independence day

Standing on her own two feet.

While we scramble to keep up.

overrated

Is it just me, or is American Idol a little overrated this year? If you know me, or if you don't and you read this blog and have been doing so for at least a year, you know I'm an American Idol suck-uh. 

You also know I'm obsessed with my Belle, love Diet Dr Pepper, and cannot give up chocolate to save my life. Or my gut.

It's not just the auditions, which are hee-lair-ee-us, it's the whole concept. If you'd of asked me what I want to be when I grow up when I was anywhere from age four to ten, I'd have told you "a singer and a dancer." Not one or the other, both. Never mind my two left feet and my voice that resonates most regularly in the tenor register when I attempt to flex the golden pipes. That was my plan.

Even though I eventually found a different career path, and then this perfect path of motherhood that I wouldn't trade for anything, there's something about American Idol that tells me my dreams could still come true. I laugh at the silly auditions, but I really do have an inner cheerleading squad that wants the ones who can sing to succeed, to hit the high notes, to pick the right song, to avoid Simon's descriptions like "self-indulgent" (what does that mean really?) or "loungey" or "karaoke." 

But this year, I couldn't tell you a single contestant's name. There's that girl who sings with a smile, like non-stop, with a smile. And there's that guy with longer hair who took his shirt off for Kara in auditions. Oh, and the girl with dreadlocks, a guitar, and a harmonica (a "mouth harp," is that what the kids are calling it these days?). But I can't say I'm at all hooked like I usually am.

So, although American Idol is the figurative representation of my childhood dreams, I'm pretty sure I'll be choosing the figurative representation of sleep over Idol this year.

growing up

Last night, Annabelle was in her silly nighttime mood, this fuzzy place where she acts goofy and sleepy but won't shut her eyes, and if we put her in bed, she'll generally just talk and/or whine herself to sleep in a couple minutes. So last night, I put her in her bed, told her I loved her and proceeded about my nighttime rituals. I prepared the parts of her bottle, brushed my teeth, and sat down to read my scriptures. At this point, it sounded like silliness had turned to sadness, and I told Jess I'd go check on her after I read, thinking that she might just settle herself down, as she usually does. A couple minutes later, I finished a chapter and went to check her.

It was super dark, and with her new rolling skills, you never know where you'll find her, so I turned on the nightlight. There she was, sitting, crunched up in a ball in the corner of her Pack N Play, clutching her favorite blanket (the white crocheted one) and crying into it. She looked so alone and forlorn. My heart just broke. It took her a second to realize Mommy was there. When she did, she nuzzled into me, held on to her blanket with one arm, and fell right to sleep. I held her for several minutes while she slept. Without her silly animations, I could see in that sleeping face her tininess, as though the little girl that had bunched herself into a corner to cry couldn't possibly be in there. She's my tiny baby, right?

I can't believe that she's growing up so fast. I miss those tiny baby days, but I am continually amazed every day as I watch her grow and progress. She finally figured out the forward crawl yesterday, she sings (super high falsetto) on cue, she clap-clap-claps, she's learned to feed herself bits of food. It's so amazing that the small, helpless thing that once fit in one arm now requires both arms for rocking, that I can quite literally wrap my arms around her to hug her. But how I love that her arms can now hug back.

can't get enough

So first, I should say that I've never been turned off by artificial sweetener. I know I should be, I know that studies show this and that. And I know that I sound ignorant at this moment. But the thing is: I LIKE IT. I actually think that the diet versions of sodas taste better than the sugar loaded ones. It's a smoother, less sticky taste, and I adore it. 

So now that that's out there...

I also love juice. The story goes (please hear my mom's voice):

"When Shauntel was little, she'd wake up in the morning, we'd hear her pad down the hall, pitter-patter, pitter-patter. She'd reach the table, where she'd retrieve her cup. If there was juice, we'd hear, 'Glub, glub, glub, glub.' If there wasn't, we'd hear: 'JUICE!!!!!'"

So to keep myself from screaming !!JUICE!! all the time, I customarily have some on hand. In my recent budgeting and couponing attempts, I try to only buy things that are on sale or for which I have a coupon, preferably both. So when Target was offering Mott's Plus, Light Apple Juice for $1.09, I scooped it up to give it a try. 

And now I'm addicted. This juice is simply amazing, and because I have no problem with the fact that it's partially sweetened by sucralose, I don't feel a guilty complex settle down about me every time I take a swig like I might with the regular sugary versions of juice. I just feel HAPPY, like the kind of happy I must've felt every morning as a little girl when I got my !!JUICE!!

In any case, for any juice and artificial sweetener enthusiasts out there, I highly recommend this magic potion. I can't get enough.

NOTE: I did not consume artificial sweeteners while I was pregnant. (Or caffeine.) And Annabelle has not had a taste of said sweeteners either. We feed her sugar. Pure sugar. By the bag.

roll over beethoven

So Annabelle didn't roll over until she was about six months old. (And that was only because Grandma took matters into her own hands and taught her how while we were visiting for Christmas. And that was only from front to back.) I know this stresses some people out, but to be perfectly honest, I just assumed that the effort of flipping over that girth required too much energy, energy that could be better spent by playing. And then one day as I watched her attempt to turn herself over, I realized something:

It seems that our sweet Belle is destined for greatness in the circus circuit. Seriously double jointed arms. I know. When she would try to roll, she'd just end up laying on top of her arms. It freaks me out still, and even though I'd seen her do this a million times, I couldn't help myself from saving her:

But never fear, Grandma Christensen was there. Using some repetitious practice, she helped Belle see that if she put her arms up to roll, they wouldn't fold behind her. However, she never took much interest in the back to front rolling. Instead, it seemed that she would just skip it, as she's on her way to crawling (still only backwards, bless her) and pulling herself up to stand. 

Then, a few nights ago (make that early mornings ago), I heard the hunger cry. So in what has become a precise science and routine, I stumbled to the kitchen in the dark, assembled the bottle (I prepare the parts before going to bed), and scooped Belle out of the bottom of her Pack 'N' Play. However, I realized something was different this time when I tried to feed her bottle to the back of her head. (Listen - it's dark, I'm tired. And it's kind of funny, right?)

Turns out, someone has figured out how to roll the other way.

competition

So the best thing about running is that you can do it by yourself, on your own power, anywhere in the world. It requires personal motivation and mental strength. And that was what had stopped me from trying out cycling or spinning all these years. I naively assumed that it was everything running wasn't.

I'm an individual exerciser, if there could exist a term. It's my time. I don't like sharing it. It sounds selfish, but part of my reasoning lies in the fact that I don't like the urge to compete when I'm working out with others. (Because the competition in my own head is bad enough.) I can count on one hand (with two fingers) the number of people who I've "allowed" to run with me, and they had the "privilege" because they weren't competing with me - they were encouraging me, pushing me, and training with me (and I seriously owe them). And they were my best friends. The thought of biking with dozens of other people was so intimidating, especially as a beginner. Have you seen how chilseled bikers' legs get? Have you seen how lumpy pregnant women's legs get?

But as I said before, my feet went to pot, my stomach is struggling to recover after pregnancy, and so I sucked it up. And spinning has been everything I didn't expect it to be. Yes, I feel a sense of competition in the room, but still the competition is with myself - the constant inner desire to push myself, to fight the burn in my quads, to "run" the hypothetical hills. (I love that we call it "running" and "jogging" when we're going up hill. :) ) But I don't know any of the other cyclists in the room - some professional, some even more beginner than me. I just know that we each have our own bike, and we're each on our own when it comes to accountability for our workout.

When you're running, you really can push a running partner by running faster. The other person feels obligated to keep up. Spinning is done on a stationary bike - no one can really move ahead. It's a beautiful concept really - every person in that room is competing with their own RPMs, their own personal "base."

I still wish I could walk out the front door and take off. I still wish I could rely on this new mode of exercise wherever I go. I would give anything to have my old feet back and take to the road for a couple of miles. But I have to admit that I really love the room of whirring legs. It's still something that I can do by myself, on my own power, under my own mental competition.

Plus, my quads are getting ridiculously tough.

the guessing game

Something I've realized recently, is that it's always a guessing game when it comes to taking care of a baby. It's kind of a joke really. If anything is wrong - she won't eat, sleep, roll over, crawl, you name it - you start the guessing game:

Maybe she's sick.
Maybe her diaper's dirty.
Maybe she's teething.
Maybe she can't poop.
Maybe she pooped.
Maybe she's teething.
Maybe she's tired.
Maybe it's a growth spurt.

Maybe she's teething.
Maybe she hates oatmeal.
Maybe she loves it.
Maybe she needs her blanket.
Maybe she needs her other blanket.
Maybe she's bored.
Maybe she's teething.
Maybe she's cold.
Wait, she's never cold.
Maybe she's hot.
MAYBE SHE'S TEETHING.

We obviously usually blame it on teething, although she has nary a tooth or even any signs of teeth. It's just a convenient syndrome to blame for all the bad things in life: runny nose, lack of sleep, refusal to consume applesauce. But when it comes down to it, a baby's life is just one big, constant guessing game. But then if it wasn't a guessing game, she'd be talking. And that means she'd be talking back. And that means it's time to ship her to her grandma.

Today when she pulled my hair, I said, "No no!" She giggled and said, "Nah nah!"

MAYBE SHE'S TEETHING.

a smack in the face

So the other day, my sister-in-law (who had her first baby, and Annabelle's first cousin, in October) asked me what toys we like for Annabelle as Mr. Tymon has developed some mad hand skills and needs some new things to do.

I had to scratch my head for a few seconds, because although she does like some of her real toys, for the most part, Annabelle's favorite toys are the ones that aren't toys at all. And they're usually hazardous to her health in some way - cords, dirty shoes, wet wipes, pens.

But perhaps her favorite non-toy is her binky leash. (Note to future parents whose children take a liking to the binky - buy one of these.) We customarily have this little doo dad clipped to her onesie. And it's not so much because she's a binky junky (she likes it when she's sleeping or sick) so much as I can't stand it falling on the filthy apartment floor (filthy in that it came that way and then we had a baby who likes to spill everything, filthy). Also, when you all of the sudden need the dang thing, it's always missing, so why not have it around all the time, right?

We have a night time routine - doesn't a baby love a routine? (Or is it her mom.) Customarily, before we change her into her pajamas, we let her run around naked for a while (and when I say run around, I mean crawl backwards {she can't do it forward} and swivel on her bum). We also remove the binky leash from her outfit, and inevitably, she will retrieve it and spend tens of minutes (that's like tens of hours in adult time) whipping it around. And when I say whip, I mean WHIP. She smacks herself in the face, on the legs. She makes marks. But SHE CAN'T STOP. And when we take it away, she gets real mad as though we just took away her Diet Dr Pepper.

In other news, in a budget saving measure, I've stopped buying Diet Dr Pepper by the case.

I can't stop smacking myself in the face.

happy heart day

If my heart was a compass, you'd be north.

If my heart was a house, you'd be home. 

- Owl City, If My Heart Was A House

holiday by design

I regularly design things and never do anything with them. Cue the multiple baby announcements, blessing invites, and other nifty projects that my daughter has inspired. The holiday that is upon us inspired yet another. And I had every intention of printing it and sending copies to our family members. But as it turns out, I'm really bad at the follow through part of this whole design thing.

And while the husband isn't a huge celebrator of holidays, I am. I try to blow them off and pretend that they aren't a big deal to me, but they are. So I just keep celebrating my way. And I realize that we should love each other every day, but I don't think there's anything wrong with a holiday (as Hallmark created as it might be) that reminds us of that love we have for the ones we hold close. 

So Happy Heart Day, one day early. :)