Growing up is easy.

Afton looks just like me in this photo. I will have to get my hands on the one I am thinking of and scan it onto my computer. The dress Afton is wearing belonged to either Aunt Karen or Aunt Mary, Dad's sisters. It is a super cute dress; clothes had a much finer quality back then I believe.





Delaney at 3 1/2mo. She is quite the squiggle monster, and as big of a funny-face maker as Afton and I are. Three-of-a-kind us girls are.

See? Afton at 3 1/2mo. on Easter 2009. They look so different yet so the same for sisters. I can't wait for them to develop into the little people that will one day develop into the big people. Makes me wish I was a kid again. No worries at all, except when the food was going to be in my belly.

Little Things.

We bought this little red chair at Ikea for Afton, so that she could have her own special place to sit. The very first day she managed to repeatedly smash her toes into oblivion while trying to move the chair from one spot to another. She cried so much we had to put her bed. The next day was more of the same. It was hilariously sad, actually, because I tried to get her to understand that when your toes are under the leg of the chair, you shouldn't push down harder on the chair to free yourself. It's very counter-productive.
But since we subscribed to Netflix once more, my computer has seemingly become hostage to the TV.

What does this have to do with a little red chair? Well, I'm currently sitting on said chair, and my ass hurts something fierce and my legs are going numb, because my computer is virus to the TV host and I have no choice but to sit on the little red chair to use my computer.
I better have buns of steel from all this torture.

In other news, I made the most delicious chai-spiced sugar cookies. They are soft and moist and addictive. I made about 30 cookies a couple hours ago, and presently there are only two left. Yum yum chop.
Other than sabotaging my diet desires, I've taken to swimming in the evening, and bringing Afton along since her water wingy things seem to allow her a lot of freedom in the pool. So much freedom, in fact, that I greatly enjoy throwing her through the air to crash into the water. Very amusing.I am going to take this spatula and pry my ass off this tiny chair, so that I may go read and hopefully sleep, because tomorrow is going to be a big day, I can feel it!

Floating.

Lately I haven't wanted to use the pool because I can never just relax and swim. On a few occasions Rudy and I brought Delaney and got her wet, with only minor success, usually resulting in me having to take her home while Rudy and Afton continue swimming.

Last night I had the opportunity to take just Afton along, and after discovering she finally fit into one of her Coast Guard Approved life-vest floaty things, I was able to let her jump in without worrying about her instantly drowning.

Oh how nice it was to be able to swim unrestricted.

There was another father with his son in the pool as well, the boy being probably five years old. Afton became quite enamored with him and would not stop staring or saying Hi repeatedly. It was so cute, because after awhile, the boy came swimming up to Afton and they played with the ball he had in the water.

Of course when I went home and told Rudy about the little boy, he freaked out and said it was high time to go buy that shotgun.

Men and their little girls, so hilarious.

One Year.

One year ago today my husband and I started that faithful journey known as marriage. And what a year it has been indeed. We went skydiving and then discovered I was pregnant with baby #2. Rudy started college and I started work and then we suddenly decided it was time for a change, again. So we packed up everything and moved from Minnesota to Arizona where we now live today, with two daughters, two cats, and hopefully no scorpions.

I get jealous when I read about my friends going on expensive, special trips for their anniversaries because we can't even afford to go buy more butter so I could bake a cake. No cake for us. I sit here in my pajamas at nearly two in the afternoon and wonder how this annoying pink spot showed up on the duvet cover, while simultaneously telling my daughter to stop shrieking at the top of her lungs. Happy Anniversary indeed!

Rudy is in the clubhouse studying, and while I'll consider finally throwing myself under some hot water, I may first put Afton to bed and look for some music to inspire me into doing something other than nothing.

It is my anniversary, after all.

Confusing the Story.

I get annoyed sometimes. Especially when times are tough. Mostly, I get annoyed at people who try to tell me stories of how someone else survived and I can do it too! For example, my recruiter told me that another consultant lost her job in January, her husband's in February, AND they have 5 kids ranging in age from 15 to 1. But she stepped up her game and was able to support the family on her sales alone. Wow. If she can do it, I can too, right?

What she fails to see, or understand, is that we are not the same. They have older kids, and had older jobs. I am fairly certain they grossed more than 19,000 a year, combined. I don't even think Rudy and I make that much combined. They are people with houses and savings accounts, stocks, bonds, CDs and IRAs. They are people who have something to fall back on because they had the means to save in the first place. When you make as little as we do, there is no saving because there isn't anything to save. Every penny goes to rent and bills and food and diapers. If there is anything leftover, which rarely happens, we usually get something for Afton, like a toy, or a book. Or we go buy some lightbulbs, because everybody needs lightbulbs.

What I'm saying is, just because someone else had no job and had kids, doesn't mean we're the same story. We're not. We have nothing. Any little mishap could break us. Our windshield could break us. Because we are not the same story. And no one even bothers to consider what a story truly is. My story isn't done, but it feels like it, certainly.

If it wasn't for bad luck, we'd have no luck at all.

I am not afraid/I am afraid.

We collect books that tell us what to do because we don't know what to do. We ask our mothers, our grandmothers and our friends what to do because we don't know what to do. And every single source says something different, so what are we supposed to do?

I am not afraid. As infants, my children slept on their stomachs, in my bed, under the covers. I know SIDS exists and is a reality for some, but I am not afraid. I don't strip the crib bare, I don't use humidifiers, de-humidifiers or vaporizers because someone else thinks it may decrease the chance of my children dying of SIDS by 1%. They sleep on their stomachs because that is what's comfortable to them. For me, that is love.

I am not afraid. I feed my children early because they have hearty appetites that aren't quenched simply by milk. I fed Afton peanuts and eggs and seafood before she was even one years old, because I believe if someone is going to be allergic, they will be allergic regardless of when you introduce the food. I also believe that early introduction of different foods has expanded Afton's palette and allows her to not be as picky as other children. She eats everything. Even spicy foods. I feed them because I am not afraid, and because I was fed early and the only things I'm allergic to are pollen and dander. For me, that is love.

I am not afraid. I let my children pick toys up from the ground and put them in their mouths. Same with food. I don't rub every surface with antibacterial products, and I don't slather myself and my children with it either because I am not afraid. I do wash my hands and their hands in regular soap, and I bathe them when they are dirty, but I let them get dirty because to me, it's what they should do. For me, that is love.

I am afraid. I am afraid that if I yell at my children too loudly, or even at all in public, someone may report me as a child abuser. I don't tell people that I stopped breastfeeding at six weeks because I don't want to see the eyes that say I didn't try hard enough as a mother and I don't talk about using whiskey on my teething children because I don't want someone thinking I'm an alcoholic child abuser. I keep everything to myself because people are uptight and afraid of everything, because they want to protect their children from everything and I want to expose them to everything. I keep it all to myself because I am afraid of everyone else.

But, for me, that is love. I make no apologies for who I am and how I raise my children, because I am not afraid.

Bake me Baked.

When I worked on the Riverwalk in San Antonio, I would often have customers who partook in various drugs such as cocaine and marijuana. One of my more...gypsy-like customers would peddle his weed brownies and cookies. They were delicious, soft and chewy, and they left you with an unbelievable high. Well, not for me, it was too much and I would sleep for like...16 hours straight.

There is a point to this, somewhere.

Rudy and I started watching Weeds the other day and Rudy became so inspired he now wants to start his own bakery filled with deliciously psychedelic goodies. The key to all of it would be the butter, of course, which is quite an endeavor to make properly. Then I would do all the baking, since I am a master baker and can make almost anything imaginable. After that the samples would be passed out, to get people hooked on the goods, and next thing you know, we're millionaire drug lords!

That's why it only happens on TV. It's a nice thought though, and would be even better if it was legal!