now 36% more crafty!

I bought a sewing machine. I developed a fabric habit. But it was all worth it... baby gifts that I can guarantee were not duplicated...

Have a look!





So... how much do you think people would pay for these?

8:34 a.m.

I'm blogging at 8:34 on a Sunday morning. My eyes are swollen and I think I just ate half a banana bread but I can't be sure. My coordination is so off that I whacked my head on the bathroom door when I went to pee.

Kali, on the other hand, is showing off her dexterity on the keyboard of her Baby Ein.stei.n activity jumper. I am so thankful that thing doesn't play nursery rhymes. If I have to be up at this ungodly hour, I should at least get to hear something good, like the 1812 overture or "in the hall of the mountain king" by Grieg. Yeah, I'm a music snob. Deal with it.

She keeps bouncing up and down and grinning at me - I keep faking a smile at her. How long until I wake Mr. December and demand a shift change? Hmmm... maybe I can tell him that Kali and I left the bed 2 hours ago... if he's groggy enough it just might work.

Self discipline?

I have no idea what's happened to me. I'm the kind of person who will sleep until noon. The kind who will never put off til tomorrow what can be put off til next week. And yet... I woke up at 8:30 this morning. It's now 10:00 and I've already tidied the bathroom, made the bed, showered and dressed, changed and fed Kali, made challah dough, and arranged a playdate in the park.

Who is this, and what have they done with the real me? Whatever. I like this organized person. I think she's a keeper.

Mommy's girl

It's separation anxiety, no doubt about it.

Tonight we were finally back to our usual bedtime routine. Mr. December bathed Kali and sang to her while rocking. She screamed. And screamed. After about ten minutes I went in to make sure she wasn't sick or in pain or something... the second I walked in and started talking, her screaming faltered. She was laughing and cooing by the time I had her on the change table.

She passed inspection. She was fine. I handed her back to her daddy and left the room. She screamed.

I figured Mr. December could do without me hovering. I thought they could work it out together if I just wasn't around to swoop in and save the day. I went out.

I came back twenty minutes later. Kali was still screaming.

You can guess the rest, but I'll write it anyway: I held Kali and rocked her, and she drifted into sleep. I tried to pass her to Mr. December. She screamed. I took her back; she smiled and fell asleep.

I think our days of hiring babysitters are officially over. Not that we hired babysitters very often, but I don't think it's even an option now. Not because I don't want Kali to cry... I don't want to make the babysitters cry.

So yeah, if anybody needs me, just look for the mom wearing the baby with the diabolical smile.

Help?

"tired" doesn't begin to cut it

Holy fuck, I'm exhausted.

Kali has been having a hell of a week. She's teething with a vengeance, and getting her to sleep every night is a nightmare. Tonight is Mr. December's first night home (he's been away for 10 days) and Kali is screaming up a storm. We went in and burped her. We rocked her. We put oral.je.l on her gums. She kept screaming. We gave her Tylenol. Changed her diaper. Sang. Rocked. Swaddled. Unswaddled.

I finally told Mr. December that I had a confession to make; I don't know what the fuck this crying is about. Kali seems to be having some separation anxiety lately. Is that the problem? Is it her teeth? Is she just trying to manipulate us?

We've finally settled on letting her cry it out. Seriously, it's a last resort because we both generally agree that we don't like leaving her to cry - but it's been over an hour now and we can't think straight. I can't see straight, either - my head feels like it's splitting open.

I love her. this is so fucking hard. I hate that she can't tell me what she needs. I hate that she can't understand why she hurts.

At this point, if my head would just stop hurting, I'd consider that progress.

ETA: I just realized that I already have a post by this name. Apparently when I'm exhausted, all creativity goes out the window. Ah well, at least I'm consistent.

Power tool mama

I may be fat, but boy, can I wield a power tool. I finally tried the radial arm saw that's sitting in my parents' garage... SO awesome. Now I can really make anything! So I celebrated by building a storage bench on the back porch. I'm hoping to have the back porch completely overhauled in a while-you-were-o.ut kind of surprise when Mr. December gets back from his 10-day business trip. Stay tuned, I promise I will DEFINITELY post pics this time.

And thanks for your kind words on my last post. I feel better now.

Moo. And it's got nothing to do with breastfeeding.

In case I haven't told you fine internets, many moons ago I agreed to be a bridesmaid for my brother's wedding. I'm one of three. There's me, and there are the bride's two best friends, neither of which I particularly like. And now I'm beating myself up for having agreed to do this. Why, you ask?

I just came home from dress shopping.

For those who don't know, bridesmaid dress shopping is a special kind of torture for anyone who is larger than a size 8 in real life. There is only one dress of each style to try on, and the samples generally fit somewhere between sizes 6-10. For reference, I believe that I'm probably somewhere around a size 16 right now - although I don't know, because I'm still wearing my comfy maternity pants and skirts.

Anyway, the bride has chosen a colour that is only available from one designer, and only in a select few styles. None of the styles is what I would choose if I had a free hand in this - I look much better, for the record, in empire-waist styles in some kind of flowing fabric, like chiffon. Stiff taffeta is not, I repeat, NOT my friend.

So there I was in the store, trying on dresses that I knew wouldn't flatter me, in sizes that were way too small - to the point where in the two-piece styles, the two sides of the bodice were about 8 inches away from meeting, so instead of clamping the dress together at the back I had to hold it up to my chest and pray that my huge boobs didn't make a surprise appearance.

The sales ladies tried. They really did. "Don't be grumpy, this dress will be gorgeous on you in your size." Doesn't matter. I get the message that these designers, this industry, and this world are sending me: I'm Fat.

I get it. I'm fat. Apparently that means that I don't deserve to feel or look good while I'm trying on dresses so that I can help and support some of my favourite people on the most important day of their lives to date. I'm fat, and I'm unworthy. I feel like a cow. Moo.

It's sick, isn't it, that our society puts way more emphasis on looking good than on doing good. Let me preface this by saying that I actually think I'm quite pretty. I have a gorgeous face. Leaving that alone for a minute, I know that I do a lot of helpful, good things for a lot of people. I contribute to my community. I welcome guests into my home. I work with students that nobody else likes. I'm raising my baby to be a loving, giving, happy person. I'm a good wife and a good daughter. But I'm fat, and any time I go shopping for clothes I get slapped in the face with that reality. That I don't deserve to look as beautiful on the outside as I know I am on the inside. And that somehow I must be lazy and self-indulgent because of my size.

A year ago, my biggest problem was that I couldn't get pregnant, I felt I might never get pregnant, never have children to raise and love. Today I'm in a much better place than I was back then. And if fatness and lack of clothing options is my biggest problem, I can count myself lucky in a world where millions are being oppressed. But would it be so bad, would it spoil some vast eternal plan, if I could go dress shopping and not feel like a failure?

If anybody needs me, I'll be in the fridge. I'm fat anyway, what's another piece of cake?