One year later, everything and nothing has changed in my life. I’m still overwhelmed. I’m still both physically and emotionally exhausted beyond a reasonable degree. And yes, I still do a fair share of sucking in my gut.

But I have this guy. His name is baby Paul.

When I look at myself in photos, I don’t necessarily love what I see. I see physical flaws, and I fault myself for letting myself “go”.

I beat myself down by numbers that shouldn’t matter anymore. The weight I was when I started college. The number on the scale on my wedding day. How many pounds I weigh today, 4 months (and 4 babies) postpartum.

I know them all by heart. I carry them around with me like heavy stones tucked into the pockets of my self worth. It’s so dumb, I know.

I know I shouldn’t be comparing my 19 year old body to my 33 year old body, you know I still do. I tell myself I should find security in my new “old” body. I shouldn’t be ashamed that my belly is soft. It’s carried babies! I shouldn’t find embarrassment in my saggy chest. It’s nourished my my children!

And yet, it’s hard to change. Hard to find self acceptance even when you know it’s the right thing to do.

But I’m working on finding comfort in my own skin.

This week is again Swimsuit confidence week. Head on over to Curvy Girl Guide and bask in the bravery of the women who have strutted their swim suit stuff, and have done it with grace and beauty. Yes, there’s where you can find a full length body shot of me in my tankini. (omgee, that gives me hives just typing it out)

Ugh, love it or hate it, swimsuit season is here. Your kids want you to take them to the pool, they told me so.

*thanks Casey, for putting up with me, and taking yet another ridiculously requested photo.

It’s no secret that I have a really bad memory. In fact, one of the primary reasons I started to blog was so I would have a place to write down and document my families life as it was happening. My memory is so bad, I barely remember a thing from grade school.

I mean, I remember a few things, but not much. I remember my favorite hot lunches were chili & cinnamon roll on Wednesday, and stale cardboard pizza slice every other Friday. I remember my bus driver’s name was Winni was possibly the largest lady I’d ever seen to date. Sitting in the back of her bus is where I learn what a tampon was. thanks to a mature 5th grader and a Teen Magazine. I remember the time my younger sister threw up a banana on the playground, and the time a girl named Heather peed on me during recess.

Other than that, most of grades k-5 are a complete loss, except for one event and one favorite second grade teacher.

Her name was Ms. O. (because her real last name was impossibly Dutch, meaning impossible to pronounce, so we all just called her Ms. O. ) She was the kindest, most caring teacher I ever had. She had Farrah Fawcett hair, and was really tall.

Half way through the year, Ms. O became Mrs. B., when she finally cashed in her “old maid” status and got married to a skinny man with a mustache.

The best part of that school year came when she invited the  whole class to attend her wedding. It was the first wedding I ever attended, and it was just as magical as I imagined it. I wore a white frilly dress that probably upstaged the bride, and attended a cake reception in the basement of a musty smelling church that was held especially for our second grade class. Mr. & Mrs. B even fed each other wedding cake and I even saw them kiss. Yes, it was just as magical as dreamed it would be.

Another thing happened in second grade. I met a boy named Michael. Michael came from a big family and his mom was the school’s secretary.

Michael and I’s last names sat close together in the alphabet, so by default we often sat next to each other in class.

While Michael and I would for the most part go in separate directions after 2nd grade, we would again meet up during the Summer of 1998 on the campus of Michigan State University.

Our casual campus run-in would quickly evolve from “Hey, don’t I know you?” to “I think we were in the same 2nd grade class together” to “Will you marry me?”.

A week from today, Michael and I will celebrate our 10th wedding anniversary. One decade and four children later, I’m still madly in love with that skinny dark haired kid I met in my second grade class.

Sometimes I think about Ms. B. I wonder how it all turned out for her. Did she have children of her own with the mustache man? Is she still happily married, and teaching second grade?

I suppose if I wanted, I could probably dig around and figure out whatever happened to Mrs. B. But in my mind, she’s lived happily ever after, and I think that’s the way I want to remember her story.

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I’m super excited to be partnering with Hallmark this year for its “Life Is A Special Occasion” campaign. It’s truly my honor to be able to tell you stories about my everyday special moments. Sharing my stories and having them sponsored by Hallmark is a dream come true. Please consider signing up for Hallmarks e-newsletter, where you’ll receive discounts, special offers, and other fun stuff.

My days fly by at a pace I can’t even comprehend anymore. I’m the master of taking on too much, biting off far more than my body will ever be able to digest. My days go by in rushed one hour chunks of time, I’ll try to shove 3 hours in a 60 minute feed bag every chance I get.

Feed/Nap/Change/Meet all the needs of all the people.

Work/work/work/work.

Be a good friend, attentive wife (really, who am I kidding), and a mother who looks her kids in the eye when they are telling her a story.

I oftentimes go to bed feeling as if they day was a big fat FAIL, only because so much of my to-do list was left unchecked.

I’m doing my best to hurry it all up, so I can slow it all back down. Does that make sense?

Stuff has been happening:

I’m running 95 miles just to justify a pair of hot pink shoes.

Michael dropped Paul, and we’ve all lived to tell about it.

Tips to shopping your local farmers market like a pro.

And if you’ve ever considered cloth diapering but don’t know where to start, Casey wrote an amazingly detailed “best of” article I suggest you check out. The two skinny boys she mentions? Yeah, those belong to me. I’m now a cloth diaper snob thanks to all my product testing.

And for the giveaway lover:

It’s a giveaway for an iBounce indoor trampoline for kids. Even more entertaining than jumping on the sofa, so Nola claims.

Oh, and enter to win a $60 gift certificate to my favorite brand of kids shoes, umi.

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As always, thanks for putting up with me and all my ramblings, wherever they may be published. Your encouragement and friendship means the world to me.

I guess you could call me a phone-tographer. I use my phone, for all my photos. I know, the shame.

Earlier this afternoon, Paul was in a a fantastically good mood, despite it being 85 degrees in the bedroom because of our broken air conditioner,  so I quickly tickles his bare little belly, pulled my phone out of my back pocket, and snagged an impromptu capture. From there,  I (naturally) uploaded it to instagram.

Tonight, five hours after I uploaded the photo, it had 58 likes.

A few minutes ago, I showed Piper my instagram feed, and instead of agreeing with me on how adorable her brother was, she was all “ohhhh…. 57 likes!”

And then she asks “Mom, can you take a picture of me and put it on the internet? See how many “likes” I get?”

Heart punch.

I’ve recently been noticing that she’s searching for acceptance. She’s a people pleaser by nature, and getting “all the likes” is important to her.

I hate it.

I want to keep her a little girl forever. I want to protect her from mean girls and people that will tell her she’s not good enough. I’m scared she’s going to grow up in a place where her self worth is based off “likes”.

I want to assure her that she’ll get all the likes. And that her, her sister, and her brothers are my favorite.

They will never know how much I “like” them.

just write.

Yesterday, Nola was painting a birdhouse at the dining room table while I ate my lunch. Out of the blue, she exclaimed: “Dad is smarter than you.”

And while this probably is a true fact, I poked some more, curious to find out if she dug up our SAT scores, or found Michael’s MENSA acceptance letter.

So of course I ask, why is daddy smarter than me?

“Because he’s a boy. And boys are smarter than girls.”

Someone at school told her that. I tried to get it out of her, who told her that, but she wouldn’t give me a straight answer. She did say that dad is smarter than me because he mows the lawn and does stuff around the house. Apparently, I have to step up my “doing stuff around the house” game.

I’m sad that at 4 years old, she’s already being told she’s not as smart as the boys in her class.

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And then Piper brought home an unfertilized *ahem* egg.

Piper’s school just got a mobile hen house, which is a pretty cool thing for an urban school to keep in their playground. Anyway, after school Piper did some work with the chickens, scooping out the poop or something, therefore earning herself a prized chicken egg.

This chicken egg has been her prized position and current obsession, to the point where she even wrote her name in sharpie all over the shell so it not be confused with the other chicken eggs in the refrigerator.

Bragging at dinnertime about her new egg, she said like eleventybillion times: “This egg is unfertilized, so we can eat it!”

And the conversation quickly spiraled (and so did my head): “This egg is unfertilized. I’m going it eat this unfertilized egg. Why can we eat unfertilized eggs? Why can’t we eat fertilized eggs? What is a fertilized egg? How does an egg get fertilized? Do we have eggs? Do they get fertilized? How do they get fertilized? You did what with your what?”

Hey kids look! Look out the window! It’s a signing pink zebra!

I kid you not, we went from “I scooped chicken shit today” to “where to babies come from” in less than 3 minutes. I was caught off guard, disturbed, and unable to finish my chicken pot pie.

I’ve decided I’m really good at take care of newborns. I am a master when it comes to changing diapers, filling tiny empty bellies, and swaddling little 12 pound nuggets.

But I’m freakishly ill prepared when it comes to these little girls. Sure, I can braid their hair and paint their nails, but when it comes down to maturely answering these tough questions, I’m pretty much chicken shit.

I need to buy a book. Or download an app. Or take a parenting class or something.

Because I want to do the right thing, and I thought I had more time to prepare.

Good moms hope that the baby doesn’t get up in the middle of the night, because that means that the baby is growing. NO. This mom is just plain tired of getting up in the middle of the night and would rather sleep than deal with a baby at 3:38am.

Good moms want their babies to take long naps, because naps are healthy, and naps help babies be happy little well rested creatures. NO. This mom hopes her baby will take long naps, because that means she can catch up on laundry, prep for dinner, or vacuum the carpets without the guilt of not holding her baby when he’s awake.

Good moms take their kids to the park because kids love the park and it’s a fun place for kids to hang out. NO. This mom goes to the park so her kids will run and play without asking for a snack every thirty seconds. She goes to the park in hopes that one of her friends will be at the park, and she can get some adult interaction. This mom goes to the park so her kids will run out their energy and go to bed without complaining.

Good moms get up before their kids wake in the morning. She’s showered, dressed, and breakfast is on the table before 7am. NO. This mom has to be woken up by her husband, 20 minutes before school drop-off happens.

Good moms do not drink caffeine throughout the day to stay awake and certainly do not use a glass of wine at night to wind down. NO. This mom always drinks caffeine during the day, and frequently drinks a glass of wine after dinner.

Good moms set up play dates for their kids, because kids love play date, and social interaction is healthy for children. NO. This mom schedules play dates because it means her kids will be entertained and leave her alone for a few hours.

Good moms make sure their kids have plenty of books to read, because reading is learning and learning is good. NO. This mom makes sure her kids have plenty of books to read, because books are a nice quite activity. This mom goes crazy at the noise level in her house and oftentimes locks herself in the bedroom to escape the chaos after dinner is done.

Good moms let their kids make their own lunches, because it teaches independence and kids love to make their own choices. NO. This mom lets her kids make their own lunches because she’s oftentimes too tired to fight with her kids about their food choices.

Good moms enroll their kids in year round school because it provides structure, routine, and cultivates learning. NO. This mom enrolls her kids in year round school because she has two little boys at home and she can’t imagine having all four of them home for 9 weeks straight through the summer.

Good moms take their kids to the zoo/children’s museum/bouncy house place because it’s a fun activity the kids will love. NO. This mom takes her kids places like that because it will eat up a chunk of the day, and get them out of the house for a few hours.

Good moms give selflessly all day long to their children. They never wish for downtime away from their kids, and love being with them every single second of the day. Good moms never have ulterior motives for the things they do with their children. The children of Good moms never act out in public, are never rude to adults, and are always well behaved. Good moms are always happy, never overwhelmed, have houses that are cleaned and organized, and children that are also cleaned and organized.

Everyone you know is a Good mom, except for you. You do a lot of things Good moms do, except you do them for the wrong reason, which means you suck at being a mom.

(This was my inner monolog last night while I was trying to fall asleep. I’m just writing it down, not that I want to remember any of it.)

And I know, this Good mom doesn’t exist. Except sometimes I think she does. And I know, I don’t totally suck at being a mom, except sometimes I think I do.

I’m in a “head above water” situation right now when it comes to being a mom. When I’m with my kids, which is all the time, I keep my thoughts to myself and a smile (mostly) on my face. I pray often, that my intentions will shift, and that someday in my mind, I’ll be a  good enough mom.

Because when I  try, I end up baking cakes that will forever be referred to as “the turd cake”.

Or singing a chaotic rendition of happy birthday, complete with hulk smashing the candles out, stepping on pinky toes, and odd Adam Sandler voice-overs.

But you know what? I’m positive I make my kids feel special on their bid day, and they go to bed with their little love tanks filled up. Kinda quirky, lots of weird, not always traditional, but always full of good intentions, that’s my parenting style. I’ve convinced myself that even the most low key of events can make for the most special and memorable memories.

Over the last 10 days, two of my favorite people in the whole world had very important birthdays. My nephew turned 1, and one of my best friends in the whole world turned 30.

Andrew’s 1st birthday, it was a big deal.

You see, up until about 9 days before Andrew was born, we had no idea this little blessing of a baby boy even existed. Through the miracle of an amazing (and lightening speed) adoption journey, he found his way into our family forever.

And because of that hard, painful, but beautiful process, my sister and brother-in-law celebrated Andrews birth by throwing him an epic Dr. Seuss themed party.

Chocolate birthday cake? Yes please.

Thing 1 and Thing 2? Come sit on my lap… (That’s my sister and her new boyfriend. In our family, that’s how you meet the family. Yes, this was the first time we ever met him. I think the blue hair and unitard  suits him well)

But because of school, Piper wasn’t able to make it to the party. Instead, she gave the gift of the year. A recordable storybook by Hallmark. When I first discovered the recordable storybooks, I thought they would be a cute way for a parent or grandparent to read a book to a child. But you guys, Piper recorded a story for Andrew, and it seriously melted the hearts of every single person at the party. So absolutely adorable to hear a 7 year old’s high pitched voice stumble though the pages. A priceless moment in time.

Andrew’s first birthday, it was a gigantic deal.

And then one week later, I got to celebrate Casey’s 30th birthday. If you know Casey, you know that birthdays are a HUGE deal to her. Casey’s the kind of girl that can make anyone feel loved and special through her amazing words and photos.

Casey’s 30th birthday, it was a huge deal.

Much of Casey’s and I’s relationship has been solidified over cured meats, stinky cheeses, and the written word. So for her 30th birthday, I knew exactly how to celebrate her.

With a generous plate of meats and cheeses.

And a simple card shower.

See what I mean about her photos? The way they make you feel? All I asked her to do was take a quick camera phone snapshot of the stack of cards she received on her birthday, and this is what she sent me a few minutes later.

Hallmark just rolled out a brilliant (and free) service called “card showers“. Setting it up (and even participating) is quick and simple, I know, I’ve been on both ends of a couple card showers already. And honestly, who doesn’t love opening up the mailbox and finding a stack of lovely cards?

For Casey, it’s the least I could do.

Gah, I love birthdays. More specifically, I love celebrating and honoring the people in my life that make everyday is beautiful.

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I’m super excited to be partnering with Hallmark this year for its “Life Is A Special Occasion” campaign. It’s truly my honor to be able to tell you stories about my everyday special moments, like celebrating birthdays.  Sharing my stories and having them sponsored by Hallmark is a dream come true. Please consider signing up for Hallmarks e-newsletter, where you’ll receive discounts, special offers, and other fun stuff.

Paul is now 3 (and a half, can’t forget the half) months old. He’s suddenly showing some serious signs of cutting his first tooth. Gallons of drool, unexplained crankypants tendencies, and waking up more than typical (for him) throughout the night.

I’ve determined that teeth are on the not so distant horizon for him.

Last week Casey gave Paul a Baltic amber teething necklace. These adorable little necklaces supposedly release healing oils that alleviate teething symptoms.

A natural product that makes cutting teeth less painful? Sign us up! I’ll give it a go!

But my husband, he’s a bit of a naysayer. Michael doesn’t put much stock in the idea, but per usual humors my efforts and approaches with bit of sarcastic humor.

“That’s Paul’s necklace to keep the tigers away. See? It works! No tigers around…”

So that’s what we’re doing. Four babies into this parenting gig, and we’re warding off tigers with little beaded necklaces. Apparently, as of recently, hungry tigers are running around the Central Indiana region in epidemic numbers, hunting for little baby boys to munch on.

Gah.

He can joke all he wants, the necklace is staying on. It’s not like his nipples are in jeopardy of being chomped off.

I KICKDS HIM! (that’s him wanting to kiss Paul)

I NEED A CHEESEBOOGAR! (that’s what I listened to for 2 hours straight , from 9-11am on our road trip last weekend, after he spied the golden arches)

I GOT YOUR PEENA! (word to the wise, don’t walk neeked in front of this boy. He’ll get your peena.)

WHERE’S MY WANKIE?

He whispers in all caps. And sounds like a 50 year old man trapped in a toddlers body.

Perfecting his duckface for the camera, Jersey Shore beware.

This kid. He’s so funny. Not funny at all how the girls were funny, but funny in the way only a little boy could be.

If he disagrees with you, he will just “RAWR” in your face. A simple “no” just won’t do.

Dinos. Tractors. Swords. Yoda and Gabba. It’s all a part of his very sophisticated M.O.

He’s all boy, except when he’s all pirate princess. Watch out, this princess will ask for a snack and then slay you dead.

This kid is cool. This kid is mine.

just write.

Today I’m recovering from my first ever (since having Paul) solo road trip to Michigan. My freakishly adorable nephew was turning 1 years old, and was having a birthday party that was not to be missed.

Upon arrival, my body gave way, and came I down with an insane case if mastitis (which I wrote about here). Boob infection, for those not interested in the Google search. It’s apparently caused by stress and fatigue, go figure.

My body caved, it was only a matter of time. I’m honestly surprised it took this long.

One of the worst parts of having Mastitis is that you have to nurse (or pump) through it, which is excruciatingly painful. I left my pump back home, so a nursing we went. A literal HOT DAMN is a I can say about that…

Even though I got sick, Michigan wasn’t a complete bust. We still had fun, and as always, the kids had a blast.

Paul tried on his Dutch costume. (He’s a dapper little dude, don’t you think?)

Spent lots of time playing outside at my parents house. I love their house, the house I grew up in. I kind of fantasy about raising my family in it.

This is Gage’s standard “I need more sleep, get that camera outta of my face” expression.

Introduced them to wildlife. Paul’s head almost got licked off by a Black Angus beef burger.

Took naps on Grandpa:

And of course, played a little “things on my baby” with Paul. Paul appeared indifferent, but I know he was less than amused.

I need a nap STAT. (my dad makes it look so easy, sleeping with two kids on his lap)

I’ll admit it. I’m feeling overwhelm with life right now. It’s all mostly good stuff, but still a lot of stuff.

This week’s calendar is shaping up to be crazy busy with the every day blah blah blah’s of my ordinary normal life. I know it’s just a season, and seasons change quickly. But today, I’m crying uncle.