Category Archives: Family

I can’t describe the feeling when I’m in my bed asleep…

Co-sleeping with a crawling baby is an adventure.  Snuggling up with your tiny newborn is easy to imagine.  Even someone that is not an advocate of co-sleeping has likely fallen asleep with a newborn on their chest so they can understand the powers of the sleeping baby.

But the sleep arrangements now that the goose is loose? It’s a whole new game.  A bedrail helps to contain her.  I am teaching her how to get off the bed, dangling her little legs off the side until they hit the floor instead of diving head first.  You get used to waking up with a little person sitting on your arm.  Or your face.  Or standing on your pillow.

Lots of people that co-sleep with their newborn begin to transition him/her in to a crib around this time.  If you’re not wild about having fingers in your nose or getting kicked in the groin it could be the wisest choice.  Unless, of course, you ever want to get any sleep.  As a newborn Lucy slept like a rock.  She woke to nurse once, maybe twice, in a night.  Since she has started crawling everywhere, cruising along the furniture and battling with the dog for his new bone she doesn’t have the time to devote to eating during the day.  She will nurse a handful of times during the day but it is a quick snack.  She does the bulk of her eating at night, when there is nothing better to do.  I can’t blame her.

If I want to get any sleep at all and she wants to marathon nurse all night I do not see an end to our current sleeping arrangements anytime soon.

People love to ask “So, how is she sleeping?” and ordinarily I say “Great!” or my all time favorite “Like a baby!” because any answer at all only invites advice.  And for the most part unless you are a been there done that co-sleeper/breastfeeder/baby led wean-er (ha! Baby led weaning is the term for skipping pureed food and letting your baby eat solid food when they are ready.  Baby led weiners – I have no idea what that entails) than even well-meaning advice falls on deaf ears.

I slept poorly throughout my pregnancy.  Lucy is nearly eight months old.  So, it is fair to say I have not “slept through the night” in well over a year.  I am used to it.  And while it is no secret that I am vehemently opposed to sleep-training an infant I am dangerously close to letting myself cry it out.  Me.  I might cry it out. Face down on the floor while Goose climbs on the dog.  Fish can look after her for an hour, right?

Because I am tired, guys. Nursing a baby takes a lot out of you.  And not just sleep.  Water.  I drink at least a gallon of water a day.   I am pretty good at getting myself a glass of water.  I went in the kitchen to get a glass of water just now.

Yup.  A bowl of water.  Sigh.  I’m tired, y’all.

Money and Priorities

The decision for me to stay at home with the kids wasn’t easy for me or forMQD.  I had to wrap my mind around being largely dependent on him financially.  Since I would be taking on the bulk of the grocery shopping and management of the household it made sense for me to be responsible for our finances.  It can’t have been easy for MQD to simultaneously turn over not only the bulk of his paycheck to me but also the spending of said paycheck.

So far we have been doing a pretty good job of communicating.  Sharing finances can get messy and I expected there to be more bumps in the road than there has been.  A tight budget means that sometimes you have to go without.  Priorities are what they are and Mom and Dad tend to fall to the bottom of the list.  It’s hard to want to spoil the kids and not have the financial means to do so.  But I grew up in a house without deep pockets and I think it made me appreciate the things we did have.

Sometimes I am shopping and something just jumps in the cart.

MQD, I spent $3 on one of the kids today. But he looks so happy.  It was worth it.

It’s looking like maybe I should have spent $6.  Someone is looking awfully jealous.

I can’t. I have kids.

Maybe you know someone that rowed crew in high school and you have seen the tshirt.  “I can’t.” it says on the front.  “I have crew.” on the back.  I have seen similar tshirts for kids that are big in to drama in high school, too.  “I can’t.  I have rehearsal.” I was always a bigger fan of  “Thespians do it on stage” myself.  But that is neither here nor there.

Once you have a baby you get really good at saying “I can’t, we would love to but…” and you look at your kid and you shrug and you say “8 o’clock bedtime” or “She doesn’t take a bottle” or “We don’t have a sitter.” If your friends have kids they understand.  You might get an eyeroll from your friends that don’t do things just the same way you do, but they understand.

At first it might embarrass you.  You might worry that by the time you are ready to hit the town there won’t be anywhere to go or you won’t have any friends any more.  But the second kid?  I know that there will be plenty of fun waiting for me. I’ll be almost forty and chances are I will be home and snug as a bug by midnight but I’ll be sweaty and my calves will hurt from dancing with the dirty kids up front.  I’ll be a cheap date again for a while until I get my sea legs back under me.

And I am okay with all of this.

But this morning I had to do something awful.  I almost took a conversation to private message on the Bookface because I was ashamed of the truth.  A dear friend from the beach reminded me that we had planned on having dinner before the Perpetual Groove show in town.  At the time we initially discussed it I knew that the show would be hit or miss but surely a dinner would be a go, even if I had the kiddos in tow.  He is a perfect addition to a messy dinner with kids.  He has no judgement, kids of his own and is a lively conversationalist full of stories that could amuse even the almost seven year old ears.

I had to renege on our plans.

BECAUSE I HAVE A PTA MEETING.  If you are out of the loop the PTA is the Parent Teacher Association.

I can’t go to a killer show because I have to go to a meeting with a lot of amped up mothers and fathers and talk fundraisers and wrapping paper sales and lunch menus and school resources.  I will eat Domino’s pizza and drink lemonade from a paper cup.  And actually… I don’t have to.  I want to.

I want to meet some of the parents at Em’s school.  I want to meet her friend’s parents.  I want to know the teachers and the administrators.

I used to walk in to a bar and breeze past the doorman with a kiss on the cheek. I’d get a drink without ordering.   I imagined the gossipy girl at a corner table saying “Who does she think she is?” and the waitress would say “Kelly! She is here all of the time.  You’d love her! No, really!!”

And now I have to start all over.  Only in my dreams I can walk in to an elementary school and breeze past the Make Your Own ID machine.  “Just dropping off these cupcakes.”  Oh man, if they let me use the copy machine I will know I have hit the big time.

Just a girl in a bar, circa 1997. In suspenders. Of course.

 

My Man

Do you ever sit on the beach or at an all you can eat buffet and people watch  and think “Man,  Americans take lousy care of themselves….”? (You don’t refer to yourself as Man? I thought everyone did?) Slowly you point the lens of criticism back at yourself and you feel like an asshole for being so silently snarky and judgemental.  I look at my very not flat stomach or my plate piled high and think “who am I to judge?”

In the last few days I have spent more than a little bit of time on the telephone with several of my girlfriends.  They are all past the boohoo stage of a failing marriage and on to the nuts and bolts of where do I go from here.  They all have a different story, different backgrounds.  They picture their future quite differently from one another. Divorce, affairs, silent resignation.  But they have one thing in common.  At one time they looked at a man and thought “I will spend my life with you.”

As I hang up the phone each time I get quiet for a while.  And I turn that same lens that sees my imperfect body, my dinner plate filled too high with carbs and not enough salad at myself and my marriage … and I close my eyes and I do something that is as close to praying as I get.

I just think.  I think and I focus everything in my heart on that moment, the moment I said to myself “I will spend my life with this man” and I try to picture what is different about my moment than the moments that belong to my friends’ and their husbands.

There are very few upsides to divorce.  But there is one.  The second time, when you think “This could never happen to me, to my marriage” you know better.  I try really hard not to ever compare.  And on the slim chance that I do, I really think twice before writing about it.  And it isn’t just because both  my husband and my ex-husband have been known to read what I write here (ummm, hi, guys.) It’s because saying out loud and writing  “Wow, I learned a lot and now I’ve got this all figured out” is just too scary.  It’s not the kind of thing I want to risk jinxing.

But this weekend as I hung up the phone after speaking with a friend I melted against my husband. He hugged me, silently hoping that holding me close would be enough to eliminate the need for Conversation. I don’t recall exactly how it happened but he had me laughing in no time.  Moments later we were laughing about something else entirely.  And mere moments after that we were laughing again.

I went back to cleaning my kitchen.  I sighed as I shuffled one of his piles from the kitchen table to a chair.  It drives me nuts, the piles.  But he reads all of the time.  And when he reads he makes notes on notecards and cross references things in still another book.  He sticky notes and underlines and reads some more.  And then he stops reading and underlining and thinking and he picks up the baby because he can’t stand to let her cry, either, and sometimes Life gets busy and his books stay right where he set them down.

And it drives me crazy.  The piles.  But even the things that drive me crazy are things that I adore.  I like it. He reads.  And he makes me laugh.  I like him.

Hesitantly I tried to explain to MQD what was on my mind.  He asked me then “Do you need to think of how to say it?” and I answered “Yes, I really do.” It’s a feeling I don’t know if I have words for.

The benefit of being married twice is that I do have something to compare it to.  And part of what made it so incredibly hard to get divorced is what makes it easier to be and stay married.  I love my ex-husband.  I love him enough that my nose started to tingle and I started to cry as I wrote that ugly word “ex-husband.” I loved him very, very much and I still do.  To that end it is perhaps easier for me to know in my heart that marriage takes more than Love. And I know that.  And I work hard to remember that.

I have never liked anyone, not a friend, not a boyfriend, not a lover as much as I like being around MQD.  I just like him.  It’s pretty simple.  He likes me, too.

And when I was younger and in the middle of a passionate and fiery argument with my ex-husband I never stopped to think “Well, that’s not very nice, is it?” I never bit my tongue.  I relied on Love to keep us both forgiving. But I forgot that forgiveness does not mean  someone likes you.  Just because our Love did not erode it didn’t mean our friendship didn’t.

And now years later I have another chance to do it right.   And I won’t sit back and expect our Love to carry us through.  Because Love isn’t enough. My girlfriends that are struggling in their marriages are not questioning if they still have Love.  They are sad because they don’t like each other anymore.

I don’t feel smug.  Not for one second.  But I am confident.  I think if we work hard to try and be the kind of person that the other would like to be around we have a pretty good chance.

So, here’s my man.  I look at him and I think “Man, I am gonna spend my life with him.  Because I like him.  I like him so much.”

The not so Simple…

Yesterday was a SuperMom day. I went to bed in a freshly painted bedroom. I had two happy children. MQD and I squabbled in the morning but as per usual the conversation we had following was productive. I felt good.

The feeling carried over to this morning. I had coffee with Amy. The kids were good. I bought a mitre box and started a new project. I am framing out the mirror in our bathroom before I paint.  I scheduled a post for this afternoon about how perfect the last day of the Summer with your family can be.

I considered posting about my bedroom makeover but I feared it would sound like I was blowing sunshine up my own ass to compensate. For what? I didn’t know. But I worry when my posts tend towards the “Look at me!! Everything is peachy!!” too awful much.

So if you read and make clucking sounds and think “Damn, that chick must be so full of shit. No one is that happy” then pour yourself a drink!! Kick back!! This post is for you.

Lucy will not stop crying. Neither can I. I cut a perfect rectangle of molding to frame out the mirror in our bathroom. But the glue won’t hold and neither will the tape that is supposed to hold it until it is glued. I painted around the perimeter of the mirror with the color I have chosen for the bathroom and I am not sure I don’t hate it.

I want to open a bottle of wine and drink the whole damn thing but I can’t because somehow I managed to totally forget to buy anything to pack for Emily’s lunch tomorrow. And before you think “what the hell, can’t MQD go to the store?” he already offered but I’m such a control freak I want to go myself. God forbid I don’t pick out my own cheese sticks.

I called my mother when the third piece of molding from the mirror fell in to the paint and what came out of my mouth between the sobbing was not  “oh damn my mirror project looks like shit.”

It’s more embarrassing than that.

I don’t want to be home all alone with Lucy.

I love her with all of my heart. I want to feed her and sleep beside her. I want to console her when she is cuttng teeth. I want to see her take her first steps.

But I don’t necessarily want to hear the song that fucking singing glow worm makes again. I am not really that in to playing with stacking cups. Or putting the tupperware back in the cabinet 87 times a day.

With Emily home I had a plan. Get up. Exercise. Do a project. Eat lunch. Pool. Shower. Dad’s home. Dinner. All the while I am with my big girl. The girl that makes me laugh like no other. It was like a sleepover all day, for weeks on end with my favorite pal.

And I’m a little bit scared of the new routine. Wake up. Make breakfast. Kiss Em and Mike goodbye. Nurse Lucy. Change Lucy. Rock Lucy. Play with Lucy. Repeat ad infinitum until the bus gets here and my sidekick returns.

Who’s going to laugh with me?

I can certainly take care of a baby by myself. I’m not afraid to do that. But I’m a little afraid I’ll be bored. To be honest I’m a lot afraid of being bored.

You can save the well meaning advice about mommy and me activities, all the friends I’ll make, volunteering in Emily’s classroom, the walks in the fall leaves, how quickly the time will pass. Or the snarky comments about how I’m getting exactly what I’d wished for. Because I know all of this.

But right now I’m going to pout. It’s the last day of Summer vacation. Since the second day of break I’ve joked that I didn’t know what I was going to do when Em went back to school.

Well the joke’s on me. Turns out I wasn’t kidding. I’m gonna miss the hell out of that kid.

In the time it took to write this on my phone I have stopped crying. So has Lucy. I don’t give a good god damn if the molding holds on the mirror. I sent MQD a text “Get pizza for dinner.” I am sitting here.

My house  looks like this.

I have a tendency towards being a Perfectionist in the Mom category. Pizza for dinner and a blown up house and a half-ass DIY project do not Perfection make. I am gonna call this Progress.  Nobody likes a Perfectionist.

Fuck it. MQD can go to the grocery store. This is Progress, right? No one likes a control freak. Just one glass of wine. One big glass.

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The Time Machine

There is an exhibit, an installation, a magic space machine at the Museum of Life & Science in Durham.  It is upstairs  as soon as you get off the elevator.  If there were 20somethings in wrinkled tuxedo shirts offering  plastic glasses of cheap wine I would feel like I had been transported back in time to an art opening at the Muscarelle Museum on campus.   Only I would be wearing black thigh highs and combat boots and chasing boys.

Instead I am wearing a baby.  And chasing six year olds.  This afternoon I watched the “sand” made by shadows in the projected light pile up on my body.  I watched for longer than I have ever watched before.  I have stood in the path of these lights at least a dozen times and never did I see myself like I did today .


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My hand on her head.  Her body jutting out from my lower abdomen.  I stood like this for months before I ever got to hold her.  She is asleep.  I can hear her breathing.  We are exactly the same temperature.  She can smell me.

Almost a year ago now I took this picture below.  I wish I’d had the sense to include the rest of me.  I remember snapping more than a few, I couldn’t seem to get an angle that didn’t make me look like the back end of a truck.  Funny the things I worried about.

My pregnancy, Lucy’s beginnings are more than documented, both here and privately.  I imagine I could make a flipbook if I lined up every bathroom belly shot I took.  But it is not enough to just look at these old pictures.  I won’t ever have her back so close again.
My big girl will be in the first grade in three days.  After dinner tonight she climbed in my lap and I pressed my face in to the nape of her neck.  Her fresh, back to school hair cut gives me free access.  I inhaled her.  She is still there.  My first baby.

My little one, I can still hold her close.  I can still breathe her in while she sleeps.  Today as I watched the “sand” pile up on her as she slept against my chest I knew that I would come back again to this exact same spot.  I would take another picture.  First I will see the shadows pile on her back  as she crawls.  Then I will see the shadows pile on her head and her feet as she walks.

And one day we will get off the elevator and I will walk towards the light and she will not follow me.  Instead she will head towards another exhibit, hot on the heels of the big kids.  And I will chase her.  And I will pick her up and smell her and she will be my baby again for a moment.

 

 

Ups and Downs

It has been a long time since I sat in the driveway thinking “How in the fuck did I manage to do that?” Perhaps you remember the morning I put my car in the ditch.   Maybe you even remember that I couldn’t figure what to do while I waited for AAA because it was so cold outside.  My patient husband suggested I go INSIDE the house.

So, today while I sat in the driveway wondering how in the hell I managed to lock myself and two kids out of the house I kept thinking fuck it, we can just go inside and wait.   Yeah.  No, I can’t.

We cleaned out the car.  We organized my purse, suspiciously devoid of keys.  We took funny pictures.  And we waited for Dad.

Eventually the funny picture taking began to wear thin and I started to sweat.  I do not care so much for sweating unless that is an activity I have planned on.  I love to get sweaty.  Exercise and get sweaty.  Go to the beach and get sweaty.  Get it on and get sweaty.  Sweaty is an integral part of many activities I love.  Sit in the driveway and get sweaty.  It wasn’t doing it for me.

I started to get annoyed.  “Emily, today might be a shitty day.  I might swear a lot today.  A lot, like more than normal.  I need you to just hang tough.”

Eventually we got our keys.  We headed to the museum for the afternoon.  We ate ice cream BEFORE our lunch.  I was trying to rally.  Really, I was.  But I had showered.  I had on cute shoes.  And now I was fucking sweaty.

We ran our errands.  We checked the teacher lists at school.  Em got a haircut and the teacher she wanted. Things were looking up.  But it’s not easy for me to turn a day around.

So when the nice woman with the baby said “How old is she?” I could  feel myself start to sigh inside.  I can be aloof.  I know it is hard to imagine but I can.  “Just shy of seven months.” I thought I was making the “Don’t talk to me, I was fucking sweating today, god dammit!!” face.  But I must have misfired.

“He is, too.  And she is six months and she is eight.”  I have no idea how it happened.  Have you ever walked in to a bar with a royal hangover  in your flannel pants just to get your credit card that you left there the night before and forty minutes later you are smashed and getting hit on and it is the middle of the day?  No?  That was just me?

All of a sudden I was sitting on the floor with one, two, three other mothers and FOUR babies and it was … fun.  And one of them took my phone number!! And we were Facebook friends within twenty minutes of her leaving.  These people had ruined my bad mood.

And I don’t think I ever said anything about “my job.”  The job I don’t really have anymore.   I just said “Yeah, I will have tons of time when Em starts school next week.”  And I didn’t apologize.  Or explain that I am terribly busy Mod Podging my shoes (I am still so in love with my freakin’ shoes!!!!) and making homemade granola bars and becoming Queen of the PTA.  I just said “Yeah, here’s my number.”

And it felt good.

So, today kind of Sucked.  But then it turned Awesome.

Missing it

There is  hard stuff. The conversations that sneak in between the giggling in bed at night.

He rose up on his forearm and said “I’d have one more if you wanted.” He was watching her sleep, her teeny body taking up half of our king size bed.

My throat got itchy and my nose started tingling. I needed to not cry. I’ve thought this through not just with my heart and my hormones but with my head.

I don’t want to struggle. We are making it now. MQD and me and the girls. And I’m home. Where I know I belong. I don’t want to push Lucy to grow up faster. I want her to have what Emily had, her mom all to herself for years to come.

“I know.” And he kept watching her. “She’s just growing so fast.”

I took his hand in mine. “Another baby would grow up, too. And we can’t just keep having more.”

And he smiled. Looked at me. Took his eyes off of her for a moment. “Sure we could.”

This morning as he left for work I walked to the door and kissed him. Like I did when he would leave my apartment years ago. “Thank you for talking to me. Just because I don’t want more babies doesn’t mean I don’t cry several times a day over how fast this one is growing. There is absolutely nothing like loving a baby. I just want to be present for the one that we have.”

He kissed me back.

She is sleeping in my lap and I have my hand curled around the back of her head. Her bald little head. And I let the tears roll down my face. She has five long hairs right now. In just a couple of years she will get a hair cut and those sweet wispy baby hairs will be gone. Those hairs I soaked in tears, the hair she smeared with avocado.

I let myself cry for a few and then I stopped and took a breath. Emily always says “I wish Lucy could talk to us” or “I wish Lucy could walk” and I tell her “I don’t! I’m not wishing away our baby!! We won’t get it back!”

I think and talk a lot about how much it means to me to be present. To be here so I don’t miss it. But it’s not just wishing it away I need to be wary of. I can’t let myself get consumed with how fast they’re growing up. While I am weeping over the haircut my six month old will have in two years? I’m missing right now.

It’s so hard. To feel every second. In order to be fully present I like to hold on. But if I hold on too tight before I realize it I’m holding on to the past. And these damn kids, their present turns in to ancient history in seconds.

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Falling on my head like a memory

I think I must be  pre-menstrual. I am a do-er, a mover and a shaker. And I am still in my pajamas. So is Lucy. Emily is only on her fourth outfit. MQD is out of town and I am trying to RELAX. I am not particularly good at relaxing.

We had chocolate milkshakes for breakfast. There will be no exercise in this house today, I don’t think. It is pouring down rain. I am itching to paint our bedroom but I am relaxing, dammit.

A movie. We will watch a movie. A movie will keep the constant “Mom, do you know why…” questions at bay, right? And Lucy will eventually nap if I sit in the rocking chair with my boobs out long enough. And then I will definitely start relaxing…

A League of Their Own. Great movie, great message, not starring a single Disney star…. a perfect afternoon. “Mom, why do they have to wear a dress? Those girls are playing baseball but they don’t have to wear a dress, do they, Mom?”

“No, honey, they don’t have to now. But remember this movie is about the first women’s baseball team, and a long time ago, remember everything wasn’t very fair.”

“Ohhh, so Martin Luther King Jr said girls can wear shorts when they play baseball?”

Not exactly. Every injustice in the world that has been righted was due to MLK in her mind. “Em, if it is still raining after this movie is over maybe we can watch a documentary about Martin Luther King, Jr? There is one on Netflix,” I said.

She smiles and hugs her sister. I start to get a little misty and think about how I am maybe too hard on myself. We are raising these girls up just right.

“Or we can paint my nails?”

Yeah. I almost forgot we were relaxing today. The nice thing about a history lesson is you can always do it tomorrow.  I mean, it’s history.  It will still be there.

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I bet you’re worried.

Sometimes I worry about whether or not I am doing a good job accurately portraying my life here. If I am honest it is equal parts worry that my readers will think I am insufferable (how often does anyone want to read about how perfectly splendid life is?) and worry that I am somehow failing to see what is right in front of me, fearing that I am not actually as content as I think I am. Both scenarios are troublesome. The first because I certainly don’t want to alienate the masses (heh) (whom I clearly crave approval from on some level because I have been more than upfront about my insecurity.) And the latter because I am always afraid of the monster under the bed. (Lucky for you I do not fear the sentence fragment or the dangling participle. I fearlessly embrace the run-on sentence.)

I worry that if I write about the Good it will be boring. And there is so much Good, so much genuine Greatness in my world right now it is hard to write of much else. I want to tell you about the shoes I decoupaged and how I might be a little bit in love with Mod Podge.
But it really hasn’t been long since I posted about Em’s room and I fear that incessant posting about my craftiness will read as “Look at Me! Validate me! Aren’t I worth something now that I am a mostly stay at home mom!?!”
So I have been quiet this week. Not for lack of things to say but for fear that I am not being authentic.
And then today as I peeled off the sports bra I have been wearing all week (does any nursing mother wear a normal bra unless she is “going somewhere”) I started to laugh. Four nursing pads, a pen, a paper towel, an iPhone cable and a dolphin.
It takes me a minimum of two trips to leave my house. The other day at the chiropractor it was noted my shirt was on inside out. This morning I walked around the house with the plastic cup that lives in the dog food bin in my hand for five minutes. It was not until I went to make a phone call on said plastic cup that I noted that my phone was in the bin. I am drinking a cup of coffee right now and I am reasonably certain that if you went in my kitchen right now the cabinets containing the mugs and the Keurig cups would be open. And apparently I stuff random crap in my bra.
My house is clean. My laundry is folded. The beds are made and the bathrooms wiped down. Because that is the way I like it. I get a lot done during a day. I like doing projects. But all this does not add up to make me a Stepford wife.
Stepford wives do not get squeezed out of their own beds when their husband goes out of town.
I am still me. I can be happy and still not have my shit together. I can get a lot accomplished in a day and still be scatterbrained. I can have a clean(ish) and organized house and not be all Martha Stewart.
The other night I found myself telling someone that I had seen an awesome pin on Pinterest. “You know that smell in Williams & Sonoma? It is lemon, rosemary and vanilla extract!” I could hear myself talking and on the inside I was thinking who the hell am I? Then in my next breath I was saying that my kitchen currently smells like a very clean marijuana smoking device.
Since Lucy has started eating more and is sitting at the table frequently I have been very careful to make sure I only wipe the kitchen table down with Simple Green. I bought my first bottle of Simple Green in a head shop in the mid 1990s to clean the resin from my precious glass. So while 36 year old Kelly peruses the internet trying to figure out a way to make her kitchen smell like Williams Sonoma instead of the inside of a very clean bong 21 year old Kelly would be pleased to know that she has not been forgotten.
I’m kind of afraid of becoming a happy suburban mommy. I am afraid that five, ten years from now I will look backwards and think why did I Mod Podge everything I own? How many front door wreaths does one girl need? I am afraid that my DIY decor will scream single family income and too much free time. But mostly I am afraid that I will get so far away from who I was that I won’t realize that my kitchen smells like a head shop.
If you’ll excuse me I have half a bottle of Chianti to drink while I ruminate on this subject. Lucy is going to start crawling any second. I need to sit on my ass and navel gaze while I can.

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