Where'd we get these big babies from?

Violet had her 9 month doctor's appointment today. Aside from getting a perfectly clean bill of health, it was once again reiterated that she is tre tall lady. 95% for height (70% for weight, and 50% for noggin). Annie's still right around 95% for height too.

I am 5'3 and was always the shortest girl in class.

hmmm. Perhaps they are the mail-lady's babies?

Anatomically correct alphabet

Annie sang her alphabet for me last night. She's getting pretty good these days. However, we've hit a bit of snag. This was Annie's rendition:
"...Q R S, T Boobie, W X, Y and Z". 
So close.

The sound of silence

The girls are at day care today (they officially start next week, but this is part of the 'ease-in period') and I returned from dropping them off to one of the most blissful sounds I've heard in a long time...

SILENCE!

I'd forgotten how much I love silence and alone time. Pre-babies, I spent a lot of time alone. I've worked from home pretty much since about 2006. And, although I consider myself a social person and the silence was deafening at first, I got used to it, and even learned to love it. When we lived in DC, Annie went to Miss Kim's 3 afternoons a week, so I had periods of silence then; but ever since we moved, we've had a nanny and I've worked in a house filled with kids! For the last year and 3 months, there has been no such thing as silence in my life.

So, today I am relishing the silence. I feel peaceful and serene. I have the whole house to myself and can do what I want to do, when and where I want to do it! I plan to go all domestic diva up in here and put a roast in the crock pot, do some laundry and organize a closet, mainly because I can. I'm sitting at the kitchen table typing this instead of tucked away in the office, because... I can.

Don't get me wrong, I miss my girls. And, there is no better sound in the world then babbling babies or laughing ladies; but sometimes we all need a break, and today I am savoring the sound of silence!

Posh in polka-dots

Do bug bites make you want to tear every inch of your skin off, or is it just me? It must be just me because, per my unofficial poll, I am the only grown adult I know walking around with kid at camp scabby legs as a result of itching so much. Maybe it just itches me more on me? Maybe you all have more will power? Or, perhaps, as a result of being the whitest white girl around, I actually just have less layers of translucent skin to scratch off? All I know is I had to put coverup on my legs for this weekend's affair. Coverup! On my legs! Jeeesh.

What a whirlwind of a last couple of months!

Since July, we did our trip to CT, a trip to the lake, a visit from my Mom, a lovely just-us anniversary beach weekend away, a friend weekend (segregated into a boys' party and a girls' party-- boys with lots of farts, girls complete with pillow fights, obvs), a new daycare, a Hunger-Games competition, a visit from the fun and fabulous Aunt Pam & Matt, and a swank wedding at the Hay Adams- which included copious amounts of alcohol (that may or may not have hindered my ability to remember large chunks of said elegant evening. I blame the champagne.) I'm kinda looking forward to September so I can take a breath!

Out of everything, the biggest news (at least for me) is the new daycare! I gave Erin, our nanny, notice just about a month ago that we decided to go with a daycare instead of having in-home care for the kiddies. This was a really tough decision for me, and I have to admit that I'm still a bit anxious about it. BUT, for my own sanity, (among many other reasons), it seemed like the right thing to do. Any of you who have ever been here know that we have a very small house. And, attempting to work (or get any semblance of a break from babies) in this small house with my two kids, the nanny, and her daughter has been getting more and more difficult. I just kinda got to a breaking point. I needed to be able to have a conference call without fear of a baby crying in the background. I needed to be able to come downstairs to grab lunch without fear of two babies seeing their Mommy and crying because they didn't understand why I wouldn't pick them up or play with them, and I needed my house back. Really, while the kids are here with the nanny, I feel like stay-at-home Mom without the benefit of spending the time with my kids, and a remote employee without the benefit of time at home to do housework, laundry, etc. I had effectively become a prisoner to my tiny office, and it sucked!

So, we found a fabulous place right around the corner and have done a couple 'trial days'. So far, so good! Annie LOVES it and Violet, well- she's getting used to it. It's a lot for her and sooo stimulating in comparison to this boring house, but I think she'll do well. Starting next week I have 3 glorious (albeit work filled) days a week ALL TO MYSELF. I'll still have the girls with me on Tuesdays and Thursdays, but Annie is going to do 2 year old pre-school on Tuesday and Thursday mornings, so me and my little Violet will get some much needed one on one time too. Lots of changes, but hopefully all for the better!

More time to myself, my time for the gym, more time for organization and, truly, more quality time with the girls because I'll have more me time to get stuff done around here when they are not home.
And the Year of Amy truly starts... NOW! (Better late than never.)

Details surrounding the other cray events mentioned in paragraph #1 to follow shortly, but this lady must get some work done! Monday. blaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

Today's mantra

Busy busy

Lots of thoughts running around in the ol duder's head*, but no time to write...
Update(s) coming soon, I promise.

*for the clueless, that's a Big Lebowski reference. (Lots of ins, lots of outs, lots of what-have-yous...)

To my friends with daughters/nieces/little girls who look up to them

I saw this on Facebook this morning and it really got to me! It is our responsibility to make sure our girls see themselves as the amazingly perfect beings they are, and that starts with us appreciating ourselves for who we are. Most of us manage to see our faults more than our own beauty, but our baby girls don't see us that way. We are beauty to them--- warts and all! And, how we view ourselves will shape how our daughters view themselves. ...So take a good look at yourself and see yourself as the beautiful/intelligent/strong woman that your daughters sees and make a commitment to them to love yourself (as you are), so they can do the same!

When Your Mother Says She's Fat

Dear Mom,

I was 7 when I discovered that you were fat, ugly, and horrible. Up until that point I had believed that you were beautiful—in every sense of the word. I remember flicking through old photo albums and staring at pictures of you standing on the deck of a boat. Your white strapless bathing suit looked so glamorous, just like a movie star. Whenever I had the chance I’d pull out that wondrous white bathing suit hidden in your bottom drawer and imagine a time when I’d be big enough to wear it; when I’d be like you.

But all of that changed when, one night, we were dressed up for a party and you said to me, ‘‘Look at you, so thin, beautiful, and lovely. And look at me, fat, ugly, and horrible.’’

At first I didn’t understand what you meant.
‘‘You’re not fat,’’ I said earnestly and innocently, and you replied, ‘‘Yes I am, darling. I’ve always been fat; even as a child.’’

In the days that followed I had some painful revelations that have shaped my whole life. I learned that:
1. You must be fat because mothers don’t lie.
2. Fat is ugly and horrible.
3. When I grow up I’ll look like you and therefore I will be fat, ugly, and horrible too.

Years later, I looked back on this conversation and the hundreds that followed and cursed you for feeling so unattractive, insecure, and unworthy. Because, as my first and most influential role model, you taught me to believe the same thing about myself.

With every grimace at your reflection in the mirror, every new wonder diet that was going to change your life, and every guilty spoon of ‘‘Oh-I-really-shouldn’t,’’ I learned that women must be thin to be valid and worthy. Girls must go without because their greatest contribution to the world is their physical beauty.
Just like you, I have spent my whole life feeling fat. When did fat become a feeling anyway? And because I believed I was fat, I knew I was no good.

But now that I am older, and a mother myself, I know that blaming you for my body hatred is unhelpful and unfair. I now understand that you too are a product of a long and rich lineage of women who were taught to loathe themselves.

Look at the example Nanna set for you. Despite being what could only be described as famine-victim chic, she dieted every day of her life until the day she died at 79 years of age. She used to put on makeup to walk to the mailbox for fear that somebody might see her unpainted face.
I remember her ‘‘compassionate’’ response when you announced that Dad had left you for another woman. Her first comment was, ‘‘I don’t understand why he’d leave you. You look after yourself, you wear lipstick. You’re overweight, but not that much.’’

Before Dad left, he provided no balm for your body-image torment either.
‘‘Jesus, Jan,’’ I overheard him say to you. ‘‘It’s not that hard. Energy in versus energy out. If you want to lose weight you just have to eat less.’’

That night at dinner I watched you implement Dad’s ‘‘Energy In, Energy Out: Jesus, Jan, Just Eat Less’’ weight-loss cure. You served up chow mein for dinner. Everyone else’s food was on a dinner plate except yours. You served your chow mein on a tiny bread-and-butter plate.

As you sat in front of that pathetic scoop of mince, silent tears streamed down your face. I said nothing. Not even when your shoulders started heaving from your distress. We all ate our dinner in silence. Nobody comforted you. Nobody told you to stop being ridiculous and get a proper plate. Nobody told you that you were already loved and already good enough. Your achievements and your worth—as a teacher of children with special needs and a devoted mother of three of your own—paled into insignificance when compared with the centimeters you couldn’t lose from your waist.

It broke my heart to witness your despair and I’m sorry that I didn’t rush to your defense. I’d already learned that it was your fault that you were fat. I’d even heard Dad describe losing weight as a ‘‘simple’’ process—yet one that you still couldn’t come to grips with. The lesson: You didn’t deserve any food and you certainly didn’t deserve any sympathy.

But I was wrong, Mom. Now I understand what it’s like to grow up in a society that tells women that their beauty matters most, and at the same time defines a standard of beauty that is perpetually out of our reach. I also know the pain of internalizing these messages. We have become our own jailors and we inflict our own punishments for failing to measure up. No one is more cruel to us than we are to ourselves.

But this madness has to stop, Mom. It stops with you, it stops with me, and it stops now. We deserve better—better than to have our days brought to ruin by bad body thoughts, wishing we were otherwise.
And it’s not just about you and me anymore. It’s also about Violet. Your granddaughter is only 3 and I do not want body hatred to take root inside her and strangle her happiness, her confidence, and her potential. I don’t want Violet to believe that her beauty is her most important asset; that it will define her worth in the world. When Violet looks to us to learn how to be a woman, we need to be the best role models we can be. We need to show her with our words and our actions that women are good enough just the way they are. And for her to believe us, we need to believe it ourselves.

The older we get, the more loved ones we lose to accidents and illness. Their passing is always tragic and far too soon. I sometimes think about what these friends—and the people who love them—wouldn’t give for more time in a body that was healthy. A body that would allow them to live just a little longer. The size of that body’s thighs or the lines on its face wouldn’t matter. It would be alive and therefore it would be perfect.

Your body is perfect too. It allows you to disarm a room with your smile and infect everyone with your laugh. It gives you arms to wrap around Violet and squeeze her until she giggles. Every moment we spend worrying about our physical ‘‘flaws’’ is a moment wasted, a precious slice of life that we will never get back.

Let us honor and respect our bodies for what they do instead of despising them for how they appear. Focus on living healthy and active lives, let our weight fall where it may, and consign our body hatred in the past where it belongs. When I looked at that photo of you in the white bathing suit all those years ago, my innocent young eyes saw the truth. I saw unconditional love, beauty, and wisdom. I saw my Mom.

Love, Kasey xx
Kasey Edwards is a writer based in Australia and author of 30-Something And Over It. You can follow her on Twitter here.

http://www.rolereboot.org

Today's favorite thing

In addition to the numerous other things I fixate on (I am dying my all too blonde eyebrows as we speak... eyebrow fixation), I am always obsessing over the sheets on the bed. We have a glorious foam mattress pad, but it makes the mattress so thick that sheets staying down and taut around the corners are nearly impossible. Enter these marvelous little guys- Sleepsnug Sheet Grippers. They really work. I haven't had to re-tuck the sheet over the corner all week long. Sheet obsession in check!

It's the little things!