What's so wrong with trashy books (or movies)?

Our weekend was filled with runny noses, pink eyes (I die. The second worst of childhood ailments, dethroned only by vomit), and lots and lots of reading.

The kids and I and even daddy all had books in piles around the house, freshly liberated from the library down the street and competing with Netflix for our winter-bound attention.

I must confess I spent the better part of Saturday reading a book I probably should not have finished...and I'm going to tell you why.

But first, a little background. Last week I asked my lovely readers who follow along on Facebook for some literary recommendations. And boy did I get some. You guys are so awesome, you flooded my newsfeed with more than 100 titles.

One evening later that week, after bedtime, I snuggled down with my laptop and my library account and went on a little hold binge, filling my e-cart with close to 50 titles. It was addictive, like shopping without money. Well, maybe like shopping with taxpayer money...but less of a sting than Amazon, for sure. (50 titles was a bit enthusiastic though, I will admit. Especially since 20 of them popped up in my email the next day as "ready for pickup." Oops.)

I trudged through the snow with one small boy in tow and we retrieved about a dozen titles, probably more than I could read in 2 weeks, but hey, a girl can dream. 

Sure enough, the powers of illness and weekend frigidity combined and was stayed inside reading plenty. Enough for me to finish one entire novel and crack into another one, only to be discarded and replaced by a 3rd option.

Here's where things get weird though. You see, the first book I read, while engaging, was ... questionable in terms of content. It was little things here and there at first, offhand references to casual sex. Details about make out sessions. Backstories involving (thankfully) derailed trips to the abortion clinic. And things kind of escalated from there.

The problem was though, I was so engaged in the story line and the characters by the time things got really steamy (read: super trashy) it was hard to shut the book and walk away. So I didn't. I read the whole dang thing and pretty much enjoyed it but definitely squirmed through increasingly larger sections of it. 

And afterwards, I felt acutely that I had betrayed an essential part of myself: my conscience.

For someone who can write confidently about skipping 50 Shades of S&M and has no problem flipping over the top copy of Cosmo in the checkout line, when it came to a book that was already in hand and being enjoyed, I had a more difficult time stepping away, even though I was fully aware that it was bad for me.

And no, I don't think that I committed any mortal sin by finishing a smutty novel, because I was skimming through the squirmy parts and was definitely repelled by - not attracted to - the sins being committed on the pages. But still. I didn't look away.

And I should have. I should have shut the book and played with my kids. Or picked up another title and tried again. Or, hell, painted my toenails or jumped on the elliptical or taken a nice long bath. There are plenty of things a tired mom can do with her limited leisure time that don't involve torrid affairs and steamy sex scenes in the back of cars.

Because here's the thing: every time I expose myself to the glamorization and normalization of evil - be it promiscuous teens losing their virginity, extramarital affairs, premarital sex, period - I lose a little bit of my natural (and supernatural) sensitivity to these sins.

It matters little that I will probably never personally commit them, (and I'm more than aware that there but for the grace of God go I); but when I am granting them entrance into my imagination - and my heart, because it dwells there, too - then I am throwing open an opportunity to grow not in virtue, but in vice. To do one thing with my "real" life, but to play by different standards inside the equally-real world of the mind.

And why invite those imaginary characters to come and live inside of me, occupying space in my brain and my heart where I'm desperately trying to cultivate virtue to impart to my kids, and to overcome the smallness and the very real fallenness of my own interior world?

We all struggle with sin, and thanks to the grace of God, we all have access to the grace to overcome them. Again. And again.

But that is by no means a license to roll around in the mud in our minds, rationalizing away the imaginary teflon divider between body and mind, spirit and flesh.

What we put into our bodies - our minds, our selves - matters. It matters because it becomes a part of us, just as much as the food we eat and the water we drink. It is incorporated into us in a permanent way. And as much as I have the authority over what will become irrevocably a part of me, it is my duty to exhort quality control over the raw material.

That's why it's not okay to go see a porno movie, even if it's mass-produced and wildly popular.

That's why I should probably delete that raunchy rom-com from my Amazon playlist, even though "it's a cultural classic" and "a little smut never hurt anybody." Because actually, all sins start small, and they have to start somewhere.

It's hard enough to cultivate virtue in a culture that is anti-virtuous, the enshrines and celebrates the very things we are commanded to avoid: murder, adultery, gossip, slander. 

Why compound the difficulty by filling our brains with the crap we're trying so hard not to step in ourselves?

Why read stories about characters succumbing to temptations we're striving mightily to overcome ourselves, entertaining plot lines that, if played out in vivo, would land us right in the confessional (and maybe divorce court, or prison)?

The past 6 years of living without cable has made me much, much more sensitive to televised smut than college Jenny ever dreamed of being. So yeah, my standards there are fairly high, but its' because I'm not regularly exposed to it. The boiling frog effect hasn't set in, and I'm instantly repulsed  when I see something graphic on tv that I know is wrong, in part because it's so shocking and so out of the ordinary.

I need to be more careful about what that looks like in terms of reading material too, though. Because just like you can never unsee something once it's flashed across your vision field, it's very, very difficult to divest yourself of the written word, too.

And I'm having an epic enough struggle swimming upstream in this culture. God knows I need all the help I can get.

I'm not going to undercut myself with friendly fire by reading "harmless" chick lit filled with innuendos and sex scenes between imaginary characters. Because they might not be real, but I am.

I'm a real flesh and blood woman with real struggles and real proclivities to sin. And I've also been entrusted with a husband to care for, and 4 little souls to guide back to Him.

My God, I need all the help I can get. 

And when I do need to escape (and I do, very much, very often in these exhausting early years) it ought not be to a place I have no business visiting, even if only in my imagination.

There's plenty of other stuff I could be doing with my free time, anyway. I could paint my daughter's toenails, watch a make up application tutorial on Youtube, write my husband a love letter, curl my hair, shop online for some cute unmentionables, go for a run (or a walk, as this widening load would have it), call my best friend, stare at maternity style posts on Pinterest...etc.

(I'm intentionally leaving out the titles of the books in question, partly because I don't want to hurt anyone's feelings or embarrass them if they did make the recommendation, and partly because I do believe that different people have different thresholds for what makes them squirm.)

 But I do want to challenge myself - all of us - to be conscious of that threshold, and how we can deaden or attune our own consciences with the choices we make and the company we keep, even in our own imaginations.

Maybe especially there.

Oh, and for the the record, I'm currently reading O Pioneers! by Willa Cather, at someone's excellent recommendation. And loving it. There's plenty of grit, there too. 

Because I'm not looking for an impossibly squeaky clean "unrealistic" universe, but for one that plays by natural law. Think "Les Miserables" ... plenty of sex, plenty of sin...and plenty of realistic consequences for what happens when we fail to choose the good. That's the kind of steamy I can handle.

Or a bath. I can always handle a nice hot bath. If only the kids would all nap at the same time.

Crowd-sourcing a well baby check

Dearest mother bloggers,

I have this little baby girl. And by little, I mean absolutely petite beyond all imagining.

Don't let the food face fool you, she's teeny. Look at those nowhere-near-squeezed-by-the-Bumbo legs.

See? She's a wee little mite of a girl. And yeah yeah, though she be but little, she is fierce, there's just something off-putting to me, her mother, about how very wee she is.

My other two boys are not big kids by any means. I think they're in the 35-50% range for weight and height, and always have been. But Evie Doll, as she is usually called around these parts, is very much the likeness and scale of a living baby doll. Which is of course adorable, but when you're breastfeeding, is a little anxiety-producing as well.

Evie Doll, meet baby doll

Dave thinks I may be barking needlessly up the worry tree when we are, in fact, in a verdant alpine meadow above treeline, but I want a second opinion nevertheless. Of the internet variety. (Please note: her doctor who delivered her and has cared for her since birth has absolutely zero concerns and reassures me at every check up that she is growing perfectly on her own little curve.) And so I turn to you, gentle readership: have any of you had tiny babies? Were they exclusively breastfed? Did you try supplementing with formula to put weight on? Did they simply grow into healthy, petite toddlers and kids?

Here are Evie's stats:

• Born at 38 weeks 4 days (I'm a lucky girl - 6 lbs, 6 oz and 19 inches long - my smallest by more than 2 lbs and my shortest by 3 inches!
• Dropped to 5 13 after birth, regained birth weight by one week old
• 8 lbs, 11 oz at 2 month well baby
• 11 lbs even at 4 month well baby
• 13 lbs even at 6 month well baby
• 13 lbs 6 oz today, on the eve of her 7 month birthday
• 3% for weight and 5% for height on WHO chart, from birth until today; no change in percentile
• repeat ultrasounds during pregnancy because she was measuring small (that makes one of us) and for "short femurs" (I didn't even know that was a thing to worry about but, you betcha I got my google on hardcore that night after the tech let that little gem slip from her lips)

Is this normal? Am I crazy? Should I take her to reverse weight watchers and see if they can inject her with some of the fat she left behind in my torso region?

Some other factors which may contribute to her slimness are the presence of a 5 foot tall aunt, her godmother actually, on her paternal side, and the fact that Her Ladyship sleeps 11 hours a night (don't hate me, I earned this one) without a feed. She nurses 6-8 times per day with occasional table food offered as she shows interest. I know breast milk is denser calorically so I'm hesitant to load her up on too much crappy rice cereal, though I have been known to mix some with avocado oil and an avocado, much to her disgust and horror.

An anxious, first time  veteran mother thanks you kindly.

And so does this girl.

A heaping dose of truth

But try not to throw up in your mouth while reading it.

Despite being virtually bombarded with text messages from multiple friends last night beseeching me to liveblog the State of the Union address on Facebook while drinking, I declined as 'too well to attend' and went to David's Bridal to try on brides matron dresses in varying shades of hideous, which was downright enjoyable compared to what I could have been watching/listening to, I presume. Plus, all we had in the house was bourbon, and I broke up with Facebook months ago.

I've said it once and I'll say it again: I friggin love Rachel Lucas. Thanks for doing what I no longer have the stomach to handle.

Why I (pretty much) Quit Social Media

It's not entirely encompassing, but this piece does a fair job of putting into words the realization which I instinctively and experientially came to after too many years as a faithful Facebook 'early adapter' and a passionate Gram'er. I can't comment on Twitter, because I have never been (and will never be) a user.

Good food for thought, this. (And yes, I'm a teensy bit of a hypocrite, because blogging is social media too, but it has always felt and functioned as more like a two-way conversation and a shared experience than a simple vomiting into the void of 'look at me.' Maybe I'm wrong, but don't tell me if I am.)

My Pinterest policy is decidedly don't ask/don't tell. :)

Room for Cream

This being my triple crown pregnancy, I've had the distinct pleasure of finally being able to relax a tad about this whole gestation business. This is not to say that I don't still Google fatal conditions and occasionally lie in bed frantically poking at my abdomen, trying to make a sleeping baby prove her continued existence via kicked out Morse code, but I'm a little more chill about most of the 'thou shalts' and 'thou shalt nots' that accompany an American pregnancy.

Yesterday morning, for example, when I broke my own newfound resolve to stop drinking terrible coffee and ambled into Starbucks for a $2 cup of drippy Pike Place, my order was greeted with a raised eye by Mr. Barista.

"So you're not worried about caffeine with the baby?"

As my other two babies were not dragged on this particular coffee run, I had no visual aids, but I communicated to him that 2 out of 2 pregnancies had turned out well enough, java jolts and all.

He chuckled a little and handed over my disappointing cup of joe, and I dumped non-organic half-n-half in to further insult the injury. My poor, defenseless in-utero babe was now swimming in caffeine and cow hormones.

Beginning this pregnancy in Italy and ending it in America (my 2 months more pregnant than I am now self is punching my current self in the face for even mentioning 'the end' at 28 weeks) has given me the privilege of seeing two very different perspectives on procreation, and both have their strengths and weaknesses. In Italy salad was dangerous business, as was carrying my then 14-month old. Wine, however, was fine. Encouraged, even, as a way to soothe mother's anxious nerves at the day's end and ensure that the wee bambina had a sophisticated palate upon arrival. (Love that line of reasoning.)

In America, wine is not only frowned upon (quite literally by strangers in restaurants, if you're bold enough to drink in public) but websites and plenty of MDs go overboard preaching fetal alcohol syndrome to women rarely accustomed to imbibing more than a glass or two of Chardonnay in a given week. Ri-diculous.

Even exercise is controversial here: either you're overdoing it ala last week's Crossfit controversy (Google it if you don't know what I'm talking about) or you're condemning your helpless babe to type 2 diabetes in the womb with that second bowl of Cherry Garcia.

In other words, it's hard to strike a balance.

I think  this time around I've just about got it down. I work out 3 or 4 times per week, nothing crazy, but sometimes I get ambitious and do 4 miles on the elliptical, which my back promptly informs me is a terrible mistake, usually around 2 am the next morning. Some evenings I'll have a glass of wine or a beer with dinner. Last month on a date night at the Rio (Coloradans, you know what magic I speak here) I even had a (gasp!) mini margarita. I know, I know...worst mom ever.

Except here's the thing: I'm not in some kind of 'temporary' state during pregnancy and nursing. In fact, over the nearly 4 years we've been married, I think I've had 5 collective weeks where I wasn't one or the other. And 2 of them were our honeymoon. So the whole 'no drinking/no coffee/no Tylenol/no heavy lifting/no soft cheeses' business? Not gonna fly.

Call me crazy or uninformed or what you will, but women have been carrying, birthing, and feeding babies a lot longer than the AAP has been blasting missives of doom onto the WWW, so I've got a feeling there is more collective wisdom in childbearing and rearing than in the entirety of BabyCenter.com. Add to the crazy the fact that most moms-to-be have been pumping their bodies full of doctor-proscribed synthetic hormones and chemicals for years and years and, well, I think you can see why I'm skeptical over the medical establishment's recommendations for gynecological health. Or health in general.

I actually think it's a symptom of the larger anti-life culture which sees pregnancy as some kind of disease (unless it's planned, and then it's a critical high-risk condition). In reality, pregnancy is a normal - albeit special - season in a healthy marriage. And unless you're screwing with the process or are struggling with infertility, it's a season that comes around again and again...and again. As seasons are wont to do.

So yes, I will drink that coffee. Might even make it an espresso, while you're at it, since I have 2 nanny-less toddlers to keep up with all day long. I've got plenty of other primo opportunities for mommy guilt in my life, no need to seek it out in the bottom of a wine glass or a plate of melty Brie.

Cheers ;)

Fajita Night at the Kentucky Derby

One weekend in my past life, about a million years ago, we shook ourselves from a newborn sleeplessness-induced stupor and decided to drive 3 hours to a mountain town called Grand Lake for a good 'ol fashioned family vacation. John Paul was approximately 14 minutes old, or maybe it was 3 weeks, I can't remember, and it was, in retrospect, a very stupid thing to try to do. But, but ... both children slept for the entire car ride up the mountain, so that fact alone kind of sort of made it worth it.

Upon arriving at the gorgeous lakeside lodge that we'd paid next to nothing for to notsleep for a night in a king sized suite, we piled onto the giant bed and proceeded to ... watch the Kentucky Derby pre game show. For like 2 hours. When hunger finally drove us from our nest of comfort and lukewarm imported IPAs fished from our convenient bedside Igloo cooler (class act, this family), we ambled down the hill into town in search of some nourishment. And a view of the race! Because we'd waited through hours of pre-game coverage, and dammit, we wanted to see some horses running for gold. Or flowers. Whatever. Plus, all the competitors had amazing names like 'I'll Have Another Round' and 'Little Miss Sunshine When You're Gone' and other mashups of pickup lines and Van Morrison songs.

The only restaurant we found in sleepy, off-season Grand Lake, Colorado which was open and featuring television coverage of the race, was a Mexican dive bar called La Casa de Sol or something amazing. Which was fine with me. Anyway, we didn't actually go inside to eat there, because it was standing room only, packed with locals hungry for nacho cheese and America's most questionably athletic sporting event.

Tonight was kind of like that night. Firstly, because as I type, the almost 1-year old screaming himself not to sleep in the next room over is no better a sleeper than he was 11 months ago, and secondly, because I think I made horsemeat fajitas for dinner.

Get it?

The true highlight for me was Dave pushing his plate aside and gravely announcing, "I'm sorry honey, I just can't eat this. It's the taste, more than anything."

Indeed.

Flicka, the other red meat. Viva Italia.

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50 Shades of Scando

Hat tip to Grace for coining the cheeky phrase, for it is what echoed through my tired little brain on all 4 legs of last week's flights from Hades.

For not only was our 'wee hot man' (so dubbed by our charming Scottish co-worker) an utterly and unrepentant insomniac for 99% of our air travels, but every.single.woman. seated within a 50 mile radius on every one of our flights was reading some iteration of the infamous erotica (thriller? tome? epic?) ... and I started to feel like the one student who picked up the wrong course outline back in September and was on a different reading list.

Confession: I have no idea the premise of the "50 Shades" series, other than a very vague impression of something involving repressive sexual tension and a male protagonist who doesn't like to be touched. (So I guess it's Twilight for the over 40 set?)  So, don't be surprised if I veer from this post to consult the google for more info on what the heezy these books are about and why they're so hot right now.

But I'll take a stab at it.

In a culture like our sex-saturated and Puritanically-rooted modern day America, it doesn't take a far stretch of the imagination to see why perfectly reasonable and moderately well-adjusted adults might be enticed to purchase, read, and verbally vomit enthralled enthusiasm for some poorly-written British soft porn in literary form.

Thank you, Facebook.

But more to the point, thank you, twisted and repressed 'liberation sexuality,' which somehow simultaneously renders millions of men impotent, millions of women anorgasmic, and millions of readers eager to lap up juicy details of some frigid old dude spanking his handcuffed younger flame. And we swoon over this?

Truth is, our sexual identity as a culture is so profoundly broken that it makes perfectly good sense that '50 Shades' would A. Sell spectacularly well and B. Induce ironic conversations on sex and intimacy between strangers that they are otherwise incapable of having with their actual sexual partners in real life.

Go figure.

When pornography invades a relationship or, at a broader level, a cultural ethos, and becomes perfectly acceptable as the new normal, real live intimacy dies. We spend so much time and energy as a culture talking about sex and how to improve it, how to deepen ones physical enjoyment, connect more deeply on an emotional level with one's partner(s, achieve multiple orgasms and get a body like Katy Perry's in order to win the affections of the most perfect man, that we don't actually have much time to enjoy authentic intimacy. Quite frankly, most of us have no idea what the hell that actually is.

When perfect strangers can titter over pages of sex scenes between fictional characters while passing the time between airport layovers, but they are incapable of having satisfying sex with their spouses or - worse - are unable to hang on to spouses, then Houston, we have a problem.

The scariest run-in I've had with Christian Grey to date was in a little snack and magazine store in the Charlotte airport (where I was secretly hoping to run into Emily Maynard, but I digress) where a mother(?), step mom(?), guardian-esque figure of authority(?) was waiting in line with a booty-short-clad teenage girl who apparently studied dictation under the auspicious tutelage of Lauren Conrad ala "The Hills."

I turned my eavesdropping ears in their direction at the first mention of '50.' After all, I'd sat beside no fewer than 14 women all reading the book during my travels that week (and spent an unfortunate 3.25 hours beside one woman who was on the final installment of the trilogy and was actually absent-mindedly running her fingers along her cleavage area while sighing occasionally as she flipped the pages. So.Very.Awkward.

So I tuned in to the mother and child reunion only to hear a super depressing back and forth where Mom (or whomever) was schooling daughter on the finer qualities of the tales.

Mom: Oh you have to read these...your dad has them on his Kindle, (um, he does? WTF?) you should ask him to borrow it when he's done.

Girl: Omgawd everyone is like obsessed with Christian. Teeheehee...all my girlfriends want to find a guy like him!

Mom: Well it isn't hard to see why...seriously you have got to read the books!

Girl: It's like all over Facebook how hot they are...everyone is obsessed with them...all my girlfriends are like in love.

Mom: OMG you HAVE to read them. Let's get your dad to give you the Kindle for the next leg of the flight.

Girl: (pointing to shelf) Holy sh*t there's the new (Tucker Max) book 'A$$holes Finish First' ... mom you have to read that it's sooooo funny.

End scene.

And end Western Civilization, if the above exchange is any indication of how we're doing in the culture and morals department.

I managed not to vomit or confront the conversing duo, but only thanks to extreme exhaustion and the heat emanating from the tiny man strapped Ergo-style to my chest. But their words stayed with me. And they are troubling. And I think, an indicator of the real fallout from our pornified, sexually 'progressive' and permissive culture.

What we're witnessing here, people, is the death of intimacy. Ironically and irrefutably manifested in a cultural obsession with pornography. But what we're missing here is the point: no amount of titillation or exposure or oversharing can ever - ever - replace the deeply satisfying interpersonal communion we were created for. And the more we seek to expose and consume in the name of sexual satisfaction, the further we move from the truth of it, and from any measure of real happiness in that arena.

I've been meditating on this quote from Pope Benedict (you know, that repressive old man in Rome) recently and I think it fits perfectly the topic at hand:

"The world promises you comfort. But you were not made for comfort...you were made for greatness."

True, no?

Sweat Equity

Tried to summon the enthusiasm (done) and the motivation (check) to get alllll the way to Hobby Lobby to pick up the materials necessary for replicating this little number, only to stand paralyzed in the jewelry-making aisle for all of 10 minutes trying unsuccessfully to decipher which of the 39 different types of necklace clasp would best suit my rudimentary DIY needs.

Pinterest fail.

I left empty-handed and literally soaking in sweat, due either to hormones or the sheer weight of the decision before me. Or perhaps I'm just so mentally handicapped from my luxurious life of stay-at-home mothering that I'm not equipped to make truly important economic decisions.

$8 dollars richer and no fabulous necklace to show for it. Forever 21, I'm headed your way...

The Best Laid Plans

Trotted off to a nearby mountain town yesterday to re-enact the infamous induction and birth of exterior baby, hoping for a similarly dramatic (but perhaps less lengthy) outcome for interior bebe.

What an idiot I was.

Proof of idiocy abounded in the idiot-flavored pudding, which included: letting a toddler fall asleep in the car for a 20 minute rejuvenating 'catnap' en route to our apparently detestable destination, hauling a laptop and a Dora dvd into the nail salon and somehow thinking it would magically transfix him for 30 + minutes while mommy got pampered, not bringing a drop of alcohol/tylenol/orajel/vicodin/etc. to ease his teething pain.

Idiot.

20 painful/humiliating minutes later, my darling friend Jenny had a moment of lucidity and volunteered to stroll the little master around in his carriage whilst I finished up in peace.

Don't worry, she still got her pedi too.

Moral of the story: little boys hate salons as much as - or more than - big boys. And the number one most disturbing thing you can say to your far-from-fluent in English aesthetician is "oh yes, we plan on having more than two children."

We didn't connect on much, conversationally, but she somehow read that one loud and clear. And proceeded to pat my belly many, many times for the remainder of out appointment, feverishly uttering 'you have girl...girl...please have girl...be done!'

Still here, still pregnant, but my toes look amazing.

Thanks, OPI.

In This House, it Will Always Be Tebow Time

Because we like us some football, but we LOVE us some Jesus-praising, sick-kid cheering, handsome gridiron warriors. Especially ones who aren't afraid to take hits that would leave most mere mortals in long term physical therapy and/or a wheel chair.

All that, and his spinal column contains all its original discs --- bam, Peyton.

(Thus ends my first and last sports-related 'post' in history. Probably.)

This is how the Titanic looked

before she sank.

Sometimes things CAN be too big for their own good.

At least my (female) neighbor catcalled me this morning and announced that she would wear my Old Navy maternity shirt

'Pregnant or not!'

Winning.

And may I just add, at this point, the skinny jeans are no longer a friendly trend.

But it's that or Dave's gym shorts....

"Sweatpants are all that fit me right now!"

Producing

It's 11:13 in the am here in the Rocky Mountain empire, and I have showered, blown out my hair, read 12 board books aloud (including Dora's optional Espanol commentary on the Three Little Pigs), written one overdue article and fed my supremely attention-lavished toddler a fully balanced lunch including hummus. And two different kinds of vegetables. Which are now on the floor beneath his high chair...because you never know, he might want them later.

p.s. Lunch was at 10 am. I am a ravenous gestation machine and the exterior baby doesn't mind one bit when mommy happily chirps 'time to eat!' and pulls ranch dressing out of the fridge before noon.

The good news of an early lunchtime is it is usuallybutnotalways followed by an early naptime. The bad news: an early wakeup from naptime. Sooooo, I've stolen from Peter to pay Paul, and I know Paul is totally going to bang down my door at 2pm and demand restitution in the form of ohGodit's3hourstillDavemightevenTHINKaboutleavingworkandIhavenostrengthlefttofinishthisday...

But I digress.

The thing is, I gave up 'social media' as one of my Lenten sacrifices, which is basically a euphamism for stalking friends and distant acquaintances on Facebook in between frantic rounds of Pinterest maintenance. (You know, Pinterest, the online fantasy world where you are a competent, impeccably-accessorized mother who makes homemade sidewalk chalk and feeds her offspring according to strict Paleodiet standards. And own a 3 million dollar beach house decorated exclusively by Williams Sonoma.)

So with all this unprecedented 'bonus time' on my hands, (read: time I've been checked out of reality) it seems I'm actually quite able to check my way through most-if not all-of the 'ol daily To Do. Shocking, really. Especially coupled with my involuntary coffee fast. (coffee without cream is a fathomless void of disappointment which I cannot tolerate in my mouth.)

The truth is, I have apparently ALL the time I need in my day to accomplish each and every little item I've been tasked with as wife/mother/editor/freelance writer/exercise aficionado. And the only thing keeping me from my appointed rounds all these months has been...me.

I love Lent for its ability to provide a kind of spiritual 'do over' for the year, for the chance to turn a new leaf over and inspect it in the gentler, brighter light of spring rather than the harsh, hung-over glow of New Year's Day.

Yes, everything outside is mostly still dead and it's cold and sometimes gray, (not here in D-town, mind you, but I've heard tell of overcast skies in flyover country) but even as the Church waits in repentant, alleluia-less anticipation for the death and resurrection of Her Groom, Jesus Christ, there is a tangible undercurrent of relief, a feeling that at last we've collectively pulled up our bootstraps and started in the right direction.

Or maybe that's just the way I feel, having slogged through January and February on nothing but halfhearted resolutions and poorly-executed attempts at organization.

On a closing note, may I just share with the world that yesterday, at 8 months pregnant, I had something of a highlight experience in my personal life. Having locked myself and the toddler out on the front porch with nothing but a laptop, a glass of water and baby gate, I proceeded to frantically IM my husband (yes, we IM all day long...so sad, so 2001, so...convenient) our dire predicament and solicit step-by-step instructions for breaking into the bathroom window. Because this also happened last week. And it was my fault then, too.

His first reassurance to me, unsolicited on my part, was that he was 'sure I would fit' through the window. A generous observation on his part, though perhaps a tad ill-timed. His careful instructions included the use of a snow shovel to pop the lock on the back gate, (as observed by a frantic, penned-in 17 month old locked in babygated prison) a snowy trek to the shed in the backyard to procure a hammer and an igloo cooler (to stand on, of course) and a crash course in window screen removal by said hammer.

5 minutes later as I was dangling from an insubstantial window opening, I realized that a complex half twist maneuver was going to be necessary, lest the entire weight of my body crush interior baby against the window sill. Summoning all my womanly courage, I twisted, grunted and slid into the bathroom, covered in gross window sill dirt and laundry detergent. (I hope the baby was taking notes, because mama is NOT doing sunnysideup back labor again. And I believe my maneuver could be successfully replicated in the birth canal.)

So that was yesterday.

Today, we're going to the chiropractor. Luckily, we have the time.

Now This

Gay 'marriage' is sooo yesterday.  The hottest new trend in progressive social justice today is polygamy.  That's right, ladies!  Now you too can have it all: live-in 'sisters' to share everything with... clothes, household tasks, child-rearing responsibilities...even your husband! 

No more dull, drab dual-spouse marriages where one measly person is expected to fulfill all the needs of the other.  No more tiresome monogamy.  And no more worrying about whether your husband has been sleeping around on you... now you know for sure that yes, he has!

Coming soon: pedophilia and bestiality: The final frontiers. (That is, until we think of something worse.  Like people getting really, really attached to their Prius' ... really, really attached.)

7 Quick Takes On The Idiocy of Our Times

Well okay, there are only 5 today ... because it's almost 5:00 here in good ol' Denver, and I need to get on the road for some seriously enjoyable I-25 Friday-afternoon-commute-mania.  But first, I would like to briefly and bluntly share some stupendously asinine news bits from this week in history.  Enjoy your weekend!

1. Women who are pregnant, or suspect they are pregnant, should not use this product, the FDA said.  Riiiight.  So would sterile virgins be the intended market they're trying to reach here?

2. Marriage is fundamentally unconstitutional.  Read on for this and other brilliant conclusions being handed down from "impartial" benches 'round the nation. 

3. "Wow, you are getting HUGE."  Delivered with utter sincerity and a goofy smile by an unsuspecting male coworker/postal worker/sales clerk/random stranger.  Thank you, men of the world, for saying aloud what I have long been quietly fearing in the silence of my heart.

4. There is one full teaspoon of sugar in every tablespoon of ketchup.  Maybe this isn't as shocking to the rest of you as it was to me, but I feel positively violated.

5. According to a recent study by the NIH (National Institute of Health), the sexual habits of gay, underaged males are being tracked using online journaling technology to... oh wait, who the hell cares?  And why exactly are our tax dollars being spent to fund this ridiculous garbage?

States Opposing Obamacare By Force of Law

The List

Keep updated, and keep praying for our lawamkers who haven't sold out to hold firm!!

The Hangover

Okay, not really.  Clearly the unborn one wouldn't take kindly to that... But if I ever needed a drink in muy life... whew.

Our Constitution: spat upon.  Our legislative branch of government: squabbling like a pack of wild dogs... or the British Parliment.  Our nation: bitterly divided over an issue bigger than any "hope" or "change" ... and yet the sun still rose on the land of the free this morning.  Perhaps a little less free than we were yesterday... but perhaps a little more sober.  Awake.  Aware that this is really happening.  And will continue to happen, so long as we are complacent.

As the newscasts rolled tape this morning, a few glimmers of hope: Virginia.  Flordia.  Lawsuits challenging the unconstitutional nature of the circus - the freak show - that took place on Capital Hill yesterday.  And, unexpectedly: Rep. Stupak.

I was as angry with him as with any of yesterday's perpetrators, but I heard news this morning that gave me pause: Pelosi, according to a source on the Hill, had the votes she needed, with our without Stupak.  And so he made a last ditch effort, a mere footnote in the saga of how America committed moral suicide really, which may have been for nothing, but which was something.  He secured the Executive Order.

In exchange for this concession on the President's part, Rep. Stupak was required to pay a heavy price: his own "Yes" vote for the abhorrent bill, perhaps putting the nail in his own political coffin.

If all that is necessary for evil to flourish is the silence of good men who do nothing... it's good to know that one man did something.  Not enough... but something.

Therefore, since we have been justified through faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ through whom we have gained access by faith into this grace in which we now stand. And we rejoice in the hope of the glory of God. Not only so, but we also rejoice in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. Romans 5:1-4

Call Your Representatives... Today!

The final ObamaCare call list - I know you're sick of hearing about it.  God knows I'm sick of talking and writing about it.  But those bullying thugs on the Hill don't - or won't - hear our voices.  Pick up your phone and cast your vote, while the right is still ours.

(Please note: Most representatives' email contact forms require you to enter a zip code and address located within their district.)

Talking points: Americans for Tax Reform (PDF)

House Democrats on the fence:

Brian Baird (WA-03)
202-225-3536
EMAIL

Lincoln Davis (TN-04)
202-225-6831
EMAIL

Glenn Nye (VA-02)
202-225-4215
EMAIL

John Tanner (TN-08)
202-225-4714
EMAIL

Harry Teague (NM-02)
202-225-2365
EMAIL

Jason Altmire (PA-4)
202-225- 2565
EMAIL

John Boccieri (OH-16)
202-225-3876
EMAIL

Suzanne Kosmas (FL-24)
202-225-2706.
EMAIL

Scott Murphy (NY-20)
202-225-5614
EMAIL

Tell Rep. Joseph Cao (R-LA) not to give in to Obama.
202-225-6636
EMAIL

Here's The Hill's latest whip count

Here's the NRCC's Code Red target list

Obama vs. Jefferson

"I don't spend a lot of time worrying about what the procedures are in the House and in the Senate." - Barack Hussein Obama

"Every government degenerates when trusted to the rulers of the people alone.  The people themselves are its only safe depositories." - Thomas Jefferson

"By the time the vote has taken place ... (on healthcare reform), not only I will know what's in it, you will know what's in it..." - Barack Hussein Obama

"Educate and inform the whole mass of the people... They are the only sure reliance for the preservation of our liberty." - Thomas Jefferson


"This notion that this process has been not transparent, that people don't know what's in the bill... everybody knows what's in the bill!" - Barack Hussein Obama


"He who knows nothing is closer to the truth than he whose mind is filled with falsehoods and errors." - Thomas Jefferson

Power to the People

 Love her or hate her, you've got to admit this woman's got serious grit.  And I generally have a seriously elevated heart rate by the time I've finished my morning commute.  Check out LauraIngraham.com for today's brilliant treatment on the scam-tastic "educational summit" scheduled by our august commander of ... erm, excuse me, the President of the United States for this Thursday, and why it's preeeeetty much a thinly veiled dog and pony show disguised to garner positive publicity for the hostile government takeover of the healthcare sector, complete with publically-funded abortions, a violent strip down of Medicare, and a crushing tax burden on the middle class (read: small businesses).  Helloooooo, great recession.  But seriously, does anybody really think that this regime wants our economy to recover? 

As if you weren't frightened enough by what's going down in Washington, you might want to pick up a copy of
Power to the People, Laura's latest tome, and start edumacating yerselfs.

The Best Laid Plans...

Of all the NGO's struggling to stay afloat in this economic climate, the one I'm most vigorously rooting against seems to have fallen upon hard times indeed. In a pathetic attempt to reach out to misinformed and dissenting Catholics, Planned Parenthood has issued a desperate - and shameless - cry for help.

Here's hoping - and praying - it falls upon deaf ears.

On an uplifting note... it's never too late to have a conversion, and no one is ever too far gone.