Clementine

TONIGHT I FEEL LIKE I'M ALL TALK

2013-05-23T00:16:00.003-06:00

Tonight Nate was performing his evening penance of rubbing my back when I finally tried to verbalize what I've been feeling this week. Me: "babe, did we make a mistake in having another baby?" Nate: "um, seriously, we're having this baby in, like, 5 days." Me: "i know, and we're about to wreck everything. Clementine is perfect and enough and I'm really actually super satisfied with just her." Nate: "um, seriously, we're having this baby in, like, 5 days."
Since seeing my doctor on Friday, and since scheduling my c-section for Memorial Day morning, I've totally changed my tune. I used to be all "la la la, I want this baby out this minute. dum dee dum dum I'm so ready not to be pregnant anymore." And now, now that the surgery is scheduled and come 8am Memorial Day morning I'll be nearly cut into two separate pieces while my beloved doc thrust her arm into my torso up to her elbow and pulls out a new member or my family, I'm back peddling. My tune sounds more like, "I HATE being pregnant (as thankful as I am to be so) but can I push a pause button someplace, recoup some energy cycles, and just plaaaaaay with Clementine all summer long. Just the two of us dee dum."
I love my kid. She is smart and funny and spontaneous and soooo random. She loves to laugh and make others laugh. She is great at giving compliments. She yells, "toot" whenever she...toots. And loves it when Nate and I burp (which, if you've ever been around a pregnant woman...is often). She loves to get dirty and play with toy sharks and be outside. She sings! She dances! There is a million versions of her smile and each one makes you feel like a million bucks.
So, who in their right mind would ever want more than what I already have? Who would want to introduce a distraction from the most amazing person ever to be born? WHAT HAVE WE DONE? These are the thoughts that have passed unceasingly thru my head. I took Clementine to This is The Place park a few days ago, which sidenote was a perilous endeavor for someone of my pregnancy level, but I did it because when else could I and how could she turn two without having ever petted a baby goat or rested one tiny little finger on the top of a baby chick's downy head? HOW? So we went. And I sweated mighty rivers. If you were there on Tuesday and you saw a woman that was totally pregnant and pitting out and drenched in a gallon of her own sweat...that was me.
Clementine embraced the baby animals with nothing less than 100% of her love. She squatted right over the sleeping baby goats, patted them on the tummies, and said, "soooo cute". She gently rubbed her fingers through the wool of the baby lambs and declared, "sooo soft". The pot belly pig, while in a pen, was a highlight. And the baby chick? Now I know how she will be with baby Busy. So gentle and sweet and ADORABLE. Every time her pointer finger softly touched the top of the chick's head she would say, "cheap". The pony ride was a no-go. I was disappointed because what mom doesn't want her girl to be fearless and embrace every opportunity. But she is MY daughter after all which means she does realize that the only horses you can trust are the ones my dad, "Pop", has trained. Period. Anything else is taking your life into your own hands.

Aside from the baby animals I've tried to do something special with just me and Clem every day. We've painted pictures (which has quickly become her OBsessions). We've played in her shark pool. We take walks and sing and dance and eat cookies whenever we damn please. And I've been so tired and felt so disgusting and I've had the time of my life. Like, queue up the song from Dirty Dancing because "I've haaad the time of my liiiiife."

I know what will happen though. I know that by 10am on Memorial Day I'll be gazing into a pair of dark eyes, kissing a soft cheek and holding a tiny wilted hand and I'll be like, "Okay, you can come play with us. We'll make room." And then the three of us will hold hands and skip off into the sunset. Or something like that.
When I had Clementine my heart literally broke. I held her and tended to her in the hospital for ten days and it just broke. And when it grew back together it was a little bigger and softer and began communicating regularly with my tear ducts. And I know that once Busy is more than this little body that kicks me incessantly with all six of her legs, my heart will break again. And what I'll be left with will be a superman strength heart that will become even more annoying on Facebook and Instagram with all the "my babies are better than your babies" posts. I'm sorry about that by the way. Every baby is perfect and beautiful. Mine just happens to be a smidge more-so.
So once again, this blog has served more as a personal therapy session. I have a fear, I stew over it for days and nights, I decide to blog about it, and voila! I come to some conclusion on my own that makes me feel a little better.
So I guess I'm still basically excited for Beatrice to be born. Busy, don't take offense to any of this when you are 13 and snooping through my personal stuff, it's not that I didn't love you from the moment you existed, it's just that I was super busy being completely in love with your older sister. And this, as it turns out, is a good thing because it was all good practice for loving you, too.

LESSONS LEARNED FROM FINDING NEMO

2013-05-20T00:20:00.000-06:00

First I have to explain that before I had Clementine I HATED animated movies. I couldn't stand how predictable they were, how animals talked, how so many of them were about princesses. And the singing...oh, the singing killed me. Get on with it, tell a story without singing so many songs for heaven's sake.

Then I had Clementine and while I still don't love the genre I put up with it. I put up with it every. single. day. Especially lately because I've become so pregnant and tired and impossibly sick. So queue up the movies and let's have a party.

Clementine first became interested in Finding Nemo. We found Nemo every morning. The first time I watched it with Clem was fun because she loved it. Then the next 30 times came and went and I was very capable of reciting the movie word for word. And the next 30 have really just become an exercise in ignoring what is happening. But unable to completely block out that little clown fish I've learned many lessons. Here are a few.

First, does anyone else really hate Marlin? I mean, he is such a complaining, whining, fish that never takes ownership of anything. I admire his tenacity in finding Nemo but good grief, he is a complete pain in the ass.

1. Don't doubt your children. Even if you don't believe in your heart that they are capable of doing something, never ever let it show. Everyone deserves to have a super fan in their life; someone who believes in them 110%. Be that person. Be the person that encourages them and not the one that teaches them to doubt themselves and fear failure.

2. Love makes us brave. When you have someone to love and someone that loves you...you are a more brave, strong and determined individual. I know this from experience. When you find people that make you brave, let them know how much it means to you and never let them go.

3. Fear makes us unproductive and miserable. As much as you can, trust the world and people in it. There is so much more good than bad and you can accomplish a lot more when you don't focus so much on your fears. If you trust yourself it is much easier to trust others.

4. You can find great friends in unexpected places. Be open to recognizing personal connections. Consider them gifts and grab hold. I love it when my path crosses with someone and I know in an instant that we have the makings of a beautiful friendship. Some people are just good solid friends and you love and cherish them. Others literally come into your life and fill a spot that must have been saved just for them. These are the friends that are really family in disguise.

5. Doing things that scare you almost always pay off in the end. So challenge yourself and get a little scared. Just see what you learn and how much more amazing you become as a result.

That's about as much deep thought as I want to devote to Nemo. Besides, we've moved on to new content like Fabulous Mr. Fox and Tangled. And teaching these lessons to Clem is gonna be a challenge because as I was typing this out I realized just how cheesy and self-improvementy these things sound. If I try to say half this stuff to Clem when she is old enough to understand it...she'll blow me off as the lamest person around.

Sharks!

DEAR BEAZUS

2013-03-18T03:39:00.003-06:00

(A love note to my unborn daughter)

Dear Beazus,

Your beautiful name is actually Beatrice but we started calling you Beazus while you are in my tummy and it has kind of stuck. Plus, if you could hear how cute Clementine says it you'd totally understand why Beazus is really the absolute most charming and lovely thing you could ever be called. What I should call you is Busy. Because you are oh, so busy kicking and twirling and jabbing me. I anticipate seeing you for the first time and realizing you are actually an octopus. This would make so much sense, actually.

Clementine and I say a prayer every night and we always talk about you. How we are excited to meet you. How we pray you are healthy and stay in my tummy long enough to grow a tangled mop of hair just like Clem has. Pray for me too? Mostly for energy and patience. Being trapped in this body right now, in the state it's in, well, it's hell. But you are worth it; no doubt in my mind you are worth every tear I've shed so far and every tear that has yet to fall.

Tonight some of your cousins dropped by. You should have seen how completely adorable Clementine was with little Cole. All she wanted to do was kiss him and hold his bottle. She even gave him the cutest high-five when he stretched open one of his little hands. Get ready to have the BEST big sister ever. She will love you and teach you and share with you as best she can. I know you will grow up admiring her and guess what, so will I.

I guess the last thing I have is a warning or a series of warnings, really. I'm warning you that you're in for a wild ride with this family. Your dad is off-the-charts CRAZY and will probably make you pee your pants well into adulthood. Be prepared to have your toes and legs and neck and belly nibbled on by all of us. We can't help it, we are part carnivore when it comes to baby flesh. We sing about everything. Clementine can vouch for this next one: I will love you so much that sometimes I'll just stare at you. Don't ask me what I'm thinking about during those times because oh, I could write a book about that.

Love,

Mama

This is your sister, and she is so rad. Promise.

HASHTAG CLEMENTINE

2013-03-02T00:51:00.000-07:00

Some of my close friends and family will remember when I was about 6-months pregnant with Clementine I worried that I didn't love her or that I was going to be a terrible mother. I didn't sit for hours and think about her or imagine how life would be with her. Probably, mostly, because I really had no idea what to imagine or think. Motherhood and a tiny baby were just beyond my ability to pretend.

So actually, I don't think I was one of those moms who bonded with their unborn baby. I mean, I was happy to be pregnant, happy for the chance to be a mom, grateful that she was growing healthy and strong. But I just didn't feel mom-like or get overwhelmed with loving her. Not until those first few minutes, hours, and days at the hospital.

Our first encounter was a few minutes after she was born. I was super high on morphine but managed to lift one of my 85 pound arms to her tiny head as a nurse held her close enough for me to see and touch. My first words to her were, "hi baby". Swaddled up she looked even smaller than 4.5 lbs and in my drugged out pillow brain I almost thought I had given birth to nothing more than a baby head.

About six hours later I finally coaxed one of the nurses to break every hospital rule and take her out of the nursery and bring her to me so I could see her with a clear head. So I could hold her with arms that didn't feel like they actually weighed 85 lbs each. I held her for about 30 minutes before word got out that I had a preemie baby outside of the nursery and she had to go back. But "hi baby" and 30 minutes was all I needed to fall for her hook, line, and sinker.

Everyday this kid, this little girl who once was born half the size of our 8 lb cat Agnes, will do or say something that turns my heart into a big clump of gummy bears. In these moments it is best if I'm not driving or doing anything that requires logic and reason. Because I don't have any. The only thing I'm really capable of doing is breathing in and out and falling even deeper in love with her. I'm fairly certain that is my new job; I fall for this kid again and again, every single day.

So the fact that I'm six months pregnant with baby girl #2 and not feeling a really strong maternal bond doesn't freak me out the way it did with Clemmy. I know it will come. It will come when we meet and every moment after that. Just like Jerry McGuire, she'll have me at "hi baby".

THE REINVENTION OF ME

2013-01-10T22:22:00.001-07:00

Subtitle: This reinvention is something that continues to change every. single. day. Today's post is a simple snapshot in time of the me I am right now. Tomorrow I may be a slightly different version. Hopefully a better one.

I'm learning to, or rather I'm being forced to, become less vain. It's something we all say we want to do, but ultimately that means letting a lot of our pretenses go. De-vaining is super liberating but oh, so painful and emotionally overwhelming. It's also not that fun.

A few years ago it was really super dooper important that my house always appear clean. These days, clean is relative and oh my if you could see the dust in some places or the disorganization happening in my closet or the bag I haven't completely unpacked since our Christmas visit to Logan. Just the fact that I feel comfortable enough to mention this publicly should show how well I'm progressing.

A few years ago I really took my personal style seriously. I'd bow to some of the trends but mostly I tried to dress to the beat of my own drum. I also spent hours thinking about and working toward not gaining weight. Now I wear the yoga pants and wash my hair twice a week and one of my new year goals was to not gain that much more weight. Hah pregnancy!

This morning at 9:55 my friend Kelly sent me a text asking if Clem and I wanted to go to story time at the library at 10:15. The library is probably 10 minutes away. There I sat, in yesterday's yoga pants (p.s. I haven't done yoga in about 4 years), my hair hadn't been washed since Monday, I still had makeup on from yesterday, and my teeth weren't brushed just yet. I looked at Clem, obviously already growing bored of the games we always play and I just had to take her. I brushed my teeth but not my hair. I threw on a jacket, wiped the makeup from under my eyes, a little lipgloss and we bolted out the door.

While I was there I got a library card, too. I'm that girl now. Yay me!

I love how social Clem is. She just walked up to this boy during play time and started riffling through blocks with him. She is so independent. And she is oh, so cute.

LET THEM WEAR SEQUINS

2013-01-08T14:02:00.000-07:00

Let me preface this post by saying that I love the two ladies who did wear sequins and I think it is fabulous of them to do so.

When you are 41 and pregnant, plus you are chasing a toddler around the house who only recently figured out how fun it is to walk, it's just plain hell. The first few months were a blur. I was so tired/sick/sick/tired that I was in survival mode and yesterday's clothes all the time. My best moments were in the morning so I made sure to be all the mom I could be early in the day, mostly so Clem wouldn't hate me for being curled up in a ball or gagging over a toilet from about 2pm on.

Oh, and also, thank you to the makers of Yo Gabba Gabba for getting us through. It may not be the best thing for a kid to watch that much TV, but she learned cool songs and dance moves and I could lay on the couch and die a quiet, pathetic death while learning the importance of baby steps vs big steps.

Just a few days before Christmas we did a gender ultrasound and found out we are having another girl. Yahooo. Don't get me wrong...I love boys. I married one. I think they are cool and cute and essential to the human race. But having one baby girl makes it feel like all the babies in the whole world should be girls. Does that make sense? It does to me. Nate said he wanted a boy but the first word out of his mouth when we learned her gender was, "yay". It's nice to know those coats and shoes that were worn six times will get used another six before they go into full retirement.

We'll probably call her Beatrice.

So by New Year's Eve I was 17 weeks and feeling a little better. Mostly not queasy and able to manage any remaining quease with the magic of ReliefBand. Get one. Trust me.

We were getting together with a few friends for dinner and party afterward and I seriously wasn't looking forward to any of it for one main reason. I'm big. Like EVERYWHERE big. Not just the cute barely there baby bump kind of big that you may expect at 17 weeks. Also, having a fibroid the size of a softball in my uterus has made it really uncomfortable to wear clothes. So while I know I have the option to go get a few cute maternity pieces, I'm less inclined to do so because I probably won't wear them much. All I do wear, all that is really comfortable, is some version of the yoga pant, a tunic or tee, and Ugg boots (that Nate got me for Christmas and that I love. Thanks honey). Pressure of any kind on my stomach is basically out of the question painful.

So back to New Year's Eve. I just didn't have the energy to try and look good (good being relative). My two girlfriends going to dinner, who I love (remember?), are gorgeous. And one is even pregnant and just a month behind me. But she is still a size 2. And the other is just thin to begin with and they are both super pretty and they dress great and have amazing style and I just knew they were gonna look "new year's eve" fabulous next to my "you're lucky I even came" style.

About 30 minutes before we needed to leave for dinner I moped into the bathroom to try and make the best of a seriously depressing situation. I put on eyeliner (I rarely do this) and eye shadow (I NEVER do this) and I combed my hair. I stood there looking at my almost familiar face in the mirror, a little heavier, looking older and more tired, and I thought, "eff it". I just couldn't do any more than that. All the blogs and Pinterest posts and Instagram photos were sifting through my head and I had all these expectations about how I was suppose to look. But "eff it".

That "eff it" moment was big for me.Because I normally would have tried on everything in my closet. Looking blindly for the one combination that would make me look like I used to look. Like I still had style and self respect. But there, standing in front of the mirror wearing a striped tee, yoga pants, and my Uggs, I made a decision. "Let them wear sequins", I said. This is me right now. This is who I am. I know I have style hidden under these layers of motherhood and pregnancy pounds. And that style can come out and play later when it's time. But right now I'm not going to even entertain the idea of anything other than what I am. I turned off the light and walked out wearing just what I had on before. No stylishly mismatched layers or belts or heals. No skinny jeans or tailored jackets. Just me and my knits.

So there I was in a swanky, dimly lit sushi restaurant. I was the only one with a toddler on my hip (babysitters on new year's eve...yeah, right), I was the only one essentially wearing pajamas, I was the only one who probably also felt insanely comfortable and warm and finally, FINALLY, okay with it.

Don't get me wrong, I really do still wish I was a size 2 pregnant girl with shiny hair and glowing skin. I promise I'd be so very cute. But I'm not so I'm choosing to be okay and even grateful for what I actually am which is a healthy body engaged in a bit of a miracle. Also, I have the biggest boobs known to man. So there's that.

p.s. how cute is Clementine in this picture?

BLAME IT ON...WELL, A NUMBER OF THINGS

2012-09-14T01:51:00.000-06:00

It's been so long since I updated the blog that the entire blogger interface has changed. Blame it on what I think is post-partum or the side effects from Zoloft (to treat the post-partum), or the fact that I have a baby whose face I could stare at from sun up to sun down and never ever get bored. Blame it on one or all of those things. Anyway, here I am.
Every night after Clementine has had a bath and is safely snuggled in her jammies, cuddling with her pal "hippo" and laying in my lap sucking feverishly on her bottle I turn off the lights, listen to her suck and swallow and suck and swallow and I say a prayer. A few things dominate the prayer every night. 1) how insanely grateful I am to have her; healthy, happy, dorky perfect little Clementine Imogen Conger. 2) that she always knows without a doubt that she is loved by me, Nate, God and Jesus. 3) that she will grow to be confident, brave, happy, kind, forgiving, strong, and gracious. There also might be something in there about "please sleep through the night" but I can't be certain.
Dr. Phil says the biggest influence on a child's life is the same gender parent. Um, folks, that's me. I'm carrying that yoke. Me. The self deprecating, overly anxious, slightly lazy, incredibly insecure girl over in the corner wishing she was home wearing sweats and eating Nutella with a spoon.
I've gotta pull myself together. I've got to become graceful and brave and kind to myself and others. I've gotta mellow out and stop obsessing over being perfect. My neurosis is the absolute last thing I wanna pass on to my daughter.
The amazing and very unexpected twist in this story is that Clementine is probably the biggest influence in my life right now, too. The little girl that poops in her pants and would eat a dead mouse if she found one on the floor. She is so mellow and comfortable in her own skin. Things make her happy. I make her happy. She is unabashedly social and has this gift for drawing people out and making them smile. She is healthy. She's not perfect. She encourages me to act foolish and talk to strangers and take her to the zoo even when I'm feeling particularly fat that day. It turns out, elephants don't give a damn how much you weigh.
And then I started wondering if Clementine is saying her own little prayer at night while I rock her to sleep. A prayer for me. A prayer about how she is so grateful to have me, here, healthy, to take care of her and make her laugh and teach her how to be authentically dorky. Maybe she is praying that I'll know I'm loved by her, my parents and Nate and Heavenly Father and Jesus, too. And I like to think she is also praying that I'll grow up to be confident, brave, happy, kind, forgiving, strong, and gracious. Also, I'm pretty sure there is something in her prayer about when she wakes up at 2am that I'll hear her and come rock her back to sleep because she really just want to know that I'm still there even when it's dark.

Clementine is now 13-months old. She knows lots of words and animal sounds. Her favorite books are I Want My Hat Back and Barnyard Dance. She started crawling shortly after her first birthday and loves climbing stairs. She also (pictured above) prefers to cut her teeth on large pieces of dirty bark selected from the flowerbed where cats have peed and birds have undoubtedly died. I tell myself it will just put hair on her chest. I love her.

MEMORIAL DAY

2012-05-29T00:00:00.002-06:00

I'm feeling more and more responsible to do something to really observe memorial day.

As a girl I remember gearing up for the day and it had nothing to do with big BBQs or planning extra fun outings with the family. We would harvest mounds of lilacs and peonies from around the yard (I did not appreciate how abundantly these flowers bloomed or how they smelled, stupid little girl Tonia). Anyway, we'd harvest the flowers and make big gorgeous bundles and put them in tin cans. And then we would visit cemeteries across Northern Utah where many of my relatives are buried. I don't even need to tell you how delicious our car smelled on those car rides because you have a nose and you've smelled them and can only imagine what it might smell like if you were in a station wagon full to the ceiling with lilacs and peonies.

Today was family day. We got up and spent some time together in the morning until Clemmy was ready for her morning nap...which bled into the early afternoon. Most of the time her naps are about 60-90 minutes long but every once in a while (heaven forbid she tell me which days it's gonna happen ahead of time) she will go down for her typical nap at say, 10 am and not wake until 1pm. It's true. A three hour nap. Today was one of those days.

After she woke up and had some lunch we decided to take a walk around the lake and then stop and play in the sunshine for a while. Which is exactly what we did. Clem hung out on the blanket looking adorable and cheered us on as we tossed the frisbee. I'm not even going to try and be humble, Nate and I both throw really well. And we hadn't done that in such a long time and it was a lot of fun to be with my family, in the warm sun, having a good time together. On our way home we swung by the neighborhood gelato shop and indulged in some blood orange and ace (lemon, orange and carrot) gelato. Delish. Clem loves.

Then it was home for concert preparations. Clem got a bath and jammies, I packed dinner, made a bottle, packed warm clothes for everyone...and then we were off to Red Butte Gardens to see Blind Pilot open for The Head and The Heart who opened for The Shins. It was a good show. And then the temperature started to drop. FAST. First it went from warm to warm with a breeze. Then from warm with a breeze to cool with a breeze. Finally it finished up with really chilly with an even chillier breeze. Clementine was wearing all the warm clothes I packed plus my concert tee plus all the blankets I packed. And with all those layers stuffed into the bjorn carrier...it was a recipe for an unhappy girl. I don't blame her. I have bad claustrophobia and I can only imagine how I would feel in all those layers plus someone holding me a little too close.

So we ended up coming home early. Which was just fine because I was freezing and so was Nate and especially so was Clemmy. Now baby is sleeping away all stretched out and free in her crib (toasty warm) and Nate and I are ready to call it a day. Next year I'm gonna try and do something more thoughtful with our day so that we can give a little thought to why we celebrate. And next time I go to a concert at Red Butte I'm packing hot chocolate, more warm clothes, and tons of blankets. And probably some food that I make, too. Because I got hungry and they don't make great veggie burgers. Just sayin.

I love these two people.

We Conger girls smile even when we're freezing.

WEEKLY GUILT JOURNAL

2012-05-27T22:45:00.001-06:00

It's here. It's late. It's guilt the way guilt should be enjoyed...topped with a light whip topping of guilt. And colorful sprinkles of guilt dusting the guilt whip topping. What is a guilt journal you ask? Here is the explanation from my first-ever guilt journal.

You know how sometimes just talking about things makes you feel better? Well, I'm putting that to the test in a new weekly series I'm calling my "Guilt Journal". Every Mormon girl has one. Maybe not neatly printed out in the leather bound book she keeps bedside...but it's there. It could be masquerading as a "to do" list or it might just be rattling around in her conscience. One way or another, it exists and it wreaks havoc on her mental health.

1. I'm drinking WAY TOO MUCH SODA. Stop me, oh oh oh stop me. I've been really tired lately. Partly because I've had a few late nights mixed with a little cherubic alarm clock that has no snooze setting. But also, I'm drinking a ton of it because that little Tonia voice inside my head keeps saying, "mmmm, cold tingly soda right outside in the garage. Go get one before you fall asleep loading the dishwasher". And then I do it. Like I'm a robot without conscious thought of my own. I crack open the can and take a swig of the effervescence and I have the will to finish the dishes and move on to the laundry or maybe the toilets.

2. The toilets. They need cleaning. The last few times anyone has even walked thru our front door I'm positive they are going to ask for the loo and I'm dying inside. Because that bathroom doesn't properly represent me. I'm a clean, sparkly, minty smelling bathroom kind of girl. And that doesn't even sort of describe my bathrooms right now. If you come to my house, do no ask to pee in my bathroom. Because I'll say yes, and then immediately break up with you and never look you in the face again.

3. My skin. Let's start at the top. My face skin has really taken a hard hit. After Clementine I think I lost whatever hormone gives your skin the ability to bounce back. Now mine just lays there like a salmon filet losing its battle with gravity. Also, I'm getting a lot of zits. I know I need to take better care of my face and it is safe to say I probably need to get a facial to hit the restart button. Moving on to the rest of my skin...it's dry. The kind of dry that will sneak up on you and turn your hands to leather and your legs to snake skin with no warning. It's my fault because I like to take hot baths followed by being too lazy to ever put lotion on. It's my fault. It's my fault.

4. You know those books you can make with shutterfly? Well, last year around Christmas I thought it would be fun to make one of Clementine's first 6-months and give one to my grandma, one to my mom, one to Nate's grandma and one to Nate's mom for Valentine's day. You know...how cute, loving other moms do. So I started, and it was looking really cute, and the captions were the kind that would make anyone cry. And it was coming along fine. And then I stopped. And I thought, no biggie, I"ll give them for Easter. Easter came and went. And I thought again, no biggie, I'll give them for Mother's Day. And that day also came and went. So now Clementine is 10 months old and I still haven't made the book and now I just think I should hold off and make one that covers her entire first year and give them to everyone on Clementine's birthday...or for Halloween, or for Thanksgiving. Or hell, let's be honest, maybe for Christmas.

5. My closet needs to be cleaned out. I don't even need to go into a lot of detail about it. Let's just say it's full of stuff I never wear. There is some I want to wear again, and some I know I'll never ever wear again in my life. It's just such a daunting task. Tantamount to cleaning out our basement which really needs to happen. Partly so I can sleep at night and partly because we are starting to think seriously about finishing our basement in the next few months and I just don't think they will start construction with my piles of crap with no purpose or intent laying around in every single corner.

Can I please stop at five? There are so so many things I feel guilty about but I just cannot bring myself to admit more than five at a time.

Unrelated to my guilt but needing opinion: We are getting a new dining table and I need support or a reality slap. Someone? Anyone? What do you think about this table and these chairs? I can't decide if I want this light wood color or white (for the chair). Someone please take my hand and walk me into the light.

GUILT JOURNAL UPDATE

2012-05-18T21:35:00.002-06:00

I took Clemmy's 9-month photo today. Right after I talked about how guilty I felt about waiting until she was almost 10-months old. The laundry is still neatly piled on the chair and Nate and I had takeout for dinner. But at least I got this done which I consider the most important thing on my list anyway.

I heart this baby.

WEEKLY GUILT JOURNAL

2012-05-18T11:53:00.000-06:00

You know how sometimes just talking about things makes you feel better? Well, I'm putting that to the test in a new weekly series I'm calling my "Guilt Journal". Every Mormon girl has one. Maybe not neatly printed out in the leather bound book she keeps bedside...but it's there. It could be masquerading as a "to do" list or it might just be rattling around in her conscience. One way or another, it exists and it wreaks havoc on her mental health.
Things I'm guilty about this week:
1. I STILL have not taken Clementine's 9-month photo. I take them every month. She sits next to the same stuffed animals wearing the party hat I made her. They are adorable and document how she has changed each month. She turned 9-months on April 22 and I haven't yet taken the photo. Let me point out the obvious. She turns 10-months in a few days. So now, I'm gonna have to take the fake 9-month photo and then wait for a few weeks to take the late 10-month photo and hope that her hair grows really fast in between. Otherwise she'll look exactly the same in both photos. Possible fix: Put make up on her for the 10-month photo. Not a lot. Just some blush, lip stain, and mascara. Other possible fix: stuff her bra

2. I bought a gorgeous poppy flower to plant in the flowerbed and improve our curbside appeal. And there it sits, getting root-bound and coughing up dusty air STILL IN THE POT. How can it be that hard? It is though. Because I have to 1. get Clementine to take a nap or drag out a blanket and toys for her to sit on while I work. 2. change my clothes in to my work knits (as opposed to my everyday knits or heaven forbid my special occasion knits) and put on actual shoes (not just flip flops). You can't use a shovel in flip flops. I've tried before.

3. I've done laundry all week. I actually like doing it. I like taking a pile of stanky-ass clothes and turning them into a fluffy, warm pile that smells like Gain and Bounce. I also like to fold the clothes and put them in neat little stacks. What I don't like to do is put those stacks away. I hate it. Once of my top 10 worst household chores. So the laundry I did on Monday is still sitting on the chaise lounge in neat little piles. Five. Days. Later.

4. I recently discovered that I love to cook. I love trying new recipes and working with ingredients (like saffron) that I don't normally use. I love putting a plate of steaming hot food in front of Nate and then basking in the warm glow of his compliments. I haven't cooked a good meal in a few weeks now. Nate is back to his old habits of eating cereal for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I'm back to my old habit of hating myself for letting the asparagus go bad.

5. Birthday cards. I like to get them. I like to send them. I have a nice list of family birthdays (on both sides) and I still can't manage to send the people I love a nice card. What is wrong with me? I love them. I have the means to buy or make a card. I know they must be like me and still get a little excited to receive a piece of mail that isn't from AARP. C'mon Tonia, what's the problem.

I'm not sure I feel much better about it. In fact, it might have just brought it all back to the surface. But there you have it. This week's top 5 things on my guilt journal.

See how the pillows are stacked up like a tower
because they have no place to go on the chaise?

SEVEN CAVITIES

2012-05-16T16:08:00.005-06:00

I hadn't been to the dentist in a coupla years. Partly because I was pregnant and then because I had Clemmy. But mostly because before that I had this insanely crazy job that nearly killed me and I could never bring myself to make an appointment and keep it. Do you hear that old job? YOU ARE TO BLAME.
So a week ago I finally went. The guilt was keeping me up at night {they way I'm affected by guilt is a whole other post} and I just knew things had gotten out of hand. And by out of hand I mean reeling out of control and on the verge of catastrophe.
So I go. I explain to the dental assistant that Nate and I had bets on how many cavities I actually had. Not IF I had any but HOW MANY. My guess was seven and Nate guessed five. Well, I was right. S-E-V-E-N. The satisfaction of being right quickly turned to shock, then humiliation, followed by OMG I have to get seven fillings very soon.
And then very soon turned into THAT VERY SAME DAY. The assistant said, "hey we have time right now if you wanna just get them all filled...now." And I said, "okay, I guess". And that was that. Ten minutes later I was jacked up on laughing gas with a giant wedge holding my jaw open a little wider than as wide as it would go. Even in my nitrous fog I knew I'd pay for the damage that wedge would do to my jaw for many days.
Then the drilling began and it just kept going and going and going. I had to listen to that boring conversation between the dentist and the assistant (we've all been held captive by that stupid conversation before. ASSISTANT: So how was McKayla's dance recital? DENTIST: She did great. She was the only one who didn't make a mistake. ASSISTANT: I know she is only three, but I can tell she is a natural leader. TONIA: (voice in my head) C'mon Dentist, can't you tell she is totally kissing your ass? I don't know why but she is. You're little one is no more a natural leader at three than I am an opera singer with seven cavities). That conversation.
After all that novocaine my face was basically ready to slide off my skull. It's really amazing how the muscles in our face, even without any effort, are working to hold up our cheeks and our lips and our eyes. And when those muscles are injected with something that makes them all go fast asleep, your face looks like it's melting right off. So I raced right home because, where was I gonna go like that?

Since that day I've had the worst teeth aches. Seven teeth aches actually. When I get pregnant with baby number two I'm gonna hook myself up to a calcium drip and get weekly enamel baths.

The "root" of the problem. Haha.

IT'S DIFFERENT NOW: DIFFERENT GOOD

2012-05-14T23:02:00.000-06:00

I used to travel alone all the time. Sometimes for work and sometimes for fun. Several years ago after a bad breakup I decided that I just couldn't celebrate Thanksgiving the traditional way (surrounded by family all tilting their head to one side as they asked me how I was doing...ugh) so I booked a solo trip to Oceanside, CA. The hotel pity-upgraded me (this poor thing is all alone on Thanksgiving, give her the suite). I walked to a grocery store and stocked-up on diet cokes and hot tamales and picked out a dusty Cup-O-Noodles to eat on the beach at sunset on Thanksgiving.

It was perfectly heartbreaking; all of it. I remember sitting alone and watching the sun melt into the Thanksgiving waves and I felt peace. I was at peace being alone. At peace digging my toes in the sand. At peace slurping my Cup-O-Noodles. At peace with my anonymity. Mostly the last one. You know how there are people who always needs to be with someone? Always need to call a friend and can't stand spending one night alone watching Bed of Roses for the umpteenth time? That is NOT me. Being alone and anonymous is practically the best thing ever because you can feel how you want to feel and act how you want to act and NOBODY notices.

Now when I travel I'm part of this big caravan. I'm not the girl in the window seat on the plane who puts on her headphones and sleeps the entire flight. I'm the mom with toys and bottles and a poopy diaper in my purse who has an entire game plan for a smooth flight. I'm the woman that girl with the headphones is trying to avoid. Goodbye anonymity.

The first few days in Santa Monica were just for me and Clem to enjoy. Nate had meetings and work to do so I'd put Clemmy in the stroller or baby bjorn and we'd just go on mini adventures. And the thing is, I wasn't anonymous for even a moment. I always got noticed with Clementine. I know people love babies; people LOVE Clementine. A lot. To the point where I couldn't go anywhere without someone tickling her or playing peek-a-boo with her or biting her toes. Yes, I said biting her toes. And it's not their fault, really. It's Clementine's fault. Because she has these eyes that cast a spell on you. She's got eye of newt and dragonfly wings and all sorts of spellbinding concoctions behind those baby-blues and once you look into them you cannot be held responsible for your actions.

See. I told you.

So now I'm basically Clementine's wingman. We walk into a room, she sniffs out the nice ones and then they are magically summoned by her eyes to come and talk to us and tell us how cute she is. How is that for a commanding presence? She forces me out of my quiet; out of my shell; out of my head. And I have to interact and make eye contact and share my Cup-O-Noodles and sunset with handfuls of strangers who I never knew could make life so much more interesting.

SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA: Three Mishaps and a Whole Lotta Fun

2012-05-14T02:04:00.003-06:00

Last week Nate and I decided to mix business with pleasure and take our first-ever family vacation with Clementine. It included a lot of "firsts" like first airplane, first hotel room, swimming pool, beach, ocean. Of course, it's not a vacation without a few mishaps. Let's talk about those first.

Mishap #1: Clem had her first blowout. Yep, you heard me. Her first. She's almost 10 months old and has never even come close to a blowout. Nate carried her onto the plan to get situated while I gate checked our stroller. As I walked toward them down the isle of the plane I saw Nate sit down with her, and then immediately stand up again. When I reached him he handed her to me and said, "this just happened".

Yup, blowout diaper. In true Clementine fashion the blowout happened at the right time. As everyone else loaded onto the plane we did a quick wardrobe change in the tiny bathroom. And then we hung out with the flight attendant until we could get to our seat. We made friends with one who's grandmother was also named Clementine. From that moment on, we got 5-star treatment even sitting in coach. I highly recommend becoming friends with the staff if you can; flying is more pleasant when you've made a personal connection and have a friendly face on board.

Mishap #2: Nate's pushing Clem in the stroller. We are just walking back from Third Street Promenade Mall to our hotel on Ocean Ave. My purse weighs a cool 50 pounds since it's also doubling as a diaper bag and for some reason I'm carrying it. It was a Thursday evening. A small and gorgeous crowd is starting to gather at the Ivy for drinks and dinner. Three very hip looking Southern California girls, all toned and brilliant and smelling good, stand in the middle of the sidewalk waiting for a table so I go left and Nate goes right with the stroller and Clementine.

Just then the toe of my very old flip flop caught on the sidewalk. I trip. My heavy purse, still slung over my shoulder, begins to swing up over my head causing just enough forward-moving momentum that I couldn't recover. Nate said he looked over and saw it all happen. He thought I'd catch myself and we'd all have a good chuckle. But that's not exactly what happened. A few seconds later I found myself flat out on the sidewalk, laying at the feet of the pretty girls. My purse had belched up a few Yo Gabba Gabba toys which made the site that much more unsophisticated and pathetic.

The pretty girls, and Nate, all helped me up while trying not to laugh. One of the girls grabbed Muno and stuck him back into my purse (it was Kate Spade, does that count for something). Let's just say the fall hurt enough that I didn't even care how I looked or even how I got up off the ground. All I remember is hobbling off and hoping I didn't throw up. The next day I could hardly move.

On a embarrassment scale of 1-10 where 1 is waving back at someone who is waving at you...but they really aren't waving at you, and 10 being wetting your pants at an amusement park as an adult (yes, I've done both more than once), this fall was a six. Earlier this year I was lifting Clementine's car seat into a cart at Costco and my skirt slipped off my hips and pooled around my feet on the ground. I stood there in my underwear for a few seconds as I tried to wrap my head around what had happened. That was an 11. And it may have reached as high as a 15 when I mouthed a really bad word just as I noticed an old man watching me from his car.

Mishap #3: We didn't give ourselves enough time to get to the airport coming home. Nate dropped Clem and I at the curb to check in and get thru security but by the time we made it to the gate the plane had boarded and was 4-minutes from pulling away. Nate was just making it to the security line. H told me to go ahead and get on with Clemmy and he'd catch the next flight.

Let's just say that boarding a plan with a stroller, purse, diaper bag, and a third bag PLUS a baby, is not exactly easy. And then we realized we were in seat 33C. That last row on the plane, window seat. Another passenger offered to hold Clem while I stowed our bags. A crazy old lady with thick stage makeup and a silk flower tucked behind one ear sat next to us sweating buckets and drinking lots of hot tea. Clem couldn't take her eyes off this woman. Even my baby knows a train wreck when it's sitting next to her on a crowded plane.

"Let's do this again", I said to Nate when he finally got home hours later. He agreed.

Clementine at the beach in San Clemente.

More details from our trip to come.

INSTINCTS

2012-04-26T01:19:00.000-06:00

The entire process of babies has become fascinating to me. It's amazing that my body just knew how to make skin and bones and eyeballs. I would go to bed at night, waddle around at work, eat a pound of tater tots, and the entire time my body was building baby fingernails and eyebrows. How? Fascinating.

And then Clementine was born and the fascination quadrupled. The concept of anything, animal or human, having instincts...just kind of blows my mind. Birds have an instinct to fly. Cats have an instinct to hunt small things and they all do it the same way. Low to the ground. Eyes dilated. Ears flat. Clementine was the same way. Without being told how to eat or who to trust, there she was, eating from a bottle and snuggling into my arms like someone was prompting her to do it. Instincts. Fascinating. And the older she gets the more my mind is blown.

Every new thing she does, from discovering her toes to grabbing things with her thumb and forefinger, is this magical moment in time. And I can't tell you how honored I feel to be the one watching her and cheering her on like she is the most amazing creature ever put on the earth. Because she is.

She turned 9-months on Sunday. NINE MONTHS. She is getting closer and closer to 19 pounds, her hair is longer and her little personality is just bright, inquisitive, sweet and goofy. I love her. Today we went to her 9-month wellness checkup. I was happy it was just measuring and weighing and no shots. I hate the shots and the way her little body struggles and fights to get away when we pin her down to stick her pudgy thighs with what seems like a dozen needles that are all 6 inches long and as thick as pencils (spoiler alert: there was a shot after all).

She hovers right around 50% on everything. Which makes me so happy when I think about her meager beginning. But I really wanted to talk to the doctor about her development. When you have a preemie you're told that their development can be delayed. In fact, you are told to expect delays. You have to go by their adjusted age (basically you don't go by when they were born but when they were due to be born) and that it could take some time to catch up to other babies the same age. All that said, I've had this nagging concern because she just hasn't had any ANY interest in anything even remotely related to being mobile. Nothing. Nada.

She can sit (yay), she can roll (from her tummy to her back but not the other way), she can eat her toes and grab and put cereal in her mouth. She can smile (brightens up the room, in fact), and scream (it's been described like the piercing call of a wild eagle). But I see other babies, some a little older and some younger than Clementine, rolling and crawling and scooting...my inner dialogue starts talking.

So I told Dr. W what she was and wasn't doing and the doctor got this look on her face. The kind of look you really don't want your pediatrician getting. Ever. And then she started in with a whole lot of questions. Does she do this? Does she do that? Most of the questions were met with a reluctant No. Simply put, if I lay Clemmy on her back and go make dinner, when I come back she'll be in the same place I left her, with a toe stuck in her mouth and an eagle call hanging in the air. She doesn't get on her hands and knees. She doesn't pull herself up to standing. She doesn't army crawl. None of it. She is a hellova kicker and will do some damage if you get close enough. But absolutely no interest in getting from here to there.

Dr. W explained that I have 45 days to get my little one up on her hands and knees and saying things like mama and daddy. And if I cannot meet the challenge? "Early Intervention". When I heard those words everything moved on in slow motion. I just looked at my baby girl and thought "Wait, stop, she is going to be just fine. She just needs more time. Don't judge her. She is super smart and will do all of those things. I PROMISE". Don't get me wrong, I'm so glad programs like this exist. I think it's fabulous that there is a whole team of people just waiting to point our babies in the right direction. I just kinda hoped that they would never be called upon for my baby. My sweet, smiley, chubby little perfect girl.

Dr. W gave me some ideas about what I could do and then told me that not only did there need to be drastic improvement within 45 days, but she wanted Clementine to be crawling, talking, eating table foods and possibly walking when she turns 1. Um, that's in 90 days. That is a lot of milestones to reach in three short months. Especially when I look at where we are now. But I'm up for it. I'm gonna be spending a lot of time on the floor, being a cheerleader, a physical therapist, a circus performer. But I'll do anything for her. Anything.

Also, as Dr. W was leaving she said, "oh, it looks like Clementine never got her second flu shot so we'll get that done today". SECOND flu shot? What? So after all that I had to pin her little writhing body down while the nurse stabbed her with a giant, dull, needle and the tears swelled up in her eyes. "Sorry baby", I said as I kissed her neck and hugged her tight.

Any resources you have or advice for getting a little one interested in crawling are greatly appreciated. Otherwise, I'm going on instinct. Low to the ground. Eyes dilated. Ears flat...

HYSTERICAL BLINDNESS AND A MACHETE

2012-03-27T00:39:00.000-06:00

In my life I've played both the role of a brave warrior and a yellow-bellied coward. For instance: when I was about ten I used to climb up this tree in our neighborhood and swing on the rope swing (warrior). But then one day I somehow slipped out of the tree and broke my arm. I ran all the way home crying and vowing NEVER to go on that rope swing again (yellow) and I never did.

Once, in college, I agreed to go bungee jumping with some girlfriends. I tried everything to conveniently get out of it since the mere thought of being up high gives me vertigo. Unfortunately my friends wouldn't accept any of my excuses. There I was, crawling up the stairs of the tower on my knees (yellow) even my spleen was quivering with fear. But then, quite unexpectedly, I plunged off the tower without hesitation (warrior). Don't go throwing the confetti and celebrating my achievement just yet because after I jumped off the tower I WENT BLIND. Really. I'm not just using that as a metaphor to say I was really scared. I literally lost my sight. It's called hysterical blindness (yellow).

There are plenty more examples to share but I should save some of my stories for when we meet in person. I can't give away all my funny conversational anecdotes. I used to think this was normal until I got married and Nate pointed out that I was basically insane. That people don't work themselves into a lather the way I do.

See, disasters don't really have to strike in order for me to turn yellow and get scared. My imagination does a perfectly good job playing out the worst possible scenario, the most horrific outcome, the absolute most painful ending to just about anything. And that's really all it takes for me to decide it's safer here, sitting on the side of the pool with my feet in the water. Really, it's great here. You go enjoy the rush of the water slide or the cliff jump. I'm just fine here in the shade.

So the same thing was happening when we started talking about having kids. In my mind the delivery was super traumatic and my baby ended up with six heads and I was the worst mother on the planet. I just couldn't bring myself to give birth to my beloved six-headed off spring. I was yellow. As yellow as they come. But then 37 became 38 and then I was 39. Time was not on my side.

So Dec 31, 2010, I took a pregnancy test and faced all those fears at once. Alone. Sitting on the toilet frozen in time. I don't know if I sat there for 3 minutes or 3 hours. Thinking about my six-headed baby and his 12 eyes blinking at me and then biting off my hand with his razor sharp teeth.

The pregnancy was pretty crazy. I started with twins, hemorrhaged, miscarried one of the twins, grew a uterine cyst the size of a cantaloupe and went into labor 6-weeks early. My plans were a quiet and peaceful hypno-birth and what I got was an emergency c-section where I was cut open with a machete. In my mind it was a machete and a chainsaw and they held my middle open with one of those devices you see at the orthodontist. Only bigger. This part is actually true. Nate witnessed it. He said there was one person on each side stretching me open like the grand canyon. I wince at the thought.

And then out came this perfect creature. Bruised and tiny but so so brave. I was taken one way and she went another and for about 6 hours I didn't hold her. But this sense of total accomplishment came over me. I thought, now, if I can do that surely I can bungee jump and rope swing and the million other things I've been too afraid to do.

Clementine is my anthem. My badge of courage. Giving birth to her was the scariest thing I've ever done. And every time I look at her little face I'm reminded of just how wonderful and rewarding being brave can be. To imagine a world without Clementine is a world that isn't as bright and lacks adequate joy. And if I had allowed my fear to stand in the way of that it would have been a real tragedy.

So, here's to all the scary things in my future. To all the things that make my knees buckle, make my hair stand on end or even cause psychological blindness. Here's to the machetes and bone saws. If that's what it takes to bring sunshine into the world then I'll do it. I'll do it. I'll do it.

Little Tiny Brave Clementine

I'M GRATEFUL FOR MY GRASS...I JUST WISH IT WERE A LITTLE GREENER

2012-03-22T00:35:00.000-06:00

It's basically been the same way my whole life. I'm sitting in the grass trying to get some vitamin D on my face and all I can hear is the happy chortles of those next door...playing in their greener grass where the sun is much warmer and their teeth are somehow white as porcelain. Oh, and also, over there in the greener grass, they don't go long stretches of time wearing ZERO traces of make up and they most certainly haven't resigned themselves to "the winter of knit" (which, by the way, has been the lamest idea since not shaving my legs for 6-months in college).

Peering over the fence I can only imagine what I look like to them. Let's just start with the obvious: my hair looks greasy and gray (because it is), my face looks weathered (because having a baby stripped by skin of some super essential hormone that resulted in my face skin turning sallow and crepey). Either that, or I'm 40. Then there is a little thing called Holy Crap, where did my muscle tone go? And finally there is the knit? If comfortable means I walk around all hunched over and sloppy then Hells Yes, I'm comfy. It's just a little difficult to wake up day after day always looking like the pathetic before photo in the makeover segment show What Not To Wear.

This fence peering post I keep, it's familiar. Sometimes I look over and see lots of beautiful people and that's hard. But what is harder is to look over and see people who probably never wake up afraid. I wake up afraid a lot. You see, somewhere way back in the anals of my childhood, I decided that if I couldn't be or do perfectly, then I shouldn't be or do. It's better to just quietly blend into the background or foreground than to try anything and not be perfect at it - which translates to mediocre. And mediocre is basically the worst word you could EVER USE AROUND ME. It's fine if you are describing the steak you had for dinner (unless I cooked it for you) but it's a dagger to the heart if you use it in reference to anything connected to me.There are so many things I want to do or try but I'm simply too afraid.

Those people on the other side of the fence also have this super-human amount of motivation. I mean, I shuffle around the house with my teeth unbrushed, sometimes until...all day long. Meanwhile, they have made 6 loaves of homemade bread, reupholstered a chair they bought for $3 at a garage sale, exercised, and have put together some enchantingly clever outfit that absolutely does not include black yoga pants. They take these beautiful photos of their beautiful lives and all I can do is peek thru the slats in the fence and wonder how in the eff they got back into their jeans after they had their baby. And is their baby already walking?

Does anyone else carry on long bouts of dialogue with themselves? The kind that starts, "did I brush my teeth yet? Oh man, no I didn't. And it's 3pm. Why bother now. Clementine hasn't been out of the house in 3 days. I should be arrested for child abuse for keeping her in the house so long. I guess I'll brush my teeth and take her on a walk but I'm absolutely not combing my hair or changing my clothes. What you see is what you get people. If I wear sunglasses and some lip gloss I'll fool them all. I didn't expect it to be so warm out. I wish I could take off my sweatshirt but my tee has sweet potatoes on it and I accidentally dried it in the dryer so it fits too tight and I hate how my arms look in it. I guess I'll just leave my hoodie on and sweat like a pig. Oh crap, I didn't wear any deodorant. And look at my yoga pants; they haven't been washed in so long they have knee bumps even when I'm standing with my legs straight. It's nice out. This weather, this sunshine, it all makes me want to get really creative. I feel like I could write a novel in 12 seconds if I were home in front of the computer; I'm gonna write for an hour after I get Clementine down for her nap. Look at that cute mom over there swinging her little girl. hmfph. I'm so hot all I want to do is take off this stupid jacket. But now I have BO so I definitely cannot. Clem seems tired, I'll start heading back. When I get home I need to thaw out that chicken so I can make dinner; I think Nate's dad is coming at 5:30. Oh, and I need to put the clothes in the dryer; if I forget again those clothes will permanently smell like mildew. I can't stop thinking about that cute mom at the swings. Oh, there is so-and-so, I don't want her to see me because I stink and I'm pretty sure I was wearing this on Monday when I saw her before.

I love my husband and my baby more than ever. That grass couldn't be greener or more succulent. But the grass that represents me, my accomplishments, how I look and feel...rubbish. Luckily, Clementine has 101 faces that cheer me up during the course of the day and I look forward to each one for their own specific healing powers. Take this one for example.

I imagine her as a pirate saying,
"It's time to throw ye overboard matey.
That tee is a disgrace even to a pirate."

I'M READY TO DO THIS

2012-03-21T14:44:00.001-06:00

I want to replace MY ENTIRE WARDROBE. I have a closet full of stuff that no longer fits in some way or another. Too long, too short, plunging neckline, this fabric is so itchy. Some of it is still cute and I'd wear it if only these hips would just shrink down a little bit so I could fit inside (I'm talking to you, white eyelet lace pants and jacket). So maybe not replace THE ENTIRE WARDROBE since I plan on shrinking my hips eventually. But most of it needs replacing. I mean, everything. Even my workout clothes and pajamas.
I lay in bed at night and imagine pulling every last thing out of my closet. I put it in piles of keep, donate, or burn in the backyard. I vacuum out the closet and just look at all the space and empty hangers. It's such a wonderful vision. I never want the dream to end. Except when I get to put things back in. Very carefully chosen things. Things that are willing to pull their weight and do multiple jobs. Things that won't fall apart or always smell like B.O. after that one time I wore it to a job interview and somehow my deodorant couldn't stave off the aggressive smell of anxious b.o. even after a good dry clean.
I've talked to Nate about this. How I want to start picking up things that are fashionable but not trendy. Things that look good on me for reals and not just things I want because I saw someone else with an entirely different body type/age/lifestyle wearing it and had to have it. He's all, "just do it Tonia". This is a true testament to how tired he is of seeing me wear the same few t-shirts and loungey pants everyday for the last year.
If I had to pick one place, just one, to buy all my new items...JCrew. I love JCrew and JCrew world. I imagine living there, showing Clementine the winter cabin and the hill we'll sled down on old fashioned sleds while wearing head-to-toe cashmere. In this dream she'll wear Crewcuts and I'll look perfectly put together in little more than a ponytail, white jeans, a denim button down, and a pair of sun-kissed cheeks.
Because I really want to make this a reality, not JCrew world, but the new wardrobe, I've started building a short list of classic pieces. It's really fun to think about clothes this way. Rather than thinking about "more and more", I'm thinking about how few pieces I can get away with and still rock a solid, fashionable, hype look that shows the world that I really do care about something other than comfort.
For fun, here are a few of the items I would like to add to this brand new wardrobe. What do you think?

1. Dot maxi dress (Gap)
2. Dot pullover (JCrew)
3. Maize dress (Shabby Apple)
4. Neapolitan blouse (Anthro)
5. Peasant dress (Gap)
6. Scuba hoodie (Lululemon)
7. Chambray (JCrew)
8. Maxi skirt (JCrew)
9. Silk blouse (JCrew)
10. Talitha blouse (JCrew)

What do you think?

I'M SICK IN LOVE

2012-03-20T23:29:00.002-06:00

Well, it's that time again. Time to grab the Kleenex, sip the warm cold remedy of choice, and tell Nate every ten minutes how much my throat hurts/chest is heavy/body aches. And also the time to lament and regret every open-mouth kiss I've shared with Clementine the past few days. I pray her flu shot and immune system strong-arm this bug.
The worst thing about being sick when you are a mom...nothing changes. Diapers still need to be changed, dust still gathers, laundry piles up, dinner needs making, dishes need washing. Dear moms from eras gone by, current and future, I THINK YOU ARE AMAZING. The way you manage to hold things together in between sneezes. The way you still take care of your families when you need some TLC yourselves.

"Hey Nate, my throat hurts"

Now for the love part of this post. I love my baby girl. I love her crazy little hairline that can't make up its mind. I love her deep blue eyes that already have a story to tell. I love how she mimics Nate when he talks to her. I love her little nose and how she wrinkles it up just for fun all the time. I love her spongy little cheeks and how they feel when I kiss them. I love her forever pink plump lips spreading wide when she smiles. I love her fingers and how she is so amazed by them at the moment. I love the little bald spot on the back of her head. I love those eyebrows people! I love how she gets all grabby with her feet, how she is a baby tsunami in the bathtub, and how she spit up directly into my mouth today. There is just so much to love.

"Nate, my body hurts. So. Much."

There are two main comments I heard when pregnant.
1. You and Nate better enjoy the afternoon naps and spontaneity now because your lives are about to change. ("duh")
2. They grow up so fast. Enjoy it while you can.

Both cautionary tales scared me. Kinda. The first one was more irritating than anything else. First of all, I'm 39, I think I'm hip to the idea that having a baby will change my life. Also, I found it pretty interesting that the same people that were warning me about how my life was about to get so much harder were the same people that kept saying "you need to have a baby, it's the best". Sidebar: our lives have changed, for sure. All for the better. All for the better.

"Nate, my chest feels so heavy."

The second statement echoed in my head over and over like Berlioz playing at the end of Sleeping with the Enemy. Scary. Like, I knew things were going to end badly. As in, me 70 years old, listening to Cat's in the Cradle and smelling one of Clementine's old baby blankets while I lay in a ball up in her old treehouse. How do you make sure to enjoy every minute? This warning has turned me into a basket case. I'm doing my best though. I smell her head and kiss her and nibble on her toes and hug her little body when she sleeps on my shoulder. I tell her I love her and smile at her and cheer her on when she does something groundbreaking like sit up or eat. Sidenote: I'm learning how to enjoy every minute while brushing my teeth and folding laundry because multitasking is in my blood.

"Nate, can you make me some tea?"

Finally, one of my favorite photos. Just 3-weeks old and weighing little more than a butternut squash.

Her hands are the size of walnuts.

BURNING CALORIES PISSES ME OFF

2012-03-06T20:54:00.001-07:00

I know that a session with my trainer burns about 500-600 calories. And the cardio workouts she built for me burn 500-600 calories. Both take a lot out of me. They are each an hour and at the end of said hour I'm drenched in sweat and personal humiliation. I'm also left wondering...where did MY body go? I mean, the body I knew for so many years. The one that was forgiving and mostly fit and didn't struggle doing the most mundane things like, say, mounting a flight of stairs. What happened to THAT body?
So what really pisses me off is that I spend most of my time and energy doing stuff like cooking, cleaning, burping, singing, changing diapers, tending to baby, self-loathing, and the like. For HOURS. Why doesn't that burn 500-600 calories an hour? If it did I'd weigh one pound and it would all be muscle.

Burning calories pisses me off. Period.

This is back when my body was mostly my friend.
I'm not super-model thin...but this dress IS a size 4. And I only have ONE chin.

I USED TO CUSS LIKE A TRUCKER

2012-02-27T20:21:00.000-07:00

Some (Nate) may have even called me trucker-mouth some of the time. It's just who I am (was). And then I had Clementine and the world literally stopped rotating for just a second and when it started up again...it was spinning in the opposite direction (and I became a conservative cusser). My world changed in a bazillion different ways; mostly for the good. But, of course, there is always bad with the good, right?

First, I lost all my core strength. I've been in my body for 40 years and after that amount of time you get to know each other pretty well. I used to know exactly what it felt like to sit on the ground and then get to my feet. I could even do it gracefully and without grunting. The whole process now has about twenty steps and reduces me to thinking, "Is this really my body"?. There are times that my head tells my body to do something (like roll over in bed) and my body initially thinks it's a simple request. But it's not. Thanks to my trainer this will all be a thing of the past very soon.

Second, I used to work. I had a career and a title and felt sort of important about it. Now my job has many titles like poopy diaper removal, cheerleader, silly noise maker, paparazzi, home sanitation, and sleep trainer. I am constantly making a fool of myself all for the sake of a Clementine smile. I'd do anything to get that mouth to form one of it's gummy grins. Anything.

Thirdly, when Nate used to ask "what's for dinner?" I'd usually reply, "quesadillas or cereal". Now I might answer with something like "chicken tagine or ground nut stew". I really like cooking and trying new flavors. And with a husband that would eat the tongue of a shoe if I served it to him...I'm in a good place to experiment.

Lastly, I used to be interesting. I listened to NPR and read books and engaged in interesting conversations with other adults. Conversations that didn't include phrases like, "the pork is on ad at Harmons this week" or "is that dried spit up on my shoulder?" or my favorite, "look, I put on lip gloss today." I know this last change is deeply my fault. I can still read, and shower, and change out of sweats a few times a week. All in good time. All in good time. These mom shoes are new to me and once I feel a little more comfy in them I'll see how they look with hair and makeup.

Well, if it weren't for the bad changes, the good ones wouldn't be as rad. Right?

I just have to say this, though, because I feel like it. There are some blogs out there that are really wonderful and pretty and give this impression that life is always beautiful and full and adventurous. They fool us all into thinking that life should be full of well-planned parties and gorgeous outfits and homes that look like they belong in Domino (yay) magazine. They were inspiring to look at for a while and now they are boring. They're all the same, and too focused on looking perfect and making life look like a magazine spread.

Um, please stop. Women already have a tendency to compare themselves to everyone's best self. We already expect way too much of ourselves and focus on our faults. And women in Utah are already among the heaviest users of anti-depressants. I wish we all felt a little bit better about being real. And sharing the real side of ourselves with people. I prefer people with imperfections, a pile of laundry, and spit up in their hair. It's the truth so why are we so ashamed to tell it that way?

Me and Clemmy. She is bathed...I'm not.
Eyelash extensions are the world's best invention
and I wish every new mom could have them .

I USED TO LISTEN TO INDIE-ROCK

2012-02-17T14:54:00.000-07:00

But now I kind of get my kicks out of listening to whatever new sound Clementine has discovered. Sometimes it's just babbling during nap time. Often it's a guttural/gurgling sound that I swear sounds like a baby Chewbaca. Other times it's whatever music her jumpy seat makes or the lullabies on her iPod (yes, she has one along with a 40" flat screen, an xbox and the Kinect...her dad finds it necessary to pimp out her nursery with techy gadgets).

While I absolutely love my new playlist, I also know that it's a slippery slope I'm on. I mean, music and concerts and concert t-shirts have always been such a source of joy and bonding with Nate and I. We love music together. And I don't want to lose that because we are a trio now. A few months after we started dating we decided to go to Coachella and it's been concerts and head bobbing and ticket stubs ever since. Once I find babysitters that I'm sure won't ruin her I'm looking forward to getting back to a few shows this year, just us.

In a few months we're flying to LA to hang out with Nate's sister Emma. She's really fun and pretty and always makes me laugh. She invited Nate to go to Coldplay at the Hollywood Bowl with her and I invited myself and Clementine to come too. It will be Clemmy's first concert outside of my belly (she heard many shows floating around in amniotic fluid like The Kills, The Black Keys, U2, Pete Yorn, Old 97's...). I purchased cute little noise-canceling ear muffs for her so no need to worry about her damaged hearing.

I'm looking forward to sharing good music with Clementine. She's exposed to tuneless songs with nonsensical lyrics every day as I sing all about folding laundry, changing poopy diapers and, most importantly, taking baths and going night night.She knows what off-key means, of this I'm sure.

But in the meantime, until Nate and I put on our coolest old shabby concert tees and get our hands stamped at the next club, I'm gonna sit back and listen happily to the joyful sounds of Clementine while she performs her latest trick...grabbing her toes. No regrets. She absolutely gets my head bobbing.

She smiles like this when I sing poorly.

WHAT IS MY STORY?

2012-02-05T02:10:00.000-07:00

Tonight I went on a date. With my husband. Like, the kind where you leave the house wearing lipstick and go someplace like a restaurant or a theater. Only I just wore lip gloss and, of course, sweats. Nate's dad and brother are picking up his mom at the airport tomorrow; she has been in New Mexico helping out with the newest member of the Conger clan (new baby Brian Asher. Double yay!). And since we live so close to the airport...So, long story short, I put Clementine to bed, made pizza, and then Nate and I went to a movie at 10:30 PM! Thank you Grandpa and James for standing guard and protecting my little one while she dreams.

We saw Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close. I loved it. I went prepared to sob my eyes out. But instead found myself completely involved with the story and, more than anything, adoring that quirky, neurotic little boy. I walked out of the theater thinking, "If my little Clementine can be that brave and determined and curious with her life then I will have done my job well."

On our way home from the theater Nate and I were talking and an interesting topic came up. One worth thinking more about. It started out like this:

Tonia: That movie reminded me, again, how important it is not to judge people. Everyone has a story and if we knew their story we'd understand them better.
Nate: Yeah Tonia, I've been meaning to tell you that you are so judgmental (tongue-in-cheek).
Tonia: Well, I do make assumptions sometimes about people that are more on the eccentric side. But I guess we are all pretty eccentric when you think about it.
Nate: yup.
Tonia: But do I want anyone to know my story? I kind of feel like it's pretty typical. Born into a middle class family, had pets, learned to swim, broke a few bones, went to prom, college, jobs, marriage, baby. Nothing extraordinary happened or didn't happen. I really want my story to be interesting...not like everyone else's. Hopefully it will stand out in some way before it's over.
Nate: Oh Tonia (shaking his head).
Tonia: One of my greatest fears is living a mediocre life so I'm hoping my story can stand on its own some day. That it won't be so forgettable.

Anyway, that's the beginning of our conversation. But not the end of my thought process. I hope it doesn't sound like I'm ungrateful for my life or looking for any drama. I just want the story of Tonia to be one you want to be told over and over. Or the kind of story you start reading at bedtime and just can't put down.

I think the only way to have a story like that is to be authentic and live honestly. Not for anyone else but you. Not with any thought to "what will others think". The best way to encourage Clementine to live courageously, determined, and curious is be courageous, determined and curious. Make no room for doubting. No room for second guesses.

I'm writing my own story, word by word. And I'm helping create Clementine's story, and I'm playing a key role in Nate's story. So I have a lot of responsibility. I have a lot of living to do; a lot of living minus all the fear and doubt. That's a big pill to swallow.

2009, Mexico. I was horrified to scuba dive. But I did it.
And look at my smile. Must have more of these moments.

How do you do that? How do you live free of worry and doubt and second guessing? How do you live without the presence of fear? I'd love to hear your thoughts.

LOVE, AND OTHER WORDS CLEMENTINE TAUGHT ME

2012-01-24T01:49:00.000-07:00

Being 40 when you have your first baby is super rad. But I must admit that days after we had Clementine Nate declared "Let's do this again soon" and I retorted, "Why did we wait so long in the first place?" I love being Clemmy's mama right now, just as it is, forty and fabulous. But I feel a little silly having lived 40 years before I learned the meaning of certain things. I graduated with a degree in English. My vocabulary is okey dokey (see?), but then along came Clem and my eyes were opened. Case in point:

SAHM: Stay at Home Mom. Yes, I joined some online mom communities. I knew there would be questions I'd have at 2am and the Internet would be the only one awake to answer them. SAHM gets thrown around a lot, as does DH (dear husband), LO (little one) and EFF (exclusively formula feeding). That last one stings because EBF (exclusive breast feeding) moms think you are pathetic and lazy. Suck it EBF moms. I EFF and my baby is strong and healthy and PERFECT. Sheesh

MAMA BEAR: I thought I had a handle on this one. I've always said that if you mess with my family or friends I'll go "mama bear" on your ass. But I think I only knew how to go "bear" on your ass before I had Clementine. For example, let's say you're unkind to my sister. I would come to your house and tell you exactly what I thought of you...throwing in all sorts of expletives and "why I oughta's". Say something unkind to Clementine and while I'm at your house giving you the "what for" I'll also reach into your chest, pull out your heart, and feed it to you. THAT is how I serve up a little mama with my bear.

PARENTAL PRIDE: I just didn't understand those tacky parents who drove around with the stickers that said, "Proud parent of an honor roll student." Oh, I get it now. I mean, if I thought you'd listen I'd tell you how Clementine is the world's best sleeper/pooper/smiler and that she eats solids with such voracity that I want to stand on my front porch and tell the world that my miniature-born preemie baby eats solids way better than ANY BABY EVER DID while I held her little body up toward the heavens ala Lion King.

OVER-PROTECTIVE: My plan before I had Clementine was to go back to work. For my sanity. Yeah, right. Let me just say that I've caught myself telling my own mother how to feed my baby. I've also given her pointers on how to change a diaper, read a bedtime story, and burp. My. Own. Mother. Hi, I'm Tonia, and I'm over-protective. If I've ever let you hold Clementine, feed her, change her, or look at her for too long, then you know I love you and trust you with my most precious possession.

LOVE: Sure I loved before Clemmy. I loved my family, my friends, Nathan. Nate has been known to make fun of me because I love so enthusiastically. He calls me Elmira after the Tiny Toons character. I grew up hearing my parents and Sunday school teachers tell me that Heavenly Father loved me. I sang songs about it in primary. I knew it as a fact the way I know that Abraham Lincoln was a good president; because someone told me he was. But after I held Clementine for the first time; saw her tiny wrinkled body thriving and strong; recognized her graceful, patient spirit; witnessed this miracle baby sprint into life with the kind of gusto you read in a Hemingway novel; I thought, Wow, Heavenly Father does love me. He loves me enough to let me take care of THIS little one. And he probably loves me the way I love her. I really had no idea about love.

Are you kidding me with this face?

LOOK UP

2012-01-21T01:06:00.001-07:00

I read a well-written and perfectly-timed article from the Huffington Post by Glennon Melton a few days ago. I was feeling really down about my body, getting super tired of the two pair of black yoga pants I keep wearing, tired of all my sloppy t-shirts, tired of my gray hair and ashen skin. Just tired. Period. I cannot blame this on Clementine. She sleeps 8-10 hours every night. Has since she was 8 weeks old. I did nothing to make that happen by the way. She gets all the credit. Anyway, read the article. It will change your perspective.

So after I read the article I knew I had a choice. I could look up or I could look down.

When I look down I see my morphed body. What used to suck in now doesn't. What used to be tight is now...not. When I look down I see the crumbs on the floor and the dust bunnies floating around and settling in great numbers in the corners. When I look down I see the laundry I sorted but didn't get around to doing anything about. When I look down I see my dirty tub and toilets, a stack of books I keep meaning to read, Christmas stockings I never finished making, a bag of clothes that needs to go to the DI. When I look down, my bed isn't made and there are dishes in the sink and formula spills on the couch. When I look down I miss Nate's face.When I look down I get down.

When I look up it's a different story. I see Clementine doing an amazing superman impression, above my head. When I look up her face swallows me up and hours pass unnoticed. When I look up I see Nate's eyes that I swear can speak to me if I'm quiet enough. When I look up I see the walls and ceiling which rarely look dirty. When I look up I see potential and hope. God is up there, too, just hoping I keep this perspective a little longer. When I look up I'm alarmingly present and living in the moment. When I look up I don't see myself and the body I've become. Looking up, I'm aware of who I really am and it has nothing to do with yoga pants or dust bunnies and the dirty toilets.

So much time has been wasted looking down so I quit. To hell with it. Tonight I watched Nate give Clementine a bath. My two favorite people splashing and totally connected. Both of them smiling. I smothered lavender and chamomile lotion all over Clem's body and noticed how soft her feet are. I put her in those cute polka dot jammies I love. I fed her carrots and apples and bananas and parsnips and she ate it all with the ferociousness of a lion. And then we rocked and I told her the story of when she was born and I watched her eyes sloooooooowly close. I would have missed it all searching for buns of steel.

So I think I've just figured out what my resolution is. Scrap all the "go to the dentist" and "lose 30 pounds" because that will come in time. But if I live this year...or better yet, if I live this LIFE looking up, then boy have I really lived.

I love taking Clem on walks and talking about stuff!