Anne in Real Life

There are a lot of things I love about blogging. The fact that I am keeping a family record. The blessing of being connected with old friends I had lost touch with. The benefit of getting mothering, decorating, and cooking ideas. Being inspired to be better. Feeling part of a large blogging community. All good things. There is one thing I don't love, and I think about it a lot. I think it is hard to find a balance between being positive and being real. Here's what I mean: I have received several comments lately about how my hair always looks great. Now don't get me wrong, those are dear compliments, and I fully appreciate them. My concern is that a lot of the time my hair is in a messy bun and you don't know that about me because 1) I don't usually choose to get in front of a camera at such times and 2) if I did allow a picture under such conditions I probably (whether consciously or not) would choose not to post it. We don't often post about bad days or experiences because we don't necessarily want to keep thinking about such negative things and we figure our nice bloggy friends don't need to hear our woes either. And for the most part I'm fine with that. I think the more we dwell on the positive, the more positive we feel. But every once in a while I find myself wondering why I can't get it together like so-and-so, and you know what? So-and-so probably feels the same way about me.

So anyway this isn't meant as a rant or a complaint or anything, but I thought you might want to hear about my day. I hope you can: laugh, relate, breathe easy that you are not alone.

I woke up too tired and too snarky. Blaine was up earlier than usual and that tends to make me cranky. Rog has been unusually tearful the last few days and it has really been wearing me thin. I have been spoiled by his angelic disposition thus far. (Heaven forbid a baby cry!) So, feeling cross (and tired of the mucus that has inhabited all of our heads for the past 2 weeks) I phoned my mom to tell her I didn't feel up to our planned errands. "Oh just get dressed and get over here. Let's get this Christmas stuff done." (note: this was all my Christmas stuff. She was just coming along for moral support and an extra pair of baby-holding hands.) So I dressed the boys and hopped in the shower with Blaine so I could wash my hair that hadn't been washed in 4 days. It pretty much resembled a robin's nest. Out of the shower, I threw on the same jeans that I have worn for the last 8 days, even though they were dirty (they're better than the alternative--my other 2 pairs have holes in the knees and there is no time for mending the week before Christmas). I put on the same sweater I've worn all week because it is the only thing warm enough for this ridiculously cold week. Poor sweater still hasn't forgiven me for wearing it fully prego. It'll never be the same again. Cozy but dirty boots, coat, scarf. Beanie over my wet hair, no make-up except for the failed attempt to cover up the giant zit (zits at 27? come on!) with foundation.

When we got to Mom's I decided I'd better take the boys in and feed Rog before the shopping excursion. He gobbled up his pureed pears like a pro. We'd only been in the car 5 minutes when Blaine sweetly said from the back seat, "Mom! Rogie spit up!" Always having been a spitter, I didn't think much of it. But then I glanced back to see. Holy pears. I pulled the Honda over on Jackson street, right by Donut Country and Mom got out of the car. Using a bib and nine million wipes we tried to clean up the pint of pear puree. It is still coating every square inch of Rog's car seat buckles. And we all know the inside of those buckles is the point of no return. Mess cleaned, and we were off again.

Linen's-n-things, Macy's Home. Nothing. Cranky Rog. Oh, and I totally forgot to bring the stroller in (what in the heck was I thinking?) so I was carrying the 22-pounder in his infant seat this whole time. My left bicep is so freakin' ripped by now. Macy's. Trying to pick out a gift while holding a crying Rog, trying to keep a blanket between his slimy peared-on sweater and my wool coat. Nursing him in a not-so-nice restroom (oh how I miss nursing at Nordstrom!) while Nana (bless her soul 1,000 times) takes Blaine on the escalator twice and up and down the elevator thrice. Hauling the babe, the infant seat (now full of purses, shopping bags, coats and hats), and the unwilling toddler (he was just dying to go up the stairs again) back to the car.

On to Target. Anne: "The baby is tired. I am hungry. Let's just go home." Mom: "We're here! Let's just get it done!" Once inside we realized we were so hungry that so help me we had pizza and a hot-dog and a strawberry smoothie to gird up our loins and tummies for more shopping. And you know what? That nasty food really helped. And actually tasted perdy good. And, even though I wished I was at SuperTarget the whole time instead of Tar-ghetto, we crossed everything off our list and went home.

Baby slept. We made "crunch" with Gigi (Blaine's Great-grandma), we picked Daddy up from work, and we had our neighbors over to make graham-cracker houses. And, thanks to my Mom's charity, Gigi's warmth, my fun neighbors, and a husband who would clean up a kitchen while his wife blogged this embarrassingly long post, I am feeling much less snarky. Even cheerful. But let the record show: my hair looks like crap.