Kids and chores, the struggle is too real.

Have your kids help out around the house.  Teach them responsibility.  Set them up to be big winners in the game of life by having them load the dishwasher

every night.

The kids are pretending that the vacuums are proton packs and that they are Ghost Busters.  This was my husband's idea. He's a genius.

There’s only one problem with that.  Getting your kids to do chores IS a chore.  I can spend 15 minutes cleaning the kitchen after dinner OR I can split it down into tiny taskletts and parcel them out to the children and then observe and correct them (No dearest!  Sweeping doesn’t just mean dragging the broom in a circle around the floor, you have to actually look at it to make sure the bits are getting swept up.) but not ACTUALLY do it for them, keep them on task, and then of course deal with the inevitable melt down where one child loudly denounces the other children for not doing their fair share, one child curls up into a ball and moans that they are TOOO TIRED, and the other children screams at you that you have RUINED THEIR WHOLE DAY AND DOES THIS MEAN THEY WON’T GET ANY TABLET TIME?!?!? An hour later, we’re all late for bedtime and the kitchen is not clean.  But they’ve been taught about responsibility!  And then as I always do I imagine them acting in exactly this way when they are grown up.  My kid.  Lying on the floor after the manager at their first minimum wage job asks them to sweep the floor.  “BUT MY LEGS ARE SO TIRED! I can’t hold the broom, or stand.  I’m too tired to BREATHE.”

And goddess forbid that they want to help you cook dinner.  I hope you have three hours to cook.

Fold a shirt, or sit next to someone and describe in precise details 10 times in a row how to fold a shirt….or have your folding corrected by a 5 year old who thinks that your way of folding is DUMB and will greet her father at the door loudly proclaiming “GUESS WHAT PAPA!! I TAUGHT MOM HOW TO FOLD UNDERWEAR TODAY BECAUSE SHE DIDN’T KNOW HOW AND I DID, ISN’T THAT FUNNY!!!”  Hillllllarious.

Here’s the thing though.  Between the nature programs they devour on television and the environmental curriculum that they get at school, these kids will run out into oncoming traffic to pick up a piece of litter.  Baby bird fell out of a tree? ARMAGEDDON.  But pick up the thousand shreds of paper that fell to the floor during the afternoon art project?  I’M SO TIRED I CAN’T LIFT PAPER.

I’ve decided that the way to inspire them to help out around the house is to use the words from their school lectures.  Clean the living room?  Hell no. We are working on our “ENVIRONMENT.” Make your bed?  Oh no.  We are tidying up our nests. 

It’s totally not working.

Then I thought maybe some music would help them keep on task. Let’s be honest, the only time my house has ever gotten anything close to clean is if I have been having a jolly old rock out.  If I had a cleaning service it would be called “Punk Rock Get’s it DONE,” but also don’t hire me to clean your house I’m a horrible housekeeper. 

Have you ever seen 3 under 10’s mosh out to “Let it GO?” Well come by my house during after dinner clean up and you shall, oh yes, you shall.

Once upon a time, on pinterest...

I’m stating clearly, so that there can be absolutely no doubt about my opinions as you read this, that I think parenting advice is absolute bunk. “Parenting” books are a million, probably BILLION dollar industry that exists solely to make money for authors and publishers at the cost of your confidence and instinct. I’ve been the parent of a newborn three times and hope never to return to that bleak hellscape.  There’s a reason that sleep deprivation is used to torture people.  Every parent that has ever parented since the beginning of time has thought “I must be doing this WRONG! There’s NO WAY this could be the normal circumstance of raising a child!”  Spoiler alert.  Parenting is a fucking hard job and there is NO EXPERT that can tell you how to do it because no one has ever parented your child before. 

And now, bless us, there is the internet where any asshole with a digital camera can wipe the frosting off their kid’s chin, prop them up next to “baby’s first periodic table” and pretend for 30 seconds that they know what the fuck they are doing.  And hooray! Maybe they have it all figured out, I can’t say for sure, but I do know 100% that they don’t have it figured out with YOUR kid, and YOUR life and YOUR schedule of crucial but inevitably neglected tasks. 

Pinterest is a breeding ground for helpful advice from well meaning strangers.  Pinterest will tell you in NO uncertain terms that YOU are failing at life.  There are literally thousands of to-do lists, meal plans, check lists, work out challenges etc. for you to print off and post on your refrigerator to be lost among the expired coupons, soccer practice schedules, and lists of unpurchased school supplies. These “free printables” (excuse me but WHAT?  You are going to, FOR FREE, create another piece of paper to clutter up my life and make me feel guilty about not doing ENOUGH? THANK YOU SO FUCKING MUCH!!) are always full of words like “simple” and “just” and “routine,” promising that if you “Just include these simple steps in your daily routine,” that your life will be magically transformed something from the centerfold of Martha Stewart’s special House Porn edition. 

I got news for you.  There is “just” nothing “simple” about a household “routine.”  “Just do 10 push-ups before every shower!”  Sorry but I fail to see how doing 10 push ups once a week is going to do fuck-all for my core strength.  “Just print out this simple meal schedule for routine weeknight dinners!”  Great,  sounds good.  I’ll just go shopping for all of these things that I don’t normally buy during the ten minute long gap in my schedule and then spend an extra half hour making something that half my family won’t eat.  Simple!  “Just follow these simple steps to streamline your housekeeping routine.”   I would FUCKING LOVE to wipe down my counters every morning after unloading my dishwasher and making my bed.  That would be utterly fan-fucking-tastic, except that the school is actually super uncool about dropping your kids off unfed in their pajamas.  I KNOW?!  Judgemental fuckers, right?!

I do have one life hack that will totally simplify your daily routine though.  Stop believing in the perfect routine where everything gets done and everyone is happy all the time.  It’s the modern fairytale, and it’s basically as likely as opening your door and finding your fairy godmother standing there with a pair of glass slippers for you.  Good enough is GREAT. There is always going to be SOMETHING that falls short.  The best that you can do is to define for yourself how bad it can get before it’s REALLY falling apart. That’s going to be different for everyone!  And the bloggers and the pinners have a different breaking point than you do.  Maybe you really do fall apart if your bed doesn’t get made every morning.  That’s great! Make the bed! But something else is going to slide a little bit while you’re doing it.  AND THAT IS PERFECTLY NORMAL AND OKAY. 

Good enough.  It’s as good as you get.

My opinion on unsolicited opinions.

Here’s the plus about being a six foot tall Amazon with a resting bitch face that looks like I’m ready to throw down….no one critiques my parenting skills in public!  I am sure that many denizens of the grocery store shuffle quickly to their cars thinking “Damn, I’m glad that she’s not MY mom,” but I never actually have to deal with the advice of random strangers.  I breast fed three babies in public with nary a side eye, shit, I used to bring my Boppy Pillow with us to the bar for more comfortable nursing.  I have carried screaming children over my shoulder through crowded store aisles, I even had to extract my naked son from a swimming pool locker room after he REFUSED to get out of the shower after half an hour.  Has any well meaning mother-of-the-year ever stopped in to tell me that if I just made sure he got more fiber in his diet then his behavior would improve?  No.  Has any grandmother ever stepped in to tell me that that’s not how they did it in their day?  No.  So, you know, I have to buy my clothes from the “Modern Giantess” catalog, but at least no one has interfered with the way I’ve decided to raise my kids...until now.

I will not go into detail because it would take too fucking long but let me just assure you that Mondays are not the day that you want to get in my way.  Pretty much every single second of Monday is specifically scheduled from 7:24am which is the last possible minute that can wake up my kids and still get them to school on time, until 7:24pm when I unload them from the Van, tired and already in their pajamas after their swim class.  There is something happening during every single minute of the day and if the schedule deviates even slightly then the whole thing ends up in utter catastrophe. I am not an organized person.  I don’t think three steps ahead, I like to live in the moment and take things as they come, so let’s just say that at best Monday and I have an uneasy truce.

There are 37 minutes of “waiting” on Monday afternoons, that I hold onto like a precious gem of sanity in the swirling seas of scheduled obligation.  After I drop eldest off for his tutoring appointment I can take the younger kids to a playground down the street and they (wait for it, because it’s fucking amazing...) ENTERTAIN THEMSELVES FOR AN ENTIRE HALF HOUR.  I know, I know…it’s the stuff of dreams.  Those nights when you are holding a fussy, hungry newborn in the wee small hours of the morning, you close your eyes and see a halo of golden light through which you can watch your children playing BY THEMSELVES on the playground while you fondly watch from a distance and gradually rebuild your fragile mental health. 

I defend these 37 minutes with every tactic at my disposal.  I pull up to the park, open the side panel door on the van and (not literally, but literally if that’s what is required) boot them out of the vehicle.  Then I sit by myself in the driver’s seat of the van for 37 minutes, listening to the radio, checking my email, calling my mother, knitting, or any one of a million other trivial things that have been robbed from me on this day of many obligations.   So you can imagine my annoyance when I became aware of a presence on the other side of the window, a presence which resolved itself into the face of a sweet and well intentioned woman of not-quite-elderly vintage.  The presence tapped on my driver’s side window, clearly indicating that I should lower it because she had wisdom to impart to me.  The window reluctantly lowered.

“Go!  Go and play with your children on the swings,” she twittered at me.  And then she walked along the road accompanied by her well-walked dog and her husband who muttered “Was she just sitting in the car texting?!” in a tone that clearly indicated that I was out of my ever loving mind to miss this prime bonding experience with my precious children and their fleeting childhood.

So let me clear things up for you.  I have no idea what I was doing, husband-person, I might have been texting, I could have been checking my email, or returning a phone call that I can’t return while surrounded by extremely loud children.  I might have been refining uranium, curing cancer, solving the world’s problems in a three way facebook message string between me, Obama and the Pope.  I might have been looking up porn, or announcing my candidacy for president of the universe.

What I wasn’t doing was playing with my children on the playground.  I don’t actually like playgrounds.  I’m sure that there is a lightning bolt charging up extra hot and just waiting for the right minute to strike me dead for saying so but playgrounds suck for grown ups.  And swings?  Swings are a fucking racket man.  Agree to one underdog and your life is basically over.  You have become a slave to the swing set.  They will NEVER LET YOU GO.  Observe my children playing on the swings.  They are laughing, they are pushing each other, they are experimenting with different swing positions for maximum vomit induction…they are having a blast.  You know what would happen if I went out there?  Both of them would assume the “push me” position and demand in loud, ungrateful and irritating voices that I push them FOR ETERNITY, and we would ALL be having way less fun. 

I NEED those quiet minutes in between appointments, work, errands, school, lessons, and myriad other obligations.  Those are the minutes where I can recharge my reserves of patience and understanding so that when youngest is standing on her mitten in the morning, while simultaneously telling me that she can’t find her mitten and that she looked EVERYWHERE for it!!! I can say “Sweety, darling, you are standing on it,” instead of “ohferfucksakeareyoukiddingmerightnowyouirritatinglittletwerp!”  They also need those minutes to play without me being there to be the focus of every problem and desire.  They can lean on me to direct their game, all of which dissolve instantly into “show mommy and get approval!” or they can figure out something that appeals to their weird little kid brains and they can play “hippopotamus princess rescues the dragon.”

I could have explained this to you, sweet older lady, dog and husband, but you ran away before hearing my opinion.  You probably thought you already knew what I would say.  You probably thought that I would say “Fuck off and die you interfering old busy body! This is none of your damn business.”  And you would have been TOTALLY CORRECT.

The Sleep Avoiding Ninja

          There is an infinite number of mind boggling things about motherhood.  Firstly, how can you grow a human INSIDE ANOTHER HUMAN!??!  That just doesn’t make sense.  How can that possibly be a viable form of reproduction.  Yeast…budding…look there’s a lump on my side that is about to become another one of me exactly like me…sure, why not? Makes sense.  You could be all “Hey little bud dude, how’s it going over there?  Ready to split off? Not yet?  No worries! Take your time!”  Eggs.  Sure!  Little self-contained nugget of reproduction…I can handle that.  Sit on it all day to keep it warm?  Sure, I GUESS I can suffer through ALL the offerings that Netflix has to offer, except, you know, for those times that I get to get up and go to the bathroom with a bladder that is STILL ENTIRELY MY OWN, not squashed by a human living in a water balloon in my stomach.  Mammalian reproduction pretty much sucks.  I have a four month black out surrounding the last two months off gestation and the first two months of life surrounding all three of my children (because HOW COULD YOU NOT!?) but I do remember saying to my midwife “This is a stupid way to reproduce!!!” while I was on all fours and in the middle of pushing out baby number two.  (The fact that there is a baby number three is evidence of the effectiveness of that four month memory wipe surrounding the birth of all my children).  I also recall saying “Why am I having another baby!  I don’t know what to do with the babies I already have!” while baby #3 was being born, and apparently I used the word fuck so many times that my midwife thought the only way to get through to me was to tell me “Oh you’re having a fucking baby. You’re having a fucking baby right fucking now.”

           But that’s not actually what I wanted to talk about.  I wanted to talk about another completely mind boggling thing about mothering which is that all your kids are completely different from one another.  Same variables.  Same raw materials.  Completely different.  There is no such thing as an experienced mother because they change the goddamn rules with every single kid!!  NOT FAIR.

          So let me introduce you to the “baby” of the family.  First of all…female child.  That’s new!  That’s different.  You know the number of times that she’s peed on the toilet seat?  ZERO.  What is up with standing to pee?  BOYS INVENTED THAT!!  They’re like “HEY!  You know what this thing looks like? A HOSE!! You know what you can do with a hose?”  Well apparently the answer is write your name on the bathroom wall, if the amount of pee that I have wiped off of things is any indication.  There has not been a single day in the last 8 years where I was not in immediate contact with someone else’s piss. THEY DON’T TELL YOU THAT IN HEALTH CLASS!  Just because you have a penis doesn’t mean that sitting down to pee isn’t a fucking great idea, that’s all I’m saying.  Start a revolution.  Sit your boys on the toilet…done.  World peace.

          Youngest child.  You know what?  She’s learned ALL the tricks from all the other children.  Baby number one at bedtime?  His head hits the pillow and he is out like you flipped a switch.  Head, pillow, eyelids BOOM.  He sleeps like he’s on a timer.  10.5 hours and BING!  Eyes open and he is ready to torment his siblings and make fart jokes like it’s his goddamn job until 8:45pm when his clock winds down and the recharge cycle begins.  Child number 2? He gives a few half hearted attempts to squeeze me for a sip of water, a snuggle, one final chance to hose the bathroom with his piss…but really his heart isn’t in it.  He’s tired.  He WANTS to give in to the void.  After all tomorrow is another day, full of chances to throw temper tantrums about completely random shit like not having his toast on the right plate, or needing a GREEN lego!!!!!

          Child number 3?  She who is doomed to be the baby forever because this child factory has been shut DOWN?  She has watched, she has learned, she has studied with the masters until they had to come up with a belt that was blacker than black.  I give you THE SLEEP AVOIDING NINJA!! 

There is no song that can soothe her, even if she chose it.  The book you selected is WRONG.  Oh, you think you have the right stuffed animal because you had to search through two toy boxes and crawl under a couch to retrieve it the previous night? Well you are WRONG motherfucker. You might as well just take that teddy bear out to the backyard and put it out of its misery for all the good it will do you. This child cannot be lulled by cuddly objects. She is TOO TIRED.  Too tired for everything.  Too tired to get her own pajamas.  Too tired to brush her teeth.  Too tired to LIE IN HER BED.  You gave her a glass of water in the bathroom right after she brushed her teeth?!  NO!  The bedtime avoiding ninja’s mouth is dry!! So DRY!  “I stuck my finger in my mouth and it was not wet!” dry.  You heartless beast.  How could you!  This baby is obviously at the very edge of dehydration!!  NO NOT THAT WATER!!! That water was in the cup next to the bed from last night and tastes like dirt. “YOU MADE ME DRINK DIRT WATER!!!”

          What if I rub your back a little bit, baby ninja?  Maybe that will help you to relax.  “NO NOT LIKE THAT!!” You are rubbing WRONG!!! And anyway it’s her ELBOW that hurts, not her back, you cretin!!!  And she needs to stare into your FACE while she falls asleep.  You are using the WRONG pillow.  If she cannot see your face while she is slowly, oh so slowly, drifting off into a restless slumber then BOOM, it’s not happening.  The soft pink blanket?  IT HURTS HER TOE.  The quilt with the dinosaurs on it “I HATE DINOSAURS!!!” No one in this world has ever hated dinosaurs baby girl.  Dinosaurs are a constant.  Dinosaur love is universal!!!!

           

It’s a battle of wills.  A test of determination.  Who will fall asleep first? Sleep avoiding Ninja, or momma who will wake up with a back ache an hour later, unable to fall back asleep in her own bed because of the “nap” on a random pile of pillows, precisely constructed to provide the perfect “view” to ninja girl?  Right now the score is Momma zero, Ninja eleventy million.

Ragnar…who apparently will sleep when she’s dead.

The un-taken pictures.

I could have one of those blogs where I post pictures of my kids well balanced meals, home grown veggies, plates that have never seen a chicken nugget.  I could do that.  I make those meals...sometimes.  I could have one of those blogs where the kids pose eagerly in their new "made by mom" outfits in front of a field of color coordinated wildflowers.  I make clothes for my kids...sometimes.

But I'm not going to do that to you.

Because it's a lie, is why.

For every picture of a toddler posed with book on knee, sunlight streaming in from just the right angle, there is another picture, the untaken picture, the sink full of dishes that didn't get washed, the take out containers in the trash from the uncooked dinner.  For every picture of a kale salad bento-box there is another untaken picture of a kale salad that has been abused for 20 minutes, pushed around a plate while all the almonds or cheese cubes were surgically extracted.  Sure.  Some kids eat veggies.  Mine do sometimes.  I had a brief moment of glory in the grocery store the other day when my almost three year old and almost five year old (both wearing pants even!) yelled "WE WANT BELL PEPPERS!!! BELL PEPPERS ARE OUR FAVORITE!" while I navigated our cart through the produce section.  Yeah bitches, my kids eat vegetables.  Hell.  My kids BEG for vegetables.  I have got this motherhood thing LICKED I tell you.

And then there was today.

Breakfast.  Homemade Granola (hot stove, slaved over it).  Whole milk yogurt, I buy it unsweetened so that I can add just a little bit of locally sourced honey.  Seasonal fruit, sliced up into child friendly sizes.  I'm not immune to the hype.  I try to be THAT mom.  Plus this is my favorite breakfast.  There is pretty much nothing I would rather eat in the morning than a big pile of cut up fruit with some yogurt and granola on it.  In fact I remember eating pretty much this exact breakfast while growing up and LOVING it.  My mom making granola in the big "convent" pan (so called because she bought it from a nun's garage sale) is one of my formative memories.  I guess I didn't realize that I had so much invested in this fucking granola until my kids just flat out refused to eat the stuff.

More than just refused to eat it.  They acted like the granola was poison and that by asking them to eat it I was basically trying to murder them. Plus they were also screaming about how cold they were while simultaneously refusing to put on clothes of any kind. Yeah.

And then on the way to camp my middle child extracted the liter sized water bottle from his backpack (because they have lost all the "kid" sized water bottles, lost with a frequency and thoroughness that makes me suspect that there is some sort of water bottle black market at camp and that they might be trading them for extra fruit snacks or something) and attempted to fill his sister's water bottle with it which resulted in his lap and car seat being thoroughly soaked.  Not just soaked but wet in a very specific pattern which basically screams to all the parents and counselors that I meet on my way in from the parking lot "this child has pissed himself."  Plus the extra water ran down into his backpack, which contained his extra set of clothing.  So yeah.  I dropped a soaking wet kid off at camp.  I might have said something to the forlorn teenage counselor like "It's just water, lay him out in the sun or something," before high-tailing it back to my car as quickly as possible.  This was one of those mothering situations that would be better handled by not-the-mother.

What about those other moms?  They're doing it so much better.  They're not losing their shit over granola and wet pants.  They're cool.  They put the water bottles in the front seat where the kids can't get their hands on them.  Their kids eat their homemade food and say things like "Delicious mother! Might I please have some more if it's not too much trouble." Right?

Well...wait....so do mine, sometimes.  I'm just seeing the wrong sometimes.  Because nobody is going to show you the bad times, why would they.  They don't want to remember those times so why would they want you to.

Except that those are some of my favorite times.

(adorable picture of my kids, fully outfitted in safety gear ready to enjoy a bike ride with the family)

(adorable picture of my passed out daughter along with a weeks worth of unfolded laundry)

Happy BAWG-day.

               Run the Mile Day was always the worst day in Gym Class, which is saying something because me and Gym Class didn't have very many good days.  I dreaded Spring and the onset of “Presidential Fitness” season.  Pretty much my whole relationship with the President from ages 10-18 was a seething resentment of his fitness tests, with the mile being the absolute worst.   I remember exactly one of my “mile” times from High School, 18 minutes.  I “ran” that 18 minute mile in electric blue Doc Marten boots, which I had convinced my gym teacher that year (one of the few that seemed mildly sympathetic to my plight as a hater of gym class) that they had good arch support  and non-marking soles, which meant that they met the minimum requirement for gym shoes.  They also weighed about 3 pounds apiece.

               My brief experiences with running were so negative that for most of my life the words “me” and “run” could not exist in the same sentence unless it read something like this “I hope that nothing deadly ever tries to chase me because I don’t run.”  I couldn’t escape from it though.  I was surrounded by people who not only ran, but seemed honestly to enjoy it.  I found myself frequently surrounded by super fit mega-athletes while I knit by the sidelines waiting for my life-partner to finish whatever running event he had signed up for.  I found myself doing crazy things like scrubbing mud out of running shoes and then strapping them to the roof of our truck so that they might possibly be dry when I had to meet up with him at the 30 mile aid station during his latest ultra-marathon.  Instead of feeling like the awkward, unskilled teenager in gym class I found that I was just one more member of a crowd of people who were out enjoying themselves. 

               The super weird thing is that they all seemed to think I belonged there too. 

               About 7 years ago I was camping with my family up in the Keweenaw Peninsula of Upper Michigan.  Manimal (my husbeast)and his eight year old daughter were participating in a two day, three race running festival and I was along for the ride.  One of the events was a uphill 5K, where the finishing line was on the top of a mountain (a Michigan mountain…so you know, a big hill), and Isis was going to run with her Dad so I figured that if I walked I could meet them at the top and we could hike down together.  This was a small festival, and most of the people running were of the super-fit variety.  There were a few spouses  doing the same thing I was, but I was definitely the last person on the trail.  Not halfway up the mountain I met the front runners (who had just sprinted up a mountain and were now jogging back down, just for fun).  I remember the first person to pass me.  He had a short beard, long hair, a baseball cap to keep the sun out of his eyes, very typical “trail runner,” looking dude.  “Hey good job!” he called out as he passed me.  He was long gone before I could correct his misconception.  He thought I was in the same race he was!  Silly running man, can’t he use his eyes and see that I am OBVIOUSLY not a runner?  The second runner passed me a few minutes later “Looking good!  You’re almost there!” he called as he passed me.  Silly, silly runner man.  I almost called out to him “No! You’ve got the wrong idea.  I’m just meeting my boyfriend up at the top of the hill, I’m not running this race!” but of course he was out of earshot.  The third runner passed me “Way to go!”

               What are the chances that these three super runners who had just run.up.a.damn.mountain could possibly all make the same ridiculous mistake?  They know what a runner looks like don’t they?  How could they possibly assume that I’m running the same race they are?  I’m WALKING obviously and am so far behind everyone else.  I’m just out for a stroll in the woods.  Silly runner dudes.  Except….wait…I am on the same trail that they just ran on.  I am going to end up in the same place that they just did….and then I’ll come back down again, just like they did.  So…huh…I guess I am KIND OF doing the same thing that they are.  That’s weird.   And…who would know what another runner looks like better than another runner?  If they have made the mistake of assuming that I’m in the same race as they are, then maybe….I am in the same race that they are? 

               The seed had been planted.

               The next week I tried to run around one of our local nature centers…and it pretty much sucked.  My mouth dried out.  My legs hurt.  I got kind of dizzy….but I kept on doing it a couple of times a week until I force myself through two grueling 13 minute miles.  I got pregnant that fall.  For medical reasons I was told to knock it off with the high-impact exercise while I was carrying the baby, and then I found that life with a newborn was crazy and complicated…and became pregnant with my second and third in fairly quick succession and all in all it was six years before I could “get back” to running.

               I had a much greater success with my new found identify as “A person who can run if she wants to,” the second time around.  For one thing I knew I could do it, and for another I started slow and let myself build up to it, starting with short intervals and building up my endurance gradually.  Shocked I found that I was enjoying myself.  It was still a long time before I could say the sentence “I’m a runner,” without some sort of qualifier like “I’m a KIND of a runner,” or “I’m TRYING to be a runner,” or “I’m a very SLOW runner.”

(Stacia and I on the Beach after the Legend 5 mile)

               I ran my first post-baby intervals in March of 2012, when my daughter was 6 months old.  Since then I have run countless 5ks, 2 (or 3?) 10ks, 6 half marathons and 1 full marathon.  I also started a “club” called “The Warrior Goddess Training Academy” for women who want some support to accomplish their fitness goals, which now has over 330 members all over the country.  That club was started a year ago today.   Happy Anniversary my Badass Warrior Goddesses.  You are all amazing and inspire me everyday.

(Holding 80 pounds of children wearing my medal from my first half marathon and my first marathon)

Project! Wonder Baby Headband

Here's the thing about babies: they look like babies.  You pretty much can't tell a boy from a girl unless their parents do something pretty obvious to "brand" them, like put them in a onsie with a picture of a baseball bat and the words "Momma's manly little sportsman," on it.  Now that I am the mother of a girl child, one who is the recipient of hand-me-downs from two older brothers, I frequently find myself correcting well meaning strangers in the grocery store who compliment me on my "handsome little guy."

So yes, I could dress her in pink and slap one of those flower headbands on her, that would make her look like she's part of a centerpiece, or an extra from "Attack of the begonia headed babies, but I would prefer to bring her up as the Amazon Princess she is.

The Wonder Baby Headband:

You will need, some scraps of red and yellow fabric.
Some sort of double sided fusible interfacing such as wonder-under (a very small scrap)
Approximately 10 " of 3/4" or 1" elastic.



Cut a five pointed star out of the fusible interfacing and iron it onto your red fabric. (Yes, my scissors have cheetah print handles, because I am punk rock like that)

Cut out a tiara shape from the yellow fabric, on a fold so that you have one less seam to sew up later.

Attach the star with a satin stitch (tight zig zag, directly over the raw edge).

 Making sure that the star is on the inside, sew a seam across the TOP ONLY, leaving the ends open so that the finished headband can be turned right side out.

And stick the elastic into the open ends, sew one side (tuck the raw edges inside for a clean edge), try it on your baby for a good fit, and then sew the other side.

Ta-Da!  No more well intentioned strangers mistaking your Amazon Warrior for a boy....and no ridiculous flower that might cause you to lose her in a meadow or florist's shop.

Yet another "sorry I haven't posted" in awhile post.

I was going to reconcile my "mega list" of new year's resolutions from last year, but even I got bored half way through it. (46 pass/54 fail) Looking back on my aspirations for last year did stir up a couple of thoughts...firstly that I miss writing on the blog, and secondly that my life has actually changed quite a bit in the last year. Some milestone was passed, and although I can't really articulate exactly what boundary it marked, I feel like I've ended up on the other side of something.

So last year, well, for one thing, I had a baby.

And for another my first babies turned into people.

I also worked at a real, not self-employed, job and gave up my studio. This could seem like a failure of sorts, but curiously I am very content. I have carved out a space for creativity in my very busy life, and it is a small space, but it is there.

I make no commitments to visit this blog more often...I've found that the only way to keep your head above the water in this river of motherhood is to go with the flow. Don't fight, just try to steer a little.

Ragnar...mother of many.

Because it was there....

Every once in awhile I get a crazy notion about doing something from beginning to end. You know, like in the olden days when men were men and women were really tired all the time because there was no "Diego" to turn on during dinner prep, and laundry took all day and was a full body work out with the great possibility of third degree burns. I got one of these notions a couple of weeks ago when I realized that some of the straw that we'd used to mulch our garlic crop last fall, had sprouted and that along with all the tasty tasty garlic there was a fair quantity of wheat popping up. "Hmm..." I thought to myself. "Hmmm....I wonder how much wheat you need to make a loaf of bread?"More than I managed to gather, that's for sure. I understood the basic mechanics of threshing, you lightly crush the seed head to release the "chaff" and then you shake it to bring all the loose stuff up to the top and the seeds fall to the bottom. I vaguely remembered something called a "winnowing" basket from anthropology class, which was basically a big flat loosely woven basket that you would shake around so that all the wheat could fall out. Since I wasn't processing a lot of wheat I figured I could make do with whatever I had in my kitchen...in retrospect, it's probably easier to process A LOT of wheat, and the small amount that I was dealing with would be considered the waste.
Pretty huh? Just like on the beer bottle labels?
And yeah, it worked pretty much like that...I used the "rubbing it between your hands" method for releasing the wheat berries , and the "blowing on it lightly over a kitchen sink" method for "separating the wheat from the chaff" (an adage which I now feel uniquely qualified to over use). If you have about three hours of time to devote to the production of a small quantity of wheat berries, and you are resigned to the fact that your final product will have a fair amount of straw left in it, then yeah, I'd say it worked pretty well. Towards the end I got a bit more efficient with my technology, using a flat plate, a round bottomed bowl and kitchen strainer with widish holes, for successive winnowing.
And here's what I have. An eight ounce jelly jar full of wheat. Wheat like I can go and buy by the scoopful out of the bulk bins at the co-op...whoo hoo! My best option for grinding it is probably our little coffee grinder, so I guess it's a good thing that I don't have much. What to do with this precious stuff?

This is how my great notions usually end. "Well...as romantic as it is to think of times gone by, I'm sure happy I live in the 21st century, and not the 18th. Isn't it lovely that spinning wool can be a hobby, and that if I don't feel like knitting I don't have to worry about my family having cold feet in the winter?" Sometimes you just have to do something to find out why it's better to let other people do it for you...people with big machines.

Ragnar...21st century girl.

An ode to my adopted state...

(chives, growing on my back porch, I got my first harvest off of these puppies back in March!)

I overheard a conversation at the farmer's market this morning that badly made me want to intervene, although I ultimately decided that walking away was better than butting in with an "Actually, I know more than you" attitude. However, I've been thinking about it off and on for the last couple of hours and I've decided that this is an appropriate forum for rebuttal.

The farmer's market in question was one of the few local markets that allows wholesalers to sell their wares, meaning that you can buy a peach there in May. I don't disapprove really, I'm happy to see small companies with an outlet that allows them to compete with the huge chains, and I'm pleased to see people supporting them. If you can't buy local, then at least buy from a local, right?

The conversation I overheard was between two market shoppers and went something like this:

"You didn't get that peach here did you?"

"Oh yes, but I'm sure it was grown in California or someplace."

"Oh! Because I was going to say! That's amazing."

"No, no, of course not. We live in Michigan. Nothing grows here! You hear about these 'localavores' but they're living in central California and places like that!" (I have to confess, the "know-it-all" tone is probably what was getting to me) "I mean, you can eat local in Michigan if you want to, but you'd be eating lettuce and radishes!"

"Ha, ha, yes I guess so."

"I came out to the market last week looking for strawberries, and there wasn't a single one to be found! I think they must be very late this summer, I'm sure there were strawberries here last year."

We were at a very crowded market, the third or fourth week that they had been open, on the tail end of a cold and lingering spring...and it's true, there weren't too many local veggies to be seen. (I also overheard another woman complaining that there was no "fruit" available) The local eats were there though, tucked behind flats of garden starts, and bouquets of hot house flowers. There were hot house tomatoes and peppers. There were hoop house strawberries. There was asparagus, rhubarb, cucumbers, zucchinis, seed potatoes (that were for planting, but looked way more edible than the ones I bought at the "real" store last week), lettuce, spinach, green onions, and more herbs than you can shake a stick at. There was also every type of meat you could wish for including fish and shrimp (yes! local shrimp, in Michigan!) and lots of prepared pastries, and breads etc.
(My back porch lettuce, and a Michigan grown pineapple...which has barely stayed alive for the last two years, but god-damn it, it's a pineapple and I'm proud of it)

Rather than butting into a private conversation I thought I would just mention it here:

ACTUALLY! Michigan has the third largest crop diversity in the country. Just about the only thing you can't grow in Michigan is Bananas, although I'm sure someone is working on it.

Which is not to say that I don't eat my share of out of season produce. I have Washington apples and California grapes in my kitchen right now. I buy bananas like they are going out of style, because my picky kids will eat them. I have some overly firm, underly tasty supermarket strawberries sitting on my counter right now, because The Destroyer practically jumped out of the shopping cart begging for them, but you can bet that in a couple of weeks when they are actually in season, that I will be buying them by the flat load, eating them by the handful and turning them into jam and ice cream.

It just broke my heart to hear my adoptive state maligned as a place where "nothing" grew. I couldn't let it go...so, lady, wherever you are, I hope that when Michigan peaches are in season later this year that you can get your hands on a couple. You'll probably fall for the California peach scam again next year, when you haven't seen a peach in months and they're sitting there looking all perky and miraculously unbruised in the grocery store, but at least you'll know what you're missing.

(some pretty flower I bought to liven up the container garden...pretty huh? Some Michigan farmer grew it for me)

Ragnar...mama first, then pirate, and then adoptive Michigander.

PS: Stay tuned for more "scratch that" from scratch vs. store bought posts in the near future. Next up: Mayonnaise.

Scratch That...Hummus.

There are a few things that I've been making from scratch for as long as I can remember...okay, two things: bread, and hummus. It's no coincidence that they go REALLY well together.

If your family is like our family than the tiny little $5 a pop hummus tubs that they sell in the grocery store are a joke to you. We could finish off one of those in about 10 minutes and look around for the next one. Plus, Five Bucks? For Hummus? Are you kidding me? It's bean paste for Goddess' sake. Then you can go on to the other reasons to make your own: the store stuff is slimey, and they fill it full of weird crap (sundried tomatoes? seriously?).

To make hummus you need:

A good blender or food processor. I specify good blender because this is a pretty thick paste and it stresses the motor on the lesser models. I have personally burned out the motor on two $30 blenders making hummus.

Chick peas, also known as Garbanzo Beans (which always makes me think of Gonzo from the Muppet Show). We favor "La Preferida" brand, which is frequently shelved in the "Mexican" section. It comes in big fat 29oz cans which makes a decent sized batch.

Tahini. This could possibly fall into the realm of "special ingredient requiring a separate trip to the grocery store" if you have a slightly less exotic pantry than I do. It's also the most expensive ingredient in the recipe, at about $6 a jar. If you happen to live in a neighborhood with a Middle Eastern grocery store, buy it there because it'll be cheaper, and come in a bigger jar. It doesn't spoil quickly as long as it's refrigerated, so even if you don't use it that often, you won't lose out on your investment. Tahini is a seed butter, so when you buy it it will have about half an inch of separated oil on top, like natural style peanut butter. When I first open a jar I pour the entire contents into the food processor or blender to remix it, and then pour it back in to the jar. If you refrigerate it after that the oil will emulsify in the fridge and it shouldn't separate back out (if it isn't so throughly mix it will tend to separate). You don't even have to clean the blender, you just make a batch of hummus right on top of the tahini dregs.

Garlic.

Lemon Juice.

Olive Oil.

I sometimes add a dash of toasted sesame oil to punch up the sesame flavor. If you stir fry you probably have this.

Notice I don't have measurements on any of this stuff. That's because I am too lazy to measure. This is very much "to taste" and you can easily adjust things as you go.

So...go get all that stuff. Then:

Drain the chick peas, and throughly rinse them under cool running water. I rinse all canned beans, and (although I haven't done a side by side comparison) I firmly believe that it cuts down on "wind" the next day. Let that sit in the sink and drain for a minute while you peel the garlic, one clove, two if you're brave, three if you don't have any friends and don't want any.

Add the garlic, about a tablespoon of olive oil, two or three tablespoons of tahini and two or three tablespoons of lemon juice to your blender and give it a good chopping. When there are no more big chunks of garlic add about half your chick peas. Adding them all at once clogs the blender. If the paste is too thick to blend, add water until it's thin enough to blend smoothly. This is a good time to do an initial taste test. I almost always add more tahini and more lemon juice at this point (and if you want a roasty toasty tasting hummus, a dash of toasted sesame oil is delicious...I think, although their are puritans in my household who do not agree). Then throw in the rest of the chick peas and (if you need to) more water to thin it out. If you are making hummus in a blender it will be a little thinner, in a food processor chunkier and thicker...personal preference as to which you like better. When you like the consistancy, then you can salt to taste and (if you must) add any junk you want, like chives or bacon bits or whatever the hell they put in those store tubs of hummus.

I don't add very much olive oil. I think a bit is great to improve the texture, but why add more oil than you have to? If you like really creamy hummus then you can, of course, add more oil.

I estimate this recipe to cost about $2.80 or so. $1.50 of that is the chick peas (so if you are a "boil your own from dry" kind of person the cost would be much less), and I'm (over) estimating a $1 worth of tahini, with about $.30 worth of pantry staples. If you use the big can of chick peas you'll end up with a tub of Hummus that is about two or three times bigger than the slimey stuff in the deli case, and the whole process takes about 15 minutes. This used to be my potluck staple, along with a store bought bag of pita chips, but I was at a pot luck last year where half the people brought hummus and the other half brought brownies...a good potluck in my opinion!

Ragnar...mmmmm...Garbanzo-licious.

PS If any of you have hummus making tips or favorite add ins (blech!) please comment! Just don't suggest that I peel the garbanzo beans because that's just flat out not happening.

Scratch that...

When The Destroyer was born, I didn't step foot in my kitchen for about 4 months. He was an..ahem...intense newborn. He was a constant nurser who barely slept, and Manimal was working long days trying to get our house renovated so that we could move back in (see "the other blog" if you missed the story of our renovation). He hated his car seat and would scream from the second the door opened and he saw the offending object, until we arrived at our destination and he was reconnected with his boob. Grocery shopping was not high on my list of fun things to do, and the few times I did manage to get fresh food in the house it would inevitably spoil before anyone got around to cooking it. Breakfast and lunch were whatever snack foods I could prepare for myself with a baby in arms, and dinner was "out," where we would eat quickly in shifts so that we could take turns bouncing the baby. Usually I would prop him in place with a boppy pillow, and spread my napkin over his head so that I could eat over him (one handed of course) without staining his onsies with bar-b-que sauce.

We didn't take a lot of time to think of the ridiculousness of this situation, we didn't have a lot of spare moments for intuitive self-reflection. There came a day, though, when The Destroyer learned how to crawl and discovered that there was more to life than boobs and not sleeping, there was...destruction. Manimal was home before 8 o'clock for once, The Destroyer was happily destroying and we (miraculously) had something cookable in the refridgerator. I don't remember what culinary miracle I pulled together, probably some version of "eggs scrambled with whatever we had on hand," which is sort of the signature dish of our house. I do remember that we sat around rapturously eating it, and commenting about what a treat it was to eat in for once. When eating at home has become a big treat, something is seriously out of balance, so we started working on eating at home more often.

When we eat out, we don't hit the drive thru at MacDonald's. We eat a lot of Thai, Korean, Middle-eastern...generally what's considered to be the "healthier" of the available restaurant options. When I cook at home, I don't spend a lot of time worrying about fat content, or carbs, or really nutritional content in general. We eat a lot of vegetables because we like vegetables, and we eat them with full fat cheese, and in sauces that are laden with salt and oil. None the less, when we made the switch (back) to eating at home instead of eating out, we all lost weight without even thinking about it. Our "food" bill was suddenly about half of what it had been, and this was all without an conscious effort on our part, other than a desire to eat our own food in our own home.

When Ragnarbaby came a long some of our "take out" standards slipped back in, of course, as well as a few pantry "staples" that I'm not especially proud of (boxed macarroni and cheese...). I don't beat myself up about it, and I don't really fight with my kids about what they eat. I chop the vegetables up small enough that it's hard for them to spit them out, and I put enough butter on top that they eat it. We get pizza about once a week and sometimes dinner is canned soup and grilled cheese sandwiches. I'd never bought canned soup in my life before having a second child, but something's got to give. When I went back to work things gave a little bit more, and now our "diet" is a mix of simple homemade food, mixed with some things that come in boxes, cans, and bottles. I don't like to go grocery shopping more than twice a month if I can help it, and if it dirties more than two pans, I don't cook it. I do still make some of our staples (chicken stock, mayonnaise etc.) from scratch though, but they have to pass my "test," which is something like this:

Do I habitually keep all the basic ingredients in the house, or would I have to go and buy something new?

Does making this involve complicated steps, or a lot of time?

Can I make it "in bulk" to save time later on?

How long will it last in the refrigerator or freezer?

Is there a significant cost savings over buying this at the store?

If whatever it is fails that little test then it goes on the shopping list and I pay going rate for whatever it is.

The cost of everything in the grocery store is going up, thanks to gas prices and other economic factors, so there has been a fair amount of discussion in the "blogosphere" about making from scratch. Of course I can't sit idly by while other people offer advice, so I'm going to do a series of posts about things that I've found it to be worth making from scratch...you're on the edges of your seats I'm sure.

Ragnar...full of good intentions.

Mommy Brain...

Some think tankey folks came out with a study a couple of years ago showing that "mommy brain" is a myth, and that women with children are just as smart as they were before they had them. I didn't read it of course, but I remember clicking "like" on facebook when someone else (a mom friend, who also presumably didn't read it, because who has that kind of attention span really) posted it. I do "like" the idea that I'm just as smart as I was before I started this wild roller coaster ride that is motherhood (or as I like to think about it, preventing my children from killing themselves), but all personal evidence points to the contrary.

Today I arrived home to find two concerned pollsters standing in my front yard, cell phone in hand, waiting for the police to show up at my house because I had left my front door standing wide open when I packed up my children for a trip to the grocery store. "Do you live here?" one of them asked me as I pulled into the driveway. "Uh...yes." I answered, opening the doors of the minivan and releasing the hounds. "Well, uh, we called the police because your door was wide open, and we were afraid you might have been robbed." "Oh!" I waved away her concern nonchalantly, "I'm sure that was me, my children are very distracting." She raised her eyebrows at me, and motioned for her partner to call the boys in blue and tell them that there was no emergency, just a brain-fart by a mother of two. Then she asked if I might want to hear about the millage (for the police no less, those pillars of society that might even manage someday to save me from myself). While she politely gave her talking points about how even with the new millage my property taxes would probably go down, my eldest grabbed on to the knees of her jeans and rocked back and forth growling "I am a baby jaguar! I am a baby jaguar." If nothing else I think he demonstrated that it IS possible for a woman to be so distracted by her children that she might walk out of her house with the door wide open.

Lest you think this was some sort of aberration, let me assure you that this was simply the latest in a long line of mommy moments.

There was the time that I came out of the grocery store to find that I had left the side door of the mini-van standing open.

There was the time that I came out of the coffee shop to realize that I had not only left my keys in the ignition of my van, but had in fact left it running.

There was the time that I left my purse in the back pocket of the stroller parked in our front yard...overnight.

Not to mention the fact that I can't wrap my reading mind around any plot more complicated than "have you met my hunky boyfriend, he's a werewolf!"

I can only imagine the hijinks that will ensue when baby number 3 is born in September.

So, whoever you are, think-tank guys (or more likely defensive mothers), I appreciate the credit, but I beg to differ. I'm not saying that I won't recover those lost IQ points when my kids are...oh say...married, but for the moment, I am blaming my lack of smarts on mommy brain.

Ragnar...proud owner of one mommy brain

PS Manimal insists that I add that while I was proofreading this post I was holding Ragnarbaby in my arms while he simultaneously riffled my wallet and chewed on a ballpoint pen.

Odd years are good years....edited version.

I don't know why, but in my own personal numerology I've always had a thing for odd numbers, and double numbers, so 2011, ending in a double odd...I'm expecting good things. Literally expecting as it turns out. In my eternally optimistic little mind as I read through the glossy brochure advertising the benefits of theIUD I had selected as my "let's not be surprised again, shall we?" birth control method, I simply looked at the large number under the "effectiveness" rating and thought to myself:"Wow! What a big number." As it turns out, any number less than 100 is not that big. As with any pregnancy, it boils down to a simple either or equation. Either it works or it doesn't. Either you're pregnant or you're not. I am, as it turns out. And really how could I not be? It is an odd year after all. 2007 began the Epoch of the Destroyer. 2009 brought us the beginning of Ragnarbaby's Reign, a title which he is going to have to give up to his younger sibling at some point, and now in 2011, of course, why not? Let's have another one! Which means some slight alterations to my 2011 plans. 1. Plan, and do activities with my children, all of them. 2. Write more, watch less. Unless I'm breastfeeding a newborn. Nothing gets you through those first awkward weeks of breastfeeding like a lot of mindless television. 3. Buy music, lullabyes mostly. 4. Do a pull-up. 5. Subscribe to a magazine. My "Mothering" subscription finally ran out.... maybe I'll re-up. 6. Schedule "studio time." HA! 7. Publish three knitting patterns. A baby hat, some longies and a diaperwrap maybe? 8. Eat something I've never eaten before. 9. Make curtains for the living room, so that the neighbor's can't see us walking around in our pajama's day after day. 10. Reupholster the goddamn dining room chairs. On second thought, why bother, they'll be covered in spit up. 11. Yell less. Yes, a very good idea. 12. Journal. 13. Get more involved with "the farm." Things that don't involve much bending. 14. Plant something in the planter boxes on the back porch. 15. Cook with Isis. Or maybe just ask Isis to cook. 16. Go camping...or not. Maybe send the boys out camping with Manimal. 17. Make time to spin. Or not. 18. Make something out of wood. Or not. 19. Read a book that someone else recommended...as long as it doesn't require more than 2 braincells because that's all I can find while under the influence of "mommy brain." 20. Write letters to my mother...hysterical letters. 21. Brush and floss. 22. Make a household budget...make sure it includes money for a maid service. 23. Put some money out of each paycheck into a savings account...so that we have money for diapers. 24. Shop local. 25. Keep up with the push-ups. 26. Drink less...because you're pregnant! 27. Take the kids for nature walks...or waddles. 28. Figure out a way to get both of the little ones on the bike...nope. Don't bother with the bike for another couple of years. 29. Visit someone out of state (not my parents)...sooner rather than later. 30. List something for sale on Etsy. 31. Keep in touch with my brother. 32. Hang closet rods. 33. Give presents. 34. Be deliberate about sugar. 35. Get a tattoo. 36. Clear off the top of my dresser. 37. Settle Ragnarbaby into a "big boy" bed, also known as "making room for the new small human." 38. Get camera fixed...since grandma and grandpa will murder me if they don't get regular photo updates of their new grandchild. 39. Get better at taking pictures. 40. Sing...lullabyes. 41. Balance the bank account. 42. Go to a concert. 43. Weave. 44. Get in shape a round shape. Become a Warrior Fertility Goddess. 45. Use the phone to keep in touch with far away people. 46. Laundry. Don't let it eat the house. 47. Practice swimming. 48. Preserve food. 49. Chore schedule...make one. Make sure it involves everyone else doing all the chores. 50. Go to an improving lecture. 51. Explore the idea of writing for a local news outlet...perhaps a "Women with stupid numbers of children" advice column. 52. Try to appreciate the "boyness" of my boys...and hope like hell that this one is a girl. 53. Write the birth stories, both of them. Or rather, all three of them. 54. Try to be less bossy...no, try to sound less bossy while still organizing everyone else to do the things that I am unable to do. 55. Practice jumping rope...nope. Don't. 56. Clutter....just don't do it. 57. Be serious about "stuff," what I need, what I want and what I can do without, and remember that babies really prefer to play with plastic bags and electrical cords and there is no reason to fill the house with plastic crap. 58. Experiment with savory pies. 59. "Run" (or walk really fast) a 5K. Or waddle one. 60. Continue with book binding experiments. 61. Clear out the backyard enough that I'm not worried about the kids playing out there. 62. Mural a wall in the house...maybe not. 63. Eat more fish...but not too much. 64. Make some kind of shoe...a baby shoe? 65. Read a non-fiction book that is not about gardening or food, or about other people's ideas of how to raise children. 66. Read with the first born. 67. House friendly knitting storage...think of something. Or just shove it in a closet and take it back out in two years. 68. Dance. 69. Do more gleaning with the food bank folks, but bring a nice sturdy stool. 70. Go to a play, take one of the kids if possible. 71. Install kitchen drawers or engineer having them installed by someone else, and also shelves and other organizing infrastructure. 72. Go to art openings, at least once in awhile. 73. Cook outside. 74. Send birthday cards. 75. Invite people over for Sunday Brunch...and them make them cook it. 76. Buy a sewing pattern from an independent designer. 77. Trade or sell unused craft supplies. 78. Make a tool kit for the house so I don't have to borrow a hammer from Manimal every time I want to hang a picture. 79. Make a sewing kit for the house so I don't have to run to the studio for every minor repair. 80. Find out more about curing leather. 81. Make a monthly meal planner and make sure it includes a lot of "freezeable" things. 82. Make a stuffed animal toy for Ragnarbaby. 83. Eat local meat. Lot's of it. Making babies requires protein. 84. Take the boys to a parade. 85. Host an out of town guest, before September. 86. Find "sweet tooth" stuff that's not 100% bad for you. 87. Dry clothes in the air instead of in the dryer....this might involve rigging a clothesline. 88. Keep 0n working on the "mostly plants" part of Micheal Pollan's food advice. 89. Keep track of my blood pressure. 90. Wear more dresses...empire waistlines might be a good idea. 91. Beg, borrow or steal to acquire a pair of really awesome boots, because I'm going to need all the help I can get feeling beautiful and kick ass. 92. Use human powered transportation whenever possible...preferably powered by a human that is not me. Maybe we can get Manimal a rickshaw. 93. Get a calcium supplement and remember to take it, and hell, why not throw some pre-natal vitamins on the list. 94. Buy flowers for myself whenever I feel like it, even if I can't exactly afford it...and also whatever the hell else I want that's just for me. 95. Draw portraits of my children...all of them. 96. Make "mixed CD's" for friends, and hope that they make me some in return. 97. Forage. 98. Knit from the stash. 99. Try not to buy anything new (with reasonable exceptions like art and underwear). 100. Have a garage sale...before September.

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