Just Bead It!

Today was such a great day! It started out with H sleeping until almost 8am (from about 5am, he was in our bed, but before that, in his own). I got up, got ready, and left Big J and H behind to attend an Intro to Beading Class at Tatnuck Bead Co. I had so much fun, and found that I really enjoy making jewelry. We made a bracelet and a pair of earrings during the class, and then all purchases made that day were 20% off! I highly recommend them, as they are a family-run business, with three locations, honest and extremely helpful staff, and a beautiful assortment of beads ranging from seed to semi-precious.

I bought enough supplies to make five pairs of fun chandelier earrings. When I got home with my purchases, J knew that he was in for another round of obsessive crafting. While H took a faux nap (aka crawled out of the pack-n-play, necessitating its removal from his room and then just played loudly with his toys), I busted out all five pairs and watched Blades of Glory for intellectual stimulation. With each twist of the pliers, and snip of the cutters, I got more and more excited about the possibilities, and the creative process involved.

When they were completed, I realized that I only had a couple of hourse until J and I got to leave for our first Date Night since moving to Massachusetts. We had a seafood dinner and saw The Bourne Ultimatum...being that Matt (Mr. Damon to you) is from Mass, I feel like we had the quintesential New England experience (others may disagree, but this is my blog).

I am completely satisfied after a meal of scallops and lobster, followed by two hours of Matt Damon in full-action mode. I'm now home, H behaved himself for the sitter, and I'm at the computer in my new uniform of flowy pj bottoms and a comfy T...what more could a girl ask for?

Well, I do have one request...it's almost 11 and H is still sleeping soundly; it would be fabulous if he could remain that way until, ohhhh, 7 tomorrow? I'll let you know how that goes...

Farther Down the Road

As a child, we went on a family vacation every summer. After 3rd grade, our car was always the same...a newer model of the Ford Taurus every 4 years or so.

My mom (who does have OCD) and my dad, who probably does as well, but prefers to be called meticulous, planned great vacations for us, always with the destination being a long, long, long way from our home to visit one relative or another.

I am probably one of the most impatient people I know (prior to becoming a knitter) and also didn't tolerate heat very well...until I moved to the East Coast and just had to embrace it. Fortunately, most of our vacations were road trips to the surface of the sun (translation; Phoenix, Arizona). On the way to our destination were always a plethora of natural wonders, such as the Coral Pink Sand Dunes, The Grand Canyon and The Petrified Forest.

The last thing that I wanted to do as a too-cool-for-school 16 year-old was get out of our air-conditioned car (which finally no longer had 6 family members crammed into it, due to my parent's creative age gap between children) and look at a bunch of chunks of wood that looked like rocks. I said as much to my mother and she, thinking she was punishing me, said "Fine, you just sit in the car and wait for us." Ooookay, I'll wait in the air conditioning while you guys traipse around this place. Man, I'm really sad about that!

One of my most memorable trips, however, was also to Arizona. Every year that we went, we would stop at my aunt's in Salt Lake City, and go to Wild Waters one day and the Zoo the next. I never tired of looking at the elephants and who could pass up a day at the water park?

We generally took three or four days to get to Arizona from our home in Oregon, because our family started out with six members (aka lots o' stops), but there were just five of us on this particular trip. We spent the first night at my aunt's and then would move on and the highlight was getting to sleep in a Motel 6 the next (which was so exciting for us, due to the whole pool and hot tub thing.) However, on this particular vacation, each motel that we went to had no vacancies. My dad just kept driving and driving, and you could sense his building panic.

At one point, he considered driving through the night, but this was back when he was the only person who drove on vacations, so that was out of the question. Finally, my parents came upon Lake Powell at about 8:00 at night, and found a resort there. The only room left was a suite, which was very nice and my sisters and I were so excited, talking about how cool it was that there were pots and pans and stuff already in the room. My parents didn't say one word about how this night at the resort must have put off their budget for the trip, because they didn't ever worry us with money. I still remember how beautiful the sunset over the lake was from the balcony of our room.

Looking back, I know that it must have been tight. I grew up in a very middle class family, with a mom who stayed home with us until my youngest sister was in first grade. Our family vacations were a really big deal, and they were planned and executed to the smallest detail. My dad always mowed the lawn the day before we left so that it wouldn't be too long by the time we got back, and we were all required to have all luggage packed and sitting by the front door before we went to bed the night before leaving.

My dad would then pack an inordinate amount of stuff with Tetris-like precision, fitting all of our "necessities" in the trunk often muttering an "Oh, Man, do you girls really need all this?" Stopping at rest stops along the way, we'd get an orange juice or a pack of gum, but all the real snacks were pre-packed and sitting at my mom's feet in the front seat. It was a treat that we all looked forward to; going shopping for our "trip treats" the day before we left.

We played games in the car, with my mom pointing things out to keep us from going out of our minds with boredom during the stretch through Utah and Nevada. This was long before portable DVD players, and we had the luxury of "walk-mans" only when we were older. Mostly, we listened to the set of tapes that came from the Shell representative; "Farther Down the Road". This was a sweet collection of country music, both classic and contemporary that got played over and over and over. Either that, or Dolly Parton, Kenny Rogers and other stars that made appearances on Hee-Haw.

Our trips were definitely about the journey. I still have never been to Disneyland, and can't say that I'm terribly sad about that. My parents made sure that we had a family vacation every summer. For better or worse, we were together for about two weeks of quality time every summer, and I can't even begin to categorize all the memories I have from them.

I can say that, had my parents had a resource such as PickPackGo, I may not have had my first "resort experience", but my mom and dad would have been saved some stress. For those of you that have read my first post, you know that my husband and I recently traveled by car from Oregon to Massachusetts with our toddler, by car. While it was a long trip, it made me nostalgic for the vacations of my childhood, and made me realize that I will definitely be treating my kids to that someday. To make the destination as fun as the journey, I'm sure that PickPackGo will be utilized, so that we don't have to keep driving farther down the road in search of accomodations.

This blog was inspired by the latest blog blast from Parent Bloggers Network, and PickPackGo. For a chance to win an 8 inch portable DVD Player, check out the PBN website for details.

Babies are better than Pasties!

When I got the email from the Parent Bloggers Network regarding a new website that had been launched in the wake of Facebook banning photos of breastfeeding mothers, I was intrigued. The League of Maternal Justice was created in order to help women empower each other, and to stop injustices against basic practices in motherhood.

I know that I am fairly late in the game in blogging on breastfeeding (or not), as friends like Alex Elliot have been blogging about it for awhile.

First, I'd like to say that I feel lucky that I was able to successfully breastfeed H exclusively for about the first 6-7 months of his life, and then only in the morning and at night when I was home for a couple more months.

Granted, I was living in a fairly liberal city (shout out to P-town, OR), where I felt very comfortable breastfeeding in public; restaurants, theatres, you name it. Yes, there were still stories about people who were talked about or gawked at, but I never personally experienced it...that I know of.

At the hospital, a lactation consultant (LC) visited us in the room, and then everyone was automatically scheduled to be seen 2 days after being released from the hospital to see how the feeding was going, and if there were any supportive measures that could be taken. The LC was programmed into my cell phone, and there were a couple of times that she returned my call as late as 9 or 10pm.

I had a very hard time breastfeeding in the beginning, and had to use nipple shields (holy crap, Alex, I know what you mean about the cost) and the whole nine yards. The last thing I would have been able to coordinate at that point (in August, mind you) was to throw a blanket over my shoulder, nearly suffocating my child in the process.

I wore a nursing tank so by the time my shirt was pulled up (with the tank down) and the baby's head was there, you literally couldn't see ANYTHING. I've seen far more just visiting a local dance club...not a strip club...a dance club. It is amazing to me that when breasts are used in a manner that is objectifying, or sensual to others, it's perfectly acceptable (in fact encouraged, hello Girls Gone Wild) but when they're put to their designed use, folks must cast their gaze aside and secretly whisper about that brazen girl who's nursing at the table....GROSS! Then, there are certainly women who don't feel comfortable breastfeeding in public, and that is also their prerogative.

I could go on and on about breastfeeding, and how difficult in can be in the beginning without the appropriate support, etc. I could also go on about a woman's right to choose how she nourishes her baby. Some women are devastated when their bodies don't produce enough milk, or their design is simply not conducive to feeding, and the last thing that they need is grief over formula feeding. Last I checked, they don't put arsenic in formula (or any other damaging chemicals.) I certainly supplemented with formula after I returned to my extremely demanding job, whose schedule sometimes did not allow multiple pumpings (although there was a very nice lactation room with a rocking chair, refrigerator and magazines galore at my work)....but I digress.

The bottom line is that women are put in the position that we can't win for losing. If we breastfeed, it seems that some would be more comfortable if we did so cloistered in the corner where nobody could see us. If we choose formula, we are made to feel that we are depriving our babies of the ability to have a healthy and successful life. We need to support one another, which starts with the basic right to feed our children, and also acknowledging that a photograph of a women in the act of nursing is NOT pornographic.

When a baby is properly latched, they are covering as much as a pastie would...are people really taking the position that a BABY is worse than a PASTIE?

The Saga Continues

So, it's been about a week since the Toddler Bed was introduced into our realm. The rocking chair was moved out of H's room, and the pack-n-play rapidly made it's debut as a permanent fixture.

Most nights H goes to sleep in his toddler bed just fine, but takes naps (and sometimes sleeps at night) in the pack-n-play. Lately, he's been waking up every night at 2am wanting milk and to sleep with us, to which I gave in a couple of times because I was just too tired to deal with it.

Well, since we reap what we sow, I decided night before last that I did not want that Toddler in my Bed every night. While I love cuddling with him, a queen bed with two not-small adults and a sideways sleeping toddler is not conducive to a good night's sleep. Lack of sleep rapidly turns me into "Mean Mommy."

The first night of my resolve to change, he awoke crying, which led to screaming...first I brought him some milk (save it, I already know I'm not supposed to). I rocked him back to sleep and gently placed him back in his bed, at which point his eyeballs popped open and he started screaming "Go nigh' nigh'!" Which translates to "I want to go to sleep in your bed. He was clinging to me like a spider monkey and screaming. I told him that he had two options; He could sleep in his bed like a big boy, or sleep in the pack-n-play. He said no to both, so I chose for him. Once settled in his light mesh cage, he was still howling like a wild animal, which I'm sure our neighbors love.

I told him that he had two more options (life's all about choices, eh?) If he would stop crying, I would sit next to him until he fell asleep. If he kept crying, I would leave the room. Well, Old H just kept on yowling, so I left the room, and sat in the living room, going over in my head all the reasons that I'm a crappy parent as my son's pathetic mewling in the other room continued.

After about 4 hours in "crying time" (translated to 10 minutes on the living room clock) he finally settled down, and there was blissful silence coming from his bedroom. I walked to our bedroom, and opened the door, which creaked painfully, and H's hyper-alert "mom's in the vicinity" spidey-senses activated, which resulted in a renewed bout of crying.

I nudged my DH and asked how long we should let him cry, to which he replied "about 10-15 minutes." Ohhhhhhkay, that was about 40minutes ago...thanks. So, it was decided that he would go get H and bring him to our bed.

Great, now he thinks that his crying is rewarded with coming to our bed...I know Ferber, wrong choice. I know, in my logical brain, what the experts may say but at this point I need sleep more than a junkie needs their next fix, so my emotional, 2 am, brain wins out. Of course he slept soundly until the next morning, once he completely took over the bed, no wait, my side of the bed forcing me into a reverse c-shape...mmmm...comfy!

Fast forward to last night, H awoke just after midnight crying for milk. I did not give in, I did not give him soothing bovine sustainence. I held him on the couch until he fell back asleep and then put him back in his bed, where he slept until 6am today.

I acknowledge that I did get him out of his bed, but he did not get milk, and he slept in his own bed the rest of the night. I'll take the small victories. While I would not have had this race to run had I not made certain choices before, those decisions are made, and I am where I am. So, I've chosen to take the most apartment-neighbor-friendly route, while still having the end goal of a child that sleeps in their own bed the whole night.

For me, slow and steady will have to win this race.

A Son's Doody

Today, a shining moment came...Little H was walking around the house saying, "Poop. Poop." I checked his diaper and found nothing. I told him as much, and continued to put his clothes away. About 10 seconds later, I saw him get into his business pose...he then said it again "Poop." I jumped up, looked in his diaper, and it was there...I cleaned up, and then let him sit on the potty (the adult toilet...YES! No cleanup!), and he pooped on the toilet for the first time!

Sorry I couldn't come up with a more clever post, but if I'm using this blog to talk about parenting, what's more momentous than this occasion?!

I felt bad that I hadn't listened to his first statement, but I think that I'd had it in my head that he wasn't going to really do anything until he was much closer to turning 3. I guess all that repetitive viewing of Elmo's Potty Time is starting to pay off after all.

Stay tuned for the continued adventures of Henry and his toilet. (click here for photo link)

Patience is a virtue according to who?

In reading over my posts to date, I realized that I have talked a whole lot about parenting, not a lot about sex, and nada about the knitty. So, hope you enjoy some of my first attempts at being a knitty.

The top Sweater is the Presto Chango , and the sweater on the bottom is based on the Presto Chango Sweater by Valerie Wallis. The only difference is that the panel on the bottom sweater did not follow the pattern, as I didn't know what ssk meant, and was doing it wrong, got frustrated, a common theme you'll see, so did it whatever way I thought would be fine.

When I put the top version of the sweater on little H (doesn't he look thrilled?), my husband and I laughed hysterically while he asked "Is he the newest member of the Von Trapp Family Singers?" It was a touch more feminine than I had hoped because of the front panel. It was then that I realized the designer had made it for her little girl...duh! I love the sweater itself, and would make it again...I'm sure my neice will love it (hee hee.)

This blanket is one of the projects that I started while I was still in Oregon, working full-time, blah, blah. It's the Big, Bad Baby Blanket which was created by Lisa Shobhana Mason and featured in Stitch-n-Bitch. I felt like I was NEVER going to finish this blanket, but once I got to Mass and really started working on it, it took no time at all, was very simple, and looks GORGEOUS.

Knitting has become a haven for me, and has forced me to grow if you will. If you ask people who know me well (or not well at all) patience has not been my virtue. Prior to being a knitster, I would never have sat in one place long enough to see this many craft projects through to the end.

Growing up, my mom could get a 5 million piece puzzle for my little sister, and she would patiently work on it until the very last piece was perfectly in place. I, on the other hand, got bored after finding the corner edge pieces and was off to call a friend or play outside.

Sitting in my boss' office one day, I was showing her a sweater that I was knitting for a friend's shower that was as stiff as if I had placed cardstock in the middle and knitted around it. The baby would have looked like Randy in his snowsuit on A Christmas Story. So, at her suggestion, I uraveled the whole back panel. Because I was knitting with two strands together, it wasn't long before it was one flaming mess of yarn.

I sat patiently in her office (What? It was the end of the day and we weren't really working anyway) and unwound that yarn. Several times I looked up and announced that I was just going to cut it and start over, but she insisted that it was a good lesson for me, so I plugged away. Eventually I got both strands wound onto their respective balls, and I must say that it was the biggest sense of accomplishment I'd felt in a long time. How often to we have the opportunity to problem solve in such a short period of time? It was amazing.

Recently, darling H (formerly called Charlie for whatever reason I chose that day) has begun to have temper tantrums that are almost always the result of frustration that a task is not getting accomplished to his liking. He will start squealing and grunting like a feral animal. When I calmly say, "Are you frustrated? Do you need help?", he stops crying and lets me help him. I see myself in him so much these days...he's dramatic, stubborn, willful...it's okay, I'm a third child, aren't we allowed to be self-deprecating? (On a sidenote, when I was in third grade I wrote a short-story for my parents entitled Middle Child Nothing...my mom kept it for a long time in the cookbooks so she could have a laugh...nice, real nice.)

Anywho, in dealing with his oh so frustrating outbursts, I think back to sitting in my boss' office that day, when I really just wanted to throw the yarn across the room and stomp out in a blaze of glory. She was calm and gently teasing, but was able to talk me down. I think we all just need to be treated like two year-olds every once in a while.

If I only had the time...no wait, I mean the motivation!

Just after I had my darling H via cesarean, the best thing that could have happened was a phone call that I received from a fellow new mom. She asked if I would like to go walking with her sometime, although she understood if I wanted to give it another couple weeks. I told her that I'd love to start now, although I was only 2 weeks post-partum. At the time, I was living in Portland, OR, where the Starbucks are plentiful and sidewalks with great stroller access are even more so. (Since moving to New England, I found that were no sidewalks or walking access from my home, and I was a little disheartened.)


Before our first meeting, I attempted to shove my feet into the pair of tenny's that I had prior to being in my last trimester and no matter how much Step-sister to Cinderella style shoving I did, I could not make them fit comfortably.

I packed Baby H into his seat and off to the mall we went. At Lady Footlocker, I found the perfect pair; they were cute Ryka's with pink and silver detailing in a size 9 and a half...1.5 sizes larger than my pre-baby feet, but I was ready and my feet were comfy. I tried on those same shoes about 6 months ago, and they were sloppy and big as my feet had returned to a more normal (for me) size, so I bought a different pair.

That first day, we walked about half of a mile to the first Starbucks, where we stopped inside to chat, have a latte, nurse and relax. Each time we went, we picked a Starbucks that was a little farther from our starting point, and really got to enjoy the early fall weather and each other's company.

Time went on, I returned to work, she returne to medical school, and those walks got fewer and further between as the daily demands associated with being a full-time working mom mounted. I continued to enter into runs and walks, such as the Race for the Cure in Portland, Oregon (pictured above) pushing Henry in a jogging stroller with all my co-workers, but the walks with my friend slipped away.

I think that it's often not the FITting it in that's so hard, it's the getting Fit again and making it a routine. However, when I look back, I was the happiest during those walks because I was doing it with a friend. The most important thing, for me, about an exercise routine is to find something that you really enjoy (I know, you've heard it a million times, but there's a reason for that), and that will make you feel relaxed and happy when it's done. Find someone that's not competetive with you, and makes you feel good, and make a commitment to yourself to always find time to "FIT it in."

This blog was inspired by the Blog Blast sponsored by The Parent Bloggers Network and Ryka. Ryka will be giving away 50 pairs of shoes every day during the month of October! If you'd like the chance to win a pair of Ryka sneakers, or a whole outfit, click on the link to PBN above to find out how. (Or don't, so I'll have a better chance of winning :) )

Ding Dong, the Toddler Bed...

The parenting milestone that I've been dreading more than potty-training has arrived. The transition from crib to toddler bed is proving to be a difficult one. Yesterday, my husband (J)walked in to find H flopping his leg over the crib railing and then straddled it, saying "Motorcycle". This is something he has been doing to everything lately; the arm of the couch, the table leg, the edge of the bookcase. It's quite charming.

We immediately removed the side rail of the crib, as it's touted to be a convertible bed. Turns out, it's not really a very functional toddler bed, it's wobbly and pretty high off the ground with no railing to prevent "fall-out", so it was off to craigslist I went, searching for the perfectly priced toddler bed. Although I had said before that I would never buy a toddler bed out of fiscal conservativism (which I've not shown in any other aspect of my life), it turns out that they're not such a bad idea...shocker! I found a really great toddler bed in less than two hours, and scheduled a pick-up time.

Putting him to bed last night went great, and I really felt like the battle was over....then 2am rolled around. I walked in to find H sitting on the floor, crying for me, with his blankie and quilt beside him. I sat at the edge of his bed and stroked his head for close to an hour, with each time I attempted to creep away resulting in his big brown eyes popping open, and saying 'Mommy, ROCK!"

Finally, out of a horribly selfish need for sleep(not really, because if you know me, my sleep benefits everyone), I did what I know you're not supposed to do and said, "Do you just want to go to sleep with Mommy and Daddy?" The crying instantly stopped and he nodded his head saying "Yeah, yeah, yeah." Well, I may have done long-term damage to his night-time routine, but he slept with me until 8am, so we'll save tomorrow's troubles for...oh yea, TODAY.

Naptime rolled around, and I put him in his bed, then put him in his bed, then put him in his bed...was I having dejavu or was H seriously not staying in his bed?! Finally, I said "Do I need to get your playpen out so that you'll stay in your bed for nap?" "YEAH!"...so I did...and he fell asleep...and now, I'm not sure what to do because he can't just sleep in the pack-n-play forever.

Seriously, these are the questions that make you re-evaluate your education and your prior career, and think, did I learn nothing? Why can't I troubleshoot the little things? So, if you have a great tip or trick, feel free to leave a comment, because I may just end up being the Wicked Witch of the West if this doesn't end.

Ode to Tom...

Mmmm...in case any of you were wondering when the sex, of sex and the knitty was going to enter into this blog, here he is!

Today, my husband and I are watching our first Patriots game as New Englanders. While I enjoy watching football, I don't have a full understanding of all the rules or nuances of the game...just the basics. I was a football cheerleader after all (go ahead, laugh it up chuckles), so I understood that the Defense was supposed to "Push 'em back, Push 'em back, waaaaaaaaay back." And that the offense was supposed to get the ball forward 10 yards, and that they had four tries (okay, "downs") to do so. I will admit that I didn't realize for about three years of watching NFL games that the yellow line on the screen....it's not really on the field, it's digital.

But there has been one constant in my semi-aware, football-watching life; I have always been a big fan of Tom Brady. Back in the day, I was cutting out pictures of him in his college uniform (along with Notre Dame's Ron Powlus) when I was supposed to be clipping current events in Social Studies at good ole UHS. He exudes that male-ness that makes most women (notice I didn't say all, because I try to stay away from absolutes, but it would be a pretty safe statement in this case) stop what they're doing and just gaze a little.

When my husband and I decided it would be fun to start watching football together, I immediately called my recently converted football fan sister (FFS), to ask if I could borrow her new bible; Get Your Own Damn Beer, I'm Watching the Game! by Holly Robinson Peete. My FFS has moved to Iowa, and I don't know if you've heard, but the Midwest is kind of into their college (and high school) football teams. Ms Robinson Peete has written an amazing guide to understanding and loving NFL games.

Of course, there is always the little bonus that the pads continue to get more 'aerodynamic' leaving just enough to the imagination. Watch on ladies, the season has begun, and I've got the best home team advantage!

Mirror, Mirror on the Wall...

Recently, I received an email from a fellow blogging mama, letting me know that there was a contest being put on by Parent Blogger Network, which was sponsored by Harper Collins' new book Little Black Book of Style by Nina Garcia. The challenge is to blog about your most hideous wardrobe remnant. The prize? A $250 gift certificate to Coach will be awarded to a randomly selected entrant! That's worth any humiliation brought on by openly talking about my ineptness in fashion.

When I first read it, I thought, "I just purged all my nasty stuff when we left Oregon." But then I really looked at my closet and my current wardrobe. I have always been that girl who can put together a killer outfit in my mind, but when it gets on my 5' 10", two-bills-plus frame (thank you Sweden), it just never materializes (no pun intended). Thigh to bra Spanx are a staple for me.

While I was never a fashion icon, I did have a career there and dressed in more than Capri's and T's with semi-coordinating flip-flops. This summer my husband, two-year-old son and I moved cross-country and I became a stay at home mom. When purging in Oregon, I was preparing for a life of sweatsuits and sippy cups. I sifted through my clothes again, and gasped in horror...I am a mom now! No, wait...I am MY mom!!!

Throughout my childhood, and still today, her wardrobe consisted of about 50 pairs of cotton twill-denim-ish pants with an equal quantity of striped and solid T-shirts. My older sister used to laugh and call them her adult Garanimals. She had no muss, no fuss short hair that was permed about every other week, wore no make-up, and used a brush-style curling iron as a blow dryer/comb/styling tool. With that said, I have great memories of my childhood. My mom always got right in with us. Plus, she has OCD, undiagnosed until all of us were out of the house, and so had to have the flexibility to compulsively bend and clean at any given moment.

I have yet to lose my baby weight and my child is two years old. Add to this that this non-style allows me to be a little less of a freak. I would be like Mommie Dearest if I were wearing cashmere jogging suits, or one of the other not-so-practical suggestions that have been offered, and my little darling put his ketchup-smeared hands on it. I don't have the funds to purchase that once, let alone to have it dry-cleaned or replaced.

I kind of like that I wear clothes that won't cause me to have an aneurism when my kiddo wants a hug and then ends up getting muddy footprints on me. In my mind there is always the promise that this is temporary, and that my true sense of style, attempted or achieved, will come back to the forefront when I no longer have toddlers. I do have some good, stylish, peices that I wear to non-toddler functions. I still get my hair foiled regularly at a salon that is not walk-in only, and am an independant skincare and cosmetic consultant. I know how to get dolled up when the occasion calls. I say all this so you won't think I'm a total loser when you read what comes next.

At the beginning of Summer, I went shopping for some seasonal clothes. Realizing that I no longer have legs that are worthy of either Nair or its short shorts, I decided that I would be most safe selecting a multitude of Capri pants in different prints that I could pair with my plethora of solid T's from Targ-aay.

After trying on about 10 pairs with my child in the shopping cart (yes, I said shopping cart which means that I was not in a Stacy and Clinton approved store) and feeling like I wanted to cry because they were just not fitting right, I saw them. It was as if the store's lighting all went out, save for one rack, with a choir of angels drawing me to the perfect pants.

There they were; available in 5 colors (including 3 shades of khaki). Mid-calf denim-twill-cotton-ish pants with an ELASTIC WAIST BAND AND DRAWSTRING. I'm not talking about the breezy linen drawstring pants that you see in J.Jill or Eddie Bauer; these were full-on mom pants. I bought them immediately in one size too large so that I would be comfortable, although tightening the drawstring to make them fit causes a front butt and other unflattering silhouette issues. But I didn't care because I felt like I was wearing sweats, only slightly more socially acceptable.

And I didn't stop there. A few others, including a pair of butterfly camo Bermudas and Black camo rip-stop cotton capris with drawstring rouching up the leg (don't worry, I haven't worn those out of the house yet), somehow made it to the counter and into my sad little bag of purchases. All of which were one size too large, because "What if they shrink?"

As I flipped through the stacks of my clothes tonight, trying to find some inspiration for this blog, I reflected on the little wooden sign which hangs neatly in my bathroom..."Mirror, Mirror on the wall, I am my mother after all."