The Quest for Baby Mamma Jeans

The other day I had a sudden impulse to go try on maternity pants.  My normal pants still fit ok, but I wanted to see what my options are.  I’ve never delved very far into the maternity section of any store, so I was curious to see what I would find and what they’d feel like.

First stop:  Ross

Ross didn’t have much.  However, the merchandise at Ross tends to fluctuate, so it probably just depends when you go.  There were a few pairs of skinny jeans, along with some yoga pants and dress pants.  I tried on one pair of skinny jeans, but they were very meh.  The fit wasn’t great and they were a little shorter than I prefer.

Second stop:  Kohls

I looked high and low for the maternity section and it was nowhere to be found.  I conveniently gave up close to the baby clothes and decided to do a quick meander through when I happened upon an itty bitty maternity section nestled into a corner of the baby clothes section.  I got a “mom jean” vibe from most of the pants there, and there weren’t many pants in my size.  I did try on a pair of coral crops, but they didn’t really do anything for me. 

Third stop:  TJ Maxx

I searched diligently, but found no maternity clothes at this TJ Maxx.  None.  I looked pretty thoroughly.  Maybe they don’t ever carry maternity clothes, or maybe it’s something that comes and goes.

Fourth stop:  H&M

H&M had a pretty good selection of sizes and styles.  There were dark wash and greyish wash skinny jeans, but my calves proved to be no match for these skinnies, and they were ridiculously tight on me.  There were also five or six different colors and patterns of skinny jeans, but the fit was also too tight.  They had the potential to be really cute, but they just weren’t made for my legs.

Fifth stop:  The Gap

My coworker who is also pregnant has some really cute maternity pants from the Gap, but I was a little doubtful that they would fit in my budget.  I mean, it’s the Gap.  I was pleasantly surprised to find the same pants on sale, but when I tried them on they were that awkward inch-above-the-ankle length.  It was fourth grade all over again.  I continued to look, and I found another clearance rack of maternity pants.  I tried on a few pairs in my size and found that they ran pretty baggy and short.  Pregnant clown.  Dear me.  Back to the rack. 

And then I came across the lone pair of {the size which shall not be named} dark wash extra-long skinny jeans.  It went against every fiber of my being to even try {the size which shall not be named}.  It’s a size made for anorexic people and 11-year-olds.  It can’t be healthy to even try on.  They ended up being a near perfect fit, although slightly baggy in the butt.  I promise I’ve been eating.  They were plenty long, not too tight around the calves, and the fit was pretty acceptable.  And they were comfy.  They had an under-the-belly waistband rather than the bodysuit kind that goes all the way up to the armpits (I exaggerate, but they go way up there).  The under-the-belly kind feel more like sweatpants, which I like.  They were originally $70, but they were marked down to $35.  Booyah.

Thus, I purchased the anorexia maternity pants.  I have no regrets.  They’re comfy.  They’re belly-flattering.  Sorry, normal pants.  The anorexia maternity pants win.

The Low-Down

I never really saw myself as the type to have a “let me tell you about how my pregnancy has been” post, but after holding in my fun little secret for so long, I actually want to talk about it.

Compared to some of my friends, we waited a really long time to tell people.  I was 10 weeks when we finally told our parents and siblings.  This was partially because I just wasn’t emotionally ready to go there yet and partially because I was super paranoid about having a miscarriage.  My mom had a miscarriage with her first pregnancy, so I almost expected that it’d happen to me too.  And if I did miscarry, I kind of wanted it to be a private experience for a while.  I know—I’m weird.  I’d accepted that miscarriage happens a lot, especially in first pregnancies, and that it happens for a reason.  Most of the time it means something really really major was wrong with the baby, so I learned to feel ok about letting that baby go if it means he/she didn’t have to endure much pain.  Plus, I believe miscarriages are included in eternal families.  If I miscarried, that baby would still be mine forever.  Miscarriage is still really sad, though, and I’m glad I have yet to experience it.

As far as morning sickness goes, I was pretty lucky.  Mostly food looked really gross for a while.  Pinterest was no fun at all during this stage.  My browsing was constantly punctuated by internal, “Eww, that looks nasty,” and, “Ick.  Scroll down, scroll down!”  I never got very nauseous, but mornings were definitely the ickiest part of the day, which is weird because I’m normally big into breakfast.  Some mornings the only thing that sounded relatively appetizing was lemon-lime pop and crackers.  Not exactly a healthy breakfast, but I figure it was better than eating nothing.  It was a welcome change when my appetite decided to reemerge about three weeks ago or so.

My immune system didn’t fare so well.  This is where “The Cold That Loved Me Too Hard” comes in.  I’m usually a very high-functioning sick person, and I rarely miss work because I’m sick, but I was really down for the count for almost the entire month of February.  It started out with a cold, then less than two weeks later I got another (different) cold, then a week later I got a bad ear infection.  I missed a total of six days of work, and would have missed an additional five days if I hadn’t been sick on weekends and President’s day.  I spent a total of 11 days in the month of February laying on the couch!  It was ridiculous.  Well-meaning coworkers were constantly giving me suggestions on cold meds I should try.  I always felt a twinge of guilt when I’d say, “Oh yeah, I should look into that,” when I knew very well I couldn’t take it.  Pretty much all that I was cleared to take was Tylenol and Benadryl (and later amoxicillin when I got the ear infection).  I’d heard that being sick is worse pregnant, but wow.  It really is.  But I’m coming up on three consecutive weeks of healthiness, so I’m crossing my fingers the worst is behind me for a little while at least.

These days I pay a lot more attention to those progressive belly shots you see on Pinterest.  I feel itty bitty compared to most.  I only barely started to avoid my more form-fitting shirts (they still fit, but they’re just not flattering anymore), and even then all my jeans still fit fine.  I feel a little chubby, but I haven’t gained any weight at all.  I actually weigh slightly less than I did before I was pregnant.  It’s weird.  My temporary loss of appetite or “The Cold That Loved Me Too Hard” may be to blame for that, but even then my weight has stayed pretty consistent since the beginning of January.  My doctor hasn’t said anything about it, so I guess it’s nothing to be concerned about yet.  On the contrary, he has twice thanked me for being skinny because it makes finding the heartbeat easier.  Kind of a weird compliment, but I’ll take it.  In the meantime I’ve switched from 1% milk to 2%.  I figure it can’t hurt.

So that’s the low-down on the current situation as of now—15 weeks.  It may be more or less than you wanted to know, but there you have it.

In other news…

P.S. This image is slightly different from the one I posted on Facebook—I took out my last name from between “1st” and “baby.”  If you’re Facebook friends with me you can see it in its full glory there.

Petty Parenting Pet Peeves

Sometimes things I see parents do (at church especially) really irk me.  I’m not a parent, so I get that I’m not really an authority on raising kids, but I’ve worked with kids just enough to form opinions about stupid, nit-picky things.  I’m not trying to be critical of parents who do these things, because these things really aren’t a big deal.  However, I can’t for the life of me figure out what they’re thinking.

1.  Parents not dressing their children in weather-appropriate clothing.

There’s a lady in my ward that is a fantastic mom—the way she interacts with her kids is adorable.  However, I’ve noticed for the past month or so at church her baby girl (a ten-month-old maybe) is dressed in sleeveless summery dresses with bare legs and bare feet.  She looks cute, but I can’t help but cringe.  I’m guessing the dresses were a gift or a killer deal and the mom wants to get some use out of them while her baby girl is the right size, but for heaven sakes, put a cardigan (or a long sleeved onesie), tights, and shoes on that little girl!  It’s technically still winter! 

I get that socks fall off like crazy and that baby shoes are a little pointless if they aren’t walking (and the fit can be weird too).  I get that diaper-changing is easier without dealing with tights and onesie snaps.  I also get that maybe the mom is thinking, “Well, I bundle her up in a blanket in her car seat to and from church, and inside the church is warm.”  But still. 

The rule of thumb with babies is that they should wear one more layer than mom is comfortable in.  If mom is hot in one layer of clothes, then a sleeveless summery dress with bare legs is totally ok.  However, the mom is dressed warmly:  long sleeves, a long skirt, and tall boots.  Naturally, you should dress your baby in something warm too, right?  I feel like it’s common sense.  Again, it really isn’t a big deal, but why?

2.  Parents who use toys as a last resort to entertain their baby/toddler.

There’s another mom in my ward—again, a fantastic person—who has an approximately 18-month-old toddler.  At church, she at first sits him on her lap, unentertained.  I think she’s hoping he’ll listen along with her.  Nope.  After about thirty seconds he wiggles away.  Naturally he starts to explore around him—banging on the chair, jumping on the bench, etc.  She pulls him away from whatever he’s doing and sits him down beside her.  He gets up and explores some more.  She sits him down.  She does this over and over and over and over and over until finally she pulls out a toy from her bag.  At this point that toy dinosaur has nothing on the bounciness of the bench, so he almost immediately discards the dino and goes back to jumping.  That poor mom doesn’t get to hear any of the lesson/talk.

I’ve worked with kids enough to know that if you let them get bored they will find something to do, and it’s usually something you don’t want them to do.  Kids like to be busy, and this business helps them to learn tons of skills—hand-eye coordination, problem solving, large and small motor skills, consequences, processes, etc.  Keeping a child busy with a variety of activities is probably the biggest favor a parent can do for their child cognitively and developmentally.

I don’t really understand why she doesn’t give him something to do right away—before he even has the chance to get bored.  Give him a dinosaur and when he’s done with that pull out the Cheerios, then out comes the flap book, then the busy book, etc.  It requires more entertaining and prep, but I’m willing to bet she would get more out of church.

Maybe this mom is trying to teach reverence to her child and sees toys as something irreverent that should be avoided whenever possible.  Maybe she always waits until he’s bored to give him a toy and he always rejects the toy (because he’s already found something more fun to do), so she sees toys as a lost cause.  Maybe it just hasn’t occurred to her to pack more than one or two toys in her church bag.  Maybe she tries to make the toys really count.  I don’t know.  I don’t get it.

Pardon my ranting.  Again, these things are not a big deal in the parenting big picture.  And one day I’ll probably do something stupid with my kids that will make someone else wonder, “What is she thinking?”

Ghosts

My husband and I have this thing for this show on the Travel Channel called Ghost Adventures.  We watch every Friday night.  Sometimes Saturday nights too.  We obviously struggle socially.  Oh well.

If you've never watched it, it's about three guys who go into haunted locations throughout the country (and sometimes outside the country) to investigate the spirits that reside there.  They get locked in the building overnight and use a variety of fairly legitimate tools (EVP's, thermal imaging cameras, etc.) to capture spirit activity.

There's a really great history aspect to this show.  Before they do the lock-down they learn as much about the building's history as possible.  They research documented deaths that occurred in the location, as well as any inhumane conditions that have been a part of the location's history.  Pretty much all the locations have some sort of tragic past, which really appeals to the social worker in me.  They've investigated a poor farm that was later turned into a sketchy insane asylum, prisons where famous murderers received the death sentence, mansions where an entire family was murdered by a crazed daughter, and so forth.  Even if you think the investigation itself is bologna, the back-stories are awesome.

They also do a lot of interviews with people who have had weird experiences in the location.  It's like sitting around the campfire listening to ghost stories.  Even if you don't believe, it's entertaining.  One time they were investigating a resort and interviewed a lady who used to work there.  Years ago she had been walking down a hallway when suddenly she got slammed face-first to the ground.  Another worker saw her get pushed down, but also saw that nobody pushed her.  She hit the ground with so much force that her nose bones got pushed up into her head--definitely not a normal injury for someone who simply tripped while walking.  Also they found a bruise in the shape of a hand on her back.  Maybe the story was a cover-up for some sort of domestic assault, but it's still a cool story.

Believer in ghosts or not, the actual lock-down part of the investigation has real entertainment value. It's like reality tv on steroids. Sometimes it's intense, and sometimes it's funny, but it's all pretty candid. Sometimes they get scared, scream, and run away. What more could you possibly desire from a television program?

As for me, I'm a believer in the ghost-related paranormal.  I don't have a lot of personal experience to back my belief, but I still believe.  A few years ago I worked a grave shift once a week at Smith's doing price change.  I'd heard rumors of a ghost that was usually seen along the back wall of the toy and hardware sections, but I didn't take it very seriously.  I mean, it's a store.  Who haunts a store?  But in the wee hours of the morning during one grave shift, I think I saw it.  I was sale-tagging action figures while listening to my iPod, when out of the corner of my eye I saw something.  The something was dark and stood along the infamous back wall.  By the time I turned my head to get a better look (I was wearing my glasses), nothing was there.

I was pretty sure I was the only person on that side of the store, but after I finished my tagging I surveyed all the nearby aisles to confirm that nobody else was around.  I was right; the only other person in the department was working nowhere near me.  Occasionally the grocery guys ventured into my department, but it was always to jump out from behind some display to scare me.  Stealth without startling wasn't their style.  It's possible that I imagined the something--it was late at night and I was tired.  I can never be certain what I saw.  Regardless, I'm still a believer.

I don't do this often, but I kind of want to open up a conversation about this.  What do you think about ghosts?  Have you ever had an experience with a ghost?

The Tale of the Dropped Pen

I think I've mentioned before that I kind of have this thing for Shakespeare, so in my sophomore year of college I signed up for "Intro to Shakespeare."  In this class I was flanked mostly by a variety of thespians.  Most were of the funny and outgoing variety, and a few were of the more hardcore dramatic (and socially awkward) type.  As for me, I was of the random non-thespian few.  Acting has never been my thing, but I bit the bullet for Shakespeare's sake.

Anyway, there was one guy in particular in my class who was the epitome of hardcore dramatic (and socially awkward).  He had this weird dramatic British accent, which would have been fine had he been British.  But he wasn't.  He also liked to throw around the word "quasi" whenever he commented in class.  Quasi?  Seriously?  Who says that?  A quasi-Brit, I guess.

One day I was sitting one desk behind and to the side of the quasi-Brit.  All was well until he lost control of his pen.  I watched it fly from his fingers and land neatly inside the purse of the girl sitting in front of him.  He casually moved to retrieve it, then suddenly froze in midair.  He quickly withdrew his hand with a look of anxiety on his face.  It appeared that it had only just occurred to him that reaching into a girl's purse would frame him as the quasi-klepto.

He gripped the sides of the desk and frantically glanced back and forth between the girl and her purse.  It was at this point that the purse girl innately sensed that something weird was going on behind her.  She turned around and saw the quasi-Brit gazing intently into her purse.  He looked back up at her and saw that he'd been caught, so he leaned back in his chair and feigned intense interest in our professor's lecture.

After the purse girl drew her purse closer to her feet, the quasi-Brit gave a resigned sigh and reached into his backpack for a new pen. 

Humans Pretending to be Animals and Animals Pretending to be Humans

Lately, a few girls in one of my four-year-old classes have been pretending to be kitties.  I won't lie.  There are few things I dislike more than children pretending to be animals.  I can't stand it.  It would have been slightly more tolerable had they been playing quiet, timid kitties issuing delicate little mews.  But no.  These kitties sounded like they were being dunked into frigid water.  Repeatedly.

"Meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee," a girl squeaked.  "Eiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii," another girl squealed in reply.  They frolicked on their hands and knees toward a toy pan and pretended to lap up milk.  "MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!"  "EIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII!"

Kill meeeeeeeee.

Even when I was little I thought other kids pretending to be animals was weird.  One kid in my elementary school pretended to be a velociraptor straight out of Jurassic Park every recess for probably a solid year.  He formed his hands into claws and held them near his chest as he stealthily tiptoed around the playground.  Sometimes if you got too close he would hiss and screech at you.

And then there was the creepy girl we met at the pool when I was about ten who thought she was a dolphin.  She made all sorts of dolphin-esque noises and even attempted to swim like a dolphin.  I can't remember if she spit water into the air like a dolphin.  What put me over the edge was when she tried to play with my four-year-old brother like she was the main attraction at Sea World.  I remember thinking, "She's like my age... and pretending to be a fish.  This is creepy."  So I snatched my little brother away.  I mean, dolphins have teeth too.  Apparently she'd read one too many Animorph books or something.  I can't help but wonder what animal she was out of water.

Now, I'm not saying that it's wrong for kids to pretend to be animals.  Imagination-based play is great.  I'm all for pretending to be fairies, doctors, teachers, race car drivers, magicians, superheroes, etc.  But when it comes to animals I can't help but think, "Really?  That's the best you can come up with?"  I like cats, especially kittens, but there's nothing really great about pretending to be one.  They eat, sleep, use the litter box, rub up against people's legs, meow, purr, and run away from dogs.  They don't even talk.  Lame.

Then comes up the dilemma of talking animals.  I'm perfectly fine with cartoon or puppet animals talking.  I loved the Aristocats and 101 Dalmatians as a child.  But it's just weird when kid shows have real dogs or cats that talk.  Take, for example, this movie.  Maybe you bought this for your dog-loving child for Christmas, and I'm sure they'll love it.  But please don't tell me that watching those dogs talk isn't creepy slash bizarre.

Remember this 90's movie?  This one isn't too bad because it was before they could digitally manipulate the animals' mouths, but it's still kind of weird.  My biggest beef is giving animals human qualities.  They aren't humans.  They are animals.  Also, I don't really like the idea of teaching kids that if you don't like where your mom drops you off, you can just run away.

Speaking of animals being creepily human-like, you've probably seen this commercial.  It's animation, but it's still weird.  Animals aren't like that.  And they don't look like that.  And they don't talk.

But occasionally, and ever so rarely, talking animals work for me.  I happen to really like this commercial.  And then there's this movie.  I have a thing for little talking pigs.  For some reason the animals don't look too unnatural when they're "talking."  It also helps that it has a few really great underlying messages:  You can do anything if you try; it's ok to be different; be kind to those who are different than you; being nice can get you a long way; etc.

Anyway, I imagine that these animals pretending to be humans has something to do with kids pretending to be animals.  The more human-like animals are, the more relate-able animals are to kids, I guess.  I'm just crossing my fingers that my future kids aren't hugely into pretending to be dogs or watching talking dog movies.

Update:  One of my links was wrong, but it's fixed now.

On Santa

Earlier this week Santa came to school.  Each kid took a turn sitting on Santa's lap and told him what he/she wanted for Christmas.

One three-year-old, in his itsy bitsy tiny voice told Santa that he wanted a monkey vampire.  He also wanted a Christmas tree with real vampires on it.  Good luck to his mom.

While one of my four-year-old classes was busy reciting Christmas wishes to Santa, one of the moms slipped in and whispered to me, "I came a little early because he wanted me to be here for Santa just in case he needed help.  Last year he got nervous and asked Santa for chicken nuggets and french fries."

Speaking of Santa, Kev and I were in charge of the ward Christmas party yesterday.  Most wards go with the traditional "special visitor" (a.k.a. St. Nick), but not our ward.  Our visitor had a few things in common with Santa--magic, deception, and flashy costume.  Take a guess.  Not the Grinch.  Not the Three Wise Men.  Not the Little Drummer Boy.

A magician.

A Christmas magician?  Nope.  Just a magician.

Don't get me wrong.  He was very entertaining.  His tricks went off without a hitch.  He made the kids very impressive balloon animals.  He more or less ended with his testimony. Definitely not your typical Christmas party "special visitor."

There are pro's and cons to deviating from the Santa norm.  Personally, I never really enjoyed sitting on Santa's lap as a child.  One of my favorite pictures in my scrapbook is of my then one-year-old brother sitting blissfully on Santa's lap while my mom holds a screaming three-year-old Lindsey.  Really, what's enjoyable about sitting on a strange, furry man's lap?  And yet, it's sort of a childhood rite of passage.

On the other hand, it's just so fun to see most kids' faces light up when they see Santa.  Santa is somewhat non-denominational, but he happens to provide a child-friendly first glance at faith.  As a child I remember looking at the skinny stovepipe of our wood-burning stove and thinking that a child couldn't fit through there, let alone an overgrown man.  But I believed that somehow Santa had that already figured out.  Santa allows kids to see that you don't have to know all the answers to believe in something.  That's what faith is all about.  You're in a seemingly hopeless situation and you can't see how it could possibly work out ok.  And yet you believe that God has it all worked out.  And the thing is, it always does work out.

Retailed

Once upon a time, I worked in retail off and on for about three years.  This experience in retail has endowed me with two somewhat opposing shopper attitudes.

First of all, I have a lot of patience and sympathy for checkers who end up needing an override.  In the event that you don't know, an override becomes necessary when the cashier is required to void out an item that's already been rung up and exceeds a certain amount of money.  An override is also required when an entire transaction needs to be voided.  There are other reasons why an cashier might need an override, but to be honest I've blocked them out of my memory.  Anyway, in order to get an override, the cashier has to call for a manager to approve what has been voided, etc. and then scan their special card or type in a special code.

The need to override sneaks up on even the most vigilant checkers.  You're happily scanning items when all of the sudden the customer makes a last minute decision, "You know, I think I'll wait on that leaf blower."  You push void and rescan the item, praying that the gods of cash register land smile upon you just this once.  The cash register laughs and demands, "OVERRIDE!"  You frantically glance around, hoping that a manager happens to be nearby.  Nope.  You pick up the phone and call a manager, timidly asking, "Hi, can I get an override?"  The manager sighs because you asked for an override less than an hour ago when a coupon wouldn't scan.  After that, there's nothing to do but wait.  All the items have been scanned and you can't go any further in the transaction until that override is taken care of.  The customers in line begin to get antsy.  Some cast incredulous glances at you, silently asking why you're just standing there when there's an increasingly long line.  You apologize for how long it's taking, but alas, the waiting game continues.

Anyway, when I'm that customer or I'm behind one of those customers, I try to assure the checker of my understanding.  It just happens sometimes.

And then there's the second virtue of a retail veteran.  I notice good customer service and am horrified by bad customer service.  For this reason I avoid Walmart like a dirty public bathroom (sometimes it can't be avoided, but the plan is always to avoid it).  I know most of the world loves and reveres Wally World and its ultra-affordability, but I always walk out angry and annoyed.  I go through the check-out line and my checker is talking to another employee throughout my entire transaction, so I look around thinking I'm surely being punked by the HR department with an unexpected role in a Walmart "What Not to Do" training video.  Nope.  This is real life.

But regardless of where you are, sometimes you get awesome service, and sometimes it's less than desirable.  A few weeks ago (on Black Friday) I was in Vanity trying on an assortment of jeans.  There were tons of girls in Santa hats working and we were almost suffocated by the amount of help being offered, as there weren't many people in the store at the time.  I found the winning style and size of jeans, but the sewing on the inseam of one leg seemed to be coming unraveled in two places.  I tried on another pair of the same style and size and while the stitching seemed spot on, I glanced at my butt and noticed something slightly abnormal:  a small vertical, white line.  Like a drop of bleach dripped down my butt.  Granted, the fabric in that spot had a faded look anyway, so nobody but my husband would probably notice (even that is debatable), but it was something I would notice every time.  Thus, I set out to find yet another pair of the same style and size.  As I was completing my unsuccessful search, one of Santa's helpers came to offer her services.  I explained my dilemma to her and she replied, "Hmm... so you're one of those picky customers..."  Someone forgot to tell her you don't tell customers they are picky.  You say, "Hmm, that's unfortunate.  How about I give you a 10% discount?"  By the way, 10% is a pretty standard discount for damaged products, so don't feel bad about asking for a discount on a product that has something wrong with it even if it's on sale (unless it's already been marked down for the defect, of course).  However, I was so surprised by her accusation of me being picky that I forgot to ask for a discount.  If those jeans didn't look so great I would have walked right out of the store.  But instead I got the pair with the butt drip.  I'd post a picture, but they're not in my possession as my mom is giving them to me for Christmas.  Just do me a favor and if you see me wearing some great jeans, don't look too closely at my butt.

When I was a freshman in college I went to Wendy's with my roommates and had an unforgettable experience.  My roommates had ordered burgers, and as they were unwrapping their burgers one commented that her burger felt a little cold.  The other took a bite and furrowing her eyebrows lifted the top bun to check under the hood.  "They forgot the patty!" she exclaimed.  The first roommate checked hers to find no trace of a patty as well.  They gathered up their burger-less burgers and presented their well-condimented buns to the cashier.  He looked a little perplexed and asked, "So... do you want a new burger?"  They kindly informed him that yes, they would like a new burger--with the actual burger included.

And yet a few weeks ago my husband and I went to a Wendy's and had a completely different experience.  After we ordered and were waiting for our food, the cashier realized they were out of chili.  She told us of her mistake and had my husband pick out something else from the value menu instead.  He picked the spicy chicken nuggets and she said, "Great.  I'll make it six piece instead of four.  Once again so sorry about the chili."  As she finished gathering up our items I heard her say, "One value fry... I'll up it to a small."  We were so impressed by the effort she made to make it up to us.

What I think it largely boils down to is managers and how well they train the employees they are in charge of.  Managers have a lot of power over the your experience as a customer.  If all the lines are super long and only three of the ten check stands are open, it's not because the checkers slacking off.  It's because managers aren't doing their job and calling for back-up checkers.  If you have an unpleasant encounter with an employee, it's probably at least partially because that employee hasn't been trained by his/her manager to handle weird situations appropriately.

It's a very strange existence--simultaneously being understanding and having very high expectations.  This makes me either a the nicest customer ever or the pickiest, most demanding customer ever.  Bless the poor retail employees who have to deal with my bi-polar behavior.

Mystery in the Restroom

Tonight we stopped at an In-N-Out for dinner. After we ordered I excused myself to go to the bathroom to wash my hands. On my way over I decided to go ahead and use the toilet while I was in there.

All seemed normal at first. Someone was already in the large stall, and I happened to choose the one next to it. Just as I sat down a strange noise occurred. We're not talking traditional "bathroom" noise. It was difficult to tell, but I think it was either a weird giggle or a suppressed sob.

Immediately the need to pee vanished. I didn't know what was going on in the stall next to mine, and I didn't want to know. I seriously considered simply exiting the stall without using the toilet. However, the bathroom was once again all quiet. I couldn't just leave the stall without making any "bathroom" noise. That's almost as weird as making weird non-bathroom noises.

I didn't feel like adding to the weirdness of an already weird situation, so I forced myself to go as quickly as possible. As I was finishing up, another strange noise sounded. This time it was either roaring laughter or hysterical sobbing. I'm not sure which. The weirdness was escalating. When the noise stopped, I heard some quiet muttering. It occurred to me that there might be two people in the stall.

I frantically cranked open the lock, which happened to be an unusually stubborn one, and walked to the nearest sink to wash up. I soaped up and waved my hand under the faucet to set off the motion sensor. Nothing. Of all times for the water to not work! I moved to the next sink, praying that one of them would work so I could get out of there. Thankfully it worked. As I rinsed off the soap I glanced at the occupied stall through the mirror and saw a pair of fuzzy, pink slippered feet standing near the door of the stall. I couldn't tell if there was another pair of feet further back, as the stalls were fairly deep.

I inwardly breathed a sigh of relief when I saw paper towels instead of an air dryer. I don't think I could have endured another 20 seconds in that room.

After escaping the bathroom, I realized that it might have been someone with special needs. That would explain the odd noises and the possibility of two people in one stall. However, if it was two people, it seems weird that the one was being so quiet. If it were me helping a person with special needs I would have spoken to her at a normal volume mostly so that other people could hear that things were under control. That taken into consideration, I'm still not sure what was going on.

After I sat back down at our table I watched the bathroom door for several minutes, looking for some kind of closure to my strange bathroom experience. Nothing. Once our food arrived I stopped watching, but as we were leaving I scanned the feet of as many fellow customers as possible, looking for the fuzzy, pink slippers. Nothing.

The Great Rivalry

Today I was pushing some kids on the tire swing when one of the kids began to chant, "Cou-gars! Cou-gars! Cou-gars!"

The two other kids on the swing looked a little uncomfortable, then chanted in reply, "Utah Utes!  Utah Utes!  Utah Utes!"

The little BYU fan very cordially joined in on their Utah chanting, thinking they were going to take turns chanting for both teams.  When they were through, the BYU boy said, "Ok, now Cougars.  Cougars!  Cougars!  Cougars!"

The little Ute fans didn't join in.  Instead, they glanced at each other and loudly began chanting over the BYU chant, "Utah Utes!  Utah Utes!  Utah Utes!"

Once the chants had died down I chimed in, "But what about the Aggies?"

They all gave me a quizzical look and pretended not to hear me.

Such is the life of an Aggie.

Weekend Reading Binge

So I have this thing where I start books and never finish them.  And if I do finish them it takes me years.  It's not that I'm not into the book--I'm a quick judge of books and will jump ship within the first couple of pages if I'm not feeling it--it sometimes just takes me a while to digest books, particularly classic literature.  Les Miserables literally took me two years to finish.  In my defense, it was the unabridged version and Mr. Hugo has a thing for random tangents (which is why an abridged version exists, I learned). 

Anyway, earlier this month I finished Anna Karenina (which only took me less than a year to finish!) and thus gave myself the opportunity to start another book.  I could and would read several books at the same time, but then I would finish none of them, so I have to use a little self-discipline and limit myself to one at a time.  When considering what to read next, I was in the mood for something a little spooky, so I selected a Gothic classic I'd never read before:  Dracula!

P.S. How creepy is the cover of my version?  Looking at that face gave me a creepy feeling every time I opened it.

My goal was to finish it before Halloween, and I succeeded with four days to spare.  I will admit, however, that checking the following book out from the library hastened my reading a lot.

I finished Dracula today, so I got to start Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children.  That book had my name all over it.  It's slightly different than I expected, but I still got shamelessly sucked into it.

I should also mention that my self-discipline in avoiding reading multiple books at the same time has been stronger.  I'm also working on A Series of Unfortunate Events.  I read most of them back in high school, but never got to the last few books.  It's been so long that I can't even remember which book I left off on, so naturally I started on book the third.  Mostly because that was the most easily accessible via my library's online audiobooks.  However, my progress was slower than expected via audiobook, so once I got to book the fourth I went with an ebook on my ipod.  I finished book the fourth yesterday and began book the fifth today.  Yes, I started two books today.  But I also finished two books in the past two days, so I'm letting this one slide.

Favorite quote thus far from book the fifth:  "Cakesniffing orphans in the Orphan Shack!  Cakesniffing orphans in the Orphan Shack!"

Borders

The other day I was thinking about Poland.  Especially a little city in eastern Poland called Wlodawa.  Running along the east side of this delightful little city is a river that serves as the border between Poland and Belarus.  Nothing terribly exciting happened to me along the banks of this river, but for some reason an experience I had there has always really stood out to me.

My friends and I had been wandering the streets of Wlodawa looking for an adventure when one of my friends recognized where we were and wanted to show us a place she had gone the day before.  She led us down a road to the edge of the city and along a path through a meadow.  Behind us stood the city, with two of its most recognizable buildings--the Russian Orthodox church to the left and the St. Ludwik Catholic church to the right--peeping out from the trees.

Once we reached the banks of the river, she pointed to the opposite bank and told us we were looking at Belarus. She then told us when she'd come to this place earlier, the guide had told them that should they attempt to cross the river into Belarus, they would be immediately shot down. A member of the group commented that he saw no watch towers. The guide retorted, "Yes, but you would hear the shots."

Upon hearing this I gazed across the narrow river to Belarus. Surely enough, I didn't see watch towers either. It appeared to be a quiet, unthreatening countryside. The only thing that looked out of place was a red post. Perhaps it was a camera keeping watch over the lazy river, or perhaps it was simply used to mark the border.

By all accounts everything appeared safe across the river in the Belarus farmlands. However, we did no more than dip our toes into the water from our Polish shore before making our way back through the meadow to town.

I've reflected back on that experience often. I've wondered if maybe the guide just didn't want to deal with a bunch of wet Americans galavanting through Belarus, so he exaggerated the consequences a bit. I've found the exact spot we stood with the satellite setting of Google Maps and explored (with my cursor) the parts of Belarus I saw but never touched. I saw nothing but uninhabited, beautiful land for a few miles.

And despite my doubts that a country would actually shoot at people crossing such a discreet border, if I were to go back I still would not have waded across. For although I did not see the watch towers, I certainly wouldn't want to hear the sound of guns being fired at me.

After all, there are other ways to get to Belarus.  A thirty minute drive northward along the border gets you to the nearest Poland/Belarus customs.  And here's a fun fact:  The Poland/Ukraine border is just south of Wlodawa, and a fifty minute drive southward from Wlodawa takes you to the Poland/Ukraine customs.

When I think about standing on the banks of the river with Belarus almost within reach, I also consider less tangible borders.  There are legal borders in the form of laws and spiritual borders in the form of commandments.  Sometimes with these borders, it looks completely innocent to metaphorically wade across the border.  There are no watch towers in sight and it's only this one time.  But if you know it's wrong to cross the border, why does it matter if there are watch towers?  Wrong is always wrong--it doesn't matter if someone is watching.

The Little Stuff

The other day I was welcoming kids into class when I saw {Little Miss Sweetie} come into the building.

As a side note, I think I can say her name, but after years of having client confidentiality pounded into my head, I can't stop now.  So I will still use nicknames.  They're usually a little easier to keep track of, anyway.  Plus, Chicken Nugget Boy, Probation Kid, and The Fake Crier are way more interesting than regular names.

Back to the story.  Little Miss Sweetie is probably one of my favorite four-year-olds.  She's a little introverted and shy, but oh so sweet.  That day she made her way to her hook, hung up her bag, and then suddenly froze, staring at a small object she was holding in her hand.  Within a matter of seconds she came completely unglued.  She hadn't seen me yet, so she ran sobbing to a nearby teacher.

I hurried over to investigate and heard her say with utmost anguish, "I.. (sob) forgot... (sob, gasp) to leave... (gasp, sob) it at... (shudder, sob, gasp) home!"  In her hand she held a marble.  Yes, a marble.  It's a rule at our school that kids aren't supposed to bring toys to school.  I've seen Little Miss Sweetie get a bit upset when other kids weren't following the rules, so I'm guessing it just broke her sweet little heart that she'd accidentally broken a rule.

The other teacher took her aside to help her calm down while I went back to my class to keep things under control.  A few minutes later the other teacher brought Little Miss Sweetie to me and told me, "Ok, Miss Lindsey, we figured out what to do.  I am going to get a baggie for {Little Miss Sweetie} to put her marble in."  She then spoke to Little Miss Sweetie, "We can even write a note on the baggie that says 'For Daddy.'  How does that sound?"  Little Miss Sweetie nodded, so the other teacher said, "Ok, well we will go get a baggie, and then Miss Lindsey can help you write a note."

They returned, so Little Miss Sweetie and I wrote a note on a sandwich bag, dropped the marble into the bag, and then safely tucked the marble baggie away into her bag.  Tragedy averted.

I saw this quote a while ago on Pinterest, and I think it's a good thing to keep in mind regardless of whether or not you have kids.  Because even if you don't have kids or don't work with kids, you see kids everywhere.  If you don't, maybe you don't go grocery shopping.  Anyway, Little Miss Sweetie isn't my child and accidentally bringing a marble to school isn't really a big deal, but it was a big deal to her.  By taking her seriously and treating it like a big deal, I'm showing her that there are adults out there who will listen to her concerns, big or small, and help her.

The Silent Sufferer

Here's a preschool story for you:

For whatever reason, kids have to "go potty" at the most inopportune times.  And for reasons that I really can't comprehend, they tend to wait until they HAVE to go to tell you.  There's no, "Miss Lindsey, I'll probably need to use the restroom within the next ten minutes, so please incorporate that into our schedule accordingly."  I only wish.  Somehow they are suddenly and unpredictably stricken with the need to pee and begin to dance and hold their nether regions and waiting isn't an option.  I could go on, but I think I'll refer you to this story from Grasping for Objectivity because it's a hilariously accurate depiction of this "sudden pee" syndrome children are afflicted with.  Her blog is immensely entertaining to begin with, but this story is probably my favorite.  Anyway, the funny thing about a class of 3-year-olds is that if one asks to go to the bathroom, at least five others hear the request and realize, "Hey, I have to go potty too!"  It's seriously contagious.

One 3-year-old girl who was in my class (she has since moved) was typical in the sudden pee realm, but instead of just telling me she had to go, she preferred to suffer in silence.  Well, relative silence.  I'm not sure how she began her silent suffering (because obviously I'd have sent her to the bathroom right away), but by the time I noticed, she was in tears and softly moaning while the other children were nervously murmuring, "She has to go potty...  She has to go potty..."

"Ok, run to the bathroom," I said calmly.  She said she needed help and began to wail.  I quickly led her out of class and to the bathroom.  Since she'd pulled a similar--though less dramatic--stunt before, I knew she was completely capable of taking care of business by herself, so I led her to a stall and respectfully stepped away from the stall to give her a little privacy.  Wrong move.  The whiny wailing turned into an agonizing shriek.  I looked back into the stall and saw that she was standing with her pants down in front of the toilet.  "I NEED HELP!" she screamed.  Not sure exactly what she was expecting me to do, I quickly picked her up and plopped her down on the toilet seat.

She was instantly quieted and calmly began to pee.  And that was it!  Problem solved.  Lucky for me, the world didn't end and she didn't have an accident.  I'm really not sure how I got out of that unscathed. 

Life Lately

The time has come to give a life update.

The last day of August we packed up all our stuff from our adorable first apartment and moved a few hours southward to the big city.  We had originally planned to move sometime in the first week of September, but the couple that was taking our place in the apartment needed to be out of their apartment the last day of the month, so we agreed to move up our move-out date.  We thought it would be do-able, but it ended up being pretty ridiculous, especially since we both finished up our last day of work the day before we moved.  Somehow we got it done and made it to the big city in one piece and with our marriage still intact.

For the most part we like our new apartment.  We used to live in the main floor of a house, and just our landlord (an elderly southern lady) lived below us in the basement, so we were a little spoiled with general quietness.  Our current apartment is in a pretty big complex and there are apartments above, below, and on two sides of us, so things are a little bit louder.  It's not too bad most of the time, but kind of awkward when we overhear other people yelling at each other.  Our apartment faces a little pond, which gives our windows a little more privacy (which is lucky--a lot of apartments you can see right in), and the pond happens to be the dwelling place of a bunch of ducks.  I'd have to guess there are at least twenty.  The ducks are kind of fun, but they never stop quacking.  Never!  I don't think they sleep.  Or maybe they take turns sleeping so someone can always be awake quacking.  I worried it would drive me crazy, but I've gotten used to it and hardly even notice it anymore.

While we lost a lot of the quaintness that made our old apartment so fun, our new apartment has some bonus features our old apartment lacked.  For one, a garbage disposal.  I don't use it very often because I've become so well trained to scrape every scrap of food into the garbage before putting it in the sink, but it's nice to have around anyway.  Secondly, we now have a dishwasher.  Greatest invention ever!  Our dishwasher was a little nastastic when we moved in--there was a delightful curry-esque film around the drain.  Gross.  There was no way I was putting my dishes in there.  Not that I have very nice dishes, but I happen to eat off my dishes and didn't want the curry monster to lick them.  Thanks to Pinterest, some vinegar, and baking soda, the dishwasher looks clean now.  Anyway, another bonus feature is that we have quite a bit more storage space, which makes things look far less cluttered than in our old apartment.

My husband didn't start his new job until Sept. 10th, so those first nine days of our new apartment were like a really bizarre, disorganized extended vacation.  Once he started his job it started to feel a lot more like home, but we're still getting used to it.  When we watch the news, they'll be talking about breaking news in our city, but it still doesn't occur to us that it's happening in our city.

My husband has an unusual work schedule called a 9-80. So in the space of two weeks he works 9 nine-hour days instead of the normal 10 eight-hour days. Thus, he gets every other Friday off, and the Fridays he does work he gets off an hour early (9x9=81, so that's why that extra hour gets cut off). Three-day weekends have become commonplace around here, which is awesome. Another weird thing about his schedule is that he works 6 am to 3:30 pm. It's super early for him to get up, but it's also nice having him home so early.

In other news, I got a job teaching preschool last week. After we moved I looked for social work jobs and found none that I felt excited to apply for, so I was beginning to get a little discouraged. But then I saw this job on a job board and it was smooth sailing from there. School started about a month ago, but one of the teachers had some family obligations come up and had to quit, so I was super lucky that this job even opened up.

A few years ago I ran into my preschool teacher and told her I was studying social work. She told me she'd graduated in social work, so now I weirdly feel like I've come full circle. I once was a preschooler taught by a social worker, and now I'm a social worker teaching preschool. Life is complete!

Anyway, this new job is crazy but so far it's fun. I co-teach one class of 22 three-year-olds and two classes of 23ish four-year-olds. It's definitely been trial by fire, seeing as school has been going on for a month without me, but I'm ok with figuring things out as I go. The other teachers have been super nice and patient with me.  I've been on the job for only a week, and I already have funny stories to tell.  However, I'm going to save them for a later post.

Foamy

Meet Foamy.  He's my husband's beloved pillow.

I learned early on in our marriage that Foamy was not like other pillows.  At first glance Foamy looks fairly normal, but the second I picked Foamy up I knew something was different.  Foamy was skinny. Like severely anorexic skinny.  I tore off the pillowcase and pillow protector, and to my horror I found this.

Foam.  With water-noodle-like cylinders wrapped around two ends.  I snatched Foamy's insides up and went to confront my husband about his "pillow."

"This," I said, shaking the yellow square of foam, "is your pillow?"  He affirmed that it was, in fact, his pillow.  "This isn't a pillow.  This is foam.  Wimpy foam."  My husband shrugged.  I asked, "How long have you been using this as your pillow?"

"Well," he began, "when I went on my mission I needed a pillow that didn't take up much space.  So I used that.  And I've been using it ever since."  According to my calculations, he used Foamy as his main sleeping pillow for about eight years.  Eight years!

"You know, pillows are only about ten bucks.  Less if they're on sale," I told him, completely flabbergasted that he went that long without a real pillow.  He just shrugged.

My husband is somewhat a man of tradition, but not in the traditional fashion.  He has gets oddly attached to things he's had around for a while.  For example, he's gone through several pairs of sunglasses in the past couple years, but he doesn't have the heart to throw them away after they're broken.  So he keeps all of them in his car.  I can only guess, but I think the longer they stay there in his car, the more he sees them as a permanent fixture--like a merit badge.  They've been there for years, so why get rid of them now?  I've come to grips with the fact that there are certain little trophies he will never part with.  Bless his sentimental little heart.

Anyway, to a certain extent I understand his sentimentality about his pillow.  I once had an affair with a pillow.  I loved it for years and years and even brought it to college with me.  The summer after my freshman year I moved home so that I could spend three weeks of the summer touring Poland with a folk dance group.  I left my pillow safely at my parents house, and upon my return home I highly anticipated sleeping on my own pillow.  Due to the time difference and a very long flight, by the time I got home I hadn't slept in about 24 hours, and I was ready to sleep.  However, it was only 7 pm, so I felt that for the sake of getting back into the groove of my time zone I should wait until at least 9 to go to bed.  When 9 pm finally rolled around I realized my pillow was missing.  My body buzzing with sleep deprivation, I searched the house high and low for my pillow.  It had to have been funny to watch my frantic Goldilocks-esque pillow-testing.  Too soft.  Too fat.  Too lumpy.  Too flat.  HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO SLEEP WITHOUT MY PILLOW?  I very nearly had an emotional breakdown.  It's a little hazy now, but I think my mom talked me into sleeping with another pillow.  Which is good, because I never did find that pillow.  I might still be awake had I kept looking.  I haven't bonded with a pillow in quite the same way ever since that heartbreak.

Back to Foamy.  In Foamy's defense, he looks much more uncomfortable than he really is.  I wouldn't want to sleep on him every night for eight years, but it wouldn't be bad for a night or two.  It might actually be the perfect size for a toddler.  However, parts of the foam are kind of disintegrating, so I hesitate to put Foamy under the head of any child of mine.  We'll cross that bridge when we get there.

 

Thank goodness, I got a two-pack of pillows at my bridal shower, so my husband finally got a legit pillow to sleep on.  But true to my husband's character, he couldn't quite let go of Foamy.  So Foamy still has a place in our home. 

The Saga Continues

Unfortunately, the story of me and the Blog Boss didn't end after my last post.  You see, at my last post I was completely convinced that I'd been scammed, so in my mind I was done with the Blog Boss.  Little did I know, I was not.

To make a long and emotionally-charged story short, the Blog Boss made a reappearance a few days after my last post (a ten day absence).  He emailed me (and his other writers) telling us that he'd been in the midst of a big move, and that things should be back to normal.  So I put my posts back up on his site, and he paid me for them.  I was going to write another post on here explaining what had happened, but then I got busy with moving, so I didn't get around to it.

However, a few days ago he sent me an email saying that he'd come across my post on here where I assumed him to be a scammer, and he was incredibly offended.  He accused me of unprofessional conduct and terminated our working relationship.  He said my negative review of him and his site was inappropriate, and that my portraying the site as "not worth much" was highly contemptible.  He said he'd emailed all his writers beforehand to warn them that he was moving and wouldn't be able to respond to emails for a while, so I shouldn't have been surprised by his absence.

At first I felt guilty about it.  I felt like maybe it had been a mistake to write about the whole ordeal.  I felt like I had shot myself in the foot for writing it in the first place, and then again for not correcting it after things had been cleared up.

However, after a few days of pondering over the situation, I've realized that I really did nothing unprofessional.  I legitimately thought I had been scammed, so I wrote about it on my personal blog.  Assuming my side job was a bust after not hearing from my boss for ten days doesn't make me unprofessional--any rational person would come to that conclusion.  And I wasn't wrong to write about it.  As any nine-year-old could tell you, "It's a free country."  As long as I'm not writing maliciously or dishonestly, I have every right to write about whatever I want on my blog.  I experienced it, so I can write about it.  If I have a negative experience, there's nothing that says I can't write about it.

Yes, maybe I should have been a little more quick to update all my "readers" (who are mostly my friends and family) about how I found out he didn't drop off the face of the earth.  However, he left me hanging for 10 days, and he knew he left me hanging--I wrote him a handful of emails throughout the disappearance, so he should have known right away that I did not receive prior notice of his absence.  For being so concerned about professionalism, he sure didn't show me much.  Thus, I really don't feel bad for taking my time to update my personal blog.

I wrote an email back to him defending myself and my situation, but in the event that he realizes how idiotic it was to "fire" me for being upset with his unprofessionalism, I still don't plan to write for him again.  Or anyone else, really.  If this is what writing for a blog boss is like, I'm not in.  Too much drama.  So ends my saga.

The Rest of the Irony

Remember that blogging project I got hired to do?  The story gets funnier.

To start out, the Blog Boss was very prompt in responding to emails, gave good, clear directions, and to top it off, he even paid me correctly and in a timely manner.  After that, I began whipping out those blog posts left and right.  I emailed them to the Blog Boss all throughout last week, all the while gaining encouragement from him saying he'd pay me after number three.  When I emailed him the third post, I had a stroke of anti-procrastination and promised him this week's posts all at once the following day.

After six posts were written, I sent them off to him expecting a reply and some $$.  Nothing.  It was the weekend, so I figured he was busy.  No worries.  Monday came and went.  Still nothing.  Tuesday I began to get irked.  No reply and no $$.  I wrote a brief email asking when I could expect to be paid.  Nothing.  By Wednesday I was flat out annoyed.  I wrote a strongly worded email (strong for me--it was still pretty polite) telling him I would be happy to write more after he paid me.  I also added a pretty powerful ultimatum.  I told him I'd delete the posts he didn't pay for if I wasn't paid by Friday.  He has a copy of all my posts, so I'm sure the Blog Boss was just shaking in his bloggy boots.

Seeing as today is Friday, I triumphantly logged onto the WordPress account and double-deleted the posts (the first delete only puts them in a trash folder, but the second delete totally obliterates them).  Not that it does me much good--he can easily copy and paste it back on there--but it made me feel better anyway.  To compensate for the fact that he can put my stuff back up again, I went to the effort to delete all the categories, tags, and pictures that I had made and uploaded.  If he's going to use my work, it's going to be as inconvenient for him as possible.  I'm also going to keep my eye on the blog for a while (probably until he deletes me as an admin) and delete any of my work that he re-posts.  I will not go down without a fight.

While this experience has been really obnoxious, I can't say that I really lost anything from it.  Heck, I feel pretty lucky that I made $25 off the Blog Boss.  He got some blog posts for free, but you better believe I'm going to post those on here, so that's not really a loss--I write for free on here anyway!  Also, I'm a notoriously slow writer--I do the "contemplate, write, contemplate, erase, repeat" cycle frequently--and this really helped me learn to bust out posts without taking too much time.  And last, but not least, I've learned that in the future I should take a moment to really dissect future requests.  The Blog Boss' requests seemed innocent at the time, but looking back I can see that he totally set me up.  Thanks for the good times, Blog Boss.

On a slightly related note, these pre-written blog posts are really going to simplify my blogging life for the next several weeks because things are going to be crazy busy.  My husband got a job, so we're moving in about two weeks!  I'm sad to leave my job here, but after a whole summer of iffy-ness I'm so game for some permanency.

Oh, the Irony

A funny thing happened to me this week.  I randomly applied for a job writing for a parenting blog, and it just so happens that I got the job!  I'm getting paid to write!  Granted, I'm not making bank--I get paid one and a half pennies per word.  But I like it and it's something fun to add to the resume.

Brace yourself for the funny part.  The blog is called "Single with a Baby:  Raising a Child on My Own."  The irony makes me smile every time.  I'm not single, I don't have a baby, and yet I'm writing this blog.  Fortunately, parenting is parenting--single or not--and the basic principles stay the same.

Anyway, feel free to follow along at {said website}.  I'll be writing three posts a week, and the majority of the stuff I'll write will apply to any parent (even though I'm directing it toward single moms).  I don't anticipate that blog getting really big and famous or anything--my boss said it's there mostly to promote another blog--but I'm ok with that.  It's mostly a fun little project at this point.