LuLaRoe Wardrobe Giveaway!

LuLaRoe is AMAZING and comfortable, and fashion-forward, and has literally saved me.

Check out my giveaway on Facebook! Follow this link to enter! https://m.facebook.com/LuLaRoeSerenaMcRae/photos/a.1706282222974569.1073741828.1706276986308426/1812573709012086/?type=3&notif_t=like&notif_id=1484175002427471&ref=m_notif

 

What Does Your LuLaRoe Say About You?

Yesterday, in the throes of disbelief I realized that almost all of my LuLaRoe was.... DIRTY! I looked into my closet, at my last clean Nicole, and then looked side to side at everything else. There was not a single other item in that closet that I would have chosen over my Nicole. So I headed straight to my kitchen, grabbed a garbage bag and headed to my closet with a newfound freedom. I was bagging up clothes like a crazy woman, and It. Was. Awesome.

 

After emptying about 30 hangers and taking them out of the closet, I set into my LuLaRoe laundry basket (yes, my LuLaRoe gets it's own basket) and was determined to get through the entire basket in a day, to fill my now empty closet with beautiful clothing that makes me FEEL beautiful. I wanted to see it all hanging there at one time. How many of us can look into our closet and see something that fits us on every single hanger? And then I realized, these clothes don't just fit my body, they fit something even more important: my personality! 

Let's take a look at just my Nicole dresses for a second: 

 

Personality, right?! And that's not even including the beauty I am wearing right now!

 

Seeing my laundry hanging up to dry brought me so much joy, because I realized that for the first time in my life, I am CONFIDENTLY dressing my truth! I am not just dressing my body, I am dressing ME! How much greater that is than just fitting my curves; I am also fitting the complex set of experiences and traits that make me into who I am!

Then as I continued in my laundry day, I started seeing some patterns. Let's look at my leggings for a second!

 

I am certain that I have heard my husband tell me at some point, "Don't get those leggings, you already have a pair in that color." First of all: he's such a guy. Secondly: who says that I can't have a favorite color? I was slightly aware, but not entirely, that almost all of my leggings have the same colors in them, of course with variations of others, because, let's face it, I'm me. Aquamarine, turquoise and mint are my best friends. I will tell you that I bought a pair of red leggings once (it was a unicorn!) and as soon as I put them on my legs it was offensive to my SOUL! I know they look killer on whoever has them now, but for me, I kept the blue pair that matched (I was hoarding the deers) and traded the red pair, because I KNEW I would never wear them, even though I thought they were crazy awesome on someone else.

(Now let me say for a second, this is by no means a show-off or contest of how much LuLaRoe I own. We all know I have hosted a bajillion parties in the last year, earning most of my LuLaRoe for free, while my family was barely off of WIC and foodstamps. Poverty did not hold me back from realizing the importance of dressing myself with love, of caring for myself, or realizing that I am worth it. With thoughtful decisions and hard work, anyone can do this!)

So I started noticing patterns in color, but then I noticed a few other patterns as well, quite literally!

 

I love circles. It's totally a thing. I freaking love circles.

 

I also love florals. The brighter the floral the better. Throw some neon in there and I can't even go on. 

(Let me also throw in here, a note: I literally earned five of these pieces for free, and only paid full price for one of them. Host parties, ladies!) Anyway, the first floral I earned for free (the purple one!) I actually thought it was hideous. Grandma. But I had all this credit for free dresses and it had cerulean in it, so I was sold. I literally stood in the mirror for ten minutes when it arrived, in awe at myself in a floral. I never turned back. I. Love. Floral.

I could go on and on about my pattern choices, but instead I'll just leave this here.

 

I like feathers, too.

Now, there are a couple of pieces in my LuLaRoe wardrobe that I don't feel completely natural in. I love these pieces on the hanger, but when I put them on, often times they make me feel like I have to wear a certain makeup, style my hair a certain way, accessories are required even if I don't want them, and it takes a lot of effort, and then I take them off and put on my sunglasses dress. These are them. Tell me if you notice a difference: 

 

And on that note, I bought the red floral Nicole over a YELLOW version of my sunglasses dress, and I literally still lose sleep over that decision. For real. 

So laundry day opened up my eyes a little bit about my shopping tendencies. It was seriously a fun laundry day! Like a personality quiz, way better than Buzzfeed. And then I had this thought: has anyone else analyzed their personal fashion like this?! I'm sure someone has, maybe a lot of people do? But have YOU?

So, if you've made it this far (Hi, Mom!) you're officially into the good stuff! I am going to start something new in LuLaRoe Serena McRae, with the assistance of my bestie, Anna Schumacher! 

Wardrobe Profiling: What Does Your LuLaRoe Say About You?

I am going to create an album where I want YOU to photograph your leggings together, and your nicoles together, your Randys together, etc! Then Anna and I will go through your pictures and help you discover your tendencies. You can make a photo of your absolute favorite pieces that make you feel like you're sparkling, and the pieces you don't wear as often. And together we can create a fashion profile for you! 

Why are we going to do this? 1) FOR FUN! 2) I am your fashion consultant! If we can create a fashion profile for you, you might just get personal recommendations from me, outfits made JUST FOR YOU, or private messages when I find something that is literally perfect for you! 

So here's what I want you to do!

1) Photograph your favorites, then photograph your least favorites. Photograph your leggings, and your other pieces together in separate photos. 

2) Find the Wardrobe Profile album in LuLaRoe Serena McRae, and post one image of your favorite LuLaRoe pieces and caption it with your name! 

3) post your other photographs in the comments of that picture.

4) Get ready to have a fun conversation about your shopping tendencies, your personality, your styles, and whatever else!

5) Recieve LuLaRoe recommendations from me! 

This is going to be fun!!! As fun as my love for blue!

 

LuLaRoe: Fear No Print

LuLaRoe is pretty well known for the craziness of their prints! Personally, I think it's a great reputation to have, but I know that many of us may find busy prints daunting. I'll be the first to say that this print in the Nicole dress wasn't something I thought I would ever wear. However, a talk with my favorite cosmetology friend taught me that it is important, and very simple to break up the busyness of a piece.

 

Let's take this Nicole dress as our example. It is nuts! Every inch of it is packed full of rich color and texture. This print is definitely a DTY type 3 dress. It is a picture of texture and warmth. But it can also be pretty overwhelming! First things first, this piece needs to be surrounded by solids. Brown belt, to find your waist, or draped on your hips, and solid brown boots. A simple jean jacket or vest will frame the fun of the print, and tone it down to a manageable yet fabulous level. If you're loving the busy, boho style, be brave and throw a cream lace duster cardigan over this beauty, and some braids in your hair! (Since I just wrote that, I absolutely need to hit up target now and try it! 😱) 

 

So we used some solids to break up the intensity of the print, but now comes the fun part. With a busy print you get an overload of color, which gives you an entire spectrum of options for accessorizing! Bronze and gold metals, glass beads, bone beads, wood, seashells, minerals and gems! Seriously, how gorgeous would a bronze cuff be with this dress? Metal earrings? Gah! 

 

 

I pulled out some of my favorite pieces and discovered that this dress is basically made for me! But here's a little secret just for you ladies, and it's going to make you want to buy a bronze cuff of your own: this dress isn't mine. It's yours! That's right! This gorgeous, warm, boho Nicole is going in the giveaway stash!!!!

That's right! I now have a minimum of five items for our five weeks of giveaways coming up in June, and I'm not necessarily going to stop collecting goodies for you all, because, let's face it, I'm having way too much fun, aaaaand I really kind of like you guys!

Love ya! 😘

To join in on my LuLaRoe journey, gets tips and critiques on LLR styles, and to keep up on upcoming giveaways, join my to-be shopping group: www.Facebook.com/LularoeSerenaMcRae

To follow me on Instagram: @lularoeserenamcrae

www.Facebook.com/LularoeSerenaMcRae

LuLaRoe and The Incredible Irma

Okay, so yeah, I'm over here working my tush off cleaning my kitchen floor (seriously, you don't even want to know the details), and my thoughts keep coming back to, "Dang am I comfortable!" 

Today I am in the beloved, top-selling outfit for moms everywhere, the Irma top and butter-leggings! I tried to figure out how on earth to show it to you ladies with only myself, a three-year-old and a two year-old at my disposal. So here's my Real Housekeepers Of America pin-up, so you can see the AWESOME combination of baggy tunic with flattering fitted sleeves. 

 

I have been all over the place with this top.  I thought it made me look like a bag lady the first time I tried it.  That was with the recommended two sizes down from my actual size. Bag lady. Two. Sizes. Down.  What the heck kind of top is that?  Next I was in denial and tried out an Irma in my actual size.  This time I was beyond bag lady. I'm talking sail boat proportions. It's a good thing I didn't step outside, because it was a windy day and I probably would have made it to New Mexico. Bag lady. Kite lady. Finally I tried again, but I went only one size down, to go for a legitimate tunic/dress type look.  Ladies. This is it.  Goldilocks freaking loves Irma tunics now.  

It has the perfect balance of flowy fabric, with the fitted sleeves. It doesn't hug under my arms like your average top, which means no sweat circles!! Say what?! I am a sweaty gal. I love this feature. And let's not forget the length! For some the idea of a booty in leggings is a sin, for me, I love but don't flaunt my baby apron, left over from having two kids in two years. The Irma is coverage. Rock those crazy leggings like you are still 16, but throw an Irma on top and you'll look as fab (and appropriate) as you feel.  

Coverage.

Bag-lady fashion potential.

Mom life.

But the Irma doesn't stop there. Like every piece of LuLaRoe you can up-style the life out of this top. Seriously, instead of ogling desserts you'll never bake on Pinterest, just look up the world of possibilities with Irma. Belts. Knots that look like roses. Cinching in the waist with a hair tie, for an ultra flattering look. Irma as a swim suit cover-up. All this, and no underarm sweat circles.

Go on. Get an Irma. 

 

To join my to-be boutique, have a chance at winning some LuLaGoodies, and follow along my LuLaRoe journey, join my group here: www.facebook.com/groups/LuLaRoeSerenaMcRae

To follow me in Instagram: @lularoeserenamcrae

Growth!

Six months ago my mornings were a mixture of depression and anxiety about the following day. If there was dishes in the sink I would literally cry through washing them, while my children screamed for breakfast. Some days I would forget to feed my children until lunch time, because I was too depressed to feed myself. I was malnourished. I was given doctor's orders to drink protein shakes even when I didn't think I could. I needed more than I was giving myself, but I thought more sleep, more peace and quiet was what would heal me.

I visited my sister, who is an early bird, and she had to wake me up every morning. She, as older sisters do, told me, "You don't need more sleep. That's not the answer. You need more activity. Get up early, set a schedule."  If someone else would have said this to me, I probably would have given them the, You-Don't-Know-What-You're-Talking-About-Because-You-Don't-Have-Children Speech.  But my sister is different.  As one of the strongest, most independent women I know, I was like, "... Okay."  

And I did. 

I went home and set my personal alarm to 7:00am. And the next morning I didn't snooze it. I made my kids breakfast. Nobody yelled at me. I didn't cry.  Did I take a nap with my kids that day? Heck yes I did!!! But this time, I deserved it.

This decision to change has snowballed, and it hasn't stopped.  My visit with my sister was just two months ago, and since then, I have walked three mornings a week at 8am, and my enthusiasm has gotten a friend to join me on those mornings, and is helping him battle his depression.  The other days of the week I get up and start my chores without delay. 

But that is not all.

I finally decided it was time to take charge of all of my habits. I joined Weight Watchers, and lost 8 pounds in my first month.  I am about to reach a weight I haven't seen for over two years.  I am planning meals, and buying more produce, and actually eating it before it goes bad!  And you know what?  I can take my kids out for ice cream, watch their joy and not feel sad.  I am finally balanced and happy, and claiming more healthy habits in my life!  And when I absolutely need some Super Nachos from Paco's, I budget it into my day, and I eat it, and I love it!

I decided I needed time for me, so I reached out, and found a job, photographing inventory for a LuLaRoe consultant.  One night a week, I get to chat with a lovely woman while doing work that makes my back hurt, and I get to think about exposure and white balance, while doing something that directly blesses someone else.  And then I take home my paycheck in clothes, drape them over my shrinking body, look in the mirror and love myself.

Today I got up at 7:15am, did a load of laundry, washed all the dishes and cleaned the counter tops, hung up the laundry to dry, walked two miles, sweated out an entire pound, showered and fed my kids all before 10:30am.  Six months ago I would have climbed out of bed at 10:30 in tears

And then I realized that I now have the confidence and the capability to run my own business, and to do it well. So I took the plunge and signed-up to sell LuLaRoe. I'm going to make money. I'm going to have something that is mine. I am going to help my family gain financial freedom.  And among these goals I am going to make it a top priority to help women see themselves in a new light.  I want to help women to transform their confidence and their lives the way that I have in these past months.  I want to help them love themselves, the way I have learned to love myself!

 

If you'd like to join me on my LuLaRoe journey, feel free to join my group! https://www.facebook.com/groups/1588650218132032/

Self-Love and LuLaRoe

Let me tell you a story!

I had my two babies very close together. By the time I was coming out of the babymoon of my second baby, I didn't have a single piece of clothing that fit right. Everything has been stretched to 41 weeks pregnancy size, and spit up on, and stained and I just wore these ratty old clothes and it made me feel like a martyr to the cause of motherhood. 

A year later, I had bought a couple of jean shorts and some new tee shirts, but nothing seemed to fit right after all my body had been through in the last two years. Then enter LuLaRoe! I was invited to a party on Facebook, and saw a maxi skirt that I would have rocked in highschool, but I felt like, as a martyr to motherhood, that I was destined to wear stained black and grey for the rest of my life. 

I got crazy for a minute; I bought the skirt.

 

And then I was suddenly enveloped in this incredible world of self-love.  These clothes were made for me! Who else refuses to buy yourself nice clothes because you want to reach a weight-loss goal first? That's what I was doing. Eyeing a $150 dress from mod cloth, that I could buy when I lost 60 pounds. It felt like punishment and torture.

Then I bought myself a $48 knit dress, with a full circle skirt, that was blue with red sunglasses all over it. It was BETTER than that mod cloth dress, and it was kind to my body. Suddenly, in the middle of my weight/loss journey, I had an adorable dress, that rocked my body, and felt good! I didn't have to fidget with it or be embarrassed. I posted a picture in my new dress on Facebook and found a community of women who lifted me up, and reciprocated to me that I am beautiful! 

I. Am. Beautiful.

 

A year later, now finding the most measurable success with Weight Watchers, I have signed up to become a fashion consultant to this company that has helped to lift me up. It has helped me to not plan to reward myself when I get there, but to reward myself now, while I am on the journey, doing my best! I deserve it! I deserve it for doing well, for being healthy, and for being and LOVING me!

Thank you LuLaRoe, and thank you Weight Watchers! 

And thank you to everyone who has supported me on this journey! Let's open the doors to self-love to as many women who want to come in!

Feel free to join me on my journey here: https://www.facebook.com/groups/1588650218132032/

 

Why I Chose To Feed My Babies Formula

I have taken a very long time to sit down and write this.  In a recent attempt to express myself on Facebook, I got cold feet and deleted my status immediately.  About two minutes later, my phone buzzed, and I received an essay from a good friend, thanking me for speaking up, sharing her own traumatic experiences and her decisions that lead her to be swollen up with guilt, yet essentially saved her child's life. She urged me to tell my story when I felt ready, because she believed many other women needed to hear it, just as she did. 

So here it goes: 

Breast Is Not Always Best; Why I Chose To Feed My Babies Formula

From the first day I found out I was pregnant with my first child, my phone was ringing off the hook with insurance interviews, surveys, doctor surveys, parenting surveys and the like. My web browser and email flooded with options to complete a survey for free samples, and then I had ongoing interviews with each check-up with my OB, and eventually my pediatrician.  One of the main questions I was always asked was, "Formula or breast-feeding?"  Proudly, I would hold my head high and brag, "I plan to breastfeed exclusively."  It just made sense.  And it's free.  It's what my body was made for, and I believe more than many people I know that our beautiful bodies are incredible machines that can do incredible things, if we give them the chance.

I packed away all my free formula samples that flooded my mailbox.  I received baby bottles as gifts, and threw them down in a drawer and never took a second look at them.  I was creating life, and I was anxious to see what my body could accomplish next.  I spent hours on parenting and baby websites reading in-depth articles of child development, and understanding infant poop.  I did absolutely no research on breastfeeding, I just knew that my body could do anything.

When the day finally came, I was stocked up on nursing paraphernalia, and I headed off to the hospital already sporting my Motherhood nursing bra I specifically chose for labor and my first breastfeeding bonding time.  

A few hours later my baby girl was born, and I was attempting to feed her for the very first time.  Those first few hours are hazy in my memory, due to blood-loss, anemia and pain medications from a severe tear.  But I remember smiling ear to ear, and giggling as I helped nourish my dependent, precious little munchkin.  I knew we would be naturals at breastfeeding, and I would finally get to experience the breastfeeding high that so many women described.

Then enters the breastfeeding consultant.  A stout, grey-haired woman with a harsh voice, who immediately told me I was doing it wrong, and began laying her hands all over my precious peanut.  I was surprised at her abrasiveness, but was determined to do my best, so I did everything she said, and my stress level rose for the first time.  I became anxious that if I was doing it wrong, my baby would starve.  I became harsh to my husband every time the baby would cry, and he would take a second to stretch before delivering the baby to my hospital bed.  In my mind, in that second of hearing my baby cry, she was shriveling before my eyes, choking over her desperation for nutrition.  In that moment of hearing her cry I was the worst mother on the planet.

Of course all mothers have feelings of inadequacy, and are often overwhelmed with their new responsibilities.  It is a part of how our brains are wired.  The mess of hormones that runs through our bodies is determined to make our baby our number-one priority.  And I accepted this as fact, and continued to breastfeed my baby.  Within a couple of days, my husband began to worry as he would watch me become an emotional, sobbing mess every time the baby was hungry.  A few days later, I would anticipate the baby waking from her hunger, would experience let-down and would immediately crumble into a pitiful worm, begging release from my responsibilities.  

We argued about pulling the formula samples out of the bottom drawer and giving the baby a bottle.  My husband threw all my words, once spoken with pride, right back at me.  "Breast is best," he would say.  Eventually he would make the baby a bottle, settle down to feed her, and I would pretend to sleep, while my mind would race with self-defeated thoughts, "I'm a failure.  I'm a horrible mother.  I'm choosing to give my daughter a second-rate life.  She won't be as smart as her peers.  She's going to get sick more often.  All because I am not strong.  All because I am a weak failure."  And I would cry, silently, until everyone was back asleep.

Each time I gave my daughter a bottle, my determination to breastfeed would double.  Until I would experience let-down, then I would once again crumble into a wreck, twice as depressed as before.  A few weeks after my daughter's birth, I opened my weekly email to read about her development.  The opening statement was, "By this point you are probably breastfeeding your little one in your sleep!  Great job!"  I don't remember reading any further, because the frustrated tears in my eyes were once again affirming the fact that I was a horrible mother, who still couldn't get my infant to properly latch, and who couldn't feed her a drop without melting into an embarrassing display of self-pity.

Yet I continued to breastfeed.  By the end of the first month my husband was almost used to coming home to me with swollen eyes, deep, exhausted sobs, taking the baby away from me, and sending me to bed.  What he didn't know, until a short time ago, was that the majority of those tears were not due to the physical pain of breastfeeding, but to something else entirely.  We've all heard stories of people finding babies abandoned in dumpsters, and wonder, with furrowed brows, "How could anyone do that?"  Well, at a month post-partum, I found myself empathizing with the mothers in those stories.  I could actually picture myself leaving my baby, alone, in a dumpster.  I had flashes of images , leaving my precious child alone somewhere, and walking away for good.  And it terrified me.  I would clutch her as tightly as I possibly could, and I would sob until she was finished eating, my husband would whisk her away, and I could finally relax.  I loved her when she was not in my arms.  Guilt filled my soul.

At the end of her first four weeks of life, I told my husband, "I am of no use to anyone like this.  Every time I breastfeed, I just can't handle life.  How can I nurture our daughter if I can't even function?"  And he went strait out, and bought our first can of formula, and a breast pump.  I began pumping faithfully, and every single time I did, my self-esteem would plummet.  Self-depreciating thoughts filled me, but when my daughter was safely in her crib, I could put on a movie, and ignore my emotions.  I watched a lot of movies.  The more that I pumped, the less and less milk I would produce.  It could have been a reaction to my prescribed birth control, but I truly believe that I willed my milk to dry up.  As I said previously, I believe our bodies can do incredible things.  And I do believe that my body understood before I did, the mental destruction that occurs when I experience let-down and express milk.

I will never forget the first bottle that my daughter quickly devoured.  The peace that I felt while watching her get the nourishment that she needed.  My mind was clear.  Finally, I was able to feel the emotional reward that new moms always describe.  For the first time in her little life, I was able to love my daughter.  

Our relationship finally began to flourish.  Oh, how I loved that baby!  We went on walks to the park, would lay on a blanket by the pond early in the morning and I would fall in love with her more and more every time she gave me that satisfied look of true happiness and trust.

I continued to beat myself up about not being able to handle breastfeeding.  I made excuses about why I couldn't do it.  I told everyone it was my OB's fault for giving me a bad birth control pill.  It was easier to lay blame on someone else, than to admit that for some reason I can not mentally handle the act of breastfeeding.  I played the victim.  And I would never feed my baby a bottle in public, because in my eyes, every single look was a look of ridicule.  Even though I knew in my heart that I was giving my baby the best that I could give, I felt as if I was cheating her out of what she deserved.

Months later, I read a Facebook post from a breastfeeding advocacy page, about a woman who experienced extreme depression with let-down.  I read her story, and everything she said was exactly my story.  This woman had sought out doctors and professionals all around the nation in her desire to continue breastfeeding her child.  They concluded that in a rare amount of women, during the experience of let-down, there is a complete blockage of dopamine to the brain.  No dopamine = severe depression.  Finally, I was given validation.  I might be rare, but I am not just a weakling.  The woman I read about chose to be safely medicated, so that she could continue breastfeeding, but I was so far gone, I had no desire to go back.  I loved my formula, my daughter loved her bottles.

Fastforward to the birth of my second daughter.  Two years later, and I hadn't ever shared my story.  In the discussion to breastfeed, my husband and I had agreed to give breastfeeding a shot, but if it proved an emotional burden, that it was no longer do-or-die.  I breastfed my newborn for her first week, in which I would, once again, crumble to pieces every time let-down reared it's ugly head.  I decided to attempt to pump, and after a week of crying through every pumping session, I reached the point that I couldn't physically raise the flange to my breast.  

That very day my husband told me, "You are an incredible mom, you have revelation for our children, and I trust you completely."  He went strait to the store for a can of formula without a second thought.  It was that very day that I decided I am a proud formula mom.  I am grateful every single day that I live in a time where formula is readily available.  I no longer hide in the car or the nursing room to bottle-feed my baby.  I love that she can hold her own bottle while I stretch in the morning.  I love that her big sister will fetch her bottle for her when it falls from the high-chair.  And as for all those statistics which prove that formula-fed children get sick more often, or don't develop as quickly, my toddler has beat every single one of them.  She is just as bright and clever as all of her friends, no matter what or how any of them were fed.  

Both of my daughters are bright, clever, curious, active, inquisitive children, who are equal to their peers in every way.  I thought I was giving them a secondary life when I chose to formula feed them, but the truth is that I gave them the best life possible.  I chose a life for them with a healthy, happy mother.  I chose to love them more than I loved the ideals of how I planned to raise them.  I chose what was best for our family.  Breastmilk might be one of nature's greatest accomplishments, but by no means should any woman degrade herself under the premise that "breast is best."  With deep consideration, every mother has the power to truly understand what is the best for their own family.  No one should tell you different.

Repurpose.

Birth.

I could write a dissertation on the differences between the birth of my two daughters.  But today I won't.  What I will write is this: my first experience of pregnancy and birth was riddled with fear, from the posters and pamphlets on the walls of the office I visited monthly, to the horror stories and warnings given to me by my nurse practitioner.  Through my second pregnancy, the midwives taught me to trust.  They taught me to trust my body, my senses, my abilities, and my intuitions.  They taught me to believe that women are strong.  They empowered me, and I felt radiant and confident every single day.

I had the feeling, and the hope that Miss Amelia would arrive slightly earlier than her sister, who was born at 40 weeks and 5 days.  I had this feeling, because I was experiencing such regular Braxton Hicks contractions as early as three months into the pregnancy.  These contractions would come so regularly that I actually had fear in my heart that I would have a premature baby.  The midwives told me to drink some tea, and take a bath.  What simple advice!  And each time the contractions would come, some tea and a bath would take them away.  This is only one of the many ways the midwives won me over.

Fast-forward to the 36th week of my pregnancy, and you would find me having tons of Braxton Hicks again, excitedly wondering when they would graduate into the real thing.  And somehow, just like her sister, as soon as I reached 37 weeks, Amelia completely changed her mind.  Contractions completely ceased, and my uterus lead to be entirely uneventful all the way to 40 weeks!

At 40 weeks and 4 days I was 3 centimeters dilated, and very well effaced, yet still no contractions.  I decided to have my membranes swept, went to the mall with my mom, and then spent the rest of the day feeling like a 13 year old girl, cramping, crying my eyes out, and texting my mommy begging her to bring me chocolate, ice cream, cookies, and any other kind of sugary snack I could think of.  My midwife that day told me (with a knowing smile), "We are going to have this baby before you risk out on Friday, definitely."

The next morning Juliet and I awoke, and began our regular routine.  My misery continued, and I decided it would have to be a movie day.  At 11 am I was putting in a dvd for Juliet (I have no idea what movies we ended up watching), when the most powerful contractions I had yet felt began to hit me every five minutes.  I always had the idea that labor starts gradually and then grows, but at this moment I completely freaked!  They came out of nowhere, and were already five minutes apart?!  I began making plans, sent texts to our aunt, that she may have to come and watch Juliet at any moment, and then I called the midwives to see what they thought.  I stalled about texting Michael, because I didn't want to freak him out while he was at work!  The midwives advised me to continue timing them for an hour, and if they continued regularly to call back.

Then the weirdest thing happened.  I would have four or five contractions five minutes apart, and then I would experience a long break, at which time I would get majorly depressed, thinking it was just false labor again.  Then after about 10 or 15 minutes the contractions would return, five minutes apart, I'd have four or five, and then I'd have another break.  Throughout this time, I was texting Michael, 

"This is intense.  Come home now."

"Nevermind, it's gone."

"Nope, this is definitely it.  Get home fast!"

"Seriously?! False alarm."

He was so flustered at work, that he was confusing everyone.  He told me this, and I said, "I'm confused!"

Finally at one point the break between contractions went on so long, that I got angry, depressed, and was about to flip, when I decided to make a cup of red raspberry leaf tea, and chugged the whole thing.  Within two minutes I was in full on labor, grasping my husband's computer chair so hard I'm pretty sure there's dents in the frame.  I finally texted him, "Come home. Now."  He asked, "Really?" And I said, "Yes."  All texting conversation was over.  I was continuing the time the contractions, but I had no idea what the results were.

Through this time I was laboring without my husband beside me, I had the best little doula a woman could ask for!  Between contractions I would rest on my knees and lay my face on the couch and breath, and when a contraction came, I would move to the computer (folding) chair, and grasp the seat, and breathe, and squat.  The entire time Juliet stayed by my side.  She held my skirt, and said, "Help you? Help you?"  At one point I didn't make it to the computer chair in time, and suffered a contraction on the floor.  Juliet grabbed my clothes, and tried to help me up, saying, "Mama! Up! Help you!"  At this moment I realized that these were literally our last moments as the dynamic duo we've been for 21 months, and I was overwhelmed with emotion.  I explained to Juliet that I was okay, but it was time for me to have her baby sister.  I was so overwhelmed with emotion that I threw myself on the floor, grabbed my child and held her so tight, and just sobbed.  She hugged me, patted my back, then ran away, and returned with her stuffed frog, whom she knew that if I hugged him I would feel better.  Best birth coach ever.

Finally Michael arrived home at 1:30pm, and then it was time to find out where our babysitter was! She thought she had more time, and we said, "Nope.  Not really."  She arrived shortly after, to find me laying on my side on the couch, and I would hold Michael's hands and press outward against him.  When I finally sat up I got super nauseous, and told Michael, "I am going to vomit right now."  He got flustered, and asked what I needed and all I could say was, "I am going to vomit right now."  He grabbed the closest thing, our new mini-cooler.  I threw up, and then punched my fist in the air and shouted, "One centimeter! Oh yeah!"

We walked out to the car, and like a blessing from Heaven, I had another break between contractions, and got to breathe the entire drive to the birthing center (we only live five minutes away).  We made it in, and as they were asking me which room I wanted, I was grasping my husbands hands, breathing and contracting, and thinking, "Seriously?! Just put me in one!"  I chose the room I liked the most, the southwest room.  It reminded me of home, so I was cozy there.  They began filling the tub for me, and asked if I wanted a water birth.  I told them, "Water birth grosses me out.  I just want a spa day."  Those tubs look amazing.

The midwifery student then preceded to check my cervix, which she found to already be 7 cm, meaning that I had already gone through the majority of my labor on my own, while making lunch for my toddler.  As she was checking the 7cm, she said, "Oh no. Wait.  Now you're 8."  Things were moving faster than I could have imagined.  After this point, the midwife went away, and Michael and I were in this room alone together with no idea what to expect.  

I laid down during a few contractions, and then they returned and asked to check me again.  I had a hard time getting onto my back, but when I did they told me I should be ready to push.  I had a woman holding each leg, and the midwife was trying to coach me on what to do.  "Pull on your leg, don't push your leg, push your baby, pull your leg." I had no idea what she was trying to make me do.  The entire thing felt so unnatural, and there was no urge to push.  I asked, "Can I stand?"  No questions asked, they helped me get off the bed, onto my feet, and then the midwives just stood back, while my husband and I worked together.  I held his biceps, and he held my elbows.  He supported me through the contractions as I would squat and breathe, and I would rest my head on his chest in between.  It was intimate, and beautiful, while we labored together as a team.  

The contractions eventually took over completely and I did not need to wonder what to do.  I could breathe when I needed, and push when it felt right.  The midwifery student crouched on the floor and kept her eye on Amelia.  Sometimes I don't even know if my eyes were open or closed.  Every bit of my senses were turned so internally that all I remember was the sensation of my hips and pelvis, and eventually the crowning of my child.  I remember seeing my blood splatter the floor, and being so full of pure motivation that I didn't waste a moment being scared or worried.  Shortly after I saw blood, there was a pop, and my waters broke and splashed across my feet.  It was awesome!  (I'm pretty sure that was Michael's favorite part).  

Soon I felt Amelia's head coming through the birth canal.  I had wondered what it would feel like.  Pain, yet the pain was so masked by the excitement of her impending arrival, that it was not a burden to shy away from, but a motivation which I yearned to bear into.  And so I did.  She entered the canal and then receded, and that's when I thought, "We are so close, girl, you are not doing that again! It's time!"  And I bore down with everything that I had, only taking short enough breaks to renew my oxygen, and strait back to business.  

I don't know how long I pushed, but it felt like no time at all.  I remember my leg shaking with the pain, rising up on my tip toes, and reminding myself that it was time to stand strong as a mountain, and not to let my body give into the pain.  When I could feel that it was time I stepped my feet wide, and gave it all I had.  I had no reservations vocally.  I did not scream like they do in movies, but created a more guttural sound that helped me bear through the effort.  I was loud.  Everything is more fun when you choose to be loud.  I gasped for breath between pushes.  Then the midwife said, "Okay, you're going to reach down and catch your baby."  I thought, "What?! Don't you see what I'm going through?!"  I told her, "I don't think I can." And she said, "You can."  And suddenly massive pressure turned to motion moving fluidly through me, and my hands were hot, and heavy, and I hugged that purple little body to mine with no intention of letting go, ever.  I was so relieved and elated, I felt completed.  I was so engulfed in the feeling of that hot little body against mine that the midwives had to snap me out of my elation and get me to lay down.

I was still wearing the clothing I had no intention of laboring in.  It all happened so fast.  The midwife was very gingerly asking if she could help me get my shirt off, and I told her, "Take it all off!" I wanted my skin to be touching my baby's skin more than anything at that moment.  My hands still bloody, her cord uncut, she urinated on me, so many sensations of fluid and heat; it was raw, it was real, and it was beautiful.  There was nothing that could distract me from the pure joy that was my healthy child.  I remember feeling the umbilical cord still attached to the placenta inside of me.  The midwife was tugging it, and my placenta was stubborn.  I looked at my baby and could not stop speaking her praises even through the slight struggled and discomfort of delivering the placenta.

Michael was concerned about my health, and in my trust in the midwives care, I urged him to come see his child.  He sat in the bed beside me and wore the smile of a man who held his wife through the entire creation of his child.  He was my physical and emotional support from the very start.  I was suffering from shingles when this beautiful child was conceived.  It was not a romantic moment.  Even then, as I bit through the excruciating pain I experienced from the illness I thought of how badly I wanted this child.  I thought of how worth it the discomfort, the pain, every ache, every tear was, and would be, for the creation of a beautiful body, in which would harness a precious soul.  A beautiful daughter of God, wrapped in a gift created from ourselves.

That is Amelia River.

Maxi Skirts Galore! DIY

So I've been going jersey knit crazy, and have been making about a maxi skirt every week. SAS Fabrics carries cotton jersey knit for 2.99 a yard. If you're lucky enough to find something thats been previously played with, you might even get it cheaper. My favorite skirt so far only cost me $1.19, for enough fabric that i also made my daughter a matching one!

I wont say for certain how much fabric you'll need, since everyone is different hights, but i generally go for 2 1/2 yards for myself, and that gives me plenty of extra so it doesn't ever end up accidentally to short, and then theres extra to play with waist band ideas. I am 5'6" and my dress size (sin bebe) is 18. That may help you gauge how much you need.

Once u buy the fabric, the process is super simple. Fold it in half. Make sure you fold along the side of the fabric that stretches. You want to make sure to do this, as the joy of a maxi skirt is being able to sit cross-legged on the floor with your toddler, right? So theres no point if it doesnt stretch!

Once folded, and completely smooth, place your best-fitting maxi skirt on top. If you dont have one, youll have to work out your waist and hight measurements, and just eyeball a good flare towards the bottom.

I use my strait pins to mark the exact width of the skirt, pinning vertically, and across the top so i know where the waist will land once i am ready to hem.

Cut outside the line you've created with your pins.  I leave less than an inch, but you can leave more if you're nervous about making it too small!  I have done that before, but experience helps.

Leave the hem line long, you'll measure this last.

Now simply strait stitch along your pin line.  I usually lessen the tension in my machine to around 3-4, when i am working with stretchy knits.  And be sure you are using a ball-point needle! I ignored this important point the first time i ever tried this project, and my needle bunched up the fabric, and tore holes all the way down.  Ball-point needle!  Joannes has them specifically for jersey knit. 

I do a strait stitch down both sides, try on the skirt for fit, and then do a second strait stitch along the whole edge for reinforcement.

Then fold the waist hem over twice. You can do elastic, but im lazy. And use the "for stretchy fabrics" stitch on your machine.  Mine looks like a lightning bolt. Check your manual.

After you've done the hem, lay your model skirt and your new skirt on top of each other, adjusting from the top hem.  Cut along the bottom!

If you want to finish off the bottom with a proper hem, measure a couple inches extra and fold it under twice.  If not, after you cut off the bottom fabric, do a few reinforcement stitches up and down a few inches of each side.

All done!

Therapy.

I have one thing to say to anyone who is struggling with anything in their life at this current moment: Go outside!

Life builds up crud.  Crud clogs up our life-force and keeps things from functioning properly.  Whether that crud is built of relationship stress, financial stress, worries about final exams or trying to get your child to poop after too many days, we've all got it.  Does it build up quicker around the holidays?  Yes.  My Thanksgiving week started with a pediatric well-check, three shots which put the kid out of sorts for a week, cooking, cooking, cooking (the fun part, though exhausting), followed by a hasty eating of the delicious food while the kid cried the entire time.  Finally decided she must be allergic to cats.  Then my busy week caught up with me, and I was reminded that I am in fact growing a human being whilst caring for said crying child, attempting to keep the house from piling up with mysterious messes which smell like funk, and then all of a sudden, my child stopped sleeping.

That's right.  When I finally realized that I ran myself into the ground having too much fun, my child (who I might remind you has slept through the night every night since two months old) decided she needed to wake up at 5 am, simply to wander the house in a defiant, though sleepy stupor and cry.  Day one, I rolled with it, and did prenatal yoga while she drank milk and watched.  Day two, if she was going to be miserable, you best believe mommy was going to be miserable too.

To say the least, after these eventful and tiring weeks, I spent last night bawling my eyes into my pillow, telling my husband about every single thing that wasn't perfectly organized, arranged and dusted in the whole house, how the world would end because there's dirty dishes in the sink, and how the dog poop is the main reason why my life is horribly intolerable right now.

This morning the girl cried out at 5 am.  I immediately began to beg Heavenly Father to solve her problem so I wouldn't have to.  Does that sound like horrible parenting?  Say what you will, but if faith can move mountains, it can certainly keep a diaper dry for longer, right?  Well I tested my faith by staying in bed, and four and a half hours later, I counted the miracle.  We slept until 930 am! And she was still quietly, happily sleeping!

I had the energy to clean.  I could have done all the dishes and started some laundry before the girl even began to stir.  I could have organized the piles of junk on my husband's desk, and finished installing the cabinet locks in the kitchen.

No.

I could have spent my time and energy fixing all the problems that have been built up by daily life with a kid, but I would have ignored the problems that have been built up by putting everything else before myself.  Having a clean carpet makes me feel accomplished, but does it nourish my soul?  Does a shiny, empty sink encourage me to ponder the beauty of life?  Is breathing in the yummy scent of Swiffer cleaner equivalent to a literal breath of fresh air?

So this morning, I brushed my teeth and went into high gear!  I packed pb & j, milk, cheese and an orange for me and the girl, threw her into a pair of shoes, and we were gone.  We met a friend at Sabino Canyon, and hit that little dirt road, with a cold bottle of water and a cup of milk.  The sun was perfectly warm, with a cool wind on our skin.  Juliet kicked and giggled as her hair flew in every direction.  We made it to the bridge, and there was water running!  Both of the babies loved it! They got to hear a bubbling stream, not a usual experience.  Juliet tasted all the rocks, sand and sticks, and even made two ducks very happy by sharing her cheese.  She absolutely loved them, as she gestured for them to come closer to her, she bubbled with excitement.  And as I wanted to run for my camera, I realized that I left my phone in my car.

So here's my second suggestion to anyone who is struggling with anything right now: Leave your phone.

I love taking pictures of my kid.  As a photographer, I can't help myself.  But in this moment, the first true interaction my child got to have with a duck, on the sandy edge of a stream, with the brisk wind encouraging her to truly experiment, and try, and live, I had no choice but to be 100% present.  No worries about focus or filters or composition.  I got to be there with my daughter for a few minutes, with nothing else that mattered in the whole world, and just live.  And of course I had to continue tricking the ducks with rock "treats" after we ran out of cheese.  Eventually they realized I was being cheap, but my daughter loved it.  And I loved being there with her.  And these are the moments that remind me why I stopped my education, gave up being the star of the class, to get poop under my nails, and peanut butter on my shirts.  And seeing her clever grin as she attempted to also trick the ducks into eating a rock made me realize why, in all of my craziest ideas, I decided to have a second child so soon.  Because I love this one so much.  How could I resist having another?

Soon we checked the time, and realized that we had places to be, and people to see, and we rushed back down the trail to our cars, and the magical moment was over.  But we took the time to clear out the crud that was blocking up our souls.  I may be sitting on my couch which is stained with dog snot, surrounded by piles that smell like funk (oh, and those dishes are still in the sink), but I am breathing fresh air.  The edginess that grew with my stress has smoothed over, Juliet was smiling wider, and is now sleeping sounder.  I have an inspired idea about how to treat a Christmas with no money for gifts.

My day is better.  My pregnancy is better.  I am better.  All because I decided to go outside.






~Compliments and thanks to my new-found friend Lorraine, who helped me realize that it's okay to make time for me.

Brave.

Two days ago my daughter discovered my belly button. Who knew a belly button could harbor so many minutes of curiosity, hypothesis, experimentation and conclusion after conclusion? She attempted to remove it. She checked to see how much of her finger could be swallowed in the abyss. She even tasted it, and attempted to NOM it over and over and over when she realized it made mommy laugh.

These are the moments that make me proud that I put aside my education to create a person, and for several years I will be the sole educator of this person. It is up to me to encourage her to explore things, to test them and to make the decision to laugh or ponder or move away.

As my little girl moves from infant hood to  the insane world of toddlerism I am bracing myself constantly yet pushing her to discover. I already am telling myself to let her figure things out herself. It's terrifying, and inspiring. I didn't realize at only a year old it is now my job to step back. I am happy to say that after just a couple weeks of this attitude, my daughter no longer cries after face-planting into the carpet. She gets back up, stands back up and tries again. It is the best thing I could see my daughter do, and I know if I can continue to be strong and let her question, test and discover the world on her own, that she is going to be alright.

The Love of a Mother.

Yesterday was one of those days.  Frustration began from the first moment, finding the dish washer still waiting to be started, full of soured baby bottles.  Check for sippy cups: also all used.  Discovered one clean cup with a straw, this will do, then discover the baby's filtered water is empty.  Cold milk.  Through a straw.  She can take it.  All the while she cries from her crib, "Mom! Don't you hear me? I'm awake.  I did so good and slept 8 hours, and I'm so hungry now! Please feed me?  Why aren't you coming?"

I've been awake for two minutes.  Hair in my eyes, plaque in my teeth, undressed, hungry, and desperately needing a potty break, I rush in to let my nine-month-old daughter know that her cries are not in vain.  I hear her.  I always hear her.  I hear her every moment of my day.  Even when she hasn't said a word, I hear her needs echoing around my consciousness.  It doesn't turn off.  I won't allow it.

Famished, she dives into her breakfast, and cries with each breath.  She shouldn't have to work this hard first thing in the morning.  Cold milk.  Through a straw.  Every other sip pours down her bib.  Necessary calories soaking into a cotton knit kitten.  Each mouthful rejected makes me sink a little lower, knowing my moment of neglect, my refusal to take a moment to wash a bottle and warm the milk is going to make for a very unhappy morning.  She finishes the bottle with a heart-wrenching scream, as if the milk was snatched away from her.  Knowing she only drank half of her usual and necessary breakfast, I reach for the snacks.  Freeze-dried fruit.  Pureed fruit.  Cereal bites.  Crackers.  Also considering the amount she slept the last few days, I realize I treated this growth spurt with complete neglect.

Eventually she begins lunging for toys instead of food.  Sweet relief, we did it.  Forty minutes later, hair uncombed, still undressed, plaque still in place, I finally get my potty break.  Mommy disappears into the bathroom... the world must be over!  I hurry the process as much as I can (all moms know we actually have no power over this, we just hope someday we might), wash my hands and rush back out, to find my child's sweet face sodden with tears.  Red eyes implore me to fill the hurt with love, and we wrestle a couple teething tablets under her tongue, and snuggle.

This is the first hour of my day.  The rest of the hours were not unsimilar.  At some point I had breakfast, and rediscovered the power of good hygiene, located clean clothes.  Somewhere in between it all I even found a free moment to let myself cry.

When my husband returned home I melted into his arms, told him about my struggles, inadequacies, insecurities, annoyances, frustrations, how we giggled and played, explored, exercised, discovered, tasted, laughed, learned the dog's name, daddy's name, and even took her first independent steps holding onto the couch, without mommy.  I smiled through my tears, laughed between sobs.  My heart swelled.

This was my day.  A day to try my patience.  A day to test my strength.  Knowing at any moment I could leave this infant alone to cry in her crib, and choosing to rock and sing instead.  It was a day to choose my daughter over myself.  It was a day to rediscover the love of a mother.

Hummus.

Hummus, hummus, hummus, we all love hummus! Here's a website with a dictionary of hummus recipes, including "Hummus with Tahini" and "Hummus without Tahini."  Good stuff!

Click Here for recipes!

Focus.

So today was overcast, and beautiful, but as I prepared for an the engagement shoot of a very cute couple, my baby was dying for my attention.  I have to make sure everything is working and ready to go, so I figure I'll give her attention from behind the camera, and make her be my model (again).  I'm working with my flash on slave mode, and I'm so absorbed in trying to decide if I should even TRY to use the flash today, off, on, off, on, off, on.  Not paying a bit of attention to the beautiful and perfect girl in front of the camera, besides studying how the flash treats her skin tone.  Im in the zone.  And then I see the most hilarious and sad image pop up on my LCD screen.

Snap... snap.... snap.... AH!

Don't worry.  I rescued her.  hehe.

Solids.

Solid food.  It has begun.

At two days old my precious little girl was holding up her head, to everyones' surprise and pleasure.  Two months old she was sitting up with assistance.  Four months old, she began sitting up on her own. Yes, I got my Christmas wish!  But... somewhere in there, somewhere along and between all these beautiful and exciting accomplishments, those adorable, itty bitty little hands began to get grabby.  Oh the mischievousness that happens when little hands learn to grab.  

Thanksgiving day, I sat at what used to be the kid table, until all the kids grew up.  I had my little girl in my lap.  The experience of sitting among young people with a child is new.  There's all of a sudden a new perspective, as I leave the table to change a diaper, miss out on pie because I simply forgot, or realize I'm the only one that's no longer a student.  Knowing that a few months ago I was in the young-person boat of worrying about rent, and getting hours at my job... and now I consider the life of a child in my arms, and her eternal destination is entirely on my head.  How quickly priorities change.  

As everyone laughs and coos at this little girl, whom I hold with one hand, I am waving my mashed potato laden fork through an obstacle of what seems like hundreds of flailing baby hands, to my mouth.  This is also new.  I read all around to introduce food, "When she starts to show interest," and I wondered (as all new parents wonder and worry) how I would know if she was showing interest.  Today was that day.  There was no doubt of this little baby's new interest in food, as I looked down and discovered her tiny fingers covered in the contents of my paper plate.  

At that time she was only three months old, so we waited the proper amount of time, and the day she turned 4 months, we pulled out a jar of apple sauce.  This little girl was bred to ingest.  She was so in love with that apple sauce, not a drop hit her bib.  For the next week I spent a small amount of time each day allowing her to taste, and practice with the spoon.  By day two she was grasping the spoon and bringing it to her own mouth.  I thought, "Wow!  I have a little eating prodigy on my hands!  She's doing everything perfect!"  So then we moved on to different types of foods.  Peaches, Pears, Peas, Potatoes, Prunes, everything she could reach, she would eat.  Amazing!

Then somewhere along the line, the bib started to get a little messier.  And the baby started getting a little wigglier, until not only would the bib, the burp rag, and my hand towel be dripping with goodies, but so would I be.  So we stopped the food for a while, and started shopping for high chairs.  This was when I realized my completely vulnerable, tiny baby was not so helpless anymore, and definitely not so tiny.  We shopped around, and looked for sales, and compared website prices, and blah blah blah, until I decided I wanted to feed my baby foods again!  She was so sweet and perfect when she ate, and I just wanted to have that back.  So I went out and bought a high chair!  No sale, no coupon, straight out, paid with cash, completely committed I went home, strapped her in, got her apple sauce and.... 

We now start each meal with three spoons, and the dogs sit, waiting beneath the table.  As soon as this rainy weather has passed, I will be investing in suction-bottom bowls.  We have already invested in a few more bibs.  My little eating-angel appears sometimes, but the majority of the time, there is a little beast, who though she cannot reach beyond the tray, somehow still manages to get the spoon out of my sight, and somewhere... somewhere.... somewhere on the floor.  

And did I mention that she's been learning to cry for what she wants?  

To say the least eating solids is great!

Meat.

I went through this weird stage about a year ago... two years ago...?  (I've recently grown and born a child, don't judge.)  Where my uncle declared that my family lineage is not Mexican as we always thought, but that we're actually Jewish.  Some smarty-pants DNA study threw off everything I ever knew!  Of course, as a child, growing up in South Tucson, I always wondered why I didn't look like all my little Mexican friends.  They had thick black hair, and mine was fine and brown.  They had beautiful brown skin, and I was white, but with patience I could tan to a beautiful olive.  Even though, I was never the same color.  I had these circles under my eyes that I've fought since I learned what foundation was.  Oh, and did I mention they all had BEAUTIFUL, envy invoking eyebrows?  Yeah, mine are straight, and wimpy, and the shape is just over all wrong. Oh yes, let's not forget that bump on my nose.  Thank my Irish mother that at least my nose is small!  So you can imagine, that the moment my dad said, "Jew," I suddenly looked in the mirror and my cosmetic world made sense.

Oh, how I embraced it.  I embraced it with such excitement, that my perfect Mexican Spanish accent flew out the window in about a second.  All my aspirations to speak the perfect fluid Spanish dissipated.  I regret that now, of course.  I had sat through two years of college Spanish in my desperation to prove my Mexican lineage, that I had never been able to properly connect with.  And all of a sudden, I was free.  Also, I stopped caking cover-up under my eyes, and embraced my new-found lineage.  (After all this spiritual-soul-searching-where-did-I-come-from-who-am-I business, my baby was born with a specific Hispanic birth mark.  So my daughter proves to me there's a little Mexican in there somewhere.)

So why do I bring this up now?  BECAUSE I JUST MADE MACHACA AND ITS SO STINKING YUMMY I FINALLY FELT MEXICAN FOR THE FIRST TIME IN MY LIIIIIIIIFE!

Granted, the recipe came from SkinnyMs.com, so that tells you right there that it's far from truly Mexican.  BUT MAN IS IT GOOD!  Click here for the recipe.  Just a note, I changed a couple of things to work from my 10pm kitchen.  I used Shallots instead of a small onion.  I don't even know the difference, but Shallots are cuter, and sound fancier, so I had some.  I used powdered Garlic, instead of cloves.  I was going to risk the whole operation and attempt it without Jalapenos, when I discovered a can of Jalapenos in my pantry!  Thank you Mother in Law for planning to attempt a Mexican recipe who knows how long ago.  The canned Jalapenos are teensy, so I used a whole bunch, instead of one (Though my husband would tell you that I just like to suffer).  Also, for my canned tomato sauce, I buy low sodium.  Since the pregnancy, any significant amount of sodium easily removes my wedding ring from my finger, so I eat to avoid sausage fingers.  Even with less salt, the seasonings in the recipe (including my absolute favorite, Cumin) are so devine, you'll never miss it.  But I imagine if you follow this recipe to the T, you'll get a nice, strong punch in the face.  It's that good.

Presents.

So my husband and I have been so poor since we've been married.  We got married young, and we have expected and embraced poverty.  Every Christmas since we've been married, we bring cookies or jello to family gatherings and call that our gift.  We're young and poor, everyone understands.  But I love giving gifts.  I can honestly say that I love giving gifts more than I love receiving them.  I usually make stuff, because it's fun.  I enjoy so much, the trick of figuring out what is the perfect gift for each person, and then waiting to see them open it up and declare that it is actually awesome.  Love it!

So this year, thanks to our beautiful, perfect baby, we're even more poor than usual!  But also, this year I wanted so badly to give EVERYONE a gift.  So I started searching Pinterest for ideas.  I'd made salt dough before, for my Primary children at church, so when I saw blog after blog about baby hand and footprints, I knew this was something easy and inexpensive, that everyone would love!

Salt Dough Recipe

1 Cup Salt
1 Cup Flour
1/2 Cup Warm Water

Knead it until it is stretchy, so it won't break and crumble.  Super easy!

I didn't have cookie cutters the right size, so I used a glass to cut out the circles.  Juliet loved putting in her handprints.  4 1/2 months old, everything is fun to touch.  She was only mad she couldn't put it in her mouth.

After the handprints, I used small alphabet stamps to stamp in her name along the side.  Use a straw to punch out the hole.

Bake in the oven (preheated to 100 degrees F) for 3 hours.  We didn't hear the timer, and baked them for who knows how long, but they came out great!

We painted them red, used a fine point sharpie to fill in the name.

Then I got Juliet's Christmas portrait printed (making sure it would fit the ornaments).  I used a smaller glass to trace a circle, a hole punch, and then used modge podge to add the pictures.

I couldn't find my red ribbon, but I think it looks so classy with black!

Sorry about the cruddy photography.  Too sick to pull out the Canon = Cell phone pictures.

Christmas!

It's a photography day!

There are so many things that I love about this time of year, namely, Christmas, and every sub-category that follows.  I love the crisp air (because in Tucson it never gets cold, just crisp).  I love the lights (I ignore that we have to pay so much for them!).  I love Christmas trees, ornaments, and I stinking love an excuse to get glitter on every surface of my existence.  I love racking my brain to come up with the perfect gift for those I love.  That, I think, is my favorite part of the monetary side of Christmas.  It's like a game for me.  After Thanksgiving, I spend the majority of my free time pondering those I love, thinking about our conversations, thinking about recent events in their lives, their recent fashion statements and trends, their likes, and for the perfect gag gifts, their dislikes.   Then I get the perfect idea, rarely is it a purchasable gift.  Often, my brain comes up with those perfect one-of-a-kind gifts that literally has the receiver's name on it, in my handwriting.  I have an urge to share, but I also have a faulty hope that anyone in my family actually reads this blog.

Then there's the proper side of Christmas.  There's the root of Christmas, the entire purpose it was ever brought about.  The reason, tempting as it may be, I will never replace the star atop my tree with that stinking cute owl topper from Target.  Jesus Christ.  He is incredible.  He is perfect.  He is our Savior.  And what a perfect, beautiful time of year to commemorate his birth, than December.  Because in December we get to snuggle up warm, and drink hot cocoa, and read Christmas stories, always reminding us of why we give things to each other.  Because when Christ was born, He was God's greatest gift to us.  That is why it is the season of giving.  Nothing invites the spirit into our homes more, than choosing to serve others.

I have a current experience that is brimming my heart with joy.  Our ward (which we are brand new to, and know almost no one) does a giving tree.  There's a teensy Christmas tree in the church, covered with ornaments, that say something like, "Boy, 7, anything to do with Iron Man," and "Girl, 14, skirts."  As Juliet was unyielding that we continue to pace the halls during Sunday School, I stopped and began to view the ornaments, with a desire to give.  Of course, we have no money, and these were gift requests that it would be hard to make for free, but my heart yearned to participate.  So I continued to skim, every now and then a request from a child would make me laugh.  And then I held up one ornament, a teenage girl's request for art supplies, namely such for pencil drawing.  If there's one thing that inspires me, it's a youth who loves to imagine, and create.  My heart leapt, because, though I am completely poor, I have a stock pile of art supplies, for my own enjoyment, and the fact that my husband was forced against his will to study art for one semester.  His poor soul.  I'm not sure how he survived.  But it just so happened that I had a giant drawing pad I got for a penny, my husband's hardly touched sketch pad from his class, and an entire pack of pencils, with kneaded eraser, rubber eraser, pencil sharpener and nub all untouched!  I was so excited.  I found something I could give.  I have no idea who this girl is, but I pulled a color pencil sketch of a flower from my own sketch pad, and I wrote her a letter, because she inspired me by her request.  Then I wrapped all of the things together, tied it with red ribbon, and next week it will go to the clerk's office and await delivery.  What a beautiful feeling to give so much.  I could have chosen to see those items as the amount of money I spent on them, but the joy of giving fills my heart, and there is no room left for what my mind might choose to think.

I love Christmas!

And didn't I say it's a photo day!  We spent our Sabbath setting up my little in-home studio and creating props for this Christmas time baby photo shoot!  Juliet was amazed by the lights, and mesmerized by her glittering shoes.