Fashion Philosophy

So far I have three girls. I suppose that some of my motherly responsibility is to teach them things like "dressing yourself" and "personal hygiene."  The problem is that for girls these categories have all sorts of nuances and subcategories. Categories that have always escaped me. Categories like "fashion" and "matching" and "style" and "coordinating jewelry" and "accessorizing."

It used to be that my whole fashion philosophy could be summed up in two words, "blend in." I suppose you could throw in the subcategory of "be comfortable," but mainly my goal has been to not be noticed. That means I try to strike a happy medium between over-done and under-done. Mostly I think I succeed, but sometimes I border on the noticeable spectrum, and not in a "I want to dress like her" manner-- more of in a "Did she look in a mirror before she left the house?" manner.

Occasionally I wish that I could be trendy and fashionable and wear jeggings with fashionable boots, and have my girls in perfectly coordinated outfits with awesomely coiffed hair, but then I remember that this involves shopping, possibly at the mall, and cold shakes envelop my body and I decide that I will just stick to my blend-in tactics.

But as my girls grow and are off to school, I've had to develop another prong to my fashion philosophy. In the interest of teaching them to "blend-in" I have banned some clothing to "play clothes" only status and I drop an occasional, "Go put a different shirt on. Blue stripes do not go well with a pink polka dotted skirt." And I do make them comb their hair every day too.

For a week or two Kenzie was doing her own hair in all sorts of new-fangled fancy styles, some of which went way outside the norm. Mike and I smiled and told her she looked fantastic, because she did. She was bursting with pride at her 5-bow, 3-ponytail creations. This definitely did not fit into my "blend-in" fashion philosophy, but I checked the urge to correct or stymie her style. "Confidence" I told myself. "She's developing her style and needs support and love. She'll build confidence." (Or be crushed by the mean comments of other children, I thought to myself hopelessly.)

So, I keep my critical comments mostly to myself and when I do offer some advice and Kenzie huffs madly at me, folds her arms and says, "No. I like this" when I tell her something doesn't match (one of those subcategories that I do have a nominal knowledge of), then I shrug my shoulders and let her wear it to school.  I pray that despite a sometimes cold, cruel world of other people's opinions, my girls will develop confidence, enough to be able to have their own style and feel good about it--whether it's blending in or standing out.

So now my fashion philosophy is "Blend in. But if not, stand-out with confidence." I am trying to desperately to drum up some confidence since my "blend-in" style is not working out so well these days. With a seven-month pregnant tummy that sticks out and visibly moves, I'm getting a lot more stares. Plus, I'm running out of clothing options. Nothing fits over my protrusions. The only bras I have that fit are pink. And my shoes? I'm having trouble bending over so my brown slip-on boots are about all I wear these days--even with gray and black pants. So when you see me parading about in a flowing white shirt with a pink bra underneath and gray pants with brown boots, one leg tucked in and the other untucked, know that I am employing my second philosophy of fashion---Confidence.   

After all, "Beauty is in the eye of the beholder and it may be necessary from time to time to give a stupid or misinformed beholder a black eye."  (Miss Piggy)

I'm so Excited for the End of the World



Since the world is ending on Dec 21, there's really no sense in making any real resolutions. But, I guess there's always the chance that the Mayan prediction will be as wrong as every other one, so I'm going to hedge my bets and keep trying to beat my laundry into submission. 

#2 (see #1 above): Dominate the Lost Socks. I have a box for lost socks and it is constantly overflowing. I hearby resolve to match (or perhaps just throw away) every sock in that box.

#3: Have a baby. At the hospital. Stay at the hospital as long as possible. 

#4: Finish writing my book. Currently my main character (and the plot) is stuck in a hotel in Idaho. It's kind of depressing.

#5: Don't sign up for any crazy races until next year. Next year. Seriously. I mean it. No, a half marathon in November does not sound good. No. A 5K might be okay. Really. A 5K. In October. Alright.

#6: Organize a closet (shoot for the moon, I say).

#7: Teach Hannah to read, Teach Ellie to pee (in the toilet) and teach Kenzie to run.

#8: Start a family book club.

#9: Study scriptures at least 5 times a week.

The end.     

Emotionality

I wanted to write a list of things that have made me cry while I've been pregnant, but I think a shorter list might be "Things That Don't Make Me Cry While Pregnant."

I realized that perhaps I have become slightly over-emotional when I walked into Kenzie's first grade class as a surprise guest and got all choked up seeing her happy, toothless grin of excitement. She was sitting on the floor, surrounded by her classmates, and she looked so grown-up. I didn't want to embarrass the poor girl, so I managed to keep it together, but seriously, who cries just because they see their kid at school?

The next hint that perhaps everything is not right in the hormone department came while I was driving home from shopping. "Home" by Dierks Bentley came on the radio and I cried real tears when he started singing the chorus. "From the Mountains high, to the wave-crashed coast, there's a way to find better days I know. . .This is still the place that we all call home."

"Oh," I sobbed aloud to my empty car. "America really is great."

Now that heartburn is settling in (Just in time for the holidays!), perhaps I will become a little more angry and less sensitive.

Baby Names

We're not finding out whether this baby is a boy or girl. This has been met mostly with, "Oh, that'll be fun," reactions from people who are probably thinking, "You lunatics. That's like not taking penicillin or not having a computer." I have to admit that it was my idea. My sister Alisha did it this way and she thought it was marvelous, and being a curious soul, I wanted to see what it was like. Because hey, birthing without drugs does not provide me with enough excitement. Just call me an adrenaline junkie.

Mike is more in the "we're lunatics" camp about not finding out, but because I am swelling to giant portions and I am capable of squashing him like a bug just by sitting on his lap, he is willing to go along with my plan. Although he did try to see what it was at the big 20-week ultrasound, his ultra-sound reading skills were not as good as his engineering skills. He suspects that it is another little girl (Oh the Hair! uttered in the same tone of despair as Herbert Morrison's report on the Hindenburg disaster), because the ultrasound technician began saying, "Oh she's looking so good. Look how beautiful she is. I see her little leg." But later the technician did say, "I don't know why I'm calling it a she. I really don't know what sex it is."

I suspect that it is another baby. I have no intuition one way or another. I was a big believer in mother's intuition and all that pregnancy glow and feeling about just knowing what you're having until Hannah. I was sure Hannah was a boy. Positive. The pregnancy was so different from when I was pregnant with Kenzie. I was sick (with Kenzie I wasn't sick). I had heartburn. I was carrying differently. I had dreams that it was a boy. I just knew it was a boy. At the ultrasounds they would say, "Yep. A little girl." and I would shake my head and say, "You can never be sure, huh?" And secretly think that all this technology really didn't amount to much. I was positive it was a boy.

Then Hannah was born and my belief in mother's intuition was shot. (Don't worry Hannah, I'm glad you're a girl and it was probably best to rid me of my false beliefs early on in motherhood.)

Anywho, we're keeping our options open for names. We'd like to go for a name that ends in a -uh sound, as in "Hann-ah", since we've got Ellie and Kenzie.  Here's what I've come up with for boys, "Noah." The end. I like Noah, although my friend just named her baby Noah, and one of Mike's cousins just name their baby Noah. So maybe there's just a flood of Noahs. (Haha.)
For girls, I like "Ava" but our neighbor's little baby is Ava.

Hannah suggests that, "If it's a girl, we'll call it Sunny. If it's a boy, we'll call it Moony." Then she pauses and adds seriously, "And we can call him Moonface."  (I think she's hoping for another girl.)

Nanowrimo

Besides developing varicose veins that a phelbotomist would kill for, I have been developing another something that I hope will prove less painful.

I'm writing a book. I'm doing this crazy Nanowrimo thing and besides feeling completely insecure about my writing and my characters in addition to all the other things I usually feel insecure about, it's been fun. 

I have 25,000 words, which means I'm slightly behind in my word count, but I'm halfway to a goal of 50,000. I'm so goal-oriented that I'm halfway tempted to write "Blah, blah, blah" over and over for the words I'm missing, but I'm pretty sure that would not help me write the next Great American Novel. Because that is what this is. For sure. Except there's not enough Angst and Zombies. But I still have 25,000 words to go, so maybe some of that will work its way in. 

Here's my favorite excerpt:

When God was handing out talents in heaven, I imagine the scenario went something like this:

“Ahh,” he smiled down at me, “What talent would you like little one?”

Eager and anxious and nervous because there was a huge line behind me I must have forgot to ask for a useful skill. I was probably thinking about cooking, or being a good friend, or raising children, or some other unselfish and noble skill. But then I balked. Being in the presence of God must have made me jittery because I blurted out “Swimming! I want to be a good swimmer.”

I imagine that God drew his bushy, yet benevolent eyebrows together and possibly slightly frowned.

“Swimming?” He must have gently asked.

“Yes, yes. Swimming. I heard the earth is three-fourths water,” I laughed nervously, then coughed, when no one else laughed, and then nodded very seriously. “Swimming.”

God probably looked down at the blueprint for my life and thought, “Well, swimming won’t really help her with a history degree, teaching, and then three children, but, swimming it is.”

Then he smiled, made a few changes on the plan and told me to do my best.

And I am. But I sure could use a few other talents right now. My stellar swimming skills notwithstanding I think I’m drowning in motherhood. 

Motherhood

I'm always making to-do lists, but this sums up how I feel somedays. When I think about #2 I think about dinosaurs chasing me, or children whining, or fireballs whizzing through the sky. Not that these things happen, but that's what survive says to me.

What do you survive?

A Brief Angry History of Daylight Saving Time

George Vernon Hudson, a man too busy collecting insects to think about how Daylight Saving Time might possibly cause a four-year-old to scream in a high-pitched voice for fifteen minutes at 8:00 p.m. four days into the fall time change that she wants "TO BE HOME RIGHT NOW!" while driving in the car, when her mother has been working so very carefully with her and gained some solid ground on not throwing fits, proposed shifting an hour of daylight to the evening in the summer so he could COLLECT BUGS.

William Willet, a British man who had never dragged a sobbing, hysterical six-year-old out to the car in his bare feet on a cold winter morning to go to school, and had never bodily carried a four-year-old, kicking and screaming to her carpool and shoved her inside and said, "Watch out! The door's shutting," as she tried to cling to him, because they are sleeping an hour less than normal, also proposed DST in Britain so he could GOLF LONGER.

Foolishly, most of the U.S., under the delusion that they are saving energy, money or anything at all, agrees to this mass conspiracy against parents and their children and continues to change their clocks like lemmings falling off cliffs each spring and fall.
The End