30

I have set a new-decade resolution to cease and desist with all gossip. Saying something critical about someone, particularly when I would not say it to the person directly, is cowardly, tasteless, and insane.

I need a form of self-flagellation if I mess up. Something that stings, is relatively simple to execute, but not corporeal. I am open to suggestions.

In the meantime, if you hear me say something about someone that I wouldn't say to them, feel free to give me a quick slap.

Happy new decade!

The real deal

I turn thirty next week. I love my birthday and have always been committed to celebrating thoroughly. Last year on my birthday I was pregnant (miserable, and too large to fit into my birthday suit! Horrors!) and had to work for twelve hours. It was a real dud.

So this year I have been contemplating how to commemorate my glorious thirtieth birthday. What I came up with proves that my youth is already long gone.

1. Force Ryan to run errands with me. This includes babies r us (to buy an ergo), ikea, and JC Penney portrait studios (to pick up the holiday card envelopes they forgot to include with my order).

2. Force Ryan to help me clean the den and/or basement.

3. Maybe go out to lunch or something.

That's what I got. I'm glad I had so much unmitigated fun in my teens and twenties. These days, I'm apparently all business*. I hope I don't want to clean the bathroom when I turn forty.

At least I'll be running errands in my birthday suit. That thing makes a party out of anything.

*Upon a re-reading of this post, I realize that it's not so much business I'm into as forcing Ryan to do my bidding. I can't help it. I'm an oldest child.

Milestones

It seems that some parents rejoice when their child, especially a firstborn child, passes important milestones. Not me. This child has started practically begging me to eat solids, and I just keep trying to nurse him. It's so easy, so convenient, so inexpensive, so metabolically favorable.

And now the little sucker has started crawling. Mobility is proving just as problematic as I anticipated. He just wants to eat electrical cords.

When he walks, I quit.

Grievances about my lower half

I'm posting this from my phone and have no idea where the photos will show up. Forgive me if it doesn't make sense. I'm in the process of learning to use my phone as my only link to the outside world.

I take issue with the following:

According to standard distribution charts for white, American females, I am a of approximately average height and weight. Why, then, are all pants minimally five inches too long? I recently purchased six pair or jeans at Unique Thrift, sweet purveyor of nearly-free clothing, and every one requires either a seamstress or impractical shoes. If I am average, it seems there could be at least one pair that would be in the ballpark. Perhaps I should wear only capris. Better cold ankles than tripping. This reminds me of canned pumpkin, sold in 29 oz. cans when everyone knows that all pumpkin recipes call for one cup (8oz.) or maybe two, if you're lucky, but never 3 and 5/8. But that grievance has nothing to do with my lower half, so, moving on...

to my next point. The aforementioned pants represented sizes four through ten. This is four different sizes, for any readers unfamiliar with women's sizes. The size four pants are roomier than the size eights. This is simply madness. Men's pants are sized in a sane way, according to their measurements. Even a difficult to size man, like my long-legger spouse, can hope to find pants if the numbers are right. Women have to take an entire store into the dressing room. I am renewed in my zeal for my fondest dream, that all the world wear zip-up jumpsuits, like auto mechanics. Practical. Comfortable. Easy to size. Why is nobody on board for this idea? Probably because they are too busy trying on pants and freezing leftover pumpkin.

And finally, I went to the gym today and did a routine of exercises specific to my glutes. Only. Just butt exercises. Because mine is a full six inches south from where I left it when I got pregnant. To my knowledge, the baby does not gestate in ones derrière. Why, then, does mine look as though someone let the air out of it? If anyone needs me, I'll be doing hack squats.

Those are all my complaints. In other news, the kid has a tooth. He does not care to show it off, and thus must be forced. He likes his dad. So do I.

Over and out.

Happy Halloween

Last year we celebrated Halloween with a 400 lb. pumpkin. It was a real big pumpkin.

This year we only had a twenty pounder. Just a little pumpkin.

Happy Halloween :)

Emergency preparedness

I am newly, blissfully addicted to Pinterest. It gives a person the distinct sense of having accomplished something when, in fact, all she has done is lain in bed so her kid will stay asleep.

Pinterest has given me some anxiety. I fear I will fail to thrive as a mother and human being if I do not purchase a sewing machine and a laminator. I am now aware it is possible to fashion upwards of twenty different homemade wreaths for even the most mediocre holidays. And I am more keenly attuned every moment to the impending apocalypse. We need food storage. Survival training.

And all I do is watch my kid sleep.

But sometimes a person realizes she may be unduly complicating things. In fact, the ability to complicate simple things may not only describe a pastime, but a defining personality trait.

Think with me on this. Is there anything I need in a 72 hour kit besides a jar of peanut butter, a bottle of gatorade, and a small firearm.

I eagerly await your input.

My identity

This morning, I woke up in the bed where I co-sleep with my exclusively breastfed child, changed his hemp cloth diaper, and set about my primary objective for the day, which is cleaning my carpet with this non-toxic, homemade method. I ran out of salt, so I went to our locally-sourcing natural foods market, traipsed around with my kid in a sling while wearing vibram fivefingers, and took home my salt, plus some chocolate almond milk, for a treat, in my reusable canvas bags.

But I'm no hippie.

In college, I was frequently teased for being a fake hippie, because I was. I listened to phish CDs I bought at barnes and noble, rather than bootlegged myself on tour, in the Toyota previa I purchased, rather than a vintage VW bus. I ate vegetarian food I bought at target and Costco. I wore Birkenstocks purchased via amazon and had shipped to my air-conditioned house.

It has been a life of conflict and hypocrisy.

This is why I am grateful for the green mommy movement. Never before have my interests in Eco- and health-friendly lifestyle choices been so beautifully blended with my uptight and neurotic personality. Now I can keep orderly and extensive boards of recipes, DIY projects, and unschooling ideas on Pinterest. I can follow vegan cooking blogs on my google reader and read then on my iPhone while I'm nursing. It's AWESOME.

I am not alone.

Relatedly, if obliquely, I have had a few observant friends mention the obsolescence of my blog title. Touché, I am indeed no longer childless (though I have also not been a housewife for four years and nobody noticed; perhaps therein lies a commentary on female identity perception in the US). However, I am contemplating new options. The blog does need a new name. A couple that now spring to mind are:

1. Amy's breastaurant: all-you-can-eat, open 24/7

2. No Regrets: Trading a life of ease, luxury, and lunch dates for a life of domestic servitude without a moment's regret

As you can see, I'm having trouble coming up with something I find as punchy as Childless Housewife, but I'll keep working on it.