention than the person sitting across the table from them.

This Whole30 has been my most successful "diet" attempt in years, and I'm not sure why that is, but I'm so grateful. I'm grateful for the space that has cleared in my head (and yes, around my love handles) and for the growing sense of detachment I'm experimenting at meal times and in-between times, because the only thing more exhausting than chasing around 3 little kids all day while trying to make room for prayer, work, exercise and all else that life demands is to do all that while thinking constantly of the next thing you're going to eat (or not eat) or what you're going to treat yourself with once bedtime rolls around because it was a hard day and you earned it and you ran 3 miles, after all.

With the exception of the mileage logged, none of those circumstances actually have any bearing on what one ought to put in one's mouth next, and yet I've lived for years going from "treat" to "reward" to "indulgence" in a vicious cycle of craving and resisting and giving in, handing over a part of my autonomy and, with it, my dignity for the momentary comfort of a feeling of satiation.

No more.

I'm not pledging my allegiance to a lifelong regimen of hard-boiled eggs because oh my gosh they are sick, cage-free or no.

But I am planting my flag here in this soil and claiming this little bit of peace as mine. And as much as I love the taste of salt and vinegar kettle chips after a long day of teething babies and missed deadlines, the happiness is fleeting and the sense of comfort is short lived, followed by a much deeper sense of shame and regret.

Food is good, and celebrating with food and drink is natural and healthy. Making food the source of goodness, however, and going to it for reward and comfort and distraction, feels more like slavery.

While the self-imposed rules of this month of eating a certain way are constricting, I feel more free within the framework of this Whole30 than I've felt in a very long time, culinarily speaking. Maybe the absence of sugar has killed the strongest of the cravings, or maybe I'm just getting a long-overdue look at what life without food as comforter and reward looks like. And it feels liberating.

Walk Your Buns Off

I was at Starbucks this morning (don't judge, it was actually my first foray into the green lady's lair since our April trek to Rome) with all three kiddos in tow, the youngest specimen strapped securely to my torso, when I sat down next to a spritely blonde on a laptop who looked not too unkindly at her suddenly less than serene mobile office space and smiled at the boys, each sucking greedily on a $4 carton of organic free range cane-sugared chocolate milk. Turning to me she raised an eyebrow and made the usual "you must be busy" chit chat before leaning it conspiratorially and confiding to me that "You look pretty good for three kids!"

To which I chuckled heartily before replying, "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger."

Actually I grimaced and made some comment about walking instead of driving to the 'Bucks because sustainability! (Actually, because it kills 40 minutes of my morning and the commute is excellent fodder for my latest venture: the Walkoff of 2014.)

About 3 weeks ago Dave and I, while sorrowfully contemplating our matching American paunches, made a steely resolve to do!something!about it! But this time was different; instead of embarking on yet another quest to eat the method du jour and thereby once and for all solve all our weighty woes, we instead thought back to a time when our bodies were in decent shape, we felt good, and we had a decent amount of energy, small children notwithstanding.

Bing bing bing! Italy. With it's non-GMO produce, piles of pasta drenched in butter and cream sauces, rivers flowing with chianti and, perhaps most importantly, millions of miles of walkable streets. Ha. Walkable. As in, there's so much freaking humanity crammed into a space designed 2,000 years ago, you're better off hoofing it if you need to get, well, anywhere. 

Plus, when we lived there, we didn't have a car.

We had this amazing stroller, which is still sitting pretty in my garage as I live and type, and we had 2/3 of the children we currently possess, and so every day I dutifully put the two together and strode about the city, stopping intermittently for the most incredible coffees and pastries and never giving 2 shots of espresso about what I was putting into my body, at least for the most part. And I looked good.

Even when we got pregnant with Evie, I didn't gain a single lb until week 21 rolled around, which is unimaginable with my gestational history. It was magical. And, until now, we couldn't really figure out how to replicate it Stateside.

Dave and I scratched our heads, looked in our mirrors, and decided that while Trader Joe's could only take us so far in the unprocessed foods department, the 45 minutes we were each putting in on the elliptical nightly probably weren't cutting it in the phys ed department. Suddenly I remembered reading about how Anne or Jen had mentioned their love affairs with movement-tracking devices and I knew, I just knew this was the magical key we sought. I did 3 minutes of research and then downloaded the Pacer app on both our iPhones and suddenly we were off to the races: the spouse with the most steps tallied in 4 weeks wins $100, and mommy gets to buy herself some hot jeans.

Simple.

Except it hasn't been entirely simple. I mean okay, it has been simple, but it hasn't been easy. First of all I was way overestimating how much movement I was getting in a day. 10,000 steps (the recommended amount for optimal health) a day? Pshhht. I've got 3 babies and we live in Colorado, we're active, I've got this.

Except nope, I didn't. In fact, the first day I tracked my steps I was shocked to find myself stalled out in the mid-3,000s come dinnertime. But, but, how could this be? I'm so busy!

And I was busy, but I wasn't moving nearly enough to impact my health or my waistline. So the app.

Here are the pros: it holds us accountable. Some days the competition is downright fierce as the texts fly back and forth;  6,555...6933...8990....12044 even, one day! It's super motivating for both of us to have a direct competitor taunting us, encouraging us, egging us on; it's effective. Some concrete examples: I park as far as I can away from wherever I'm going in the lot, I walk around the house constantly, choosing to do one thing at a time rather than doing a whole bunch of streamlined tidying, just so I can get more steps. I run up and down the basement stairs to the laundry with small armfuls of folded clothes instead of one basket with everything in it. And, if all else fails, I hit the gym in the evening to make up the difference.

The cons: it's not cool to have your phone literally touching you all day long. I'm sure I could buy an armband thing or figure out a more sophisticated carrying solution, but right now I either tuck it facet under my sports bra shoulder strap (breast cancer) or tuck it into the waistband of my gym shorts at my side (love handle cancer?). Neither is ideal, but in order to track my steps, it has to be able to feel me stepping, if that makes sense. I think either a fitbit or a jawbone (hint, hint, darling) would solve this problem marvelously; it's also sometimes a huuuuuuuge pain to take the child herd on yet another walk or to do something so ridiculous as walking to a suburban coffee shop, because the looks you get strolling down that busy intersection. Sheesh.

It's also really, admittedly tough to live a pedestrian-centric (is that a word? totally not a word) lifestyle in a auto-centric culture. This morning's foray to Starbucks, for example, less than 1.5 miles down the road from mi casa, but nevertheless a place I'd never normally walk to. And for my office-bound desk jockey of a husband, it's been really tough for him to get his 10,000 steps in unless he hits the gym in the evening for a little quality time with the treadmill.

Some other walking hacks we've been incorporating to hit that magical 10K mark: walking 'meetings' or phone calls, nightly or morning walks to a nearby park, circling the kids playground area at the park like a shark mother, looking only ever-so-slightly like a lunatic in so doing, and trying to replace sedentary activities (netflix binges, internet trolling in the evenings) with active ones.

Overall it's been way, way effective in keeping us on the move and trimming down. And the best part? I'm down like an entire pants size and I've lost a couple pounds, too. But more than that I'm starting to look like myself again, and not some fluffy postpartum caricature of the ghost of Jenny past. And between you and me?

I don't look half bad for having had 3 kids. 

Wink.

(Oh, and for posterity's sake, here's a poorly-lit selfie of today, 3 weeks into these shenanigans. Evie will be 6 months old on Sunday, just for reference.)