We recently moved into a new area. Despite all the extra fees we pay to live in our neighborhood, we love how safe and tucked back from the city we are. Brian was discussing this one night on a walk with my visiting inlaws, when a few minutes later, a police car without headlights came rolling up to us. “Hey, have you seen any kids running around, saying they want to kill people?”
Maybe my HOA dollars are actually funding a Metro donation.
In other news, my brother is getting married his weekend. It’s a lot of pressure packing for Utah, fashion blog capital of the world. In preparation, I:
-bought Crest White Strips, but I forgot to use them until a couple of days ago.
-had every intention of going to the gym to avoid being the Khloe Kardashian of the wedding, but unfortunately, I was busy drinking beet juice blends and working. Hopefully my pilot pair of Spanx will be sufficient in creating the live-at-the-gym illusion.
– got a spray tan. Gus spit up on me before I was fully dry, but I’m sure no one will notice this big line on the front of my legs.
My goal for the wedding is to keep Gus from initiating Amanda into our family with spit up on her dress. Ill let you know if we were successful.
…chances are, she will think about her muffin top.
I LOVE my days off work when I get to spend the whole entire day with my little guy. After we look semi-decent, which in my new-mom manual is defined as one shower better than homeless, we venture out for our once daily field trip.
I could tell Gus was no longer considering watching the grocery store produce getting sprayed with the mist extremely adventurous. To keep life exciting, we headed to a nearby café to sit outside. Even though it’s not a chain dining establishment, it’s still cookie cutter to suburban America…you know, one of those places where heavily made-up women wearing Lululemon go to eat kale.
I strolled in with my 4 month old initially to eat pasta, but as we blew spit bubbles at each other in line, I noticed I was the only one whose pants were probably unbuttoned. Fine, fine. Scratch the pasta. I opted to pay $7 for a beet and carrot juice blend. My baby and I sat outside to enjoy the nice weather as I sipped, and as I checked out some of these women, it reminded me that I, too, am an owner of overpriced yoga pants. Unfortunately, they are fitting a little differently post baby.
Since my little guy was more interested in looking at the wheat grass patrons than having another high-pitched conversation with me, I was left to my own thoughts:
I can’t quite fit in my work out pants.
I should buy a bigger size.
No, they’re just kind of tight. Just kind of.
I hope this chunk in my drink is a seed.
I need to figure out how to look like Giselle in the next few months. No, Alessandra. No, Adrianna.
I have a gym membership, but…buuuuut. Buuuuut. Dozens of my friends have tried those Beach Body workouts. Are those really effective? Does anyone feel like an idiot doing them in the living room?
On our way out, I gathered up our array of baby luggage spread across the table and admitted to my wallet that Popeye’s Secret was a so-so juice concoction not worth a Hamilton…but a beautiful, full sugar and gluten filled muffin would be! We made a detour to grab a chocolate chip muffin I’d been eyeing. It turned out to have imposter RAISINS, not. Chocolate. Chips. The ultimate culinary deception. Gus and I agreed it was a terrible outing.
Be on the lookout for my too tight Lululemon on eBay soon, because next time we are getting doughnuts, and I’m airbrushing on a 6-pack this summer.
Since my little guy was not at about to be convinced that sleep, or even cuddle time with Mom, would be better than nighttime playing, I made use of some unexplored photography apps on my phone. Feel free to print these on canvas for Mother’s Day.
Thanks to The Bachelor, my date expectations have been becoming increasingly unrealistic. My anticipation of Valentine’s Day was no exception. I was initially hoping to go Jeeping in New Zealand, but I would settle with taking a helicopter to a mountain top ice castle dinner, as long as there was a hot tub inside. I’m always expecting hot tubs on dates now.
My husband, on the other hand, has lowered his expectations enough that he didn’t think twice about my robed outfit. After being soaked by my acid reflux baby, throwing a robe on top of comfy cotton pajama shorts and shirt was my preferred attire. Sorry, I ruined this picture…
As it turned out, Brian’s plans for celebration surpassed anything from my ABC and Bravo polluted imagination. Instead of going out, he whipped up some unreal food at home. My little guy joined us at the table to take notes on his first Valentine’s Day. Words can’t describe how full my heart was as I dined with my two Valentines, with background music courtesy of a play mat mobile. Nothing makes me happier than my two guys!
Do you remember when you used to care what you look like? If your mind is going as fuzzy as your legs are right now, pull up a Diet Coke and let’s pull ourselves together.
The other day I was looking at old pictures and thought, “Who is that girl?” That girl is a someone who is looks like she can put on makeup. She is probably pretty confident. Her eyes don’t look tired. She remembers deodorant.
If nothing else, she is just a portrayal of public decency and self respect.
To pay homage to Ashton Hawker, who would be shocked and appalled by Ashton Scurr, I decided, “This is it. Time for some mom maintenance,” and towed Gus along on my quest for beautification. My first instinct was to beeline for Sephora. As I tend to overdose on their samples, I decided to spare Gus witnessing Mom walk out of there looking like a transvestite and skipped it altogether.
We went to Target instead, and Gus talked me out of spending $15k on lip gloss and table decor. Instead, we came away with Crest White Strips. I’ll let you know if I remember to use them.
We did venture to the mall, and I realized I was unsure of my post-baby clothes size. I wandered aimlessly while debating if my level of mentally stability would allow me to try on jeans in fluorescent dressing room lighting, four months out from childbirth. I happened to gravitate into the food court during my deliberation, and fought a strong urge to eat my feelings at Hot Dog on a Stick. Cheese on a stick, anyone? American? Pepper jack? I avoided it for SO LONG, maybe ten minutes, but I eventually gave in to a lemonade. I could never pass up fresh lemonade squeezed by teens in some fresh outfits.
I sipped as I browsed in stores, and continued to guess my size by holding up those clothes and not actually looking at the size tags. I decided to avoid confirming those guesses and just bought a shark sweatshirt…I don’t know. I couldn’t help it. Sorry, Ashton Hawker.
Maybe I should stop striving for new-mom cool, and start with refreshing the basics, like personal hygiene and leg shaving.