dear immune system:

I realize that when I got pregnant (with Belle – this is NOT an announcement, don’t expect one of those for several years), you went crashing down in order to protect my baby. And I accepted those brutal colds as a part of the AWESOME deal of pregnancy. But can we talk about how THE BABY CAME OUT? (Believe me. I was there.) So just in case you didn’t get the memo: you can start working again.

And I know that if I just got a good night’s sleep, I’d probably fare a little better, but when Annabelle insists on sucking on every surface in her reach, she tends to catch every bug that wafts by her. So she spends all night sneezing and coughing, and I spend all night trotting back to her room to put her binkie in her mouth. And to top it off, she generally passes her diseases on to me.

I just want you to know that I’m pretty tired of having a cold, having had one since pregnancy. And Annabelle is SIX MONTHS OLD NOW. Baby gone. No need to be a broken system anymore. Any time you want to join the party, I’m game.

Gracias,
Shauntel

totally bangin'

So back in the day when my mother made my fashion choices, my hair was cut to include bangs. (Actually, to her credit, she was very good at allowing us to make those decisions as soon as we were capable. Sometimes we wish she would've stopped us from wearing those really chic biker shorts on the first day of school, but whatever.) Luckily, I fit right in with the rest of the children of the 80s with crimped/and or permed hair and a nice swath of bangs.

Cute, right?

And then as the nineties merged with the banging (ha) eighties, we started fluffing the bangs.

Dang, I was good at that fluff.

And so my life went well into high school, awkward years of hairstyles that always missed the mark. Probably because I STILL HAD THOSE STUPID BANGS.

Then, one day during my senior year, I had a moment of deep self-realization. To make a long story short: I grew out my bangs, cut the rest of my hair to allow said fringe to blend better, started running, and changed my diet. I came out of this self-realization not only with a deep love of running but also thirty pounds lighter and a forehead free of adornment.

I then spent many good years without bangs, most of them in an effort to grow out those locks I had so carelessly chopped.

Then. Oh let's talk about then.

So by this time I'm married, still without bangs. And I'm obsessed, obsessed, with Reese Witherspoon's hair. Can I have her hair please? I ignored the voice in my head reminding me I wasn't blond and that perhaps my bone structure was a little different (a little?). But still. So I ask my hair artist to chop me some Reese bangs, por favor. And she did. And I loved them. I wanted to have them forever.

And then I got pregnant. Look, when I'm pregnant, I don't make sense. If any of you recall, I wanted to eat snow. I also suddenly and quite dramatically despised my bangs. And so I traveled back in time to my senior year of high school and started growing the suckers out again. (Except this time I gained thirty [plus ten] pounds instead of losing them.) I also kept the long locks (to thusly hide my pancaking pregnant face).

Thanks to pre-natal vits, by the time Belle arrived, bangs-be-gone. Mission accomplished. Lesson learned.

Or not.

She was about a week old, and I was like I WANT BANGS. I marched into the bathroom, combed forward a swath of my long (it was to my butt folks) hair, and chopped me up some bangs. And I loved them. For like four seconds. And then I wanted to scream. Because I remembered why my pregnant self despised the fur on my forehead: bangs are only cute when they are carefully and constantly manicured. They have to have that freshly mown look to be attractive. Seriously. So I'd love them for two days, and then, oh - poof - shaggy bangs. And then snip, snip, snip. Repeat. Aaaaaahhhhhhh.

And so...I am currently growing my bangs out. For the last time. I swear. I made my hair artist swear on her pretty pink blow dryer that the next time I say something like, "So...I think I want bangs..." she would remind me that, actually I'm not a bang person, that actually even though I really wish I were Reese Witherspoon, I'm not, that actually growing out my bangs TAKES TEN YEARS, and we don't want that again do we?

And that is why Annabelle will not have bangs, at least while she's on my watch. And then when she is able to make mistakes all by herself, she too can take a hack saw to her hair. And then when she does I'll be like, "Ha. I told you so. Have fun growing those out for the rest of your life."

By the way, I didn't make her swear on her blow dryer. But it is pink.

haiti in my heart

Tonight, my heart is in Haiti.

As I handed Belle chunks of bread (she's definitely my daughter, the way this girl can consume bread), on the TV screen, the image of a man carrying a tiny infant out of the rubble flashed by. Something inside me cried out for that man, that small baby. The baby is surely still nursing, and the image didn't show a mom anywhere near. I wanted to hand that man a canister of Belle's formula, the piece of bread I was carelessly breaking in pieces. I wished desperately that even for a few seconds I could somehow reach through the TV and help feed that baby.

My heart hurts.

I turned to lds.org and my heart was somewhat warmed to read that relief is already underway, including supplies for newborns, and I just have to hope that the small baby I saw on TV gets some of that relief. Suddenly, the service nights we have as a regular part of our church activities, which often seem quite routine, seem unbelievably important.

I have Haiti in my heart.

car storage

So my car door has a compartment. I think most people store CDs or other important things in their door. In my case, it's usually full of chocolate wrappers. Lately, it's bursting with the golden wrappers of Ferrero Rocher.

What's so wonderful about these Christmas candies is I can buy them ALL YEAR LONG at Target. And they're handy as they're right in the check out aisle!

What's weird is I generally don't enjoy chocolate (or any dessert) when it is mixed with nuts. I just feel like it's mixing two ingredients that are much better enjoyed separately. Like we're forcing them to be friends and really, they can't stand each other. But these little delights are the perfect amount of smooth chocolate, hazlenut flavoring, and a slight nutty crust.

I also like these because they're individually wrapped. If I exercise restraint (occasionally, but not often), I can eat one and save two for another day.

Usually, I eat three and save none. My overstuffed car door attests.

daddy's little girl

Most often, people say she looks like me. And sometimes when she smiles or lifts her eyes, I see myself. It's a strange feeling, watching yourself in a tiny body. When she was born, I asked my mom if it was a little surreal to see her baby all over again.

But as she gets bigger, I see her daddy in her more and more.

Especially in the eyes. We may mirror each other in many ways, but in her eyes, she is her daddy's little girl.

And, oh those eyes.

super sophie

So some people have a beach home or their mountain cabin. I have a second home at Amazon.com. You think I jest? Oh, how you wish. This started with my parents - they use Amazon for everything. And at Christmas time, we all make Amazon Wish Lists, which makes Christmas shopping really easy. And quite honestly, you can find almost anything on Amazon.com.

I did almost all of my Christmas shopping on Amazon. I bought a few things for Annabelle, and while shopping in the baby department, I noticed that Amazon kept recommending I check out Sophie the Giraffe (she's rated the number one teething toy). Of course I did (I always follow Amazon's advice), however, when I saw her price tag - THIRTEEN DOLLARS - I decided I'd pass her by. After all, who pays THIRTEEN DOLLARS for a rubber teething toy?

Oh, I'll tell you who. Grandma does. When my mom received the same recommendation, she too checked out Sophie. And as she fulfilled her duty as grandma (to spoil one's grandchildren ridiculously), she bought up a little Sophie for Annabelle. Christmas day arrived, and when I saw Sophie, as I did with many of Belle's presents, I went nuts. After all, she's so cute, and she's THIRTEEN DOLLARS I don't have to spend!

Little did we know, Belle would love Sophie just as much. She toted that rubber giraffe everywhere. I even witnessed her tucking Sophie in next to her in the exersaucer, as if to say, "You sit right here Sophe. I'm just going to play with a few toys here."

So although Sophie the Giraffe is indeed a rubber teether that costs THIRTEEN DOLLARS, I am actually going to go ahead and recommend her.

As her story goes, she was the first rubber toy made for children (in France in 1961), and her popularity since has never decreased. (For those that value a little history, her appearance and manufacturing process haven't changed either.) Sophie is the perfect size for little hands, and her soft (baby safe) rubber is the perfect texture for tender gums or new teeth to gnaw on. I think that the bumps in her mane, and then all her parts - horns, ears, legs, neck, etc. - feel good on teething gums. She does squeak - both from her tummy and her head - but she has to be coerced to do so, so she isn't a very noisy toy.

There is one potential downside to Sophie: because she's made of rubber, well, she smells like rubber. And "the singular scent of natural rubber" (as her promotional materials read) drives Jess (and others) nuts. I actually don't mind at all. And it seems that Annabelle couldn't care less.

We love Sophie so much, in fact, when she went missing (that is, got kicked out of the shopping cart at Target), I went ahead and spent the THIRTEEN DOLLARS to replace her. And it was totally worth it to see Belle's face recognize her favorite toy when we returned to Durham.

Now, however, Sophie does not accompany us on shopping trips.

NOTE: If you are indeed interested in purchasing Sophie, Amazon may be your cheapest route. I've noticed she costs a few more dollars elsewhere. And if you're shipping her, those few dollars might be worth the savings. Although if you happen to be an Amazon Prime member, that shipping is free. (Pretty sure I didn't live before Amazon.com existed.)

do you ever wish?

Do you ever wish you

could remember how amazing the world

must have been when everything was new, when

everything was a curiosity just waiting to be discovered?

I do.

dear coach sloan:

a thousand words

A picture is worth a thousand words. That's what they say. But truthfully, it's not often that I feel a photo really can capture a thousand words. I mean, I find photos beautiful, striking, memorable. The photos I take of Belle are priceless to me. Jess' photos of Tokyo are so dear to me I cry if I look long enough. But still - a thousand words? Maybe it's my subconscious counting of syllables, as though editing has trained my brain to value word count way more than I should.

However, when we stopped by Jess' grandparents house so they could visit their first great-grandbaby, Jess grabbed his camera (if you can simply "grab" what has become his camera and its entourage of equipment). And these photos. Oh, these photos. The words are dripping by the thousands.

There's something about the beauty in their wisdom-filled faces contrasted with her baby face. The juxtoposition of old and new in the most beautiful way. There's something about the love they've developed for decades that radiates from them. Their faces frame their smiles in a way that only experience can. I swear their eyes twinkle. There's something about the furniture, the lighting, the way their home is frozen in time, a more simple time, when life was easier, right? Because we always assume life was easier "back then." But in these photos, I swear life is easier.

And the cliche, the thousand words, it's in every one of these photos. Every picture has a thousand words trapped in their eyes, their expressions, their love.

half year

Dear Annabelle:

Six months ago today, I met you for the first time. But it didn't feel like I was meeting you for the first time. You didn't feel like a stranger at all. No, you actually felt more like a finally. Finally I had you in my arms.

I remember noticing your tiny, perfect features, particularly your nose. I remember thinking you looked something like your Great Grandpa Christensen, which is funny now, but I think it had something to do with your features being all squishy and swollen, something that our faces do as we age, and ironically, often how they begin. I remember feeling overwhelming love, undeniable peace. I remember that even then, you turned your face into your blanket, something you do every night and every nap. In fact, I don't know that you could sleep without something to snuggle. I remember waiting for your first cry, the relief I felt when it came. And I remember when I finally got to hold you.

I never wanted to put you down. Indeed, I requested that you stay in my room that night so I could watch you, watch your chest rise and fall, memorize your face. You grunted a lot in your sleep, so I didn't sleep much more than a few winks, but I fell in love with you that night. And although that was the first of many sleepless nights, I never could get enough of you. And still, six months later, I can't get enough. It seems like just yesterday you made your entrance. It seems like just yesterday I held your tiny infant body, still purple in the fingers and toes, and felt a blanket of love wrap us both up so tight.

The other night I went and saw a movie. It's the first movie I've seen since your birth. And while it may have had something to do with how slow the movie was, the entire time I sat in my cushy theater seat, I wished for nothing more than to be home with you, sitting on the floor, playing with your toys, watching your face light up with recognition, your lips pucker with concentration, your hands very deliberately grab everything in reach, your smile turn up at me.

Thank you for coming to me six months ago. You make life new and beautiful. You make the simple things incredible. You bring more happiness to a person than I knew possible.

I love you my sweet Belle.

Love,
Mommy