Lest she be denied the truth of her roots.

On our walks, each day, Harper and I talk a lot. We talk flowers & animals (especially dogs and squirrels), we sing songs (ok. gasp and heave air through vocal cords up hills, hoping sound comes out), we count and sometimes, we're just quiet.

Today, after a few minutes of silence, I saw a small index finger declaratively fly out and heard:

Harper: ((points to tree)) Flower!
Me: Yes, it is! It's a Dogwood tree! Funny, it's the state flower of North Carolina, but it's actually a tree. The state tree is the Pine. Can you say Dogwood?
Harper: Woof. Twee.
Me: Yeah. Close enough. Woof.
Harper: ((thinks I said "wolf")) Ouuuuuwwww! (this is a howl)
Me: Ouuuuuww! (obviously..)

..Then, in the littlest voice, that if the timing hadn't been perfect and in which my heart nearly bursts thinking that I might have missed it if a car happened to rumble past, she said, "Go Sate (State)."

Top of the Muffin, to ya! Week 15

Spring has sprung and I'm being so healthy I can barely stand myself.

The weather is beautiful and it's the best kind of beautiful, meaning, the mosquitoes haven't realized it's people-hunting season, yet.

Fresh produce is starting to pop up, albeit in the form of $6.99 watermelons. I buy them anyway, because the opportunity cost of not having it is just too high to bear.

Because our fridge and pantry are filled with fresh tomatoes and corn and greens and berries, I'm not tempted by the Cap't. (Crunch. . . not Morgan).

Thanks to my father-in-law, we have a new elliptical machine. ..Last night, I watched Step Brothers and laughed (ok.. snorted) through an extra workout. Bliss.

Harper and I have been taking two walks per day - she's currently in love with Spring & strawberries to snack on & will willingly go any place the Kelty jogger dares tread ((knocks on wood)).

Because the weather is so beautiful and we're outside all the time and the TV is never on, we sleep great - even Harper ((knocks extra hard on the wood)).

It's spring fever.  That is what the name of it is.  And when you've got it, you want - oh, you don't quite know what it is you do want, but it just fairly makes your heart ache, you want it so!  -Mark Twain

Trust me, I'd rather growl through the door.

Twice today, I've heard the sound that drops me in my tracks, sends me quickly, stealthily crawling through the house to avoid windows, pleading with a toddler to, "Shhh.. Be quiet." to which she replies loudly, "SHHH! I quiet! Thank you!" and with a surgeon's steadiness, pulling back a curtain precisely two millimeters to reveal uninvited, unexpected visitors on the porch.

It's been happening more and more frequently. . . and I'm over it.

Earlier today, it was the creepy neighbor next door who wears no pants. After two knocks and one door bell chime, he placed some of our junk mail in our mailbox and left. You wear no pants and have a criminal record. Junk mail from Verizon isn't your golden ticket, Snackshack.

Just now, it was a teenager with a big cardboard box. He obnoxiously rang the bell 6 times then pounded on the door for good measure.

While I stood just two feet away from him in a cold-sweat panic, begging him to leave and not wake the sick, snotty and coughing baby who I had just watched struggle her way to sleep, I briefly thought of my options:

Come out brandishing a golf club and knock some blooms off the azaleas to demonstrate my seriousness?

Growl menacingly through the door (my bark is not as impressive as my quack these days. . . A duck isn't scary)?

Cock the shotgun and hope he hears it?

Unfortunately, all of these options would, of course, rouse the babe. So I stood. And prayed for him to leave.

Then, when he mercifully relented, slammed our screen door, and indignantly huffed his way through the yard, I knew immediately what I needed.

No. . . not a taser-wired Welcome mat.

Everyone has that jerk or crazy person on their street with the sign. . . depending on their mental status, its either huge and obnoxious or scrawled crazily in a hodgepodge of capital and lowercase letters with excessive punctuation.

Tonight, I join the ranks, although I'm telling myself it's with a little more grace.

If you want one, too, it's from this Etsy shop!

Possibly Unpopular Opinion of the Week

There is no feeling so helpless as being in the middle of a solo road trip when an unreachable Styrofoam cooler in the back seat begins making the squeaky squeaky Styrofoam cooler sound.

Top of the Muffin, to ya! Week 14

Let's talk about myfitnesspal.com.

It's free!

For the past 7 days, I've been tracking everything I eat. I get that this is an old concept, but MFP allows me to track exercise (I defy you to do an exercise or eat a food that isn't in their database) and it incorporates the calories burned into my daily calorie allotment.

My daily calorie goal is based on how much weight I want to lose and how quickly I want to lose it. Genius.

My very favorite part is when, at the end of the day and I'm done entering all of my food and exercise, I click a big green "Complete This Entry" bar.

This, my friends, is when MFP lowers the boom. It calculates that, based on what I ate & if I ate that way every single day, how much I'll weigh in 5 weeks. It's either an almost tangible motivator or a huge kick in the pants.

Especially when I've been too lenient with myself. . . "Oh self, going over your daily calorie goal by 200 calories isn't THAT bad. You exercised and the things you ate were very healthy!"

Well, it is THAT bad. Because even though I got my burn on and didn't eat doughnuts, in 5 weeks, I will be exactly the same weight. Hello, hamster on a wheel.

Also, a muffin top is not required for entry.

Even if you don't want to lose weight, you can enter fitness goals and track your food to ensure your diet is balanced with the proper percentages of carbs, protein, fat and calories. Who doesn't need balance?

Go forth and track!

*Obviously I received no compensation for this endorsement as I'm a terrible marketer of myself and choose to endorse products that are, in fact, free.

Cupcake of the Week

Place: Georgetown Cupcake, Bethesda
Time: 10:34 a.m.
Mission: Get fatter. Procure Chocolate Lava Fudge Cupcake.

They offer a gluten free version of the Chocolate Lava Fudge.  Not interested.

They say: "Valrhona chocolate cupcake with a rich fudge core topped with a vanilla icing with a fudge star drizzle."

I say, "If that's lava, I'll gladly jump in the Waponi Wu volcano."

Huge hunk of vanilla icing - just plain vanilla, not the signature cream cheese vanilla, which makes it eat less like a steak and more like...sticking your head in a bag of refined sugar and inhaling. Also, that fudge in the middle? It has a mind of it's own. Fork recommended, lest you elect to assume "messy chili-dog stance" on a street in Bethesda. Fenway Park, it is not.

A Letter to Me

No one tells it like it is when it comes to having babies. Not even other moms.  Maybe it's because it's not as hard for other moms as it was for me.  Maybe they've blocked it out.  Maybe they didn't want to scare me. I don't know. ..but no one managed to get it through my perfectly colored, washed, dried and curled hair.

True story: My cousin tried to tell me at my baby shower after presumably spending the entire morning prepping, packing things and driving to said shower. As everyone crowded around to admire her beautiful and new pink bundle, I met my cousin's gaze.  Her eyes were kind & tired. She looked beautiful, but worried. Put together, but pulled in a million directions. She only said one thing, "It is really, really hard."

At that point, I nonchalantly told myself the lie that all expectant parents tell themselves in order to procreate: "Yikes. ..But my baby will be easier."

"Ha!" says my current self.

Doesn't everyone wish they could write a letter to themselves to snap our former selves into reality?

To the well-rested, naive, slightly swollen lass of 24, I would have said..

Hey you.

Swing by Cookout on your way back to Maryland and grab a milkshake, because it's the only dairy you'll have for a year. Harper's gonna have a milk sensitivity that will take you from hero to zero if a piece of cheese crosses your lips.

Enjoy that extra hair. It's going to fall out after the baby is born and that is.. strange.

You will know when you're in labor. Don't waste four Post-Its charting non-painful contractions at your desk.

When you can't breathe, talk or smile, that's when to call the doctor.  NOT after four Post-Its full of non-painful contractions.

Fifteen people will be in the room when Harper is born. At least half of them will be watching the process and it won't be with a bird's eye view. ..and, assuming you've had an epidural, you'll still be aware of it. And it will be very, very awkward.

Which brings me to...

An epidural is your friend. Sure, your "birth plan" can be to go as long as possible without it, but.. why the crap would you do that? 

When Harper finally arrives, banged up from your hip bone and she's gray and not pink and she doesn't breathe or cry for the first two minutes, you will feel like you're dying but don't die. She'll be fine...and loud. She will be the loudest baby born that whole week.

After three days of doctors and nurses telling you what to do, you'll feel like you can't do it on your own. You can. If you have any sense at all, you know best because you're the mom.

It's OK to holler into a pillow or cry while you're feeding your child. It hurts that bad, but it'll get better.

Harper will only sleep while she's being walked or bounced. Could you, like.. start some kind of pregnant cross-training program. . .nowish-ly?

And when, two weeks postpartum, you have to walk around with Harper for two hours at a time, you will feel like your insides are being turned inside out and that your butt will fall off. They won't, and it won't.

You'll think you'll never be normal again, but you will.

It will be worth it. Better than you ever dreamed.

See?

Love,

Me