Resolution Makeover

I am a resolution addict.  I love the rush that comes with the midnight countdown. THIS IS THE YEAR, I think. This time I'll do all the things I didn't do last year ... or the year before that. 

Since fourth grade, I've created lists of adventures to have, foods to try, places to go, and changes to make. Over the years, Become a spy and Discover unicorns have changed to standard basic adult-y things. Save $1,000. Lose weight. Don't stab anyone with a fork. It's a part of growing up, of course, but I've noticed my goals have morphed from things I want to do because life is supposed to be fun and lovely and exciting to things I feel like I have to do because I hate the way I am. Basically, every resolution I've made in the past ten years could be summed up as "Stop being a fucking loser." Not exactly healthy, especially when mixed with mental illness.
So THIS year, I'm examining the underlying motives for every goal I make. Guilt-based, self hate-based, "should"-based, all the things I resolve to do because I don't want people to judge me, all the resolutions that stem from the idea I'm somehow not good enough just the way I am - ALL OF THOSE - are getting canned.

ONE WOMAN'S STUNNING MAKEOVER! 

From this ...

To this!

If you haven't seen either of those movies, sorry. I don't do relevant very well. Also, you should probably resolve to watch more oldish children's movies.

As a completely hypothetical example, say I can't button my pre-pregnancy skinny jeans without damaging internal organs. Instead of Workout nineteen times a week and Subsist on kale, I'm resolving to GIVE IT UP AND BUY BIGGER PANTS, ALREADY and Substitute a candy bar for an apple twice a week.

Small, measurable, specific. Not completely impossible (which is, you know, kinda important.) I'm not setting myself up for failure, I'm not contributing to low self-esteem and feelings of failure, and I don't have to eat fucking kale. WIN.

In 2016, be the awesome person you already are. HAPPY NEW YEAR! <3

God Made Dirt. Satan Made Legos.

I'm a clean freak by design. I love order and labels and pretty much everything at The Container Store. Messes make me twitchy. Dirt gums up my mental processes. I have uttered the phrase, "Put your clothes in the goddamn hamper or so help me GOD" at least a thousand times.

Which means almost every single day for the past four and a half years, I've looked around my house  and silently WTF-ed.

This is the price of a TV-free afternoon/not reminding them every two seconds to get out only ONE thing at a time. I swear on the Bible it was clean three hours ago. #reallife #OCDaversiontherapy #fourunderfive

A video posted by Caitlin Walker (@walkerwhimsy) on Dec 14, 2015 at 6:25pm PST

Does it shock you? Disgust you? Make you wonder what the hell I do all day? (That'd be a "yes" for me.) Maybe you just feel relief that you're not the only one who can't see your floor. (I see you and send you a virtual hug, fellow parent.)

This is life. Every single day. MESS. For me, it's one of the hardest parts of parenting (the other three, in case you're wondering, are not knowing what the hell I'm doing, not being able to protect my kids from pain, and Legos. MOTHER FURCKING LEGOS.) I pick up twice a day, deep clean at least once a week, and "mini-clean" every two or three days. If anything, I clean too much when I should be spending time with my kids and family or doing something I enjoy ... or bathing. #guilt

But no matter what I do (or don't do), IT DOESN'T EVEN MATTER. In the space of an hour dirt, germs, Hot Wheels, Barbie shoes, half eaten bagels, paper giblets, crayons, discarded clothing, mother furcking Legos, puzzle pieces, odd gooey blobs and various suspicious brown stains magically appear. All. Over. The. House.

Because kids? FREAKING MESSY.

Are there ways to deal with it? Sure. And they mostly suck.

For instance, I could police my kids every second and scream PUT IT AWAY a thousand times ... and completely stifle their imagination. (Done this.)

I could follow them around picking up their messes like a fucking cleaning fairy and make them think fucking cleaning fairies do indeed exist. (Also done this.)

I could plant their butts in front of the TV for ten hours at a time. (Maybe not a full ten hours, but this has happened, too.)

I could get overwhelmed, sink into my depression cloud and live in utter filth. (One of my favorite non-coping mechanisms.)

Or I could find a balance. Of course that would require figuring out how to temper my own virulent reaction to messes and what other people think of those messes. 

I could not base my sense of self worth on the relative sparkliness of my windows ... because seriously, how sad is that?

 I could accept that my carpet is stained and my walls are dirty and my heart is full and my hands are busy doing the important work of raising good people.

I can and will keep doing everything humanly possible to keep us afloat in a sea of Fisher Price crap, but it's going to be messy again in approximately two minutes.

So, if you happen to come over and you can't see the floor (because that would mean I duct taped the children to the wall and that's like, illegal or something), don't be scared! Grab a cup of coffee (and maybe a shovel) and join in the joyful chaos of our lives.

 (And please pry the Windex bottle from my cold clean freak fingers.)

P.S. Just realized I could also hire a maid. I better go dig up all that gold buried in the backyard. Ha.

Why Gender-Stereotyped Toys Are Bad

Hey, happy Black Friday! If you're out and about looking for great deals today, may the odds be ever in your favor.

I forgot to share the following post during the Internet blitzkrieg over Target's decision to remove gender-specific decor from their toy section. It comes from research I completed for a gargantuan college essay on gender stereotypes. Keep it in mind as you start (or finish) your Christmas shopping this year. :)

***

Gender-stereotyped children's toys are more prevalent today than they have ever been before. The primary reason for this is money (because it's always about the money). You can't just buy toys; you have to buy a Barbie for Sally and an action figure for Bobby. Twice the shopping, twice the cash, and there's still a 99.9 percent chance they'll end up playing with fighting over the boxes the toys came in.

The reason this is a problem is NOT because of the only thing anyone ever seems to think about these days (hint: it starts with an 's' and ends with 'x'). It's NOT about transgenderism or inclusiveness or the "gay agenda" or the breakdown of America's values. There are NO studies linking the types of toys children play with to their sexuality choices later in life, and people who say so (on both sides) are not only drinking the Koolaid of their media outlet of choice, they're injecting something as innocent as child's play with scuzzy undertones.

The reason splitting children's toys up according to traditional gender roles is bullshit is two-fold. First, society has changed dramatically over the past few decades. There are now stay-at-home dads and engineer moms and this is a good thing. Teaching and reinforcing 'traditional' gender roles with toys because we're trying to control our child's future is futile and irresponsible. We are supposed to be preparing them for the world they'll be living in, not clinging to the past because we're afraid or unfairly biased.

Second, children learn primarily through play. Cutting out half of the "tools" of their trade does nothing but destroy learning opportunities and stunt development. Art, science, dramatic play/dress up stuff, sports equipment - these things are all marketed to specific genders and there is no good reason for it.

Do you want your son to be a good dad? Let him play with dolls. Does your daughter love to build? By all means, get her some Legos (not just the pink and purple ones).

Let your sons make friendship bracelets. Let your daughters blow stuff up with chemistry sets. Let your kids be kids. It's not going to hurt them. In fact, they'll probably thank you for it.

***

I can't do life today but I still win.

My particular brand of crazy (PMDD) has officially made its postnatal appearance. How can I tell? I've been crying for two days. The house is a disaster. Three of my children are currently naked, one is poopy, and all of them are hungry. They've been running around like banshees (further) destroying the house and watching a ton of TV while I sink into the black hole of the Internet. I'm not being a good mom. If I didn't feel numb, I would feel guilty. And tired. So tired. Tired of crying. Tired of trying to keep it all together. Tired of questioning my worth. Tired of being terrified (and terrifying.)

It's tough to distinguish the line where normal mom exhaustion ends and The Other starts because momming is freaking HARD and often just plain shitty. The only reason I know my life meter is still hovering around "okay" is because I'm not tired of living. I'm still doing this life thing, even if I'm doing it rather poorly and even if I can't seem to find my ability to care right now.

My spirit animal

In the fight against depression, if you're breathing, you're winning.

Inhale, exhale
Win, win, win!
Something, something
Safety pin!

Holy shitskies, do depressed people make awful cheerleaders.

The point: you got this. Even if you do nothing but sit on your butt and binge watch Netflix or read 27,452 tweets today, you're still winning.

Keep winning, peeps. And, as always, if you ever feel like you don't want to do it anymore, please say something. No fear. No shame.

Do the Mashed Potato

My mom took me to see Mean Girls in theaters when it came out in 2004. "This, THIS," she said, "is what high school is really like." As a 13 year old homeschooler, I believed her, but I didn't really believe her, you know? (It would be the first of many life lessons on the topic of "Your Mother Was Right & You Should Have Listened, You Buffoon!")

Hence, it took quite a while for me to find out "Plastics" are a real phenomenon. I didn't meet one in real life until I was almost 16. I remember taking it all in - perfect hair, trendy clothes (spaghetti straps! the HORROR!), massive amounts of glittery sparkly makeup - and being struck with the overwhelming feeling that I was somehow less than her. I felt like I had missed out on something realllllly important somewhere - some sort of magical "done girl" knowledge my strict Christian upbringing had omitted in favor of memorizing Bible verses and obsessing over modesty.

Seriously, though, HOW?

I couldn't understand it. And truthfully, I still don't really get it. I do know it requires a ton of energy (seriously, huge kudos to ladies who have the patience to apply false eyelashes every damn day), lots of money, lots of narcissism, and LOTS of Instagram filters.

Unfortunately, it took me almost five years to realize just how much of a process it is, which means I wasted almost five years of my life being a horrible narcissistic obsessive idiot, filled to the brim with self hate and on a desperate crusade to "level up" my appearance. (Sans money. And surgeons.)

If I could go back in time, I'd slap myself.

I might have never figured it out if not for motherhood, that beautiful, amazing stage of life when you only have time to shower once every three days (maybe), your makeup goes unused for so long it turns the wrong color, and heels are a terrible idea because you can't catch a fleeing toddler without breaking an ankle. Thankfully, kids don't give a shit how you look as long as you feed them regularly.

It was one of the best things about becoming a mom - finally being forced to give up my impossible, stupid (SO. STUPID.) obsession with appearance. Unfortunately, the self esteem problem at the center of the mess didn't magically disappear along with it. Boo.

I'm working on it, and I know there's a balance between looking like I'm a zombie extra for the Walking Dead (#currentlifegoal) and spending three hours on my hair every day. There's just a lot more bumps on the road to self acceptance than I anticipated. I thought once I realized perfection was A) impossible and B) a giant scam perpetuated by the multi-billion dollar media/cosmetics/plastic surgery industries, I'd magically feel all better. But every time someone tells me I look OMGsoexhausted! or starts talking about how kids "ruined their bodies" and all the work they've had done to "fix it", I feel exactly like the sad little 15-year-old kid who bought into the lie in the first place.

Luckily, I have an excellent reason to figure it out because I am determined not to pass this mindset along to the littles. I don't want them to think appearance is THE THING. I want them to know that taking care of yourself is important, but also that devoting massive amounts of time, money and energy to your external appearance is pointless. Being able to accept yourself, however, is priceless. Maybe in my quest to teach them, I'll finally be able to learn it, too. 

So I've made a resolution. The next time a perfectly coiffed, tarantula eyelashed, perky boobed, fit-to-impress-the-hell-out-of-some-lettuce Plastic tottles by me at the grocery store and remarks about my overly full hands or the spit up in my hair, I'm just going to think of her as a reminder. 

A very heavily perfumed reminder.

She's beautiful, and so am I, and so are you.

Just ignore the mashed potato toddler hand prints on my butt, mmkay?

Hammer Time

STOP.

Stop trying so damn hard.

To be thin.
To be fancy.
To be rich.
To be current.
To be trendy.
To be cool.
To be beautiful.
To be popular.
To be funny.
To be organized.
To be accepted.
To be valued.
To be loved.
To be perfect.

Just stop it, already.

You are perfect. You are valued. You are loved. Exactly as you are.

In the words of one of the most brilliant lyricists ever, can't touch this (oh-oh oh oh oh-oh-oh).

via GIPHY

I'm sorry. I had to. 

Sometime parachute pants are the only way to shock yourself out of a self hate funk.*

Now go have a lovely day. <3

*This is taken straight out of a psychology book.**

**That hasn't been written yet.***

***But should be. Because parachute pants.

Also, this made my day:

Okay, I'm done now.

Vaseline. #$%&*!? VASELINE.

It's officially the "fourth trimester" and I've been watching vigilantly for signs PPD might be trying to sneak back in. This past week has been especially difficult as Grover went on a five day business trip and now I'm in that weird haze where you've overextended yourself so much you become what is essentially a potato with opposable thumbs.

I haven't really noticed any super hormonal weirdness, just the usual stuff. An overwhelming urge to whack my hair off (thank you, mom and highly skilled cosmetologist SIL, for saving me from myself), exhaustion, and my least favorite side effect - RAGE. Like everything goes red and I have to try really hard not to punch a hole in the wall* type rage.

*except nine eighteen-ish months of no exercise means incredibly weak arms and I'd probably just end up breaking my hand

This morning when I was in the kid's closet trying to extricate a lost baby sock from behind the piles of crap perfectly organized and important things I'm keeping because we'll probably need them someday (normal size broken baby gate, gigantic only slightly broken baby gate, nine pictures I've been meaning to hang for six months, my wedding dress cocooned in a trash bag because I'm totally going to get it preserved ... someday, the humidifier, a fan, five boxes of diapers, decorations from G's birthday party, a step stool I hid behind the wedding dress because the kids were using it to climb shelves, an overflowing hamper ... aaaand I'll stop there because who wants to read a blog post about the entire contents of a closet???), I realized it was the creepy kind of "too quiet" that signals mischief and mayhem. I checked on the sleeping baby and the big kids in the living room and then walked into my bedroom to discover K smearing himself with Vaseline whilst sitting atop my bed, also smeared in Vaseline.

Cue rage.

In 37 seconds (maybe slightly longer because that closet is a time warp), K had turned the bed into a minefield of nasty slippery Vaseline chunks. Do you know how difficult it is to remove Vaseline? It's like what would happen if you microwaved a dead whale and it exploded and blew blubber bits to the moon and back and you only had 10 minutes and half a package of baby wipes to clean it up. No matter how much you clean, there will always be blubber bits you miss.

(I'm thinking maybe that's a bad analogy because the logistics of microwaving an entire whale are highly questionable, but you get the idea.)

Luckily, over the course of 4.5 years of momming I've managed to develop a mechanism that protects my children from my ragey hormonal outbursts (usually) - a sort of delayed reaction device that involves lots of breathing and praying. I calmly cleaned K up, stripped the bed, wiped down the headboard and the nightstand and the wall and the floor and the dresser, headed to the laundry room, and had a total come apart in there, cursing Vaseline in very imaginative wording ... and into a pillow because I've already inadvertently taught G to call people "D-bags". #parentoftheyear

Should I have learned the perils of the substance when T coated G's head in Vaseline a few years ago and it took weeks for her hair to un-grease? Yes. Should I have eradicated all traces of it from my home and never spoken of it again? Absolutely. Unfortunately, you need that shit when you have a tiny baby who poops every ten seconds. So yes, it's my fault for leaving Vaseline within striking distance of K, who can make a mess out of literally anything, but still I'd like to publicly state - EFF YOU, VASELINE. EFF. YOU.

Yes, I do feel better now, thank you.

A Beginning and The End

He's here!

Finnegan Roarke Walker

September 29, 2015, 11:39 p.m.

7 lbs, 8.4 oz, 19 inches and one adorable chin dimple

This little man made his appearance 13 days early in spite of his momma being a total B. He's perfect and healthy and so far is an incredibly peaceful little soul. We survived the first week, which was more difficult than usual as I and two of the three older kids came down with a horrendous cold the day we got home from the hospital. I'm pretty sure I've morphed into Chuck Noland, but who cares?

WE'RE ALIIIIIVE!

#8dayspostpartumselfie

There have been a lot of feelings this week. Realizing I'm responsible for four (FOUR!) human beings was my major freak out moment. Seriously, who authorized this?

40 toes, you guys. I am responsible for FORTY TOES.

It's the end of positive pregnancy tests and first baby kicks and counting down days and weeks and the terrifying excitement of labor and the mystery and promise of a new life.

(It's also the end of morning sickness and overwhelming exhaustion and being unable to exercise or eat raw cookie dough or drink wine and the end of feeling like I'm trapped in a bloated whale's body and having to pee every three minutes and insomnia and horrible pain and endless anxiety about things going wrong ...)

It's bittersweet, but mostly sweet. Ninety percent of me is shouting "HALLELUJAH!" (I don't love being pregnant and I'm not ashamed of the fact) and the other ten percent feels melancholy about such a monumentally life-changing chapter in my life being over so fast. Four kids in exactly four years and five months (I KNOW, RIGHT?!?) It's been such a crazy ride it's hard to process it all. Should I have enjoyed it more? Taken more pictures? Been less of an awful pregnant person? Used my raging hormones as an excuse to deck people? Eaten less ice cream? Eaten MORE ice cream? Probably.

Thankfully, though (soooo thankfully), it's over now. The last of the worry and wonder of this incredibly INTENSE stage is on the horizon.

It's the end of an era.

And the beginning of a brand new life.

Welcome to the world, little one! We love you so very much.

AHHHHHHHHH.

I am 37 weeks and 2 days pregnant today. I've been feeling like labor is imminent for more than a week now. Aaaaand nothing. T and G were both born at 37 weeks exactly and K was born at 38 weeks, 2 days, so yes, I know I'm a HUGE wimp about the end of pregnancy. I'll freely admit that. I just made it to the "safe zone" Monday and there are still 19 (nine. teen. ... *bursts into tears*) days until my official due date, but I already feel like I'm losing my mind.

I know, rationally, I can't be pregnant forever. I know, rationally, I should try to enjoy this time since this is my last pregnancy and I'll never be in this exact life situation again. I know, rationally, more time in pre-labor means an easier delivery later. And rationally, I know being pregnant and uncomfortable (albeit intensely ragey/weepy/oversensitive) is easier than having a newborn.

Rationally, I know these things.

Unfortunately, I'm not rational right now. Not even five percent of the time. Do I feel guilty about that? Absolutely. A good mommy wouldn't be bitching right now. She'd be thankful and glowy and one with the universe and probably still able to wear real pants. A good mommy wouldn't be constantly yelling at her other children and scream-texting her husband that NO, SHE'S NOT IN F****** LABOR YET.


via GIPHY

But whatever, I'm human. And I figured I should officially record all of the feels (good, bad, but mostly just ugly) because I know I'm actually going to miss this shit in the future and laugh about how ridiculous I acted and look back on pregnancy with fondness and affection.

Because I'm insane. Totally insane.

If I admit it, that makes it okay, though, right?

Crazy Easy Kid Legwarmers {crochet pattern}

Hullo peeps,

It's getting cold around here, which is FANTASTIC for a 36.5 weeks pregnant lady who breaks into a sweat just thinking about strenuous physical activity ... like walking to the bathroom ... or getting out of bed ... or sitting down on the floor and having to get back up again ... but not so fantastic for my three year old who refuses to wear pants most of the time. Luckily, she is completely obsessed with all things ballerina these days, including legwarmers, so I made some for her. The pattern I came up with is insanely basic (pretty much all my brain can handle right now), but they fit great and are a perfect canvas for embellishment.

I used Red Heart With Love yarn and an I hook. These are a size small. To make a medium or large use the numbers in parentheses.

Abbreviations:
ch - chain
st - stitch
sc - single crochet
hdc - half double crochet
BLO - back loops only

We'll start with the ribbing along the top.

ROUND 1: Ch 6, turn. Skip 1 ch, sc in next 5 st in BLO.
ROUND 2: Continuing in BLO, *ch 1, turn, sc in next 5 st*.
ROUND 3-24 (medium: 26) (large: 28): Repeat from * to * around.
Tie off. Sew edges together with a whip stitch to form a ring.

For the main part of the legwarmer:

Join yarn to the edge of the ribbed piece you just finished. Sc around edge 24 (m: 26) (l: 28) times. Join to first sc.
Working in the round now, hdc in each sc around. Continue working in the round until piece reaches desired length (I did 25 rows - increase as needed for medium/large sizes).

For the bottom cuff:

Work 5 rounds of one sc in each st.

Finish off, weave in ends, and embellish however you wish!

Who needs real pants, anyway?

Say Something

Hullo peeps,

I've been out for a while and this isn't exactly the sweetness and light I'd like to come back with on the blog, but I can't stop thinking about all the incredible people who have been lost to suicide and if there is anything I can do (no matter how small) to reach someone who is fighting this battle, I'm sure as hell going to do it. So let's just dive in, shall we?

***

One year ago, I lost my spark. I was depressed and hopeless and contemplating a thousand different ways to end my own life. Looking back, it all seems like a really bad dream. I don't know how I ended up there (although I have fleshed out a lot of compounding factors) and I never in a million years expected it.

You never do, though. No one, no one, plans on fighting a battle to the death with their own thoughts. There's no way to prepare for it, there's no way to combat it, and the only ally you have is yourself - a GIANT problem with that self is filling your head with lies about your value and worth.

In order to survive, there is one thing you have to do. I know for certain it's what saved my life a year ago. If you're dealing with depression or anxiety or suicidal thoughts or any other sort of mental turmoil OR if you think a friend or loved one might be fighting this battle, please do this one thing.

Say something.

Tell someone what you're going through. Ask someone if they're okay. Yes, it seems utterly pointless. Yes, it can be insanely embarrassing. Yes, you'll have to wade through the social guilt/shame surrounding mental illness. Yes, you'll probably scare the hell out of people.

But so many beautiful voices have been silenced forever by this monster and we must fight it any way we can.

So please, say something.

National Suicide Prevention Lifeline - 1-800-273-8255

Lightning Adventures

Two days ago a lightning strike fried our internet. Satellite, cable, router – the whole thing is dead. After an hour on the phone with tech support yesterday (basically 15 rounds of “Did you turn your computer on and off, ma'am? Did you unplug everything? Let's turn it on and off one more time.”) and three very dirty children (they dug a hole in the front yard with spoons Shawshank Redemption-style #perilsofphonecallswhilewatchingsmallchildren), the guy finally started a service ticket.

For next Monday.

I went through the five stages of grief in five seconds, then said, “Okay, thanks” and hung up. The big problem here is not that I'll be cut off from Facebook browsing or Googling things every five minutes. That's actually a blessing. The BIG problem is I use the internet for my job and am smack in the middle of a deadline project. My email and our VoIP phone service are out of commission for a week. And we're 25 minutes from the nearest free Wifi. AND I have to figure out how to entertain three toddlers in a public place while trying to work.

AND … okay, I know. #firstworldproblems #firstworldproblems #firstworldproblems

It's times like these that I pull myself up by the bootstraps and go with the flow and win at life. Because I'm cool like that.

Hahahahahahaha. No. I stay in pajamas, eat my feelings, and walk around in a fog. I don't even own boots with straps.

For some reason, things like this really throw me off my game. Unplanned events can bomb my whole week and leave me feeling even more overwhelmed than usual. Since life is FULL of unexpectedness and there's no way to change it, I'm going to have to figure out how to flex. Maybe do some mental yoga and stop over-scheduling. Take deep breaths and roll with the punches. All those other euphemisms that sound super-great until you actually have to apply them.

I need a newspaper-wielding Edna in my life right now.

May you have a great day in the comfort of your own home surrounded by the loving buzz of your router cable.

The Real

Hullo peeps,

Sorry (again) for the unplanned sabbatical. I'd love a kick ass excuse (I was with my cousin in Alaska HUNTING WOLVERINES!) but mostly I've just been crazy busy and disenchanted with the blogosphere, social media, the Internet, my writing, myself, life - okay, basically everything. I have plenty of things to write about and twenty four saved drafts to prove it. But I just plain hate everything that flows forth from my fingertips < like that. WTF?

I'll get a sudden spark of inspiration, drop everything, write furiously for as long as possible (when the littles are awake, this means 5 minutes tops), then reread it with a permanent frowny face and hack it to shreds until I'm back to a blank page. This post, for instance, has been completely rewritten seven times. Were the first six editions bad? No. Maybe? Yes? I don't know.

Maybe this long streak of writer's block (is that what this is?) is just nature's way of forcing me to accept it's okay to not edit my writing to death, that doing something "fine" is better than not doing it at all and that doing it "perfectly" is IMPOSSIBLE. Do you hear me, inner self? I.M.P.O.S.S.I.B.L.E. It's not like I have any control over how I'll be perceived by others, anyway - from my word choices and use of grammar on this blog to the clothes I wear to the grocery store to the state of my house. I just feel like I've been putting so much effort into "editing" every aspect of my life that I've forgotten how to be real. Truthfully, I'd rather not be real. Real doesn't come with a delete button or Instagram filters. Real is feeling overwhelmed and disillusioned and wishing things weren't.

Real sucks sometimes. And mixed in with all that sucky-ness are the moments that make life worthwhile - things you can't fabricate with pretty words or special effects.

Without it, life is big void of pointless nothing, so I guess I should figure out how to suck it up.

I'll start by hitting Publish without re-writing this for the eighth time.

Ready, go.

Friday Funnies

Sometimes when I have bad days I sit around and shove junk food in my face and browse through GIFs. It makes me feel better (and it's a great way to procrastinate).

I thought it might be nice to share in case your day sucked, too (also because blogging is yet another fantastic procrastination device), so behold. Five infinite loops of fail.

Like when you're really trying to kick life's ass, but ...

Rex Kwan Do!

And when you're all "I BELIEVE I CAN FLYYYYY!" until ...

Gravity, stay the hell away from me.

Or when you're getting your exercise in like a responsible adult and it just ... 

About half the gifs on the internet involve treadmills. #fairwarning

And the times you're SO PUMPED you could just LEAP OVER FIVE BROS, except ...

Yeahhhhhh-ah-ah-ahhhhhouuuuuch!!!

Or when you're just trying to swim along and ...

I can't stop imagining the noise this made. bloooOOmph, maybe?

Thank goodness tomorrow is a new day.

Pinterest Paradox

Hullo peeps!

I'm back! I was trying to figure out why I haven't written anything since February and then I realized it was because of eight weeks of a germ circus + three children and all the fun that entails.

Extremely accurate representation of my life for the past few months.

Despite the relative awfulness, I happy to report I haven't fallen into any deep, dark pits of despair lately, nor have I been whiling away my time on the interwebs (which is my usual fallback when life gets shitty). I recently started Pinteresting again, though, and was kind of weirded out by the "Picked For You" thing. How long have they been doing that, anyway? Six months? A year? Because I HATE IT. Thanks to their Internetty voodoo, my board is now crammed with bikinis, stretch mark remedies (MEAN!), motivational fitness quotes and Oreo-Snickers-brownie-peanut butter recipes.

Oh, and quotes. Sooo many quotes. Pinterest picked this one for me:

Nice.

And there's also things like "How to Be a Hands-Off Parent" right next to "Two Million Ways to Be All Up In Yo' Toddler's Biz So They Never Learn to Entertain Themselves", and then of course in between all that there's requisite Pinterest-y things like hairstyles requiring at least twenty seven fingers, perfect makeup *coughphotoshopcough*, clothes I can't afford and millions upon millions of crochet patterns and craft projects I don't have time for.

The worst part, the sketchy part, is all these Picked for You doodads are based on my past pins and browser search history, which means the entire contradictory mess is (allegedly) an exact reflection of the inside of my noggin. And it is ostriches-on-ecstasy levels of crazy up in there (seriously, though, act surprised).

"Sweetheart, you're beautiful just the way you are, but here's how to apply three pounds of makeup because never mind that first part."  ~ my brain, according to Pinterest

It's called a smoky eye!

There's nothing inherently wrong with Pinterest. I still enjoy it and there are some insanely great ideas on there. I guess it's just a little weird to see a reflection of what I'm "interested in" presented so ... ickily. Shallow and self-obsessed and really, really confused about what I want and never okay with just being, you know? Like, the sip a glass of iced tea and sit on my porch without feeling the need to do all the things ever sort of existence. (Ummmmmm ... I think I might actually be 87 years old.)

But again, it's just a silly website. And it's been great to realize I'm in a much better place than their algorithm suggests. Maybe it's simply a reminder, and maybe you need it, too, if you happen to be another perfectionist, that the Internet is Not. Real. Life.

You know, in case you haven't seen all those noseless people on Instagram.

#nineteenfiltersandlookinsofine

Now pour yourself a drink and go BE.

A Letter to my (Delusional) 18-Year-Old Self

Dear me,

Look at you. Little Miss Adult. Eighteen years old and ready to take on this oyster of a world you've heard so much about. You can officially buy a lottery ticket now. Your graduation party is fast approaching. You've started on a college major, one you chose solely because calculus wasn't a pre-req.

You're adorable ... and delusional. You are completely defined by external labels and petrified of other people's opinions of you.

First, let's talk about the biggest thing in your life. For other (normal) people your age, it might be academics or sports or a circle of friends. For you, it's church. You define yourself by the "church kid" label just like others do with "nerd" or "jock". And in typical clique-ish manner, you are crazy critical of others who aren't exactly like you.

You cannot comprehend that a whole world of differences exists outside your tiny little universe ... which basically means you're a judgmental bitch.

Don't worry, you'll get over it. Mostly.

Next up, let's discuss your horrific self esteem. If there was only one thing I could say to you, it would be to love yourself. STOP focusing on how everyone else perceives you; it doesn't matter. Peel off your self-made labels. See the beauty in your imperfection. 

And for God's sake, stop weighing yourself three times a day and BACK AWAY FROM THE MIRROR. You're wasting so much time giving a damn for no good reason.

You are beautiful because of who you are inside.

Of course, right now you have no idea who you are inside, so you're not going to understand this. 

You will, though.

(Also, while we're here, no more blue eye shadow. Ever.)

Just no.

Finally, let's look at your life choices. You're taking a road less traveled (these days anyway) and getting married in a few months ... soooo young. You're terrified to tell people you're engaged because of the judgmental opinions they feel they must bestow upon you. But remember how you need to stop giving a fuck about what everyone else thinks? Yeah. Do it now.

You have found the thing people wait their whole lives for. You're in love. 

Does that mean it's going to be perfect or easy or exactly as you imagined it would be? No.

You think that, though, don't you? Your sunshine and roses imagination has no idea what's coming.

Marriage is going to be so much harder than you ever thought possible. It's going to test you, try you, break you and make you again. You'll soon learn just how amazing a force love is, how its elasticity will keep you bound together as your fairy tale dreams are smashed to pieces. 

It will be worth it.

And then you'll start having babies and you'll realize that all your perceived flaws are nothing compared to the intense inadequacy you feel trying to care for another human being. You will realize that showering twice a week is actually a pretty solid life goal. You won't have time to freak out about the stupid things you're freaking out about now because you'll be freaking out about a whole bunch of new and different stuff ( ... OMG OMG CALL POISON CONTROL THIS BUBBLE SOLUTION COULD BE TOXIC!!)

Just as with marriage, parenting will knock you on flat on your ass. You will deal with things more disgusting than you can possibly imagine. You will want to call it quits sometimes. You will bear the guilt of doing it all wrong every single day. And you will find joy in the madness.

Many of the challenges you'll face in the next six years you will barely survive. Everything will seem to happen at once and you'll be left bleeding from a head-on collision with rock bottom. You never think you'll be there now, but just wait. 

You will find out what its like to look at your amazing, spectacular, breathtaking life and not want to keep living it.

And then you will find reasons to breathe anyway.

Every misstep, every mistake, every accident and “oh, shouldn't have done that” moment will help you figure out who you are. You will realize that your journey is your journey and no one else can tell you what is right or wrong. You will learn to listen to your heart and follow it ... at least 50 percent of the time.

You will be like a phoenix rising from the ashes ...

... and you will probably think it is like, SOOO LAME that I went with a phoenix metaphor because WHERE IS THE CREATIVITY IN THAT, HUH? Cut yourself some slack. The older you is t.i.r.e.d.

Good luck with life, delusional little trooper.

You got this.