Happy New Year!

Right now, I'm exactly one hour and 29 minutes away from 2015! *executes awkward happy dance* *accidentally knocks over a lamp*

I love holidays in general, but New Year's Day is one of my favorites. Except last year. Last year I was four days shy of going into labor. Last year sucked.

Generally, though, I love the fresh start and the rush of energy that comes with the calendar change. I actually feel motivated to do things like reorganize kitchen drawers and clean coat closets and get dead bugs out of light fixtures. Right now, there are 9 (NINE!) trash bags full of stuff sitting by my door bound for a thrift shop. I don't know if I should be proud or ashamed.

This year is particularly special because I'm here. I made it through a pretty epic shit storm and I am proud I did. Are things perfect? Nope. Do I have it all together? Definitely not. But I'm still here! I can still spend too much at Target and procrastinate housework and knock over lamps and be perfectly imperfect and okay with that.

Instead of drowning myself in resolutions like I usually do, all I'm going to try to do this year is enjoy life. LIVE. Relish.

And also eat more relish ... and chocolate cake. 

Not together, though. I swear.

Happy New Year to you and yours!

Simplify Your Life in Just 763 Easy Steps!

Every year at this time I feel the need to simplify. Cut the crap. Pare down. Let it gooooooo. Not just the nine thousand Happy Meal toys that have taken refuge in my couch, either. Mental crap. Emotional crap. Other assorted crap.

It could be rebellion against the inherent craziness of this season. Or maybe my inner organizer is trying to get ready to jump into a new year without tons of baggage.

Usually, even thinking about simplification completely overwhelms me and I end up spending the whole month of December in pajamas staring at my half-assed Christmas decor.

But this year is different. This year, I have a plan! With seven hundred sixty three steps! I shall not be defeated!

(But my Christmas decor will probably still be half-assed.)

Kid Art Bookmarks

Hullo peeps,

It's that time of year again. The time of year when I suddenly forget all the great gift ideas that popped into my head after the last "that time of year."

Luckily, my oldest two little minions can now create adorable masterpieces and I am SO TOTALLY using their talent.

We made some bookmarks out of aforementioned masterpieces for Grover's birthday last month. They're easy and fun and cost-effective and your kids can do that thing where they only put three dots on seventeen different pieces of paper but that's okay because art.

They would make great gifts for grandparents, friends, your sister-in-law's twice removed cousin whose name you can never remember, et cetera.

Crochet Ballet Slippers

Hey peeps!

Happy almost Thanksgiving! The Crazy Easy Kids Slippers pattern has gotten lots and lots of traffic lately, so I'm sharing an embellishment idea.

How To Teach Your Kids Not To Be Materialistic Assholes This Christmas

It happened despite my vigilant attempts to hunt down and eradicate the blasted thing.

My three-year-old found a copy of the (insert expletive/adjective of choice) Target Christmas catalog.

And then he turned into Veruca Salt.

“I WANT THIS! I WANT THIS! AND THIS! BUY THIS FOR ME, MOM!”

“Well, we'll see what … “

“AND THIS! THIS, TOO! I need ALL of these things!”

Don't care how, I want it NOWWWWWW!

It wasn't his response that bothered me, exactly. I mean, he's a kid. Kids love stuff (especially if that stuff is ridiculously expensive and prone to breakage).

But.

It's my job as his parent to teach him stuff doesn't equal happiness, that the best things in life aren't things. I'm supposed to teach him it's the giving, not the getting, that really matters.

And boy, was I FREAKING OUT about it. Seriously, HOW do I do that? This world is obsessed with stuff. Every time I turn around, someone somewhere is trying to get me to buy something.

After much fretting and the consumption of several hundred jelly beans, I came up with an action plan. And in the spirit of the season, I thought I would share it (just in case your house was also assaulted by Target. And Toys'R'Us. And Walmart. And every other major retailer ever).

Color Block Arm Warmers

Miracle of miracles, I've got a crochet pattern to share! It's been a long, long time, but I'm baaaaack in black, baby.

Or rather, color block.

Everything but the kitchen sink

I kind of feel like the blog is starting to resemble kitchen sink soup (where you throw an entire week's leftovers into a pot and hope for the best). Sometimes it's delicious and sometimes ... well, sometimes it gives you stomach cramps and you end up slurping Pepto with a straw.

So, uh. Here.

A crazy straw seems apropos.

Part of it is just because I'm kind of random (have I said this like 500 times before? I kind of feel like I've said this 500 times before). Part of it is because I didn't start blogging with a clear purpose. Part of it is because everything just sort of bleeds onto the page when I sit down to write. But even I'm forgetting what I'm doing, so I'm thinking of semi-regularly listing some of my favorite things in each of the categories linked above. Are your straws at the ready? Here we go.

Survive {PPD Part 8}

The end! The end! Hallefreakinglujah! It's the end of the saga! I kind of feel like I need a "I survived writing about this and all I got was this lousy T shirt" T shirt. It's been really hard. H. A. R. D. But now it's out there. Now you know. And now, more importantly, I know. It's kinda priceless, the knowing. The acceptance of the jagged edges. The willingness to work at it.

Mostly, though, I'm just really, really, really unbelievably glad it's over. Thanks for sticking with me.

Previously:
The Monster is Back and It Won't Do the Dishes {Part 1}

In the Beginning, There was Hair Color {Part 2}

The Pit of Despair {Part 3}

Nothing {Part 4}

Call The Midwife (a very bad name) {Part 5}

Things That Cannot Be Unthunk {Part 6}

Saved By Grace {Part 7}

***

The first few months after Kellan was born were wonderful (as wonderful as sleeping in two hour increments can be, really). But the depression came back. And it got bad, really, really, really bad, before I finally took my own advice.

In June, I started feeling like everything from brushing my teeth to keeping up with housework was a Herculean task. Then I got the itch to dye my hair a crazy color (for some reason that's generally a warning sign that something in my head needs attention). Then I started spending massive amounts of time on the Internet avoiding life.

And then the thoughts started again. I was not worth the air I was wasting. My family would be better off without me. I was broken beyond repair.

I'm still floundering with my Christianity and what that means, so instead of being able to accept the great big grace of God, I just felt guilty. I should have figured it out by now. I had used up all the mercy for reals this time. There was nothing wrong with my life and I had no reason to feel this way.

I started crying about everything. Stopped taking care of myself. Let the suicidal thoughts build to a crescendo that drowned out all else. Everywhere I looked I saw a possible “out.” But this time, in LARGE part due to the prodding of my family, I managed to drag myself to the doctor. I told her everything from the beginning - the postpartum depression after Gracelyn, the suicidal thoughts, all of it. Instead of judging me, she gave me another lifeline. A diagnosis. Postpartum depression and premenstrual dysphoric disorder (which is basically PMS on crack and meth at the same time - craaaazy bad hormone cocktail).

And guess what? It was not my fault.

There was HOPE. There was HELP. Medication and counseling and doing this super-awkward mindfulness exercise thingy where you pretend you're a tree. So. Weird. And it's working.

I'm beginning to accept there is no “getting back to normal” from this point on. It's about finding a new version of normal, or even chucking the whole “normal” premise out the window and starting over with something else entirely. Stasis, maybe. Balance. Some days just straight survival.

But survive I will.

***

Saved By Grace {PPD Part 7}

Previous posts on postpartum depression:

The Monster is Back and It Won't Do the Dishes {Part 1}

In the Beginning, There was Hair Color {Part 2}

The Pit of Despair {Part 3}

Nothing {Part 4}

Call The Midwife (a very bad name) {Part 5}

Things That Cannot Be Unthunk {Part 6}

The following is the second-to-last bit and I cannot tell you how excited I am to be done hashing and rehashing and hashing some more. I do think it's brought me (forgive the buzzwording) "closure", though, and my greatest hope is that all this soul-baring and life sharing might help someone else ... and not just make you think I'm in serious need of a straight jacket and some Valium.

I'm not sure you're wrong about that.

***

There was no "reason" for me to be depressed, no "reason" for me to want to commit suicide.

And you know what? There doesn't have to be a reason.

You don't have to justify. You don't have to rationalize. You don't have to make excuses. 

But you do have to tell someone. 

They won't know unless you do. They can't help unless you let them. 

I didn't say anything because of guilt, shame, pride, fear and a variety of other assorted stupidity. DON'T DO THIS. IT SUCKS. I barely made it. The only reason I did, in fact, was because I got pregnant again. As pregnancy hormones took over, the nasty imbalance wreaking havoc in my brain resolved. It was almost as if someone had flipped a switch.

Don't Huff Glitter

I'd love to write something here that grabs your attention while simultaneously making you think my life is all sunshine and rainbows, something that makes you want to be just like me and live in my sparkly clean house and wonder how I manage to make awesome crafts out of toilet paper tubes while wearing really high heels and ridiculous amounts of eye makeup. Something that makes you hate me a little for being so perfect.

Unfortunately, I'm not perfect (this is the part where you act surprised). I tried to be. I tried really, really hard. And I ended up with a face full of glitter and a lot of self hatred. 

Don't huff the glitter, you guys. Just don't

Sometimes my life is dark and messy and broody. Sometimes there are monsters lurking in the dark. Sometimes I don't feel like I can do it. I rarely put on real pants and my house is clean in the same way that Pluto is still totally a planet, but it's real life. It's a little bit random and a little bit weird and I'm learning to love it.

And sometimes there are rainbows and sunshine. My family. My children. My Nikon. My sweet skills with a crochet hook. Other assorted beauty in the universe-at-large.

But all of it, this whole big mess of contradiction stuffed into a freckly and very easily-sunburned package, that's who I am.

I'm working on it. Sort of.

In between slamming Snickers bars and Facebooking and keeping my kids from eating more than five bugs a day and other super-important and possibly top secret stuff.

It's nice to meet you.

Fruit Stripe Flaws

Hullo peeps,

I'm working on the final bit of the PPD saga and writing it all out has led to many revelations about myself. Like how I really, really, really love milkshakes (of course that's a revelation). And am terrible at conflict. And sorta kinda hate myself for no good reason at all.

I also tend toward randomness, which makes for awkward social situations. I found this out last week  when a Lowe's guy practically ran away after my lengthy disquisition on the myriad uses of window plastic. Some people just don't understand.

I'm also supposed to be figuring out big picture stuff like "who I am" and "what I want to do with my life."

HA. Good one.

Anyway, I've had a mystery sore spot on my leg for about a month ... and that's way less random than it seems, I swear. There's a connection. But I'll go ahead and give you the opportunity to run like the poor traumatized Lowe's guy. I mean, I probably shouldn't have said anything about storing body parts, buuuut ...

Things That Cannot Be Unthunk {PPD Part 6}

Earlier posts in this series:

The Monster is Back and It Won't Do the Dishes {Part 1}

In the Beginning, There was Hair Color {Part 2}

The Pit of Despair {Part 3}

Nothing {Part 4}

Call The Midwife (a very bad name) {Part 5}

I've been waffling about sharing this part. It's personal. Like, really personal. But I think the possible benefits outweigh the risks, so here goes. *gulp*

If you, yes you, stumble across this post and are dealing with suicidal thoughts, please tell someone. Call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255 or talk to a friend or family member you trust. You are not alone.

This is where I was almost two years ago.

***

Ultimately, I didn't listen to the midwife.

One, two, THREE. Beautiful little humans.

But she got to me. Boy, did she ever.

My worst fears were confirmed. It was my fault. All of this. My inability to cope. My inability to attach to my child.

I simply wasn't good enough.

There was no escape from the problem because the problem was ME. 

Where We've Been

Hullo peeps,

We're alive and well despite my radio silence around these parts. I've been doing lots of weird stuff like going to counseling and examining my life and trying to figure out who I am. Yeah. Weird.

Two weeks ago we went on a little vacay to Colorado Springs and I thought I'd share some pictures, so ...

We spent the first day at the Cheyenne Mountain Zoo. It was really, really cool. So cool I forgot to take pictures. I got this one, though. Evidence of the phenomenon that occurs every time I say, "Look at the camera." Every time.

K liked it, too. Sort of.

The Edge

It got hairy there for a while, guys. And not in a Pierce Brosnan kind of way.

In a holy crap what is going on in my brain and why am I thinking like a crazy person and crying all the time kind of way. The best way I can think to explain it is that I fell into The Nothing, pushed by hormone imbalances and depression and things I've refused to deal with for a long, long time.

I'm approximately a thousand percent better than I was a few weeks ago, but there's wreckage to sort through. I kind of feel like I went through a mental hurricane and now all that's left are foundations and junk and trash and random cats. I'm bedraggled. Broken. Waterlogged and confused and not sure how to proceed.

But I am alive. So there's that. And that is BIG. Bigger than the fact that there are random cats all over my brain.

I'll talk about it some day. Probably. Maybe. I'm not really sure what to say. I need to reflect and let it simmer and make deductions and whatnot. I think maybe writing about PPD was a trigger, so I may put that on hold for a bit. Or I may not. I don't know. I'm just kind of going with the flow at the moment. Breathing. Feeling. Smiling. Realizing just how cool this life thing is again.

One thing I do need to say is "thank you". I know with absolute certainty that without my amazing family and friends, I wouldn't be here making Pierce Brosnan chest hair references. They kept me anchored in the midst of the storm.

So thank you.

Thank you for pulling me back from the edge.

Thank you for not flinching even a little in the face of my dark twistiness.

Thank you for the jokes and the kind words and the prayers and the hugs and the smiles and the love.

Thank you for the kicks in the pants.

Thank you for helping me find my spark again.

I love you all so very, very much.

The Five Stages of Writing, Animated

I've been writing about PPD and it's really hard. Reallllly hard. I'm pretty sure I'm correctly conveying about one percent of what I am trying to say and the rest is lost in a muddle of weird references and improper grammatical structure.

So today I say, "SCREW YOU, WORDS." Gifs are where it's at. Also, #irony. Love me some irony.

This is how I feel as I slog through the writing process:

PREWRITING:

That face you make when all the thoughts fly out of your head at once.

DRAFTING:

LEAP OF FAITH!
(I'm sure the bunny is fine, you guys.)

REVISING:

No, seriously, who wrote this?

EDITING:

This is when discouragement and self-loathing kick in.

PUBLISHING:

What did I just do? *sobs*

Source for all gifs except the bunny one, which came from here

Call The Midwife (a very bad name) {PPD Part 5}

Earlier posts in this series:

The Monster is Back and It Won't Do the Dishes {Part 1}

In the Beginning, There was Hair Color {Part 2}

The Pit of Despair {Part 3}

Nothing {Part 4}

Aannnd onward!

***

I tried to cancel the postpartum check-up. I really, really, really, REALLY didn't want to go.

“I'm, like, totally fine,” I told the receptionist over the phone. "Just the usual adjustment period, you know *crazy laugh*."

"Sorry," the receptionist replied. "You're going to have to come in."

<click, click, click went a keyboard>

"The schedule is pretty tight. Would you mind seeing one of our other midwives this time?"

"Uhhh. Okay." G chose this particular moment to imitate a baby pterodactyl trapped in quicksand, so I hastily confirmed the particulars and hung up.

It will be good, I thought. I can BS the whole thing and she'll think I'm fine. Because I AM fine, dammit! *crazy laugh* We probably won't even make it to the office, anyway ...

A crippling phobia of driving was only one of the things that had bloomed in the void of nothing. If it wasn't a car crash, it would be a terrible disease. If it wasn't that, I would accidentally break her neck. Or drop her. Or she would suffocate. The worst was the fear that I'd completely crack and purposefully do something to hurt her.

Nothing {PPD Part 4}

Here are the previous posts in this series on postpartum depression.

The Monster is Back and It Won't Do the Dishes {Part 1}

In the Beginning, There was Hair Color {Part 2}

The Pit of Despair {Part 3}

Here's a virtual lollipop >>> --o

And here's the next part in the saga ...

***

I went into labor at 1 a.m. on August 19, 2012. I'm not super-big on sharing gory birth story details, so I'll just say I dropped more F-bombs than I had in my entire previous existence combined and at 8:14 p.m., Gracelyn Violet Walker entered the universe.

She was not all that impressed.

I can't recall anything that immediately followed delivery, not feelings, not images, nothing. It's weird. I like to think I was happy, exhausted, and a little freaked out about being a newly minted parent of two (like any normal person). I'll never know.

Facebook, Take Me Away

I'm going to admit something embarrassing. Well ... more embarrassing than the stuff I usually admit.

I'm kind of addicted to social media.

It's a funny twist. I've always thought of it as a "GET AHOLD OF YO' BAD SELF AND DEAL, HOMIE" thing. A geeky, nerdy, socially inept (not that I'm not that, but ... ) sort of problem like mouth breathing and the inability to keep Harry Potter trivia from spewing forth at random inopportune moments (I never do this. Never). Lame!

And here I am. Pretty darn sure I'm addicted (according to several Facebook/Twitter quizzes about whether or not you're addicted ... totally legit). The Buzzfeed one even said it's worse than cigarettes! omg! fail! wtf!

(source)

The addiction is not the problem. The reason for it is.

The Pit of Despair {PPD Part 3}

I have two disclaimers.

First, I'm (obviously) not anything special. Duh. I don't even know why this needs to be a disclaimer. LOOK AT ME.

Okay, besides the fact I'm a ninja.

In the Beginning, There was Hair Color {PPD Part 2}

If you missed the last post, click here. Your reward is a video of a dinosaur volcano. You're welcome.

A lot of the information I'm about to dump on you does not fall neatly into the category of postpartum depression. And a lot of it is going to sound really weird if you're not familiar with the modern non-denominational church of 'Murica. Bear with me. I believe these circumstances played a part in my first skirmish with the PPD monster.

This Never Happened

Heyyy,

First of all, thank you so much for the outpouring of support after my last post about my struggle with postpartum depression <<< and reading that horrifically constructed sentence.

I've been writing about it and it's helping tremendously. Today I even put on real clothes! Most of what has come from these writing therapy sessions is weepy drivel, so I hope to make it readable and release it into the universe soon. Again, thank you so much. You guys are all stuffing squeezers ... which will only make sense if you make it to the end of this post, so ...

For now, let me just ask you one semi-uncomfortable question.

The Monster Is Back and It Won't Do the Dishes {PPD Part 1}

I've had an unfinished post staring at me for over a year. It's blank. I don't know what to say. I don't want to know what to say. I wish I could forget it even existed, but I made a promise to myself to be honest about it, to get my story out no matter how long it took. All the Internet's a stage and all the players merely bloggers. Unfortunately for you, you're the audience to this Shakespeare-butchering drama. I need to share the gory details of my battle with the evil life-sucking monster that is postpartum depression. It's trying to come back and it's screwing junk up. I think writing about it will help, so ... sorry in advance. Feel free to stick your fingers in your ears and yell, "DEPRESSION IS STOOOOOPID!". I won't judge.

I used to be one of you.

Spammy

I'm getting a bazillion spam comments on one or two posts. Hopefully this isn't a sign something is wrong with the bloggy, because I actually kind of like them. The off-kilter grammatical structure juxtaposed with a completely random link is just really funny to me for some reason.

Sleep deprivation. That's the reason.

Here's a few of my favorites:

Platforms and The Ripple Effect

I don't have a platform (or platform shoes because I tend to fall over and break things and it's not 1975, but anyway).

I don't have a gigantic readership. I don't have a gazillion fans on Facebook. I don't tweet to thousands of people.

I don't have a great big booming voice that echoes across the wild wilderness of the Internet. Maybe I will
someday. Most likely I won't. I can't try to convince people that Cheetos Puffs are really packing peanuts coated in powdered cheese sauce (although somehow they're still delicious) or make a difference for a cause I believe in.

Or can I?

Trying Not to Die

So. I've been running. And slacking off on blogging. And stuffing my face with chocolatey things. And reading. And keeping children alive. And other stuff.

But back to running.

In this case, the term "running" refers to the act of puffing along on stubby little legs whilst worrying about being eaten by mountain lions (we live in the boonies and it's a totally rational irrational fear). It's my first foray into the sport since a brief stint in high school cross country. Ah, those were the days ...

*insert weird harp reminiscence-y music*

The year was 2006. I have no idea what was actually cool back then because I was homeschooled, but I thought blue eye shadow and tie-dye tunic tops and playing with dead bugs rocked. One (or perhaps all) of these quirks set off alarm bells for my mom, and she was like, "Uhhh, maybe you should find a hobby, honey".

I suck at selfies ... but I'm not sure that's a bad thing.

Tonight I changed my FB profile picture from this ...

... to this.

The first one is forgivable because there's a cute baby in it.

The other one, I was informed by Grover, makes me look like a dork (he says he said goof ... apples to apples, good sir).

I thought I looked kind of, I don't know, okay for once. I have makeup on, my eyes aren't too wonky, my hair is done, my shirt doesn't have puke on it. I only look a tiny bit psychotic. That's pretty darn good.

The (Crappily) Illustrated Brain

Hellooooo out there. *taps mic*

It has been a looooong time since I've posted, peeps. I'm sorry. I promise it's not for lack of ideas. I have oodles of ideas. The problem is I can't get them out with any sort of eloquence.

Which is why I've resorted to drawing ... sort of.

Here are some crappily illustrated analogies of the way my brain is working (or not working):

Moments

Moments. Those tiny little increments of time by which we divide our life. So insignificant ... and yet they comprise our entire existence.

I'm pretty sure I hate them. I hate the fact that life is made up of such seemingly humdrum pieces. I hate how they can be so good and so bad but are mostly just ... there. I hate how short they are. I hate how long they are.

Right now, I hate that they are all almost identical.

Such is motherhood.

Itty Bitty Birthday Cake {crochet pattern}

I freely admit I am a lover of things with no real purpose. Perfectly ordered kitchen drawers. Miniatures. Sparkly clean windows. Books arranged neatly from largest to smallest. Purple hair.

A tiny crocheted birthday cake.

I'm sure you could think of someone whose special day would be brightened by this. Maybe. Probably.

Especially if you add a few dolla dolla billz to the equation.

I used some crochet thread I had laying around (sorry for the incredible specificity) and a size 1 steel hook.

Oh, so that's how many kids I have.

Things change when you add munchkins.

Of course they do.

Your house gets messier. Your free time dwindles. You wish fervently for the days when everyone will be able to wipe their own ass.

Your heart grows a few sizes.

And taking your brood out in public is just kind of ... sad.

We Live With Our Parents and We Like It

Sooo ... I've been trying to think of a "socially acceptable" way to talk about our living arrangements for ages. There isn't one. Because it's not socially acceptable.

I'll just say it.

We live with my parents (and my three younger brothers) in a house owned by my grandparents (who live about half a mile down the road).

That was a mouthful.

When we tell people this (or they come over and we have to explain why there are seven cars in the driveway), we get some pretty interesting looks.

Surprise.

 Bewilderment.

Disgust.

Technically, we could be classified as pesky millenials who have returned to the nest. Our situation is a bit different than the typical failure to launch, however. For one thing, we aren't buried under masses of debt (credit cards, student loans, a brand spanking new car). Grover has a job. We pay all our own bills. We have been married almost five years. Annnd we have three kids.

SHE DOESN'T EVEN GO HERE!

Yesterday I completed the 7x7 Challenge thrown down by Jen of Conversion Diary.

I'm pretty sure I am the only non-catholic blogger who signed up (anyone else? *echo, echo, echo*). It doesn't matter to me in the slightest, mind you. But I did have a fleeting moment wondering if any of the 12 people who visited from the blog carnival were like:

If they did, I apologize for crashing a (mostly?) Catholic mommy blog hop. I found many of the other bloggers who participated quite entertaining.

I also learned a lot about myself. 

For instance, if I make the mistake of sitting down at my computer, I can expect to be there for at least two hours farting around on the Internet. 

I have the self-control of an 11 year old, apparently.

For links to the other bloggers who participated in this challenge, click here.

7x7 Post #7: Spring Crochet Patterns

Well, there you have it. Seven posts in seven days. No one died. The children got fed. The house didn't explode (depending on your definition of "explode", that is). I did it!

*happy dance*

I really wanted to get a crochet pattern written for y'all for this last post, but that didn't happen, so here's a round up of some of the projects I've been wanting to make in my "spare time". If somebody out there is crocheting this adorableness, I'll sleep better at night knowing the world is a slightly cuter place.

Actually, I probably won't because I have an eight week old baby, but still ...

Click the link below each photo to get the FREE pattern!

7x7 Post #6: A Day in the Life

Yesterday I wrote out a play by play of the day. Now I see why people rarely do DITL posts. They are a pain. It probably would have been much easier if I wasn't attempting the blogging challenge, buuuut ... yeah. I technically failed that because I'm posting this at 1:02 a.m. on March 2. Dang it.

This is messy. Are you ready? I recorded it a little too well, I think, and as I read back through my notes I was just like, "Dayum, girl. You need some extra arms!" It reminded me of a crazy version of the book, "If You Give A Mouse A Cookie" with a lot of bodily fluids thrown in.

I fully understand if you think this post is the most boring thing in the history of blogdom. Please feel free to skip it. I just think it will be fun to be able to go back and read it again in a year or two ... or five or ten.

I didn't have enough time to edit the photos, so they are SOOC. Some are from my Nikon and some are from my phone. If you're looking for amazing photography, avert your eyes.

*deep breath* Here we go.

7x7 Post #5: Ranting About Ranting and Other Fun Tales

I came across this article yesterday. "Why do parents make parenting sound so God-awful?" is the subtitle. The author, a childless woman living in New Hampshire, makes a case against the "honesty" that has become popular on the Internet and in advertising. She cites several blog posts of well known mommy bloggers as well as this listicle as being responsible for making her "terrified" of having kids. Her Facebook feed "goes wild for this stuff" and her friends all agree with it, share it, and spread it around the universe like the deadly virus it clearly is.

I attempted to read it with an open mind. I don't think the article is intentionally offensive (more of a feel sorry for me tone), but for some reason I felt the need to defend myself. I don't really enjoy being lumped into a "pissed parent genre", even if I agree 100 percent with their "motto".

' "[A]s crazy as things get, I wouldn’t trade it for anything." '

On the connotations of all this horrifying parental babble, the article states:

7x7 Post #4: Running Out of Things To Say

Sooo ... day four of the 7x7 challenge is upon us. I find myself staring at the computer screen thinking there is no way I'm going to be able to write three more posts. I'm pretty sure I'm losing the ability to string words into cohesive sentences.

T, however, could probably out-talk a filibustering congressman. G, too, although she mostly sounds like a character from the Sims (or a filibustering congressman).

It may be cheating a little bit, but I'M DESPERATE HERE. I've been recording some of T and G's "conversations" and weird sayings lately via Facebook updates, so I thought I'd share them. Apologies to my FB friends for regurgitating information, but like I said, I'M DESPERATE HERE.

7x7 Post #3: Keepsake Boxes

Hello peeps,

I'm switching gears a bit today to show you a *drum roll, please* completed project! It is quite possibly the only semi-creative thing I've done in the past eight weeks (besides, you know, bringing a human being into the universe).

Behold, keepsake boxes!

A thousand pardons for the photo quality in this post.

7x7 Post #2: Writer's Remorse

I made the mistake of going back through some of my old blog posts a few weeks ago. I don't know if this happens to everyone, but after reading several of them I was just like, "um, wut?"

thanks for this, mom

My inner perfectionist was not feeling it. She really, REALLY wanted me to delete, rewrite, edit, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD JUST DO SOMETHING. "This blog is not perfect!" she screamed. "And people will SEE that it's not perfect and then *gasp* judge you!"

7x7 Post #1: You're a special kind of crazy, aren't you?

Yes, yes I am.

I signed up for this thing. Seven posts in seven days. Today is day one. And since I'm a fan of all things math-y (except you, physics), let us break down why exactly this was a crazy thing to do:

Number of hours in a day: 24
Number spent sleeping: 7ish (definitely NOT consecutively)

Number of children I have: 3
Ages: Almost 3, 18 months and 7 weeks

Indiana Jones and the Cooking for Company Curse

For as long as I can remember, I've had a very serious problem. I can't cook for company. When I was a PK, we hosted missionaries and guest ministers in our home and it was always A BIG DEAL. Mom would generally make some really freaking delicious meals and I, being the only girl and therefore the only one not covered in dirt 99 percent of the time (only like 65 percent), "helped".

Unfortunately, and I don't know if it was due to nerves or just my general leaning toward scatter-brained behavior, whatever I made failed miserably. I made every rookie cooking mistake in the history of mankind. Salt instead of sugar, tablespoons instead of teaspoons, under cooking, overcooking, setting off the smoke alarm (more than once) ... you name it, I did it.

I was soon relegated to head salad maker . And I even messed that up, too.

Oh no, I didn't slice my hand open and bleed on your cucumber slices. That's just salad dressing! <<< this didn't actually happen, but only because we had the dullest knives in the history of knife-dom.

If Indiana Jones had to choose between a pit full of snakes and eating my cooking, he'd pick snakes.

Nah, I'm good. You guys go ahead with that ... salad.

Be Ye Warned

Hullo peeps,

Crazily enough, I actually managed to get a bit of crocheting done a few days ago. I made hats for all the kiddies and I'm trying to decide how to embellish them. Before I can do that, I'm going to have to remake K's.

Why?

Bubble Guppies.

I watched an entire episode in a semi-catatonic state trying to rationalize how there can be an Australia if everything takes place underwater.

Seriously. HOW?

I know. It's ridiculous.

Flackback-ery

There are a lot of side effects of parenthood. Lack of sleep, having to go all covert ops so you can eat junk food, body sagginess in all the wrong places, feeling like you are constantly losing your mind, and the inability to yell at someone without garbling their names (TAL-GRA-KEL-HERSH-CHA *deep breath* GRACELYN! GET OFF THE TABLE!).

There's also innumerable perks, such as the flashbacks to my own happy childhood.

For instance, I recently came to the realization at least half my brain is STILL full of Disney song lyrics.

TALE AS OLD AS TIMEEEE!!! SONG AS OLD AS RHYMEEEE!!!

I'm not sure how I feel about this. One one hand, it might be nice to have that brain space for important stuff like physics or ... something. On the other hand, I would totally kick butt at Disney karaoke night at the local bar.

November {Snapshots}

November was a fun month (and it seems SO long ago already). We played in the snow ...

Well ... ate it, mostly.

And found some wet, soggy leaves ...

I'll Never Be a Pro Newborn Photographer

I spent the better half of today taking newborn pictures of Kellan. They are finally edited and may I just say GAHHHHHHHHH. That junk is hard, you guys. I didn't think it would be that difficult to take some decent shots of a sleepy little blob, but boy, was I ever wrong.

First, he refused to go to sleep.

Nope.

NOT GONNA DO IT.

Then he peed.

Kellan is here!

Soooo ... it's taken nine days to get to posting something about this, but in case you missed the FB update, baby has arrived!

Kellan Maddox Walker

Born January 5, 2014

On top of the heart melting qualities of this little person, I am just SO ETERNALLY GRATEFUL I'm not pregnant anymore. I got a good chuckle out of a draft post I wrote two days before he was born, lamenting on my condition and the universe in general. Luckily nobody is going to have to read it.

Things will probably be a bit sparse on the bloggy for a bit. Life with three littles is suspiciously easy at the moment, but I'm pretty sure that will change when K is not sleeping 20 out of 24 hours a day. I do have every intention of continuing to share the randomness that is life around here (sorry? you're welcome? Idk.)

I hope you had a wonderful new year ... or rather, first half of January.

How did that happen, anyway?