First Video Post Ever.

It has literally been years since I have posted to this blog. I have so many distractions *ahem* responsibilities but it has suddenly become pertinent for me to consolidate all of myself into one spot. So, over the next few weeks, when I have time (when will that be??), I will begin to update this blog to encompass all that I have created both online and off. I confess, it will not be pretty, organized, or even make any sense to you. However, it might be mildly entertaining as I try to get my erratic thoughts and ideas down in writing or in videos. Where one day you may find I am processing photos for a senior portrait session, the next I may be up-cycling an old leather jacket into jewelry. You just never know with me. I am very difficult to keep track of. So, my apologies in advance!

What Has Happened to My Child??

It has been a loooooong time since I have posted. For a variety of reasons I will decline to indulge you in. But, in the time between my last post and now, something has happened to Anja. She has completely transformed. She's like one of those magic pets that grow before your eyes...all you have to do is add water. Except, in Anja's case, I added soy milk, toast and bananas.

(I remember putting the tiny little dinosaur in a big glass mixing bowl of warm water and then coming back two days later to find a slimy, gelatinous, oversized creature that looked like it was ready to burst forth from the comfortable womb that was the mixing bowl. Ah, memories.)

Anyway, as annoying as it is to receive unsolicited advice from old men in the PVC piping aisle at Lowe's Hardware, it is true what they tell you: "Enjoy it...it goes fast."

I might note, too, that the after picture of Anja shown above is not a representation of routine. I simply placed her in the Bumbo to have a frame of reference for her size difference. In fact, she was upsidedown within moments, trying to get the thing off her butt.

Creepy Dolls and an Entirely Unrelated Story of a Stuffed Bunny

We were recently in a local toy store here in North Bend when we came upon the doll section. It made me reminisce about being a little girl and pretending to mother various stuffed animals, namely BunBun (a rabbit) and Tigor (a tiger). Once, I lost BunBun in our apartment complex and went so far as to post "Lost Bunny" signs all over the place. I was determined. Amazingly, we got a call back. A little girl close to my age found him in the playground. I remember going to her house to pick BunBun up and she had placed him dotingly in a basket and put a bonnet upon his head. I abruptly took him from the basket and removed the bonnet. No one was going to dress my bunny.

This led me to realize that I have no memory of any particular dolls I had as a child. Not because I didn't have any but because I think I really found them creepy. Much like these (see photo). I just can't picture some little girl seeing these and saying to her mother, "Mommy, pleeeeeease can I have the dolls with the plastic bags over their heads? Pleeeease?!"

I find the choice in packaging morbidly hilarious. I snickered as I approached them to get a closer look. I had so many questions. Why are there two of them? Are they twins? Is the fact that one has its mouth open supposed to illustrate the aftermath of what having a bag on your head might look like? What might that lesson sound like? Okay, kids, now this one is a normal baby (referring to the closed-mouth doll). And this one is a baby after a plastic bag has been on its head for a period of time (ahem, referring to the, uh, open-mouthed doll). And I find it eerily coincidental that their attire is blue. Is it a subliminally macabre reference to asphyxia? I will never know. The wheels keep turning. While they do, I am going to try and forget the images these creepy little dolls invoke. Maybe I should go cuddle with BunBun...

Kept: Top 10 Signs You're a Spoiled SAHM

Okay, so we all know it is very challenging to be a mother. And a wife. And both combined. Not to mention the countless other hats we wear under the umbrella of those two titles. But when I really think about my mother/wife life, I realize how spoiled I actually am.

Don't get me wrong. We deserve it! After carrying a baby for nine months then enduring the blood/sweat/tears to help baby make the journey into the outside world, which I often liken to forcing a watermelon through a garden hose, for those husbands who might be reading who require a bit more descriptive of an illustration to truly understand the magnanimity of bringing another human being into the world. Okay, now that THAT is on the table, here is my list, which I admit, is directly influenced by my own life:





10. You have time to write Top 10 lists.
9. You get regular pedicures.
8. The woman who does your pedicures is a Peruvian lady named Lucy.
7. Your engagement ring offers your baby hours of entertainment.
6. While the DB's on your diaper bag actually stand for Dooney & Bourke, you find it amusing to tell people they also stand for "diaper bag".
5. Your husband surprises you with subscriptions to magazines he knows you like.
4. Your husband brings you your baby in bed in the morning after changing her diaper.
3. Your husband tells you that while you may think breastfeeding has completely changed your boobs, he still thinks they are perfect.
2. Your husband makes you coffee in the morning.

And the number one sign you are a spoiled SAHM is...

1. Your husband works 12 hour days just so you can have the other 9 things I listed, and then some.

Here's to all of you dads/husbands that work hard for your families! We may bitch and moan and give you grief. But at the end of the day, it's you who allow us to be stay-at-home-moms!

Thank you.

We love you.

The End.

Cooking with Kristin: I'd watch me if I weren't me.

I spent way longer in the kitchen than anticipated the other day and so then I felt terrible. At one point, I placed my big mixing bowl on the floor in the middle of the kitchen and squatted over it, violently mixing with both hands. I think I must have looked like a tribal woman, hacking away at bits of tree fibers with a rock to make a rudimentary dough of some sort. Not to mention the fact that my daughter had that "look". You know the one...that mouth-half-open-what-the-hell-are-you-doing-mommy look that can only be characterized by a truly awestruck 7-month-old baby in her ExerSaucer?

In between getting batter mixed, cupcakes in and out of the oven and things cleaned up, I attempted to keep Peanut relatively happy. I am not sure if she was fussy because I was focusing so hard on cooking rather than her or she was just generally fussy. I think it was a little bit of both. So now I feel like a terrible mother. Not to mention the fact that my cupcakes turned out less than pretty. Much less. And my ambitious attempt to make confectioner's sugar in my food processor was a flop and so my chocolate frosting is gritty. As you can see, lacking the proper automatic equipment to mix my batter, my hand is now festooned with four grotesque blisters from going crazy with my wooden spoons. (Note the tiny, suspicious-looking crumb on my pinky.)













What have I learned through all this?

Let's see...a few things:

1. One can't make powdered sugar with a food processor.
2. No matter how hard one tries, one cannot beat cake batter with wooden spoons as fast as a KitchenAid electric mixer and furthermore, if one tries, one will end up with blisters that look like the result of a long hard day in the fields. Or in the jungle, pounding tree fibers. Choose your own adventure.
3. It is probably best to make frosting with real powdered sugar instead of powdered sugar made with a food processor or the frosting feels like eating sand mixed with mud. Again, a tribute to early desserts made by our ancestors by pounding things with rocks.

But, dagnabbit, I have to hand it to myself for a commitment to a dream! My cupcake dream! I wanted to make devil's food cupcakes from scratch and by golly, I did it! They turned out good enough for me to eat the entire plate so that says something right there. I even have some leftover batter. Ohhhhhh, leftover batterrrrrrrr. Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhh. (That last part should be read to the tune of Homer Simpson.)

Roles: Not the Kind You Serve at Dinner

I have been thinking a lot about traditional roles in the household when it comes to husbands, wives and kids. A lot has changed over the last fifty years and I want to be the one to illustrate those changes.

Let us consider, shall we, this ad from Housekeeping Monthly from 1955. I can't say much for it because it really speaks for itself. But when I first read it, I was compelled to make some revisions for our day and age.





The following is my version:














The Good Husband's Guide

• Have dinner ready. Plan ahead, even a week before, to have a delicious meal ready, on time for her return. This is a way of letting her know that you have been obsessing over her and are concerned about her well-being every second of the day. Most women don't want to cook for your lazy ass when she comes home so the prospect of not having to do any more work is part of the warm welcome needed.

• Prepare yourself. Take 15 minutes to pump up and take a shower so you won't be smelly and fat when she arrives. Touch up your deodorant, dab on a little cologne and be fresh looking. She has just been with a lot of smelly nerds and doesn't need to come home to one.

• Be a little gay...no wait, don't be gay. Be ecstatic when she walks in the door and don't say anything stupid. Her boring day doesn't need any of your BS and it is your duty to make sure you don't give her any.

• Clear away the clutter. Make one last trip through the main part of the house before your wife arrives and make sure you didn't leave any of your dirty magazines in plain view.

• Gather up the empty Cheetoh bags, beer cans, porn, etc., and then run the vacuum over the tables.

• Over the cooler months of the year, you should run her a hot bubble bath for her to unwind in. While you're at it, why not pour her a glass of wine? Be available to wash her hair and rub her feet, too. After all, being her personal slave will provide you with immense personal satisfaction.

• Prepare the kids. Plug them into a Barney DVD and forget it.

• Greet her with a flex of the pecks, a smack on the hiney and tell her a hard day's work looks good on her.

• Listen to her. For God's sake, just listen. Don't talk. Don't just nod like an idiot when you know are thinking about the game on Sunday. Let her do the talking - remember, her topics of conversation are way more important than yours and quite frankly, she doesn't want to hear any of your BS. Like I said.

• Make the evening hers. Never complain if she comes home late or goes out with the girls or does other fun stuff without you. Face it, buddy. You went outta style faster than DayGlo.

• Your goal: Try to make sure your home is a place of peace, order and tranquility where your wife can renew herself in body and spirit.

• Don't greet her with your BS. How many times do I have to say that?

• Don't complain if she is late home for dinner or even if you don't see her for an entire week and she never calls. Count this as minor compared to the BS her boss may have put her through all day. Back to the BS. No BS.

• Don't ask her questions about why she bought that pair of Monolos or question her judgment on the trip to Fiji she is planning with her friends. Remember, she is the queen of the house and as such will always do whatever she feels the need to do, whether you like it or not. You have no right to question her.

• A good husband always knows his place.

(Note: No husbands were hurt during the writing of this entry.)

Congratulations, moron. You just won the award for Best Parent of the Year.

I always find myself observing other parents when I am out in public. It is interesting the different styles of parenting I see. There's the mom who lets her kids run amok, reeking havoc like dust storms in the desert. (Get a grip on them already, lady.) There's the earth mama, with a newborn wrapped snugly against her bosom with a stylishly-dressed toddler in tow. (Okay, hippy. I respect the harnessing of zen. But couldn't you wear some deodorant?) You've got the trailer trash, the Bellevue bitches (a.k.a. soccer moms), the ghetto superstars with their lil g's pimped out in all their BabySeanJohnFubuFilaEnyce glory, rockin' their Baby Phat. (No, not baby fat. Baby Phat. Represent.) They've all got their respective styles. It's cool. They all contribute to the diversity of our community. I like to think I am a well-balanced meal of all these courses combined. Being a part of a greater collective of different people makes me feel connected to the parenting community at large.

Then you have the dysnfunctionals. These are my favorite. I see them all too often. They openly chastise their kids in public, indiscreetly and condescendingly. They sit on the bench in front of Target, smoking, while their children sit next to them and watch and inhale and absorb the acrid smoke their parents are teaching them is a normal part of life. They verbally abuse each other, while smoking, openly chastising their kids, dropping the "F" bomb every other sentence.

These parents (if you can call them that) are the ones who perpetuate the cycle of dysfunction by raising their kids (if you can call it that) to follow their examples. They, themselves, were abused, which I suppose I can't fault them for. But it still doesn't make it right, because their kids will abuse and their kids will abuse and their kids, etc., etc.

I, unfortunately, don't have some witty explanation for this. It just stays sad no matter how I try and put humor to it. It's like trying to make bad hair better by upping the AquaNet. It's just not possible. (Okay, that might have been somewhat amusing.)

But, seriously, it just makes me want to be that much better of a mother to my daughter. Then she'll be a good mother to her kids and on through the generations. We have so much power as parents to improve our society by how we raise our children. And that is an amazing role to play in the experience of life on Earth.