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This, this and this.

Just trying to elevate the conversation.

2 Years of Awesome

2 years ago today, about 39 minutes from now, to be precise, I became a mother on the outside.

My sweet Joseph, how you have filled our lives with joy. And sleeplessness. Oh, the sleeplessness. From the day of your birth until this present moment, you have never been a good sleeper, nor have you ever hesitated to let us know exactly how you feel about anything. You don't exactly play your cards close to your vest, son. And you certainly don't waste precious moments of your busy life with something so mundane as the recommended 10-12 hours of sleep for a guy your size.

This year with you has been my favorite; watching you love your baby brother, learn how to speak and communicate with us, and seeing your eyes light up when a train goes thundering down the tracks near our house ... it's all good son.

And even though I am literally sick from lack of sleep, I love you, and I wouldn't trade a minute of it. Unless you're willing to start staying in your bed longer in the mornings. In which case, yes please.

Here's hoping today is a magical, choo-choo train filled and chocolate-saturated glut of happiness and carbohydrates to fuel your childhood memories.

We love you sweet boy.

Mommy and Daddy

Anthro bookshelf hack

Oh, who am I kidding, probably more closely akin to Target's dorm-room chic RE line...but a girl can dream.

Armed with a roll of hideously expensive Hallmark wrapping paper, a can of Elmer's spray adhesive, and a willing victim in the form of a freshly-stained former bachelor bookshelf, I set out to make DIY history on my back porch during naptime yesterday.

A few lessons learned:

1. Measure things. Oh, you do measure when you make things?

Well you're awesome, and I'm not.

2. Spray adhesive will be sticky once applied to the surface you're looking to adhere stuff to. Along with your forearm hairs, cell phone screen, and unsuspecting lurking jogging stroller. Ahem.

3. Wrapping paper was a brilliant and yet oh so stupid pick for covering the back of my bookshelf. It looks awesome...except from certain angles where it looks like...wrapping paper. So perhaps a matte rather than high gloss finish next time? Does wrapping paper come in a matte finish? Do I have too much time on my hands? Probably, maybe, and definitely.

Without further ado, I present to you, my new 'home office.'

I started with some scissors, the above-mentioned luxury wrapping paper, and some spray glue.

I measured one space between shelves (should have measured each individually), cut 3 more against the template of the first, pressed each cutout into the intended shelf space folded the excess edges over to cut off

And then went at the thing with aerosol Elmer's like you wouldn't believe.

I like (but don't love) the way it turned out, and it certainly makes use of a dead space in our dining area that was formerly a tangle of cell phone chargers and computer cords.

mood lighting. Ooh la la.

I'm calling it my little home office. Because honestly, it has just about everything I need at arm's reach during a typical weekday, from the boring basics like laptop, pens, and paper to the exciting personalized touches of a mobile baby changing station and some Jillian Michael's-approved hand weights. And a basket filled with current cans of spray paint. Because you honestly can't say when the mood will strike, so it's best to be prepared.

Clearly I missed my calling as a design blogger. Clearly.

Growing pains

I believe no single member of our family has enjoyed more than 3 consecutive hours of sleep on any given day in the past week.

So.

While furtively smoking half a cigarette (leftover from last month's girl's night out) on my back patio in.broad.daylight. and texting smokesignals to a friend begging for a loaner copy of Babywise to refresh my meaniemommy skills, I realized that I am still very much in the newborn tunnel. (Let the record show, I did not smoke half a used cigarette, but rather, half of a perfectly good cigarette before disposing of the remainder. My name is Jenny and I occasionally smoke half cigarettes.)

The newborn tunnel, not to be confused with the better known and all-encompassing tunnel of parenthood, is defined primarily by three trademark characteristics:

1. Yoga pants. Any time of day, any day of the week. May or may not correspond with physical activity. More likely, correspondent with marathon nursing sessions and embarrassing public excursions to grocery stores.

2. Lack of showering. Why get all lathered up when tomorrow's another opportunity to wear some little person's bodily fluid in your hair? I have had actual interior debates measuring the cost of my shampoo/conditioner against the likely number of hours my hair will stay clean. And let me tell you, usually, the odds are not in my mane's favor.

3. Any excuse for drinks with dinner. Ahem. For example: 'Oh, it's Tuesday. Taco Tuesday. Let's have margaritas!' Or perhaps 'Did you see it was St. so-and-so the lesser of Lithuania's feast today according to the 1942 reformed Scottish Catholic calendar? Yeah, we should pop open a bottle of red wine. I have always harbored a strong, unspoken devotion to him/her that I've never mentioned aloud before today.

Now that I've flaunted my holy all over the www, I think I may just go slip into a fresh pair of poly-spandex blend and start counting the hours until daddy's quitting time.

It is Taco Tuesday, after all...

A lot of really confusing images came up when I googled 'yoga pants.' Surprisingly, this was the least disturbing.

If they really cared about the good of the mother...

So often the pro-abortion movement claims to operate from a place of concern for the life, mental well-being, 'rights' of the woman, etc.

Ignoring the biologic reality that removing a human life from within the mother's body is a vile and treacherous attack on not only that fetus but on his or her mother, they advocate abortion as a kind of sacrament which purports to guarantee a woman's freedom in our sick, sad culture.

Much like those aid organizations who pass out condoms instead of cornmeal and counsel for better birth control for a people without wells for clean drinking water, pro-abortion activists insist that the child is always either a symptom of the problem, or the problem itself.

Forget that mom might need a scrip for Prozac or a few hours a week of housekeeping help or even intensive outpatient therapy. It's much easier to prescribe infanticide or sterilization.

And yet, so few women protest, at least externally. So many simply nod their heads and swallow the lie, that something is wrong with the way they've been created, that their female bodies betray them at every turn, and that doctors and mental health professionals don't have to take them OR their conditions seriously because it can surely be fixed with a pill, a patch or a quick 'procedure.'

May God give strength to women who are resisting this lie, and may He give light to a culture so steeped in darkness that many more accept without question.