Thomas treats any camera like it’s wielded by the paparazzi – any time you get one out he’s covering the lens, his face, or running for cover.

The boy is so against being photographed, we’ve taken to calling him Sean Penn.

But yesterday he was so proud of himself for spelling his name in sticks that I took advantage and asked if I could take his picture. Thankfully he forgot his prejudice for just a moment.

What a cutie pie!

This is me. And that is my ass. And my arm, and several of my chins.

I’m not really sure why I thought it was a good idea for Bryan to take a picture of me on the ferry this weekend, but clearly I was out of my mind.

I’ve gained weight since January when I started working. I haven’t gained any weight in the five years since I had Thomas, but sitting at a computer for most of the day is working against me. I guess the daily rigor of being a full time household manager was enough to maintain my weight, eh? Who knew?

I love to run. I love the endorphin rush, the discipline, the breathing, the steady rhythm, and the way it de-stressed me between the shoulder blades. However, my body is soft and my muscles are weak. Any time I try running, my body breaks down and betrays my will.

To help strengthen my muscles and learn better posture – and quite honestly to break it up a little – I thought I’d try yoga. There’s a HOT yoga studio near my house, and I went for the first time last night.

This is what I learned:

1. It’s hot in there.
2. Really hot.
3. The ice water in my stainless steal water bottle was luke warm by the end of class.
4. That’s hot.
5. I placed my mat in what I thought was the back of the room.
6. It turned out to be the front.
7. The entire class got to watch me fail over and over again.
8. Ninety percent of yoga is mental.
9. I wanted to quit so many times, but pressed through.
10. My mind tried to talk me into quitting.
11. I had to quiet it with my will.
12. I have a better idea of the way I’m supposed to stand.
13. It is not the way I’m standing in this picture.
14. My feet are tiny and my hips are ginormous.
15. Basic physics will tell you I tipped over a lot.
16. Yoga instructors really like their short shorts.
17. I was not able to do some of the poses.
18. I couldn’t get my fat out of the way.
19. I didn’t let this paralyze me.
20. One position made me fart.
21. Actually, I farted twice.
22. When you bend your body in half and squeeze, these things happen.
23. One hour in I panicked.
24. I thought I was going to suffocate.
25. Yoga is ninety percent mental.
26. I finished the class.
27. I will probably go back on Wednesday.
28. Unless I’m too sore to get out of bed.

I didn’t grow up eating brussel sprouts, and had no idea what they tasted like until a couple years ago. I’ve since discovered that how you cook a brussel sprout will determine how edible it is, so I’ve tried several different recipes.

Recently Bryan blew me away with the simplest dish – halved brussel sprouts tossed with olive oil, salt, and pepper, and grilled directly on the grilling rack.

Tender, crispy, salty, and oh so good.

A couple weeks ago I gave a short presentation on Lilipip at Tech Cafe (formerly Lunch 2.0), and I brought Ruthie along to the happy hour event because I wanted her to see see me in action.

After seeing my name tag, which said @jenzug above @lilipip, Ruthie wanted to alter her name tag to be just like mine.

Sometimes I take it for granted how much Ruthie wants to be like me. More than occasionally I’m impatient or irritated by it because it usually involves some time and effort on her part, and I don’t like to be slowed down.

It’s pure selfishness and ridiculousness on my part, because aside from Jesus who ELSE would I want her to be like?!

Bringing her along was an experiment, and one that ended successfully. Ruthie stood at the door and handed guests a name tag and pen as they arrived.

Occasionally she gave out hugs.

Having her with me felt like one of those important stolen moments when Life and Work converge, and I look forward to letting her tag along more often.

Bryan likes it when I wear two pigtails in my hair – he says it makes me look spunky. After nine years of marriage he still gets a come-hither twinkle in his eye when I wear them, so pigtails is how I wear my hair whenever he takes me out.

Friend: “Wow. Is that a salad or a dip?”

Bryan: “Yes.”

I brought this salad regularly to a weekly summer BBQ we attended with a small group from our church last summer. It’s intended as a salad, but as we all waited for our meat to grill the bowl disappeared along with half a bag of tortilla chips.

This summer we are hosting the weekly BBQ at our house, and about three weeks into it one of my friends mentioned the salad. As in, WHERE IS THAT BEAN SALAD YOU MAKE?

So now it’s back in rotation, and I highly recommend it. It’s quick, easy, and made with things I always have on hand.

Corn & Bean Salad with Lime Cilantro Vinaigrette

1 can corn, drained
1 can black beans, drained
2 peppers, any color, diced
1/2 red onion, diced
1 tomato, diced

1/4 c. olive oil
1/2 c. fresh cilantro, finely chopped
1 T cider vinegar
Juice of 2 limes
1 garlic clove, minced or pressed
lime zest from 1/2 lime
1/2 t smoked paprika
1/2 t black pepper
1/4 t garlic salt
1/4 t chili powder

• In a large bowl, combine corn, black beans, peppers, onion, and tomato.
• In heavy bottomed bowl, combine cilantro, vinegar, limes, garlic, zest, and spices.
• With a large whisk, whisk quickly as you slowly drizzle in olive oil to emulsify.
• Add dressing to salsa, toss, and serve.

I cleaned the kitchen, pitched some clutter, and managed to keep five kids happy and entertained.

At 4:30 I finished a task and considered what to do next. There is always a long list – sometimes mental, sometimes actually written down, sometimes stashed away on my computer – ALWAYS taunting.

I looked at my dining room table (cluttered with Legos and markers), I looked at my piano (dusty), I looked at my bathroom (swimsuits on the floor and toothpaste spit in the sink), and I decided to…. take a break.

It felt absurd to take a break in the midst of so much left to do, but my day started at 6am with a call to Montreal and I hadn’t stopped moving or thinking since then.

So I opened my Google Reader and stretched out on the couch.

Thirty seconds later the kids were milling about in the room.

Seriously? They’d been playing happily for several hours. I have a big house with a basement playroom and a back yard. I hadn’t seen these guys for more than a thirty second pass-through, and the moment I sit down for a break they hover.

I felt like a half-chewed carcass in the desert, fighting for my life as five three-foot vultures circled around me, waiting for me to breath my last. They weren’t even doing anything – they literally were standing around in the living room while I laid (layed?) there reading.

It was an interesting sociological phenomenon, watching their obvious discomfort and perplexation at my doing nothing. Was I the battery that energized the entire household? Was I the monkey winding the box? Apparently my lack of bustling shut the entire operation down.

Until I said “FRUIT SNACKS!” and they all went racing into the kitchen to raid the snack basket. They never returned, and I finished my break.

Me: “Thomas, be sure to tell your friends to stay out of the blueberry bushes.”

Thomas: “What blueberry bushes?”

“The three blueberry bushes we planted in the garden.”

“We don’t have any blueberry bushes.”

“Yes we do. They’re the bushes next to the big hole you’re digging to the center of the earth.”

“The strawberry bushes?”

“NO! The bushes right next to the hole!”

“But MOM! I’m TRYING TO TELL YOU SOMETHING – we don’t HAVE blueberry bushes!”

*sighs* “Never mind.”

Thomas, to his friend as they walk out the door: “Mom’s lying. We don’t have any blueberry bushes.”

This was me waiting for fireworks on the 4th of July, though it looks more like I’m waiting at the finish line for the Iditarod.

As it goes in Seattle, it rained and it was cold. We tried to convince the kids we’d be better off snuggling under a blanket watching Where the Wild Things Are, but no – WE WANT FIREWORKS TAKE US TO THE FIREWORKS.

Given that 90% of my parenting style is born from a keen sense of laziness, it was difficult to muster up the motivation to take my kids out in this weather. But apparently THIS was the day I was to turn a new leaf, to lose myself in the adventure, and to do something “enjoyable” for my kids that required effort.

So off we went.

We waited until 9:15 to head down to a Lake Washington pier near our house. Bryan had already parked the car down there for the drive back, so we walked the mile and a half or so, schlepping chairs and blankets. It was cold, but the weather seemed to be holding, and I thought maybe we’d be spared the rain.

Around 9:30 it started to rain.

It rained hard.

It rained and the wind blew.

The wind was cold.

My feet and legs were drenched and freezing inside five minutes.

At 9:35 Ruthie began to whine that she was cold and wet and wanted to go home to watch the movie.

We’re here because of you! I wanted to scream. But I didn’t. Well, I may have mentioned it. At any rate, Thomas threw a fit at the idea of going home, so Ruthie and Bryan waited in the car while Thomas and I braved the elements.

The only part of this adventure more harrowing than the rain and cold, was Thomas asking every 30 seconds when the fireworks were going to start – I wasn’t sure he was going to come out of the evening alive.

As I listened to the internet whine all month about the crappy whether in June, I tried to remind everyone that this is what Seattle DOES. And sure enough, the forecast beginning July 5th is amazing with sun.

There are better house cleaners than me. This is fact.

I’m not in denial of it anymore, either. In fact, I wear this badge proudly. I see it as one of the benefits of approaching my 40′s – I really don’t care what you think about me anymore, because I know I’m awesome. And if you see a few dust bunnies under my dining room table? I think I’ll survive your quiet judgment.

In the summer my house gets particularly funky, what with all the being outside and all. This is why I never understood Spring Cleaning. Why clean like crazy in the Spring? I go crazy in the Fall when I become reacquainted with my broom and duster again.

But where I am lacking, Bryan takes up the slack. He ACTUALLY CLEANS the house, while I just make the house APPEAR clean with trick lighting and strategic furniture placement.

I used to feel guilty when he cleaned the house. I took it as a sign of my failure that I couldn’t manage to pick up a broom while he worked outside the home all week.

Lately I’ve been working on taking responsibility for my actions.

Instead of blaming my bad day or the fact that I’m too tired or something else came up, I simply accept the fact I am a little bit of a slob. This may sound like the opposite epiphany to have, but bear with me. If I admit I am a slob, then I can either change or live with it. No more making excuses or blaming someone else.

So now I practice thankfulness instead of guilt.

If Bryan cleans the house, I thank him for helping me instead of barking at it him that I CAN DO IT, ALRIGHT? I WAS JUST ABOUT TO DO THAT. And if I have to apologize because I played Plants vs Zombies all day instead of emptying the dishwasher, I apologize and thank him for picking up the slack.

Guilty feelings breed drama, and I’m kind of over the drama. I’d rather own it and move on.