ameliorate me

A sad realization

2009-11-15T23:24:00.005-07:00

Today, while teaching the 12- to 17-year-old young women at church: "I'm not that much older than you guys. I wasn't in high school too long ago, and (lesson topic) was not talked about as openly back then as it is now."

Later that night to GJ: "HOLY CRAP. I AM that much older than them. I am 10 years older than the oldest girl in our class. I'm so confused. I'm old enough to be out-of-touch with their generation."

*****
Remember, last day to vote on three truths one lie.

Proof that a Nielson will contort their body in any position imaginable to fall asleep

2009-11-14T23:46:00.000-07:00

*She remained in this position for a solid hour, moving only because we took her out of the car.

The favorite parent

2009-11-13T23:48:00.001-07:00

Folks, I think Peanut hates me.

We're cool when GJ's not around...but the second he shows up, Peanut's over me.

She will cry if GJ gives her to me.

She will turn her face away from me when I try to talk to her, like "HOW DARE you address me when I'm with my father."

She gets SOOO territorial about GJ and will push me away when I try to come near the two of them.

She gets ancy for him to come home, yelling "dada" up the stairs when he's gone or just looking at the door with a far off look in her eyes and whispering "dada."

She rarely kisses me any more, only GJ and random objects like the Smith's Rewards Card (GJ's card, of course).

She loves finding GJ's pile of dirty clothes, standing in front of them with her arms outstretched, then faceplanting into his clothes, rolling around in them and giggling (disgusting AND cute).

I'm trying not to be offended...but is this normal?

Three truths one lie: the vote

2009-11-12T23:59:00.001-07:00

So you've read them all.

Day 1: The Honey Pot
Day 2: The bathrobe frog
Day 3: The Paris train getaway
Day 4: The Great Swami

Now, it's your turn to vote in the three truths one line blogging series. Which one was the lie? You have the weekend to decide. I will reveal the fake on Monday.

Poll on the right.

Day 4: The Great Swami

2009-11-11T23:57:00.004-07:00

*Apologies - a little technical difficulties posting this blog. I back posted.*

The Game: Three truths and one lie, blog-style.

The Instructions: For the next four days, I'll be posting four life stories. You get to pick out the fake on Day 5. Comments will be off until the official day of the reveal.

The Inspiration: CJane's original.

*****

One weekend during my sophomore year of high school, I had a little party at my house with a few girlfriends - and a lot of guy friends. This was one of my first, as the old people say, "mixed" get-togethers as a teen at my house. I was pumped to have so many cute, fun boys over.

We ordered pizza, played nightgames and did what high school kids do best -- hang out.

Now having friends over at the Nielson House was a full family event. Every guest met and hung out with my siblings and parents. My dad was not the stereotypical father who ignores his kid's friends. He took the time to meet and get-to-know every friend that came through our door. My little sister and I are so close in age, we were friends with each other's friends anyway. And my brothers -- particularly the youngest -- were the little siblings who loved tagging along.

And my mom...oh, my mom. She was a kind and gracious host, loved meeting new friends and made a point to talk with their parents. But she delighted in embarrassing us.

That night was no exception. After some sort of hide-and-go-seek along our street (with my little brothers joining in on the fun), we sunk into our living room couches to "hang out" -- my siblings and parents standing nearby.

"Hey guys, why don't Norm and I show you a great game!" my mom said, seizing an opportunity of inactivity in a crowd to organize a game. "It's called: 'The Great Swami.'"

My siblings and I groaned. It's my mom's calling in life to turn any seemingly normal discussion into charades, a board game or any awkward group activity. And if there are two words that will strike fear into our hearts, it's Great Swami. This is a trick involving nine cards laid out on the floor (or, in my parent's case, encyclopedias or magazines to appeal to a larger crowd). My mom acts as host, my dad the assistant. Mom leaves the room while dad leads the group in picking a single card for my mom to "mysteriously" guess correctly.

My mom, seeing a moment of prime embarrassment for her children, gets into full stereotypical all-knowing mystic character costume. She wraps a towel around her head to act as a turban, putting her hands in a meditative position and speaks like an Indian man.

It was often performed at our our birthday parties when we were young. And, clearly, it did not stop when we got older.

I am actually having bad flashbacks to that night just writing about this. My parents PERFORMED a magic trick in front of a bunch of boys I went to high school with, my mom DRESSING up in stereotypical garb (no offense Atul) and my dad egging her on.

OH, I was MORTIFIED. I must have blacked out when the actual trick happened because I just remember leaving the room, my friends dragging me out, me thinking "PLEASE, THIS IS NOT HAPPENING."

But it was. And that was not the last time. Anytime I had boys over of the opposite sex, including well into college, my parents threatened me with the Great Swami, laughing at my cringes.

And the worst part? My friends LOVED it.

From then on, despite my tag-along brothers, small house and crazy mom, they wanted to hang out at the Nielson's house.

"It will be fun. Her mom will probably embarrass her."

Day 3: The Paris train getaway

2009-11-10T23:57:00.007-07:00

The Game: Three truths and one lie, blog-style.

The Instructions: For the next four days, I'll be posting four life stories. You get to pick out the fake. Comments will be off until the official day of the reveal.

The Inspiration: CJane's original.

*****

A defining moment of my life was a month-long trip to Europe. The original intent was for an internship writing articles for the German Federal Foreign Office web site. But myself and my friend Stefanie took off a week early to tour London and Paris.

Oh, EUROPE. HOW I LOVE THEE. I have a few American friends raising their kids out there (Hi Lindsey! What up Felicia!) and I'm totally jealous.

Stefanie and I had planned out our trip so we'd spend a few days in London, take the Chunnel to Paris, stay for a few days in France, then take the Eurorail to Berlin.

On our last day in France, I wanted to see Versailles. Our train to Berlin didn't leave until 9 p.m., leaving a solid day for the 45-minute train ride to the palace of King Louis XIV, the Sunking.

Understandably exhausted from a week of non-stop sight-seeing, Stefanie decided to just stay in Paris, eat a baguette and see the Eiffel Tower one last time. I took the trip without her.

Arriving at Versailles, I was completely awe-struck. I had mapped out my sight-seeing on the train ride over -- a tour through the Hall of Mirrors, then a walk through the gardens -- and the opulence, size and grandeur of the palace was unlike anything I had ever seen or read about.

After entering, I anxiously waited in line to buy a ticket on my credit card, only to hear the three words no one wants to hear. "Credit card denied."

A little reference stamp: this was May 2004. GJ and I had been married for 9 months. People are generally in disbelief to hear I'd leave my husband for a month so early in our marriage, but sightseeing in Europe? A prestigious internship? I'd be stupid to pass that up.

I went to some payphones in the office space downstairs and used my calling card to call our bank. Turns out, because there was activity on the card in two separate countries (GJ using it in America, me using it in Europe), they activated the fun little "security feature" and canceled our card. Although I could verify all my personal information, I was not at my listed phone number in Utah. ID fraud, right?

Trying to be safe and not risk getting all my cards stolen, it was the only credit card I brought with me. I had spent the rest of my cash paying out the hostel tab that morning.

Here I was, in one of the most beautiful places in France, and I couldn't even go inside.

So I did the only logical a 20-year-old college student would do. I snuck into the gardens.

The Versailles gardens are jaw-dropping. 250 acres of landscaped gardens, sculptures, fountains, a lake, pocket parks. It perfectly complements the massive 700-room castle. You could spend days in the gardens. I didn't even make it to the middle.

When I finally made the walk back to the train, I was already late to meet Stefanie at the Eurorail station in Paris. And I had no money to buy the 2.50 Euro ticket.

I said a silent prayer. "God, please help me. I need someone, something - anything - to get me on that train. I don't know what to do."

I explained to numerous train employees the situation with my credit card, begging for a ticket back to Paris. No one cared.

Knowing my credit card wouldn't work, I still handed it to the cashier, thinking this would be the moment when God would intervene. As the cashier shook his head and handed me a blank receipt with the words "par la carte de crédit nié," my face went flush. I asked when and where the next train to the Eurorail station came, and the cashier told me the platform number with a warning in broken English that the train was leaving right then and another wouldn't come by for another 30-45 minutes.

So I did the only logical a 20-year-old college student would do. I ran for the ticket turnstiles, jumped over them and made a mad dash for the platform.

And as I ran across that main floor and into the loading dock where I slipped onto the train, God sent me my help. Two sister Mormon missionaries walked by, staring at the American girl darting through the crowd.

Day 2: The bathrobe frog

2009-11-09T23:57:00.005-07:00

From ameliorate me

The year before we bought our current home in Salt Lake, we lived with GJ's sister, her husband and their then 2.5 girls.

It was an awesome year where we formed a strong bond with those little girls and became great friends with their parents.

(This is the same family that had a creepy blogstalker, so names will be made-up.)

While living with them, we kept our fresh-water fish tank in our basement bedroom. The girls - then 6-year-old Chip (Chip because she is currently losing a lot of baby teeth) and Boo (Boo because she looks like the little girl Boo from "Monsters Inc.") LOVED the fish tank.

To adults, a fish’s entertainment level is fleeting – but to a child, fish are fascinating. Our nieces adopted them as their own and named them. It was a task any Disney executive would have been proud of – we had at least two Ariels, a Flounder, Nemo and Ariel’s Cousin. The girls would just stare into the tank, narrating each movement. “Nemo just chased Ariel's Cousin!” “Flounder isn't eating his food.” “I think Ariel is trying to kiss me through the glass!” The fish became their friends, too, and they showed off their toys to the oblivious creatures and scribbled portraits of the tank to give to us.

During a trip to the aquarium with our fellow fish-loving nieces, Chip begged us to get a frog. We’d ventured into the amphibian world once before, a year after buying the tank. The frog hid behind a large rock after we put him in and, a few days later, completely disappeared. We’d later find his slimy, rotting body plastered to the bottom of that rock.

We knew the potential for disappointment was high.

This time was different, though. We were three years into our life as fish parents and we already kept a fish family alive for over a year, successfully bred guppies, no longer had to fight off random fish diseases and even adopted a friend's bottom feeder. Things were going well. Chip sealed the deal by gazing at GJ with her big hazel eyes, sighing and sadly mumbling "But I've never had a frog before.”

Minutes later, we were owners of an inch-long African Dwarf frog - named Ariel as well. And Ariel frog proved to be just as entertaining as our last frog. She primarily floated near the heater, ignoring food pellets and the anxious kid's tapping on the glass. Despite, the girls were in love with Ariel. And days after buying her, Ariel disappeared. We searched under rocks and even checked the filter, but no tiny frog body was found.

That night, I retrieved my bathrobe from the floor and took a steamy shower. How would we break the news to the girls? This was the first of our tank-dwelling creatures they had seen die - or go missing. I could hear them playing upstairs when I stepped out of the shower and put on my bathrobe. And then something scratched my leg. Something sharp and poky, something on the inside of my fluffy yellow robe. I opened it up and there was Ariel, dead, her rigid shriveled body dried and tangled in the fibers of my robe. Her escape route was short. She crawled out of the small gap in our fish tank, hopped across the room and landed on a plush grave, where she dried out.

I screamed. And learned that day that there is something worse than scraping frog pieces off a rock. It’s having a hardened frog carcass scrap your naked upper left thigh.

Day 1: The Honey Pot

2009-11-08T23:49:00.006-07:00

Those of you who read CJane may remember this series of posts, where she wrote four stories - three true, one lie - and on the last day, she put a poll up to let reader's vote which one they thought was the fake. She suggested it as a cure to Blogger's Block - and the month of NaBloPoMo is the perfect opportunity for me to finally participate.

So for the next four days, I'll be posting life stories. You get to pick out the stinker in a poll on day 5. Comments will be off until the official day of the reveal.

Let's play!

*****

From ameliorate me

In August 2005, we ran a 197-mile, 12-man relay race from Oregon's Mt. Hood to the Seaside coastline - aptly named the Hood to Coast.

It was a fun and exhausting two-day adventure we took on with three of GJ's sisters and two brothers-in-law. We're running a similar race - the California Santa Barbara to Dana Point Ragnar - with the Stowells in April.

Strange things happen to your body when you run three 3- to 8-mile legs in 48 hours, functioning on little sleep and adrenaline. You push your body to extremes and survive on a concoction of vitamin drinks, athletic supplements, carbs and a lot of water.

What comes our of your body during that time period and the next 24 hours is indescribable. Actually, it is describable, but TRUST, you would not want me to. For some, it's like a detox program; for others, they react strangely to all the performance-enhancing products (from Power Bars to Gu). The disgusting pictures that get forwarded of marathon runners with diarrhea down their legs? There is no photoshopping involved there.

So it's no surprise that, along this route, few if any businesses or schools or really anyone with a flush toilet want to open their doors to runners eating fruit and fiber.

The solution: Honey Pots. This is a cutesy name for a port-a-potty company. They set up rows of these at each exchange point. Each exchange reeked because of it.

I did everything in my power to avoid using these, preferring a gas station bathroom over the Honey Pots any chance I got. I did not want to use a Honey Pot filled with such contents. A gas station bathroom was my No. 1 choice - that's saying a lot.

This is the one thing I am nervous for come the 2010 California Ragnar. Forget the fact that I haven't begun training. Or that the last such relay race put me on crutches for two days and required physical therapy. It's the runner-used bathrooms I'm terrified of.

It was somewhere in the dense Oregon forest, when our team was getting ready to start our second legs, that GJ and I hesitantly dragged our feet over to the row of Honey Pots. It was the late Friday night hours, so there were no lines or lights (we had to wear the headlamps we ran with). You could find the Honey Pots easy enough though because of the stench. OH, THE SMELL. It burned your eyes and seemed to stick to hair and clothes.

We entered side-by-side stalls and, a mere 15 seconds later, I heard a loud "OH CRAP" from the stall next door.

GJ had dropped his wallet into the Honey Pot.

As if watching his wallet plummet into the Gateway to Hell wasn't bad enough, that wallet had a lot of things we needed. Money for the rest of our trip in Portland, credit cards, GJ's ID, our plane ticket vouchers.

So he REACHED INTO THE HONEY POT, digging his hand into the unearthly contents, and he grabbed it.

Random things that made me smile this week

2009-11-07T23:30:00.007-07:00

- A handwritten note from my husband - coupled with a slurpie - that he left on the table before he left on a business trip.
- A boss wrote a kind e-mail praising my hard work - and cc'd it to the head boss.
- I got frustrated at Peanut over something (I can't even remember now) and, in the midst of me telling her "NO," she leaned over, kissed me and cooed "mama."
- She is so into sharing her pacifier with me. I'm trying to encourage her sharing, but what adult wants to suck on a pacifier? GROSS. So I just bite the back handle.
- One night, she was having a hard time sleeping, so I brought her in bed with me and sung Beatles songs in her ear and stroked her cheek. After a few songs, I started falling asleep and stopped singing. Peanut got excited and started kicking and flailing her arms. I said "Peanut, mama's tired, I'm going to sleep." She then took her pacifier out of her mouth, shoved it in mine (back-end handle again) and began rubbing my cheek.
- GJ made a hot (in taste and temperature) chili for our church's Halloween party last week. While grabbing of bowl of it and simultaneously wrangling Peanut, I spilled some on my thighs - it HURT, it was that hot. On Sunday, I noticed a burn mark where the chili fell. IN THE SHAPE OF CHILE THE COUNTRY.
- GJ put said chili in some tubberware before he left, and when my brother Trent saw this set-up in the fridge, said something to the effect of "Really, Amelia? I know you don't cook, but making GJ cook meals for you before he leaves? I'm surprised he didn't lable these Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday..."
- Getting a check-in call from the same brother brother to see "How you're doing your first night alone." This is nothing new for me - GJ was basically gone the entire summer of 2008. Although I do really well with him out, Trent knows how I scare easily and that nights are the worst for me.
- Found a link to the Tauntaun sleeping bag from Star Wars. I'd totally buy it for my sister Kristin. My favorite line from the product description: "Use the plush lightsaber zipper pull on the Tauntaun sleeping bag to illustrate how Han Solo saved Luke Skywalker from certain death in the freezing climate of Hoth by slitting open the belly of a dead Tauntaun and placing Luke inside the stinking (but warm) carcass."

- The size of the "party" pizza at The Pie - 23 inches and 16 slices. YUM.
- (almost) All of the Stowells were in town for a baptism. I have great in-laws.
- Seeing Peanut with her cousins and actually playing with toys for more than 30 seconds (at our house, toy are apparently boring. Her cousin's homes? THE BEST THING EVER!!).
- A nurse at Peanut's pediatrician asked "Are you really a mom?" LOVE HER.
- A very sweet, thoughtful message from a friend who is going through a hard time and still took a minute to call me.
- Only spending $25 on a Costco trip (still not sure that is even possible).
- Hearing my favorite cowboy poet Waddie Mitchell at the Heber Cowboy Poetry Gathering. He is a beautiful storyteller - and, while hosting a concert, praised the writing in an article I wrote. I was on Cloud 9 for the rest of the night.
- Watching Dwight from "The Office" as the sex symbol in "Transfomers."
- Watching "Transfomers" - because this movie had the most unintentionally laughable dialogue and robot interactions. The tag line on the DVD box should have been: "Crappy acting by Megan Fox and strange facial expressions by Shia LeBouf.

The cheap pedicure

2009-11-06T23:03:00.005-07:00

Alternate title: The ghettoicure.

Who doesn't love a pedicure? If only they were $5 instead of $30. For this reason, I used to be an expert at giving self pedicures. Then I had a baby, worked too many freelance jobs and no longer had the energy to bend over for long periods of time.

Regular pedicures are not just a want anymore; they're a need.

I decided to treat myself to a pedicure not too long ago. Not wanting to spend much, I opted for one of the local beauty schools. It cost $9.

My first sign this was a bad idea was the set-up. A line of five metal chairs stood in a line on a raised platform, my designated seat in front of a large tubberware bowl filled with soapy water. All part of the pampering, the bowl was to soak my feet.

It looked exactly the barf bucket my mom kept in the garage growing up.

I had roughly a dozen choices of weird-colored nail polish (according to my pedicurist, "Everytime we get new nail polish, the other girls just steal it.") None of which included a top coat, so when I came home, I did that one on my own.

A classy, high-end establishment, right?

Speaking of the pedicurist, she was a story in and of herself. She was a bit older than me, layered in make-up and hairspray, had a daughter with a random man and loved her life of beer drinkin' and partyin'.

Gems from our conversation:

Right before getting out her dull school-issued "tool set": "I always get nervous cutting people's toenails because last time I cut my boyfriends' toenails, they bled!"

Right after telling me "We're so much alike!" (I guess because I knew all the businesses and parks she frequented? We do live in the same neighborhood.)
Her: Are you with your baby's father?
Me: Yeah. We're actually married.
Her: (Shocked look on face) OH, YOU ARE?

Right after asking her about her schooling:
Me: Do you like the other students here?
Her: Well there are so many gay guys! And I never knew a gay guy before, but they are all SOOOO funny and ultra-girly!

And, just when I thought her stereotyping couldn't possibly get any worse, right after explaining the hours she has to acquire:
"We have to have so many credit hours to move on. Nobody likes doing pedicures though. Those are for the Asians."

Clearly, it was a luxurious affair.

My grandpa

2009-11-05T23:32:00.005-07:00

Grandpa and Grandma Monson, Jan. 2008

Tonight, I went on a date with my grandpa.

We went to the Heber Cowboy Poetry Gathering (more on that later) to hear western singer Michael Martin Murphey -- a new favorite of mine, an old favorite of my grandpa's.

Oh, what a night. Grandpa wore his real cowboy boots; I sported my Target knock-offs. We whispered highlights to each other between numbers ("That mandolin is amazing," "Don't you get chills from his voice?"). He sang along to songs like Geronimo's Cadillac and was the only one in the venue besides Murphey himself who knew all the lyrics to "Home on the Range." I had long talks with the only grandfather I have known.

Some facts about my grandpa:
- At 16, he ditched his high school graduation to work at a dude ranch in Wyoming for the summer. He is the closest family ties I have to a real cowboy.
- He is tall, dark and handsome. When I was little, I thought he played Rhett Butler from "Gone With the Wind."
- The highlight of turning 80 last year was skiing for free at Alta.
- He is full of stories - and they all have a moral. (Our drive up - avoiding adult peer pressure; drive down - making a mark on the world as a women.)
- My grandpa is one of the only men I know that has had season tickets to the New York Met Opera and season tickets to BYU football -- and enjoys both equally.
- Women have never had a defined job in his eyes. He cooks and cleans just as much if not more than my grandma.
- He is the epitome of a true gentleman.
- Raised his family in New Jersey while he worked at a New York ad agency (I think of him every time I watch "Mad Men.")
- Makes friends wherever he goes.
- Never passes up an opportunity to serve and give to others.

Lately (for the past 13 months, to be exact), I've been having a hard time with mom life. Of course I love my darling Peanut and could not imagine life without her. I delight in her daily growth, frequent baby kisses and bubbling personality. But, to be completely honest, I don't feel fulfilled by the job. I find it boring, repetitive and lonely.

I admitted this to my grandpa. His reply:

"Amelia, the most important thing for a child is to be loved. You can tell when a child is loved," he told me on the descent through Parley's Canyon. "And that child? It is obvious she is loved."

I love my grandpa.

The e-mail forward

2009-11-04T23:39:00.002-07:00

I am still amazed at the power of an e-mail forward. I'm not talking about the ones actually worth your reading; I'm talking about the stupid ones.

These usually end in some sort of threat ("FoRWaRd tHIs tO oNlY 5 pEOpLE & Ur crush wIlL HatE u :(") Or an empty promise ("Send this to 25 people and a voucher for a $25 Applebee's gift card will appear on your!!!")

It's so 1995.

How you know this is a stupid e-mail forward:

- The subject reads "Delete if we aren't friends" or the end commands "Forward this on to 10 people, including the person who sent it to you." Why would the person who already read it want it back?

- Anything rewritten. Bible verse, nursery rhyme, rap song, fables.

- Share a story or poem about Jesus and make you feel guilty for not passing it on by quoting some fake statistic, "Did you know 90% of people will pass on a joke, but only 8% will pass on a message about our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ?"

- SUPER HILARIOUS little quips making fun of women. Ex: "They call it PMS because Mad Cow Disease was already taken." HAHAHAHA I'm laughing so hard.

- EQUALLY HILARIOUS little quips making fun of men. Ex: "My husband and I divorced over religious differences. He thought he was God and I didn't."

- Stories wirh morals praising the senior citizens. "Don't mess with the old dogs... age and skill will always overcome youth and treachery!"

- Clip art is involved. Often images that are blinking or glittering.

- The "unbelievable" pictures or "true story" has been photoshopped or can be refuted by a simple Google search or snopes.com investigation.

- The font size is set at 48+, some cutesy font and a color other than black.

- A "HUGE VIRUS WARNING!!!" for a computer virus that is 5 years old.

- They sound like they've been written by a 65-year-old woman, who crocheted this on a pillow 5 years ago and now wants to grace the world with her hilarity. Ex: "Save the earth...it's the only planet with Chocolate!!!"

- A subject line of "Did this work?" with a promise of "Send this to 100 people and something really cool will pop up on your computer screen!"

- The forwarded petition. Calling for some television show to be banned, asking (insert politician here) to resign or a promise of "If we get 10,000 signatures by Friday, the Red Cross will send first-aid kits to (insert developing third world country here)!!!" this is a clearly legal and enforceable piece of material that should be taken with all seriousness.

Any signs I'm missing?

(Can you tell I've been put on some forward list I can't politely get off of?)

The Great Pumpkin Obsession

2009-11-03T20:37:00.000-07:00

It stars with a look.

...a touch.

And then: TRUE LOVE.

**The Great Pumpkin Obsession of '09 continues.

Fallish things

2009-11-02T23:48:00.002-07:00

One of the many wonderful things about living in Utah is the change of seasons. A lot of people joke you only get two seasons in the state - boiling hot summers and freezing cold winters. Not true. You just have to know when and where to experience fall and spring at their peak.

And now, a photo recap of the season that has come and gone.

We like to kick-off fall with a drive over Guardsman Pass. This is the road through Big Cottonwood Canyon in the Salt Lake Valley into Wasatch State Park in Midway/Heber.

These are some of my favorite photos of the day - and the first one is a contender for favorite photo of all time.

I got lost in the woods taking the above. I may still be there now if it wasn't for a loud car passing by that finally alerted me to the direction of the road.

Next fallish thing, we went to a historic grove in Wasatch County to pick apples.

...and so my brothers won't say "If you're such a feminist, why do you make GJ do all the work?"

We ran into a few terrifying, emaciated deer.

Still teethless, Peanut REALLY wanted to eat the apples. I resorted to biting off a big chunk and letting her suck the juice.

So content was she with this task that we couldn't take a family picture where she actually looked at anything but the apple.

(Tri-pod and timer photo here folks. I'M THAT GOOD.)

We made applesauce with the goods. So good is that applesauce that Peanut sucked if off her highchair when we fed it to her.

Wrapping up fall, we went to our favorite pumpkin patch - South Ridge Farms in Santaquin, Utah. GJ and I have been going here since our college days.

We went on a hayride to a pumpkin patch with Uncle "Tent" - yes, she says it. Siblings - you have some 1-year-old sucking up to do.

Here is where Peanut's creepycute obsession with pumpkins began.

GJ takes the pumpkin-picking business rather seriously.

This is Peanut's new favorite facial expression - she puffs out her lips, scrunches her nose and does a snort thing until one of us does it back to her.

We ended the day with apple cider slushies - and a soda fail.

The story of the ghetto Halloween costume

2009-11-01T23:59:00.004-07:00

I'm all about doing themed family Halloween costumes. GJ hates this. Hence last year, Peanut and I were the pea and the farmer and GJ was...the lame dad who hates dressing up. I've convinced him to go as Johnny Cash and June Carter Cash in the past as well as Dwight and Angela from "The Office." That's because those are people he LOVES. So I knew if I wanted to convince him this year, we'd have to go as something he loves.

My first idea was to go as Mario, Princess Peach and something small and cute for Peanut (the 1-up mushroom, star, Toad).

I would not recommend going through too many pages in a Google image search of "Princess Peach costumes" because you will come upon a gross amount of obscene anime porn.

For this same reason, I would also not recommend Googling something you think is completely innocent when making your costumes, like "Mario and Luigi" or "Does Toad wear a shirt under his blue vest?" (Learned: there's a surprising amount of gay fan art around Mario and Luigi and Toad does not in fact where a shirt under his blue vest...which proved to be a small problem when a baby girl would be wearing said Toad costume).

SO. This basically meant I found nothing that would work for any of us and I would have to sew all Mario-themed costumes. Of course, Halloween snuck up on me and, by the time a Stowell Halloween party rolled around last week, we had nothing.

I pitched:
Betty and Don Draper and baby Gene from "Mad Men" (GJ: Would that be one of those "Who are you costumes?")
Alice, Mad Hatter and rabbit from Alice in Wonderland (GJ: Too trendy with new Johnny Depp movie.)
Obama, Switzerland and the Nobel Peace Price (GJ: ...just NO.)

At this point, I was TICKED GJ was throwing out all my ideas, not pitching any of his own and we needed something last-minute.

Then GJ came up with something completely ghetto yet totally genius.

I now present, Happy Halloween from:

The contestants - and big red ball - from "Wipeout"
or
Dodgeball players
or
Kickball players
or
The abusive parents who dress their children up as a ball, then joke they're going to throw her at each other

...it worked. We cut up a red ball to put Peanut in and just got sweat bands for ourselves. Peanut actually won "Funniest kid costume" at a friend's party.

The best part of this costume was our constantly moving/screaming/squirming kid would completely freeze up and zone out every time we put this costume on her. It was like she took this "I'm a ball" bit a little too seriously.

I'm totally keeping the costume around to put on her when she's driving me mad.

*BARELY squeakin by for the first day of NaBloPoMo. Folks: remember, help me out and ask me a question here.

NaBloPoMo* starts in ONE DAY

2009-10-31T12:35:00.000-06:00

And folks? I need stuff to blog about. Sure, I've got a few things lined-up, but if I'm going to commit to blogging everyday, I need your help.

So I'm going the lazy blogger route: Ask me questions. ANYTHING.

I need at least one post out of these, so you better ask before I resort to commenting anonymously on my own blog with things like "Why are you so cool Amelia?"

Either comment or e-mail ameliorateme(at)gmail(dot)com.

*NaBloPoMo is National Blog Posting Month which is in November.

I turn to TV to cure the pain

2009-10-27T01:32:00.002-06:00

My kid is sick. Sick with teething. I know some pediatricians say they don't get a fever when they're teething, but BULL doctors. At 13 months, Peanut's first teeth are finally coming through - two on the bottom - and she's miserable. Lethargic, fever, cries a lot, only gets excited when she sees the Children's Tylenol bottle. Peanut won't talk (she's my daughter, that is BEYOND weird), Peanut won't eat (she's GJ's daughter, that is BEYOND weird) and she won't even move. I never thought I'd see the day where she'd lay there and cuddle with me for more than 5 seconds.

In an effort to get her mind off sharp bone pushing through her gums, I tried to find some entertaining kid's show. Peanut has had no interest in TV, even when I have, yes, tried to force it on her. But, folks, I was DONE. She was crying nonstop. I needed something, anything at that point.

So I turned on the TV.

AND WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED TO CHILDREN'S TELEVISION?

Albeit, it's been a while. I've been out of the kid-show loop for, oh, I don't even know how many years. Where is Strawberry Shortcake? Rainbow Brite? Muppet Babies? Care Bears? The beauty that was animation in the '80s, man.

We turned on a show called "Caillou." I've never heard of it before and, from the 15 minutes we were awake, I've gathered that this Caillou character is some kind of Benjamin Buttons boy with a really high voice, higher than the other girl characters, which is confusing when you and your child are drifting in and out of sleep.

(AM I WRONG?)

Why is there always this heavenly glow around the various Caillou scenes?

Why does Caillou only have 6 kids in his class? This is clearly not an American public school.

And what is up with the moms? Why are they the homeliest bunch of women I have seen - animation or otherwise?

Parents: do you have to watch TV with your kids?* Because all these commercials are geared towards adults - insurance, Direct Buy. Yeah, sure, if I'm letting her watch late-night cable, it requires monitoring, but preschool-themed programming? I had flipped through a few other shows and, TRUST, Caillou wasn't the most annoying. I'm going to punch myself in the uterus if I watch another children's show again.

*Not that I will experience this anytime in the near future because Peanut still has no interest in TV. She is more entertained by the opening credits to "Mad Men" then any baby-geared-TV. (I realize this is a good thing).

EDITED: Wikipedia tells me this is not an American public school - it's in Canada. Oh, those Canucks and their small class sizes!

Traditions gone horrible awry

2009-10-17T10:42:00.002-06:00

WILL I SHUT UP ABOUT BIRTHDAYS?! I promised a birthday extravaganza recap, but really, does anyone care I turned 27? Thought so.

Instead, please enjoy our feeble attempts at celebrating beloved Stowell/Nielson birthday traditions with a 1-year-old...you can guess how that turned out.

The night before Peanut's actual birthday, GJ wanted to toilet-paper her bed (Stowell tradition). Since I have a selfish black heart, there was NO WAY I would allow anyone in that child's bedroom and risk waking her up, ruining my evening of watching "Glee" while simultaneously catching-up on perezhilton.com. So instead we TP'd her bed when she was awake the next morning.

She kept going "Ohhh" and pointing at the toilet paper, like these were some sort of beautiful garlands we were streaming across her crib and not a cheap means people use to wipe themselves.

After work that night, we made her an angel food cake. You may remember we let her go at her own half cake at 6 months, so naturally she'd get a full cake at 1 (Stowell tradition). Just don't pay attention in these pictures that there is a big slice taken out of the cake (looks like I'm not the only selfish parent, GJ!).

Too lazy to make or clean up frosting, we went the ghetto route and got some whipped cream to put on top of the cake. We got the aerosol can kind and, after putting the cake in front of Peanut, put the frosting on top of the cake.

SHE FREAKED OUT.

The noise the can made scared her so bad, she wanted nothing to do with the cake. Being the sweet and kind mother I am, I continued pushing the cake towards her and she crawled away, screaming in horror. It was hilarious.

GJ even tried feeding her some (it's CAKE - SUGAR! Two WINS with this girl!) and she acted like he was poisoning her.

We then lit the big birthday candle (Stowell tradition - actually, I guess none of these traditions come from my family. Nielson tradition would be FORGETTING about the birthday dinner you planned for your eldest 27-year-old daughter because you're so distraught that your youngest 19-year-old son does not want to drive home from college on his birthday days later to celebrate - though I'm not pointing fingers). This is a huge candle with a countdown (count up?) from 1 to 21 - you are supposed to light it each birthday year and let the wax burn down until the next year.

I had this great idea of getting a picture of Peanut next to the candle, and taking this same picture every year until her 21st.

Moments after this picture, she grabbed the flame and hot wax. She was terrified of the candle after that and would no longer pose for a picture.

...then I forgot to blow out the candle and, 8 hours later, Peanut turned 6. Opps!

How to throw a 1-year-old birthday party

2009-10-14T09:54:00.002-06:00

DANG I'm behind in blogging. But guess what? I'm doing NaBloPoMo (National Blog Posting Month - where I post EVERYDAY in the month of November).

So behind am I in blogging that I am nearly a month late on posting about Peanut's birthday bash. We threw it a week before her actual birthday because my parent's planned a vacation over their first grandchild's birthday and they were basically half the guest list.

If you are doubting my parent's love for Peanut, note this: they took Peanut the other week to a professional sitting and paid an artist to paint a portrait of her. This painting will be their Christmas gift to each other. This has become a hilarious focal point of conversation in our family because my siblings and I always make fun of my parents for being kind of obsessed with Peanut. We fear no other grandkid will get as much attention, and they will instead be delegated to light a candle under the Peanut shrine every time they visit.

So her party. I was all ready to make a stand against huge 1-year-old birthday bashes, making fun of my friends who go all out on elaborate cakes, matching birthday outfits and huge guestlists. I mean the kid is 1, they still poop in their pants and have no friends but their parents. A big party is not necessary.

Then I totally became one of those moms.

10 steps to a ridiculous 1-year-old birthday party:

Step 1: Find a theme. Because nothing screams "I'm 1!" like a themed party your child will never remember.

Peanut's was "The Very Hungry Caterpillar," since she loves that book and is obsessed with eating. Did she get that was the theme? Of course not.

Step 2: MAKE (not buy or e-mail - the shame) invitations by hand.

Or computer, in my case. You see these cute tri-fold invites? I designed them. I'm basically the most adorable person I know.

(Please ignore the obvious copyright infringement here.)

Step 3: Invite anyone that has ever touched or acknowledged your baby in the past 12 months. Your sister-in-laws parent's brother, who once said "She's cute!" at a chance meeting in the grocery store, long-lost relatives you haven't seen since your wedding, your best friend from high school who lives three states away (because of course she'll come), the former roommate you've reconnected with on Facebook, any friend's baby within a years age range of your child who is surely going to be best friends with your kid, your husband's boss and his spouse, the OBGYN who delivered your child.

Albeit an important step to a proper 1-year-old birthday, I refrained on this one. I'm not even going to mention the amount of people on my first list, but by the second, I found it completely reasonable to just do immediate family.

...and then I invited a few extended family.

...and then some more.

...and, oh, some childhood friends from California just moved to Salt Lake, we want to invite them too.

Step 4: Go gawdy with decorations and buy more than is even reasonable for a wedding reception.

Oh, hey, nothing for me to show evidence of in this category, not because I didn't plan them, but because I didn't have time to set them up.

Step 5: Buy or sew an original birthday outfit. Of course your child will not ruin this by food or poop.

Why no, I didn't stay up until 4 in the morning sewing an Eric Carle-inspired caterpillar on her onesie the night before. That would be ridiculous, especially since it would just be ruined mere MINUTES later when anyone held her and tugged on the onesie, proving my sewing skills suck and I can't even make a piece of cloth stick to another piece of cloth!

And no, she did not devour the food of ANYONE that left a plate on the ground or dropped a piece of food in the grass, getting her onesie covered in crap.

AND NO, she didn't have an explosive poo halfway through the party that forced an impromptu outfit change!

Step 6: Slave over a cake and matching cupcakes that will merely be devoured by all the guests and not appreciated for their true artistic baking beauty.

This picture speaks for itself on this one.

LAYERED RAINBOW GOODNESS THERE FOLKS.

Step 7: Let your child open an insane amount of gifts that will just overwhelm and overstimulate them, but remember it's their party, they can cry if they want to, damnit.

Step 8: Keep telling people you're going all out "For the pictures" but then you are so busy you hardly take any pictures and most of the ones that come out look crappy.

Case in point:

Step 9: Don't judge when your child develops a really strange infatuation with the balloon bouquet that night after the guests leave, ignoring all presents to happily get herself tangled in the balloons, crawl everywhere with them attached to her body and scream at said balloons whenever they float away.

Step 10: Oh, you, the mother of said 1-year-old, actually have a birthday two days before said child? NO ONE CARES, NOT EVEN YOURSELF.

'till age 2 Peanut!

Happy 1 Peanut!

2009-10-07T01:50:00.001-06:00

I admitted to my brother Trent the other night that the only people I make a point to regularly Facebook stalk are my brothers, Trent and Ryan. I can't tell you the last time I made a status update, but I can tell you my brother's latest friend requests.

...a Gmail conversation with my brother shortly after:

Trent: can i ask a personal question?
me: go for it
you know few if any things are off topic for me
Trent: why do you suck at blogging?
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
im so funny
me: i thought you were going to ask for girl advice or **the rest of my thoughts on this conversation have been retracted due to their questionable appropriateness**
i was prepared with answers
and, just so you know, im posting TONIGHT
and i will be noting my blog suckiness
Trent: good. because if you spent as much time blogging as you do facebook stalking you would make dooce look like a newlywed who cant buy more than 5 comments on a blog post.

(Not true, bytheway. Lack of posts directly correlates with influx of work.)

So I'm a horrible blogger. And a particularly horrible mommy blogger. Peanut turned 1 on Sept. 25 and I didn't post some sort of 1-year-old memorialization post. You've seen the kind - a month-by-month picture review of said child, with tidbits about how "I CAN'T BELIEVE MY BABY IS ONE!"

So, um, she was born.

(Notice the milk 'stache...or goatee.)

...then the next 6 months were kind of a blur of crying, breastfeeding woes, newborn starvation and postpartum depression...

And then summer hit, things got significantly better and my baby grew up into a funny toddler who is my permanent sidekick and copies everything I say and do.

(Notice the phone in hand, which she picked up the moment I was done with it.)

THE END.

(Not really. More birthday recaps to come - including the AMELIA AND PEANUT BIRTHDAY WEEKEND EXTRAVAGANZA!)

Name dropping

2009-09-23T12:45:00.000-06:00

(Idea stolen from my cool Stowell-cousin-I've-never-met Katie)

Great September 23 birthdays:

Euripides

Caesar Augustus

Ray Charles

Bruce Springsteen

Jermaine Dupri

Chi McBride

Amelia Nielson-Stowell

Facebook is a trip

2009-09-16T08:24:00.001-06:00

I have a love/hate relationship with the social networking site that is Facebook. I have a policy not to spend much time on there and, because of that, I become the creep that merely logs on to stalk random people from my past. Occasionally I'll try to be better at keeping in touch and respond to status updates that pique my attention. But mostly I'll log on to check a message, respond to a friend request or make a snarky comment about my brother's status updates (recent: "hangin' out at amelias house... if (Peanut) weren't here i probably wouldn't be either.")

But sometimes the whole "Request a random friend from your past" thing REALLY weirds me out. It should make me feel flattered to have someone requesting my internet friendship, but it all depends on the "friend" sending such a request. Examples of random people from my past who have tracked me down, friend requested me and I become really bugged about it:

- A girl who, in the 5th grade, was handed my spelling test to grade in one of those teacher-is-lazy-so-makes-students-grade-each-others-tests-deal and ERASED all my correct spelling words and wrote in the wrong words. We were really never friends after that.

- A girl who publicly bashed me on her blog, later friend requested me, I figured "Water under the bridge" and accepted it, only that she blocked me from viewing anything on her page.

- A guy who regularly made fun of me and my buddies throughout middle school and high school. (And then when he transfered to my college, all of a sudden wanted to hang out and have me meet his friends.)

- An old high school crush who friended me, and then when I saw him in Glendora roughly a month later, did everything in his power to avoid me.

Or maybe this is just proof that there are things I clearly need to get over? Either/or, some basic rules for friend requesting need to be established.

When you should NOT friend request someone.

If this is someone who you:

a. ...generally didn't like or get along with.
b. ...made fun of consistently in their youth.
c. ...would never want to talk to outside of the safety of your computer screen.
d. ...passive aggressively bashed behind their back (which I guess I'm doing to all of these people now, but hey, I'm not requesting their friendship).
e. ...would never give access to your whole Facebook profile.

Of course, because Facebook is a casual stalking addiction, I would not delete these people off my friend list because there are moments when I want to stalk them and look for any evidence that my life is better than theirs.

What a sick cycle Facebook breeds.

Illegal immigrant, Vegas and the curse of the Timex watch

2009-09-14T10:09:00.000-06:00

(I feel like a ghetto Harry Potter with my title.)

We took another California trip over Labor Day. One of those use-vacation-time-NOW-or-lose-it situations with GJ's job. A "Summer California photo recap" detailing both trips is due.

Our latter trip begins with a long, confusing history of a watch. A watch we were supposed to bring to California for a casually-crazy acquaintance who did not want to just ship said watch and, instead, waited impatiently while it traveled the country and changed a ridiculous amount of hands over the course of a few days.

This watch, one that was affectionately dubbed the "Sketch Watch," became the bane of my existence the few days leading up to our trip to California. It required much phoning and texting to figure out where-to-put-it-when just so it could end up in our car for the California trip. A lot of time was wasted on this watch, a watch that, when unwrapped, was reported to look like an $8 Timex.

We decided hours before the Friday drive to California that we would not be picking it up. Picking it up required us to stop in Provo on our way to California, and if you've visited the hoppin' college town, it's a solid 30 minute round trip just to get into the heart of Provo and back out on the freeway.

As I was leaving work after this phone call, I headed to the 7th story of the crowded downtown parking garage I park in to head home. After getting in my car, I looked behind me, saw no one and (here was my mistake) took a few seconds to grab my sunglasses off the console and put them on my lap before officially backing up. Then I backed up and...

CRUNCH!!!

Turns out one of the construction workers for the massive downtown construction site was parked right behind me. He began backing out before I did. Our bumpers whacked.

I got out of the car all shaken up. Thankfully, the bump just took paint off both of our cars - mine a lot worse than his. I asked him if we should exchange numbers and insurance information. His response: "No, no" (said in broken English while backing up back into his car) "No passport, no passport!"

I backed into the car of an illegal immigrant.

As if the kick-off to our California trip couldn't go anymore awry...

Before we left for California, we booked a hotel in Vegas. We were leaving Friday after work and, now that we're old(er), can't pull the "Drive all night" move we did in our college days. GJ had points at the Hilton, it has a good reputation, so we stayed at the Vegas Hilton on the strip.

We got there at 1:30 a.m. early Saturday morning. We were exhausted from our long, five-hour drive and were anxious to sleep. We were given a room in the central tower and immediately headed up to put our baby to bed and crash ourselves.

When we walked into the room, though, we were greeted by an unpleasant odor. Towels were all over the floor in front of the bathroom and, once we opened the bathroom door, we saw the culprit. POO and PUKE all over the floor and toilet.

I cannot even describe how disgusting this mess was. Someone clearly overindulged in Vegas and let it explode in the bathroom Hilton gave us.

I called guest services and explained the mess to them. I stressed that we had a fussy 11-month-old who needed to go to bed. Still, it took over 15 minutes for a housekeeper to arrive.

If you think I am exaggerating the mess in the bathroom, the first thing the maid said when she opened the door was a loud "Oh my G**!" And she's a hotel maid, you know she's seen all kinds of crazy stuff. She attempted to clean, but the toilet was clogged and the mess was too large, she told us. She called an engineer to fix the toilet.

Meanwhile, I called guest services again to tell them we needed a new room. It was 1:50 a.m. now, Peanut was mad, our room now reeked and we could not wait for the mess to be cleaned up. The guest services employee told us he was checking us into the neighboring room and a bellman would be up there shortly.

We moved all our stuff out of our room - the smell in there was getting worse and worse. Meanwhile, a couple walked out of the neighboring room - yes, the room we were supposed to be moved to. We waited in the hall for the bellman and, approximately 15 minutes later, he showed up. He handed us the keys for the neighboring room and we told him some people just walked out of there. He told us it should be vacant. We told him again that people just walked out and, when we opened the door, the beds were unmade and the TV on -- people were clearly using that room. Shockingly, he did not care. He told us "I was just told to bring you the keys." When we asked him what we were supposed to do, he began walking away and said: "It's not my problem. You guys are lucky you even got a room in Vegas this weekend, it's the Magic clothing convention."

Let me stress this situation again: It's now past 2 a.m. We have an angry baby who needs sleep. We are now two angry adults who need sleep. And the Hilton employee has just told us "It's not my problem."

At this point, we were both furious. Hilton checked us into an unlivable room, has taken forever to respond to all our VALID complaints and has now left us stranded in the hotel hall.

After a physical trip to guest services, we finally got a new room...all the way across the hotel in the north tower. Customer service extraordinaire Hilton did not provide any bellman, luggage cart or help with our bags. We had to pack-up everything, march across the hotel's long casino floor into a room on the 23rd floor.

By the time this was all taken care of, it was 2:30 a.m. -- an hour after we checked in.

Moral of the story (overused Vegas cliche time!): At the Hilton, what happens in Vegas stays in your hotel room and doesn't get cleaned up.

And when an illegal immigrant is involved, what happens in the parking garage, stays in the parking garage, and although your insurance rates won't go up, you'll feel like a jerk for not offering some cash to fix chipped paint.

And the watch? It was mailed shortly after all events commenced and, since then, no more major catastrophes.

Blog, oh blog. And baby, oh baby.

2009-08-25T10:22:00.006-06:00

I'm having a bit of a blog existential crisis. What is ameliorate me? Why do I blog? What is the purpose of my blog's life?

Mostly, I'm having a hard time writing for a living during the day then finding the time to give it up for free on my blog. Yeah, I said it.

Folks, I have somehow become the busiest person I know. Doesn't everyone say that ("I'm soooo busy!") and your first reaction is "WHOA SELFISH. I know a mother of six, (three adopted) who is involved in extensive charity work, sits on the Council of Foreign Relations AND works full-time." Thanks, Angelina Jolie. Making all of us other moms look like crap, one Ethiopian child at a time.

I really never wanted my blog to turn into the brag-about-my-daughter corner. But, despite my compulsiveness to write everything down, I haven't been tracking her milestones. And parenthood makes you second-rate to your offspring anyway - people want to hear about your kid more than you. Sooo monthly update Peanut bloggy things I go. I'll attempt to make them interesting and entertaining rather than the disgusting "She puked - and then ate it" (I'll leave that up to your imagination if it really happened or not) or braggy "She just finished reading 'A Tale of Two Cities,' is up for a Nobel Peace Prize for her volunteer work with the whales and designed her own sustainable clothing line." Gotta still be humble here.

At 11 months (...so during her 10th month of life, she is 11 months today, this is yet another annoying number facet to bearing children), Peanut:

- Crawls like a pirate. One leg crawls normally, the other does this weird, pegged-leg, arched walk thing. Picture any movie with possessed people -- that's what it looks like.
- Can crawl up the stairs. Well at least "one stair," until she gets mad and wants help.
- Seems brave...until she gets scared of the stupidest things like the vacuum (reasonably understandable, it's loud) my exercise ball (an ongoing fear since 7 months of age) and a roll of paper towels (WTF?).
- Finally likes reading. I was pretty nervous about this one, because she usually just attempted to eat the books. Now she reads them. "The Very Hungry Caterpillar" is her favorite. I think a story about another soul constantly being hungry speaks to her.

- Wants everything I use. My camera, laptop, purse, cell phone, planner, books, magazines. She will go to great lengths to get it.

- She's not so much of a toy girl. See above.
- GJ is her favorite. She cries when he leaves the room and lunges for him when I'm holding her. She used to cry when I'd leave the room too, and lunge for me when GJ would hold her. Not anymore. I'm trying to figure out what I did to offend her (this blog?).

- Spends Fridays at her Aunt Megan's. This is GJ's sister who has three little girls and is kind enough to take on a fourth one day a week while I work. Peanut is never sad when I leave her here.
- Is a little beast at church. She pulls the hair of the people in front of us, screams if we've been walking with her and then try to sit, attacks other people's purses, grabs the old people's walkers and attempts to escape on foot (or knees). The only time she's calm is when she's getting attention from the 12- to 18-year-old young women. She refuses to sleep at church and usually returns home to pass out for an undetermined amount of time.

- Understands "No," but still exerts her independence if she doesn't want to listen to you. Also will shake her head "No" at you if she doesn't like what you're doing (wiping her face, trying to feed her vegetables, putting clothes on her).
- Says "mama," (first word -- take that dad), "hi" and "yeah." She put two together for the first time the other morning -- "Hi mama." I melted.
- Claps if you say "clap" or "Yeah Peanut." Will wave (backwards, at her own face) and says "hi" if you say "hi" to her. Sometimes I feel like she's my little puppy that does tricks.
- In that vein, pants like a dog when she gets excited.
- ...and freaks out if you shake a box of cereal.
- ...and will eat out of your hand.
- Finds endless joy in turning around in circles on her butt.
- Holds her breath, shakes her body then screams when she gets excited.

- Addicted to puffs. These are little baby-friendly cereal that dissolve easily. It's her baby crack.

- Animal lover.

- Mimics me. This is hilarious when I am having a particularly impassioned discussion (I'm an animated speaker) and she's all of a sudden babbling loudly, raising her arm in the air like me.
- Now that she's mobile, she follows me from room to room, stopping occasionally to spin on her butt.
- Goes insane if anyone is eating around her and she is not. I never realized just how often people are randomly eating in daily life -- at the park, store, office, church, post office.
- Has become a picky eater. This happened after our San Diego trip (my apologies to moms who used to say "Vacations screw up my kid's schedule" and I'd think "Right..."). She used to eat anything -- now, not so much. Food she doesn't like immediately gets chucked on the floor.
- Is TICKED I put her pacifier on a pacifier clip or chain. Because this is another thing she loves to throw.
- Loves cars. I'm not talking about real cars, although she's excellent on trips. I'm talking about child-sized cars she can pretend to drive.

- LOVES my dad. If she even catches a glimpse of him, she will lunge for him.
- Refuses to watch TV. Not that I've tried. OK, I totally have. "Sesame Street," "Little Einstein," any annoying babyish television show -- she just crawls away.
- Had her first camping trip. I thought this wouldn't be worth it (and I'm a camper), because you have to bring SO MUCH to accommodate a baby, and you basically have to carry a baby the whole time or risk her eating dirt and crawling into the fire pit. But it was fun, she slept great (through a wind and rain storm!) and loves the outdoors.

- Is a total water baby. She immediately flops onto her stomach when in the kid pool or tub. She kicks her legs in a real pool, loves the ocean and likes putting her face under water.

- Gets all confused over the funky circus-esque options on my laptop's Photo Booth.

(RSS folks: Look at me, I'm full feed again! And with a self-made, probably unenforceable copyright!)

(in)effective parenting

2009-08-10T08:12:00.001-06:00

Things that Peanut may or may not have done when I passed out on her bedroom floor in a sore throat stupor - numerous times - in the past two weeks*:

a. Pulled half of her wipes out of the wipe canister.
b. Screamed at "The Very Hungry Caterpillar" while reading the aforementioned book to herself.
c. Slapped my face over and over while shouting "MAMAMAMAMA!"
d. Pulled all the contents out of a dirty diaper.
e. Threw her wooden stacking ring toy directly at my funny bone (a big THANKS to you sustainable green "friendly" toys).
f. Dumped out a carton of 300 cotton swabs.
g. Escaped her room, army crawled into my room and dumped out a box of tampons.
h. Screamed some more at "The Very Hungry Caterpillar."

*Over two weeks of a sore throat! TWO WEEKS! All Lortab did was make me supposedly watch - with commentary - an episode of "So You Think You Can Dance" that I remember nothing about.