Next to Godliness

Ahh, housewifery. If I ever get rich via the activities I most excel at (reading novels, drinking wine, browsing the internet and pinning all the good stuff), the first order of business will be hiring someone to clean and organize my house. Because, seriously. Why is it so hard? I have a college degree. I've had extremely challenging jobs. So far my kid isn't turning out horribly. So why can't I remember the last time I went to bed feeling like things were in their proper (or close enough) place and there definitely/probably wasn't any hazardous mold growing indoors?

Well, if I had to venture a hypothesis, it would probably involve a) the whirling dervish/miniature human/21 month old destructive force who is now excesssively mobile and has no shortage of grandmas and other various suckers showering her with books and toys, b) the husband who I guess finds the idea of organization and "putting stuff away" to be too authoritarian or something (also, who desperately needs a man-purse for all his bobbles but just can't admit it), and c) well....me. I've always valued the feeling of clean over the reality. Blocks scattered across the living room stress me out, but shoes stuffed into a closet in a manner that defies physics is as reassuring to me as having Martha Stewart organize them by season/brand/color/weight. If it looks clean, it is clean. I know, not remotely true, but that's how I feel.

I think I've mentioned before my penchant for stress-cleaning, an adreline fueled binge that either charms or annoys my husband (can't tell, he's mysterious) whenever the cloud of domestic fury overtakes me. In the days before Ninja, an overwhelming need to get my sh*# together would find me scrubbing floors, vacuuming all the things, alphabetizing the dvds. I go on one of those benders now and I turn around only to see this:

Lately, I've really been feeling like I can't stay on top of things, so it was time for (not at all) drastic measures! Off to Pinterest, where I found this blog on How to Organize Your Life, You Lazy Poor Person (that's how it made me feel). It's actually a very nice blog with good ideas. At first I was like..."YEAH. Here we go! Suck it 2013, you are getting cleaned, sorted and labeled!" Who doesn't love a label maker? So, here we go. Day 1, Kitchen. Step 1: Load the dishwasher.

But...but...I DON'T HAVE A DISHWASHER! I WASH ALL MY STUPID DISHES WITH MY STUPID HANDS. So, instead, I stopped looking at perfect people's perfect kitchens on the Internet and just cleaned my house to not the best of my ability. I would have taken pictures but there was no time. It looks terrible again. I did, however, with the help of my sweet aunt, clean out the back entryway that was loaded with recycling and random mail and thingamabobs and created THIS:

My new secret lair--erm, I mean, a coffee nook to share with everyone! See, Pinterest isn't totally useless.

post script: Here is a pic I found of a very small section of my house looking clean:

Here's Ninja making dinner. Kitchen looking the usual level of tidy:

Aaand bonus cuteness (the dvds are in fact alphabetized in the background. They remain so because the only movie we watch is Finding Nemo):

2013: A Preview

World's most flighty and inconsistent blogger, at your service! How much of a cliche am I, returning at the dawn of a new year, almost like I have resolved within myself to stay committed to a certain discipline simply because the calendar bears a new digit?
But here I am. 2012, particulary the second half, was indescribably awful. I have definitely not been functioning at a level that would include funny anecdotes on my blog. It would be untrue to say I'm back in full force or anything like that, but honestly, I use the blogging format not because I'm so drawn to it, but because it was the most accessible and concise way for me to store these memories of my daughter. So I feel an obligation to her to keep it going (also on the 2013 to do list: move a gazillion photos on to a photo sharing website so I don't lose those too!).
Quick updates on the ninja: She is less fat, more tall. She has all her teeth and we suspect possible vampire heritage, as her incisors came in in ONE DAY. Despite my best efforts and her admitted affinity for crashing toy trucks and swordfighting, she is the most princess-y, pink, ridiculously girly girl ever. Current obsessions include: Nemo (more on my Nemo-induced existential crisis later, maybe), princess dresses, purses, shoes, dolls, meow-meows and woof-woofs, and going "buh-bye" in her "ride."
I'm going to start off my renewed foray into this blog with a little housecleaning. Literal cleaning of my house. Due to the circumstances that made 2012 awful and several recent trips, our house is reaching the tipping point into chaos. Who better to guide me back into domestic order than my beloved Pinterest? (You can follow me on pinterest here.)
I have chosen at near random, the blog of a clearly superior mommy blogger with a clearly bigger and better house than me and clearly far, far superior domestic instincts than the ones I have. Perfect! Fodder for humor and enough humiliation to shame me into a better person (that's how that works, right?)
Stay tuned for results.

My Life in a Standstill

This is my whole life right now. My baby is being loved and cared for by extended family while I look for someone else's baby who is lost. Please share this if you are a mom, a dad, a sister, a brother, a friend.
Thanks.
http://www.sacbee.com/2012/07/12/4627691/open-letter-to-missing-placerville.html

Puppy Party

Joined Pinterest (against my better judgement) and added a Pinterest button to my blog (look down there!). Here's some Pinterest bait from Ninja's first birthday:

Pupcakes: York peppermint patties and chocolate chips on cupcakes

So many....

True story, I stabbed this dog cake in it's face because I was so frustrated. Turned out OK, though.

Party favors: "doggy bags" in personalized doggy dishes. Inside are stuffed animal dogs and baggies of "puppy chow" aka "muddy buddies."

I know it looks gross, but it's great--chex mix, peanut butter,  melted chocolate and powdered sugar

One Year Already? Oh Sh*t!

Well, you did it, Ninja. You survived one whole year in this crazy world.
Let's look back on all you have accomplished...
You have lived in a tent.
You have possessed a glorious head of hair, gone almost completely bald and grown a new glorious head of hair in a new shade.
You have mastered computer programming/hacking. You know your way around an iphone like Steve Wozniack.
You have pooped and peed on the potty like a boss.
You have mastered several levels of physical milestones-sitting, rolling, crawling, even walking. Also slapping. Not sure where or why you learned that last one.

You have sprouted teeth (7!) and brush said teeth with unbridled enthusiasm.
You have an impressive vocabulary including, "Mama," "Dad," "dog," "peekaboo," "shoe," "Ty-Ty," "hi," "boob," "uh-oh," and your new favorite phrase that you definitely didn't learn from anyone in this house, "Oh, shit!" (honestly, I tried to convince myself you were saying "What's this?" but you really aren't, are you?).
You've made friends, you've touched the mythical creature known as "dog," you've gone swimming in the river, you've eaten dirt and played the piano.

You've turned your mother into a big pile of mush who wants nothing more than to be with you and watch you dance and crash and fly through life. You've made your daddy into a portable baby bed who refuses to put you down during nap time because he just wants to hold you while you still fit in his arms.

A lot of people love you, little kicker. You're pretty impressive for someone who I could swear was just the other day a hyperactive fetus. Happy first year and on to bigger and better things in Year Two (I'm thinking maybe mastering tap dancing and international espionage?).

Happy Birthday, You Dirty Hippie.

If you are not a frequenter of mommy blogs and baby websites or are not otherwise wrapped up in the culture that is women who reproduce and then talk about it, you may not be familiar with some of the key phrases. There are kegels, co-sleeping, meconium, Braxton-Hicks, birth boards, food stages, milestones, cruising, tripoding, and more. Then, we have the abbreviations. AP, CIO, STTN, BFP, POS, EBF, CD, BW...if you know what all that means, you are probably a parent with a baby website addiction (welcome to the club).

Here's my favorite term that makes no sense to anyone living in the real world: "crunchy," AKA "granola," AKA "you are a big ole hippie." This is the label affixed to those who practice Attachment Parenting, exclusive breastfeeding, cloth diapering, unmedicated births and other such hippie nonsense. As my ninja's 1st birthday peeks around the corner, I feel like saying happy birthday to Crunchy Mandy, the hippie earth mother version of myself that was born sometime last year.

Now, it may not be a huge leap for me to go this direction with my parenting style. After all, I do live outdoors for a large part of every year, I did wear a pair of thrift store Birkenstocks for the majority of high school, I am an expert "dumpster diver," and I do lean so far to the the left that I can't stand up straight, but for me, becoming "crunchy mama" was a gradual and slightly unexpected turn. Now, as in all things mommy-wars, there are certainly the crunchies who would banish me from their tribe so fast that my metaphorical dreadlocks would unravel. I vaccinate my child against diseases, willingly and on the recommended schedule. I still clean with nasty chemical-based products (although I did start using vinegar to clean, but then my dear husband pointed out to me that it was apple vinegar. No wonder it smelled awesome!), I don't make my own soap, or my own anything, really. But here's my full crunchy roster:

Natural Birth: This, I'm sure, was part grit and determination on my part and mostly luck and awesome genetics that allowed me to eject an 8lb 11oz Butterball Turkey intact from my body with no medical intervention whatsoever. However, this is surprisingly the one thing I got the most grief for while planning it. Maybe more on that another day.

Cloth Diapers: My favorite element of crunchy street cred. Here's why: when people realize you cloth diaper, they might think you're crazy, but they also think "Wow, what an amazing and hard-working parent you are! Caring about the earth and your child's well-being, getting poop on your hands just to save the planet?! You. are. a. saint." At least I assume that's what runs through people's brains. It's a guess based on facial expressions. But here's the thing...I don't get poop on my hands, at least not significantly more poop than the average infant-haver. Cloth diapering is theoretically a bit more work, but since it's all I've ever done, I have no comprehension of world where I toss poop filled disposables
in my trash can and how easy-breezy it all is. Plus, there are so many advantages to cloth and it's become so user friendly that even this idiot can do it. It's one of those things that just looks way more high-maintenance than it is. Don't tell anyone! I want to feel superior.

Exclusive/On Demand Breast Feeding: I'm starting to realize maybe I do all this crunchy business just because I love weirding people out. Because that's what happens when your 11 month old signs "milk" in Starbucks and gets a boobie snack. I used to feel a little bit bad that she refused to eat under a cover, now I just embrace it like the good hippy-dippy earth mother I am. Oh, before anyone writes me an angry letter, she does eat table food now. Like a champ. But it looks like I'm on the nursing train for awhile. I'll be honest, I had no plan when it came to this. I just did what felt natural and fed my baby the best way I could whenever she was hungry. Now I'm more educated about the topic and willing to keep going as long as I can, but I do have mixed feelings.

I am slowly morphing into Maggie Gyllenhal's character in this movie.

Co-Sleeping: This is not one I planned on at all. I did not think sharing my sleeping space and marriage bed with a tiny human who views me as a food source would even be on the table. I imagined Jon punching the baby in the face during one of his "zombie nightmares," or me smothering her under one of the 75 blankets I need to stay warm. And things were working out in our favor. We never had a nursery for ninja until we moved to our current house, so she slept in her crib or bassinet, in our room (or in our tent) from birth til 4+ months. Most nights, she slept through the night like a rockstar legend. Then, once she got her own room? Too bad, suckers. She went into newbie mode, waking up every few hours. We thought it might be a phase, but no. This is just how she is now. You are welcome to come over and try your babywise or whatever genius plan you have to get her to STTN (get it?), but as for me? I have to work in the morning. I choose whatever method gets us both back in bed and passed out faster. Co-sleeping it is.

Baby-wearing: I only get half credit for this one, since we do have a BOB stroller that is, to use a modern colloquialism, "da bomb." However, I do take every opportunity to strap my spawn to my chest or back and free up my arms for a change. Let's see...what else? I recycle? Happy Birthday, Crunchy Mandy. This flax seed cake with a homemade candle (I actually do know how to make candles thanks to my weird job) is for you!

A Different Kind of 9 months

Oh, dear. I have become a blog-fail statistic. I have abandoned my little mommy blog and given all my love and attention to that squirmy little human. Well, move over, Ninja baby. The bah-lawg is BACK.

I guess I was compelled to return to this space by the event of Ninja's (turns out, not so much a ginger) 9 month birthday. 9 months!? That's the amount of time you think you will be pregnant, even though it's actually like 4 years! I can't believe my little human has been human almost as long as she was a gestating alien squid person in my belly! Just imagine...if I were a completely insane person with super healing and super fertility powers, I could have gotten pregnant the day after she was born and be sitting here blogging about my even cuter NEW baby! Who was born right on time with 3 minutes of pushing.

When I think about how abysmally slow pregnancy was, it's mind-bending to realize this little person has been existing right next to us for the same amount of time. It seems like only a matter of weeks or days since she showed up. Let me try to sum up with some good old fashioned compare and contrast*:

Pregnancy:
Month 1: Well, the fun, R/X rated part, followed by, "hahaha, I might be PREGGO! JK, I'm totally not. Oh, holy crap, I totally am!" Followed by some weird and painful symptoms, followed by a LOT of time with Mr. Googles, followed by,
Month 2: go to the doctor at some point where they make you take a pregnancy test. I guess that makes sense, but when the nurse was like, "Congrats! You ARE pregnant," I was like, *side-eye* "They sell those tests in stores, ya know." Oh, I think barfing starts in here sometime, maybe. I forget.
Month 3: Feels like mono. Or some Victorian disease where you lie about all day, fretting. Or you want to. But you suck it up and go to work and swear you are going to be all hardcore and not be a baby about this whole baby thing.
Month 4: Get fat really fast.
Month 5: Feel better for like 2 weeks. Then all your bones hurt forever.
Month 6: Fatter. Stop taking prenatal vitamins and switch to Flinstones. Barf slightly less often thanks to this discovery.
Month 7: Start a blog about how come this baby can't come RIGHT NOW? Who needs 9 months? My hips and all other parts hurt. Probably some unfortunate/hilarious body fluid anomalies around this time.
Month 8: Start "nesting." Or as my husband calls it, manic cleaning. Actually he doesn't call it that. He just goes, "Ohhhhkay, psycho," grabs a beer and hides in the room I'm not cleaning until I come for him. Then he does dishes or something to appease my motherly rage. If you are lucky, the kind of people who say "Any day now!" to random preggos will only just now start saying this to you.
Month 9: You are the fattest person of all time. Congrats.
Month 9,10-infinity???: You eat spicy things, everyone tells you to have sex to induce labor and thinks they are hilarious/original,  you go on stupid long walks, eat like 45 "labor cupcakes" (blech.), stand on your head, punch people in the face when they ask "When's that baby gonna get here??"
Followed by!

A BABEH!

Month 1: Starts with a surprisingly smooth natural hospital birth. Freak out the residents by pushing the baby out on your hands and knees while naked. In like 20 minutes. They were not fast enough to catch her. Hahaha. Baby is not a ginger.
Followed by, be held prisoner in the hospital for 2 days, escape and go to your quiet little home. Feel that baby does not have enough adventure in her life, take her out on the town for margaritas.
Baby is actually quite chill, doesn't seem as hard as everyone said it would be. Get pooped at sometimes.
Month 2: Baby starts sleeping through the night (It's a MIRACLE, call the pope!). Baby hates swings, likes eating, sleeping. Favorite band: Passion Pit. Oh yeah, now is a great time to live in a tent at your job. Newborn babies love that.
Month 3: Other people besides you start to find your baby cute/notice her AWESOME personality. Baby discovers "raspberry" noise. Starts "tripod-ing," which is a thing.
Month 4: Baby starts busting through milestones. Sitting up, pulling up, cruising, quadratic equations. Decides sleeping through the night is for losers, never does it again.
Month 5: Baby officially declares herself "Team Mom." Suck it, Dad. Goes almost completely bald for some reason. People keep asking if she sleeps through the night yet. Hahahahahaha. NO.
Month 6: Baby thinks about crawling, decides it is lame. Pursues other interests. Develops fascination and undying love for any and all dogs. Meanwhile, you refuse to give up your maternity pants. Too comfortable not to wear forever.
Month 7: Eats everything. Refuses to crawl. Falls on her head a lot. Gets a tooth. Surprisingly not a biter. Poop starts smelling pretty bad. Starts to be wary of not-Mom type people.
Month 8: Level 5 Clinger. Weighs approximately as much as a panda. Must be held at all times. Gets another tooth. Can do some sign language but just signs "dog" for everything. You are functioning on world's worst sleep pattern. It's like payback from when she was an awesome newborn sleeper, but now she's more work in the daytime and everything is backwards. Not fair.
Month 9: Dog obsession reaches all time high. No longer bald. Begrudgingly starts crawling when no one has the decency to pick her up and there is no furniture to climb. Finally embraces that "rolling over" thing and makes every diaper change like an episode of "Swamp People." Baby is the alligator in that analogy but no guns are allowed.
9 month old baby actually poops on her baby toilet. You now have all the evidence you need, for life, that she is a prodigy and smarter than Stephen Hawking. Resist posting pooping photo on facebook. Blog about it and text a bunch of people the picture instead.

I don't know which set of 9 months sounds more fun to you, but I know which one I liked better. So, now we're caught up and I'll try to be a good lil' mama and tell more stories on this personal web blog.


*Based on completely unscientific and anecdotal evidence from my own memory/life

 TIMEWARP!

Newborn ninja

Current ninja