Right now, there is a chocolate garbanzo bean cake cooling on my counter.

That’s right. I said garbanzo bean cake. And that? Is one phrase I never thought I’d say. But it smells good. Really good, actually. And not just because I haven’t had any chocolate in 11 days (but who’s counting?).

I haven’t had meat in 11 days either.

Or much dairy for that matter. I was striving for no dairy, but come on. I have a four-year-old kid. Compromises must be made in the name of familial peace.

So. No meat. Very limited dairy. And even less bread. It’s been weird.

But you know what? I haven’t really missed any of those things. At least not much. The food I’ve been making in its place has been pretty darn tasty.

Mostly.

However, broccoli does not taste good in smoothies.

Also? When picking lettuce out of the garden to put in a smoothie, make sure you’re not grabbing mustard greens.

Yeah. Breakfasts have been a little tough around here.

I’ve also made a kale and quinoa salad (tasty). Pesto chickpea burgers with fire roasted tomatoes (delicious). Spinach and zucchini lasagna roll ups (yummy). And mushroom ragu with basil polenta (not so tasty).

In other words, it’s been an adventurous week and a half in the kitchen.

Also? A lot of work.

But I’m feeling better (or at least I would be if I wasn’t going on two hours of sleep courtesy of a sick kid). And I’ve lost six pounds.

So I’m going to stick with it for a while yet.

Next challenge? Feeding house guests for a weekend without going off my diet.

Wish me luck…

I hate dieting.

I hate counting calories. I hate logging food. I hate performing complicated mathematical formulas in my head to figure out how many points something’s going to cost me.

The minute I start dieting, I start obsessing about food. I’m always thinking about what I ate last, what I’m going to eat next, and how stinking hungry I am.

Without fail, I manage to screw up within the first couple of weeks. And as soon as I screw up, I think, “meh, today’s ruined. Might as well start over tomorrow. Pass the ice cream!”

Except tomorrow becomes next week. Then next month. Then sometime before my next birthday…

Yeah.

I hate dieting.

But I knew something had to change. I was sick of feeling bloated, and tired, and just, well, gross.

So I started looking for the “perfect” diet. I was, in fact, pretty seriously investigating The Whole 30 plan, but wasn’t thrilled with the amount of meat and animal stuff it seemed to call for (too much animal goo is bad news bears for my digestive system).

Then I stumbled across the Eat to Live diet.

It got my attention because it promised I could lose up to 20 pounds in six weeks. Sweet, right?

There was only one catch: I’d have to almost entirely give up any and all animal-based products. Good bye cheese. Good bye yogurt parfaits. Good bye cheeseburgers.

If I hadn’t been feeling so darn crappy, that would have been a deal breaker.

But I was, so I decided to keep reading. And you guys? What he had to say both scared the pants off me and had me nodding my head.

He cites a lot of research about the bad, bad things our current diet is doing to us. How it raises triglycerides, steals vitamins from our systems, and makes us all, well, fat.

It made too much damn sense.

So I reluctantly decided to try it. I started on Monday and by this morning had already lost three and a half pounds (and yes, I know that’s most likely water weight. But I’ve never been able to lose weight that fast. Ever).

But you know what’s more amazing? I’m starting to feel better. Lighter. My stomach is less disgruntled. I don’t feel so bloated. I feel…good.

Or at least I did until I blew it and ate a kid’s-size ice cream cone this evening. The minute it hit my stomach I started to feel gross. If I could have reached in there and dug it out, I would have.

So I’m getting right back on the wagon.

Tomorrow I’ll have another ginormous green smoothie for breakfast, an even more gargantuan salad for lunch, and some sort of veggie thing for dinner. Probably featuring beans and stuff. Whatever it is, it will be tasty – and I won’t have to count a single calorie.

That’s the kind of diet I can handle.

Will this last? I don’t know. I’m taking this one day at a time.

But I predict it will last longer than the myriad of point-counting, stomach-growling torture methods I’ve been trying. It already has.

Hopefully long enough for me to get healthy…but not so long that my eyeballs turn orange.

I don’t think that would be a good look for me.

The journey that began with the quiet click of a mouse four months ago ended with the thunderous sound of applause and a standing ovation on Thursday night.

And what a journey it’s been.

At the start, I was alone in my head, afraid my post would get chosen – and afraid it wouldn’t.

Then came the nerves of the audition, the triumph of the “hey we like you” email, and the anticipation of things to come.

At the beginning of April, we met for the first time to drink some wine, read through our stories, and get a feeling for how the show would go.

And the talent in that room? Humbled me beyond measure. I cried great big ugly tears through the sad ones, laughed belly laughs through the happy ones, and quietly thought “I am not worthy” throughout the whole evening.

When I left, I wasn’t sure if I could do it.

But I kept going anyway.

Next came the technical rehearsal. We gathered on stage in the empty theater, practiced our entrances and exits, and ran through the show again.

That’s when things got real.

We looked at each other. At the empty seats. At the lights shining down on the podium. And, while I can’t speak for the others, I know I was thinking, “Holy crap, we’re really going to do this thing. Wow. Shit.”

The next few days were lost in a haze of nerves as I tried on 50,000 different outfits, ran through my piece in my head 100,000,000 different times, and in between, tried to work.

The big day arrived, along with bouquets of flowers and last minute worries about my un-waxed eyebrows. I snipped and snapped at my family as I watched the clock tick down, both willing it to hurry up and hoping it wouldn’t.

Finally, it was time to go.

The next few hours passed quickly. There was a flurry of pictures, more than a few hugs, some nervous nibbling and noshing, and the last minute gulping  of wine directly from the bottle.

As the opening slide show ran, we gathered in the wings. We giggled like school girls and sent noisy, anxious breaths whooshing out.

Then the curtains rose and the show began.

At times, the laughter was so loud, the readers had to step back from the podium to wait for it to quiet.

At others, gulping sobs and sniffed back tears filled the auditorium.

Then it was my turn.

I clacked up to the podium, squinted past the bright spotlight at the audience, and my nerves disappeared.

I think I did okay. I haven’t actually been able to watch the video my husband took yet.

I know I got some laughs. I heard some sniffs at the right places. And I didn’t actually break down in tears while reading.

When I returned to my seat,  it was with a feeling of extreme relief coupled with triumph.

I did it. I f’ing did it.

Later, while basking in the applause, I couldn’t quite believe it was over.

And I really didn’t want it to be.

Being part of the Listen To Your Mother Show was an indescribably wonderful experience. I would do it again in a heartbeat.

So if you’re out there, thinking about submitting something for next year’s show? Don’t think. Just do.

You won’t regret it.

“Mommy, I want to be on the dance team,” Tori announces from the back seat.

“Really. Do you even know what a dance team is?”

“Yeah! You get costumes, and you dance at com-comp-compe-etitions, and there’s trophies! And you wear pretty costumes! And you dance! Mine will probably even be pink!”

“I see you were listening when I talked to your teacher. I’m glad you’re excited, but I think you might be a bit young for a dance team yet.”

Immediately her brow furrows with anger. “I’m not a baby. I’m BIG! I want to be on the dance team!”

I try hard not to roll my eyes.

“Let me talk to your daddy, okay?”

“But I WANT TO BE ON THE DANCE TEAM!”

“I know. Oh, hey, look! There’s the ice cream store. Should we stop and get some?”

“Ye-eah!” she shouts.

And so the bullet is dodged.

But it’s true. Her teacher thinks she shows promise, and that she’d do great on their littlest dance team. She’d get to go to dance class twice a week, would get a pretty costume (and her own makeup kit) and would periodically perform at competitions in the area.

And I? Would find myself lounging at her dance studio twice a week, socializing with the other dance moms, and would spend my weekends accompanying her to local (ish) dance competitions.

I’d have to apply her makeup. Curl her hair. And cheer her on as she danced her way to victory.

I have no doubt that she’d be good at it. The joy she feels when dancing is obvious. And let’s face it – at that age, the cute factor has to weigh heavily.

But I’m not so sure I’m ready to be a stage mom.

I couldn’t tell you the difference between a shuffle step and a ball change. I have no idea how I’d curl her hair (she won’t even let me brush it). And I can’t honestly see myself pressuring her to practice her steps, Toddlers and Tiaras style.

That’s just not my thing.

I’m more of a sit on the couch with a book (or the internet) while she plays with her toys kind of mom.

But I don’t appear to have a bookworm for a daughter.

I’ve got a dancer.

And even if I’m not required to take up my role as stage mom this year, I will be some year soon.

Maybe I should start watching Toddlers and Tiaras.

Or even Honey Boo Boo.

I might just learn something.

God help me.

Last night I got my hair cut (but that’s not what this is about).

The woman who cut my hair (a genius, by the way) is very, very pregnant. And, as all very pregnant women are wont to do, she wanted to talk about babies. Specifically, having babies, and the experiences gained in the months that follow.

She’s in that very hopeful stage. The one where birth plans are written, onesies folded, and dreams are dreamt.

The one where everything goes perfectly. Where labor lasts two hours, epidurals are unnecessary, and breastfeeding  begins without a single hiccup.

But she also wanted reassurance. She wanted me to tell her, based on my own experience, that everything would go that smoothly.

I couldn’t do it.

Nothing about Tori’s birth (or the immediate aftermath) went as I had planned.

I was certain I wouldn’t have a c-section. Was sure I would earn a gold medal for my efforts during labor and delivery. And knew breastfeeding would be a cinch.

Boy, was I wrong.

I mean, yes, thank goodness, Tori arrived, as healthy as can be. But nothing else worked out.

She was breech. The drugs they fed me during the surgery made me so sick that I couldn’t  hold her for the entire afternoon after she was born. And breastfeeding? Was torture. For both of us.

But I never realized how bitter I was about the whole thing until I started to try to reassure this trying-hard-not-to-be-anxious mama-to-be.

Quite frankly, I feel robbed.

On top of everything else, I ended up with postpartum depression after I returned to work. I was absolutely certain that I was the worst mother ever. I even convinced myself that she loved her daycare provider more than me (because how could any child love a mom like me?).

There was almost never a moment when I didn’t feel completely inadequate.

And now, four years later, I find myself feeling exceedingly angry about it.

It’s not fair that that’s the only experience with childbirth and infancy that I’ll ever have. It’s not right that my memories of those first months (and there were plenty of purely joyous moments) will always be overshadowed by all that other crap.

It’s not fair.

Throughout my hair cutting session, our conversation continued in fits and starts.

She’d ask me a question. I’d try to put a positive spin on an ugly situation. And she’d end up giving me a pitying look.

When I got up to leave, I looked up and smiled, trying to hide the sadness ripping my brain apart.

“Good luck,” I said.

It was only later that I realized that wasn’t the right thing to say. I should have congratulated her and assured her everything would be fine.

But I couldn’t. No one knows how childbirth is going to go.

You just have to hope luck is on your side.

I wish it had been on mine.

It’s no secret around here that I love clothes.

It’s also no secret that I’m almost perennially broke.

And you know what, Internet? It’s just not possible to adequately feed a voracious appetite for cute clothes on (next to) no money. Especially when said appetite is well, fickle.

Enter Gwynnie Bee, a find I first heard about from my friend Erica.

Gwynnie Bee is sort of like Netflix, but for clothes. You pay a monthly subscription fee, and in return, get access to a virtual department store of designer clothes. You wander through the website picking out things that you think might look good on you, put them in your closet, and those little worker bees box them up and ship them out to you.

Now, you can’t have everything in your closet at once. It depends on your subscription level. You can have as few as one or as many as ten items out at a time. And you can keep them for as long as you want, without worrying about late fees.

I just got my first box last week.  And I was so excited, I did something I never do: I asked my husband to take pictures of me.

First up? This Simply Be tunic I ended up liking so much that I hunted it down on the Internet and bought it (on clearance).

Next was a pretty faux-wrap dress from Inc. It was cute and swishy, but definitely in need of a cami to be work appropriate.

Last but not least was a seriously boobilicious top by Kiyonna. These pictures are silly (I was getting slap happy at this point), but check out those sleeves and that back! It’s a date-ready top if I ever saw one.

All in all, it was a fine looking box of clothes.

Now, there is a  caveat here: Gwynnie Bee is for gals size 10 and up. So if you’re fortunate enough to fit in the single digits? You’re out of luck. However, if you’re on the higher end of the size range (I think I saw a few things in size 28, even), you’re going to find a treasure trove of things you’d never see in your local department store.

I am a size 12-14, and so am on the lower end of their offerings. But there’s still plenty to choose from. And they seem to get new things in all the time, which is perfect for keeping my fickle clothing appetite happy.

I seriously think this is one of the most awesome things I’ve discovered in a long time. So if you’re at all tempted, I say you go on over there and check Gwynnie Bee out. You’ve got nothing to lose. The whole first month is free. Seriously. Free.

I should mention that Gwynnie Bee didn’t ask me to do a review. This is completely unsolicited. However, if you click that link up there (or heck, this one), try it for a month, and decide to sign up for the service, I’ll get a free month.

But that’s neither here nor there, because that’s not why I’m writing this. I honestly don’t care if you use that link. I’m just super excited about this service and wanted all of you to know about it too.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go find some more stuff to put in my closet. The Listen To Your Mother Show is coming up, and I need something pretty to wear.

Oh, and don’t forget: I’ve got  a fantastic giveaway going on this week. If you’ve got an e-mail address, you can enter to win a $500 gift card to B&H Photo or a $250 gift card to Kelly Moore bags. Go enter the contest!

Life is short. Short and unpredictable. Short, unpredictable, and often, unbelievably sweet.

That’s why you’ll usually find me with a camera in hand. Sometimes with my actual Canon, but often just my iPhone, I click away, documenting both the big moments and the tiny events that mark our everyday existence.

It’s why I take a stab at photojournalism whenever she tries something new.

Why we took 237 pictures of her birthday.

And why Brian took time out from Play Dough Family Fun Time this past weekend to snap this.

These moments? Are what life is all about.

Which brings us to…the Click and Carry Giveaway!

If you win this giveaway? You can take bigger, better photos of everything with your new Insert Name of Awesome Camera/Video Camera/Audiovisual Piece of Beauty/Beautiful Camera Bag Here.

I’m teaming up with a group of fantabulous bloggers to give away a $500 gift card to B&H Photo, Video & Pro Audio and a $250 gift card to Kelly Moore Bags!

Use the B&H gift card to get the DSLR of your dreams…or a lens to make it even dreamier. Or grab the newest iPad to edit your videos on. All set in the AV department? Maybe you could win the Kelly Moore prize (you can always use a new bag, right)?

Entering is easy peasy. All we need is your email address. Everything else is optional!

So what are you waiting for? Enter now!

Contest Rules

Giveaway is open to U.S. and Canadian residents only. Void where prohibited.

All entries are optional with the exception of providing an email address so that we may contact you if you were to win.  We will never sell, distribute, or spam your email.

Two winners will be chosen by Rafflecopter  (powered by Random.org). The first winner chosen will have the option of choosing between a $500 gift card to B&H Photo, Video & Pro Audio or a $250 gift card to Kelly Moore Bags. The second prize winner will be awarded the item that was not chosen by the first prize winner. Gift cards are not transferable and cannot be exchanged for a cash prize.

This is a non-sponsored post.  Prizes were purchased by a group of participating bloggers.  B&H Photo, Video & Pro Audio and Kelly Moore Bags are not affiliated with this giveaway.

This promotion is in no way sponsored, endorsed or administered by, or associated with Facebook. You understand that you are providing your information to the owner of this Facebook page and not to Facebook.

This promotion is powered by Rafflecopter. Metric Feat LLC (“Rafflecopter”) does not sponsor, administer, or endorse this promotion. Participants must read and agree to Rafflecopter’s Privacy Policy before entering and participating in this promotion.

Awesome graphic by the talented Lindsay Goldner at LLYDesigns.

a Rafflecopter giveaway

I like, no, love food. All of it. Big juicy steaks fresh off the grill. Cookies warm out of the oven. Still steaming asparagus spears. Salads heaped with mozzarella cheese balls and cherry tomatoes.

And for a long time, I didn’t worry much about where my meals had been. I didn’t care who my cows had been sharing their beds with or what drugs my broccoli had be been shooting up. It never even occurred to me that my food’s poor habits (while alive) would impact me once it was dead and digested.

It’s true what they say. Ignorance is bliss.

Now I know how the industrial food machine is robbing us of essential nutrients, siphoning the taste from our food, and pumping us full of toxins. I know how sad the lives are of animals caught in the system. And how dangerously genetically similar our produce is.

It’s bad news bears, people.

If you live in a city, it probably seems a little like your hands are tied. There aren’t any farms around you. You’re kind of stuck with what the supermarkets have to offer.

But I have no such excuse.

I pass three cow pastures and countless fields of growing things every day…and that’s just on my way to work.

Many of those fields are no doubt part of the industrial complex. But I also happen to live in a college town. And college towns? Attract the “hippie set” like hipsters to a trendy thrift shop.

Say what you will about hippies, but they’re way ahead of the rest of us when it comes to things like caring for the earth, staying away from industrial chemicals, and living off the land around them.

Not surprisingly, many of those crunchy types have adopted (or returned to) the farming lifestyle. We have a thriving farmer’s market. More fruit and vegetable CSAs than you can shake a stick at. And a number of meat and poultry farms that invite you to coo at the kid goats in the pasture…and then cook up a tasty chevron for dinner.

It’s a different way of life around here, people. Or, at least, it can be.

So now that my eyes are open, now that I know how badly the things I’m ingesting could be harming me and mine, how can I continue to shop the Kroger without worry?

I mean, yeah, I try to buy organic (although that’s a recent development). And I generally shop the perimeter, minimizing the amount of processed garbage we eat (at least when we’re cooking for ourselves). But still.

None of the food I buy there comes from here. My strawberries are from California. My tomatoes are from Mexico. And my chicken? Well, I don’t even know where that comes from. Mars, maybe?

I feel we should start shopping (and eating) locally.

I wonder how much better we might start to feel.

And I really, really wonder how we could possibly afford to do it.

Those CSAs? You have to pay cash up front. A lot of cash. And the farmer’s market? It’s at least triple the price of your average grocery store.

What’s a budget-minded mama supposed to do?

Really. What should we do?

I’ve started a small veggie patch. And I intend to plant more veggies in with my perennial gardens. That way, if we have another drought, I can still water (two birds, one stone).

But that won’t be nearly enough.

So, I’m looking for ideas. Anybody else out there worried? Or better yet, worried and broke? What have you decided to do about it? I’m all ears.

Tonight is the first rehearsal for the Indianapolis Listen To Your Mother Show. To celebrate, those of us who blog have prepared a delightful little meme for you called…well, you already read the title, right?

So here we go. Prepare to bask in my mother’s wisdom.

1. Life is better when furred creatures are around. Fill your house with pets and there will always be someone who loves you…even when you’re being completely unlovable.
2. Eat your vegetables. Not just because they’re good for you, but because they taste good.
3. Do a load of laundry every day. That way you’ll never get behind (although, in truth, I only know this in theory. I always have a massive laundry pile).
4. Make time (and room) for a garden. Gardens feed your soul and ensure you always have something beautiful to look at (and a freshly weeded patch of dirt can, indeed, be beautiful).
5. When in doubt, bake. No one’s ever sorry to see a plate of freshly-baked cookies coming their way.
6. Spiders suck. Killing them should always be someone else’s job.
7. Put your family first. Everything and everyone else can wait.
8. Read. That’s how smart people get (and stay) smart.
9. Vacations are necessary for a happy life. Especially vacations that involve sun, salt air, and palm trees.
10. You are smart, beautiful, and gosh darn it, people love you. Try not to forget that. And when you do? Call your mom. She’ll remind you.

Hungry for more wisdom for, by, and about moms? Come to the Listen To Your Mother Show on May 2, 2013. Tickets are on sale now. They’re going fast, so get yours today!

And don’t forget to read these blogs for more lessons from our mothers:

•  The Fourth Frog Blog
• Midwestern Berliners
• Hollow Tree Ventures
• Katrina Anne Willis

YEAR 0

“It’s a girl!”

“Honey, look! She just rolled over!”

“Mom? Mom, she won’t stop crying! It’s been six hours. What do I do?”

“Ah-goo!”

“Brian, she just said ah-goo! That’s like three months ahead of schedule! Our child’s a genius!”

“Get the camera! She’s crawling!”

“Get the camera! She’s got a tooth!”

YEAR 1

“Get the camera! She’s walking!”

“No!”

“Honey, your child now has opinions…”

“Mom? Mom, she’s throwing her tenth temper tantrum of the day. They won’t stop! What do I do?”

“Mommy? I love you!”

“Honey? Get the tissues. Your daughter just told me she loves me!”

YEAR 2

NO!”

“NOOOOO!”

“I. Don’t. Want. To.”

“Mom? Tell me three is better?”

“Get the camera! She dressed herself!”

“Get the camera! She’s dancing!”

“Get the camera! I’ve never seen a kid this dirty!”

YEAR 3

“Mommy? I don’t like you!”

“It’s not fair!”

“I don’t want to!”

“I HATE YOU!”

“Mom? Why didn’t anyone ever tell me three was this bad?”

“Get the camera! She’s singing!”

“Get the camera! Her head is spinning!”

“Mommy, you’re my best friend.”

“Mommy? Mommy I love you soooooooo much!”

“Mommy, I hate you!”

“Is my kid mentally disturbed?”

“No, Amber, she’s just three.”

YEAR 4

“Mommy, you’re the best mommy in the whole world.”

“Amber, I can’t believe you did all this. You’re the best mom ever.”

So far, so good.

Let’s hope four is just as lovely as the internet promises me it will be….