Fall Favorites: Egg and Bacon Costume (The best pregnant costume EVER!)

As promised, a preggo costume this week! This is a quick costume so if you have a belly (or your husband does!) and you wanna throw something together quickly, here you go: my husband and I as "Bacon and Eggs" for Halloween!

When I was a hundredty months pregnant with my second son, we were invited to a Halloween party and the first thing I thought of to incorporate my belly was: Eggs and bacon.

My husband was thrilled.

I sold him on it because I told him he could wear all black, and just drape some bacon around his neck.

Fake bacon, of course. Real bacon would just be weird. I think he thought I meant real bacon until I started draping bacon-looking foam around his neck and saw his disappointment.

Sorry for the grainy-ness, I'm not even sure where I got the picture from. I think it was our ancient camera. But it looks like real bacon, right?? So here's how you make it.

Note: If you happen to make this costume, won't you let me know how it went and send me pictures? I have noticed a LOT of people coming here to be eggs and bacon this year! Yes, even if we don't know each other, tell me how the costume went!! christieo_7 at msn dot com!

Materials for Egg:
-From fabric store, 6 yds of white felt, kind of stiff
-1 yard of yellow spandex
-glue gun/glue
-strips of stick-on velcro

Directions: I eyeballed this one, to be honest. I held the felt up to my body to see how big I wanted to cut out the circle. I went with right at my neck and then around my thighs. I cut it out in a wavy circle, then used the front as a pattern and cut the back. Then I took the front panel, pushed it up against my belly, and cut a whole around my belly. I glued the front panel to the back panel around the edges, leaving armholes open.

Then, I took the spandex and cut a strip big enough to wrap around my body's midsection and cover up my belly. I cut out strips of velcro and attached them to each end of the spandex so it would close in the back and be hidden by the back panel of the eggwhite. Voila! A costume.


Directions for bacon:

Materials:

-one a big roll of white foam from the fabric store
-black, dark brown, and red spray paint
-plastic string or ribbon

Cut foam into one big 4 foot strip. Then, cut that piece in half, lengthwise. You should have two long rectangles, about 4 feet long. On both strips, use the scissors to make the sides of the bacon wavy all the way up both sides and the tops. Take the strips outside with the spray paint and make sure you have a surface you won't ruin with spraypaint (I put them on a big piece of cardboard on the grass). Along the edges, spray with black spray paint. Then, spray one red stripe down the middle of both pieces. Fill in the rest with some of the brown to get that crisp bacon look. Haha! It is really so easy. Then, cut two holes at the top corners of each piece of bacon. Loop the ribbon or plastic string through the holes on one piece of bacon, then loop them through the holes on the other strip of bacon. You may have to play with the length of the string to suit your loving husband/partner. Have them wear all black.


Stick a fork in it you're done! (How do I look?)

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Hey, I got a PHOTO CONTEST going on today and prizes too -- so get over there and enter!

Fall Favorites: Egg and Bacon Costume (The best pregnant costume EVER!)

https://babytealeaves.blogspot.com/2009/10/fall-favorites-egg-and-bacon-costume.html

Potty Training 102

Not mere hours after I posted this (and if you haven't read it, go read it and please leave your input), my 22 month old went peepee in the potty.

He saw his brother go before bathtime and he went on the tiny musical potty and there you go.

Yep. Looks like we're getting a jump on things.

I'm going in for round two, people.

Wish me luck.

Potty Training 102

https://babytealeaves.blogspot.com/2009/09/potty-training-102.html

Race Day Eve and Race Eve Meal Ritual

Turns out I have race day rituals now! Who knew that if I'd starting doing a few, I'd start getting a system down.

It doesn't even matter to me anymore that I'm not the race "type." You know the ones, the track stars, the life-long runners, the lean, long legs kind. The ones who fly past me on race day or start at the front because they're actually competing.

It used to bother my competitive self that I was a mid-to-back packer, but I'm one with it now. Just finishing and finishing in a time that's faster than my last finish is what matters to me now. An army of one. Or something like that.

But my guts are all nervous. The harder the race, the more nervous I get. I went back and read my post from my last triathlon, my very first one ever, and I remember just the plain old hard-ness about it. It was so freakin' hard. That makes me a little nervouser. Kind of dreading the hard. But excited about the finish. And the beer. Also a little curious to see if anything is easier. Hope so.

Every step leading up to the race makes me even more nervous. The picking up of the packet with my swimcap and numbers and signing all my forms, and especially looking at all of the other competitors filing in and out of the place. The hardcore ones. The sleepless night beforehand because I always panic the entire night fearing I won't hear the alarm clock and I'll miss the whole race. The nervous stomach. The breakfast I can barely eat but need to. The coffee which most people would think would be a mistake but not me. The fear of forgetting one of my hundredty thousand things like my bike or my race number.

But my husband and I have a ritual now on race eve. It's all kind of cool that we've grown to have this and if we don't do these things now, it just doesn't feel complete.

It usually goes like this: my parents come over the night before because my dad is usually in charge of bringing one of or both of the kids to the race in the morning. We have our ritualistic race-eve meal that includes some sort of pasta and protein. Tonight, I'm making Maggie's Chicken Piccata (7 points total and thank you Maggie, this is a staple up in here now!) and a Weight Watchers version of Penne with Vodka Sauce. The whole meal is kind of a lot of points but whatever. I burned nearly a thousand calories in the last triathlon, so I'm thinking I'm ok. I'm going to need the fuel. And yum.

After dinner, I make sure I have everything all together in my bag and ready to go and I check my list about a hundredty million times and I will still feel like I forgot something important in the morning even if I didn't.

Then, when everything's in order, we sit down and we watch the old 1990-something Ironman Hawaii video my husband has. The one where they documented the competitors overcoming the most amazing obstacles to complete the Ironman World Championship in Kona, Hawaii, which is a 2.4 mile swim, 112 mile bike and 26.2 mile marathon. Yes, a far cry from my little sprint triathlon (1/3 mile swim, 11 mile bike, 3.1 mile run.)

In the documentary, one woman comes back after getting hit by a Mack truck or something. Then there is one man who takes his wheelchair-bound son with him the entire way. He swims pulling his son in a little boat. He bikes pulling his son on his bike. He runs pushing his son in the wheelchair. The entire distance. I cry every time.

Amazing.

So amazing what one can do with their mind and their body.

Their struggles in life and in training for a race much longer than mine fuels me. It reminds me that any one of us can do anything. Literally. If we will it to be so.

After the video, we head to bed early, wake up a 4 a.m., drink coffee, eat our pre-race meals which for me is a bagel with peanut butter and coffee and water and then a protein bar when I get to the set up area at the beach at 5.

And where I will also proceed to set up and make about a hundred trips to the porta-potty in my fullbodyspandexsuit, which I'm really looking forward to. Yes, really excited about stripping down in the porta-potty. Yikes. Last time I wore my bathing suit, spandex shorts and a bike jersey. This suit functions as all three and I won't have to change in between events and I pretty much feel like a superhero in it. Or catwoman. Because it's black.

So I'm nervous. I'll spend the rest of the night being nervous and I won't be able to sleep. But I'm excited. Here we go, round number two. I just hope it doesn't rain, I don't get a flat, and I don't finish last.

Race Day Eve and Race Eve Meal Ritual

https://babytealeaves.blogspot.com/2009/09/race-day-eve-and-race-eve-meal-ritual.html

Geemit!

The following is the reason I should win the "Mommy of the Year" award.

My (almost) three year old son says the word, "Dammit."

With reckless abandon. He will not stop. Oh yes, I'm so proud.

He also says, "Jesus Christ."

Yeah. I'm doing a great job.

The funny thing is that we ourselves as upstanding parents and citizens, don't have potty mouths. We rarely, if ever, let a curseword slip. And if we do, it is when we are among the adult crowd. Because we are now uber-aware that we are among tiny child parrots and now go completely wayyy out of our way to make sure there are none uttered in the house by anyone. Ever.

I am not even sure at which point Poops heard the word "dammit" and I'm not sure who said it first . I do know that my husband "someone" is responsible for saying "JC" in response to a certain baby kitty cat who has gotten into something or tripped "someone" or scratched or bit "someone" in that playful but not playful baby kitty cat way.

(Sorry honey-I'll pull you out from under the bus later, I promise.)

So here's what we've done. For "dammit", we've tried everything (dammit!) We've tried getting mad but he loves this way too much and just says it again. But with a smile. Then we've tried "time out" and we've tried switching out the word by saying the following (repeatedly): "We don't say that word, we can use the word 'Jinxies!' if we're upset."

I know, brilliant, right? What a manly word that is. Jinxies. But it was the first thing I thought of in a crunch, and I remembered hearing it from Velma from Scooby Doo.

So now my brilliant son won't just say "Dammit!". He'll say, "We don't say 'dammit', we say 'jinxies!'"

That's just great.

For that other word, the "JC" word, we always say to him the following: "We don't talk about Jesus that way, we talk about how he is a great man or we pray for him in church."

So now he'll yell, "Jesus Christ!" then when he sees my face frown or he sees the 'mommy look', he'll quickly follow with "....is a good man..."

Oh he's just so clever, isn't he?

I've even tried completely ignoring it but I just can't sit back and listen to this so this is not an option. Especially in public. (How embarrassing.)

And let me just say that back in my day (before cell phones and laptops, when bread was only a quarter and you had to walk a mile to get to school in the snow -- barefoot), my mom would smack me in the mouth, strike the fear of God in me, and I'd never be courageous enough to even think of that word. Again. For the rest of my life.

So how is it that I can't get him to stop this?

Well now I just won't tolerate either one of those words -- ever -- and he will either go in his room or in timeout or I will take away a beloved toy if he utters them. And I do one of these variations every time. (This is exhausting.) But I have seen this word usage decline. Slightly. For the most part.

He doesn't say them to my face really anymore, but every once in a while, I'll hear a muffled "dammit" from behind a closed door when he's sitting on the potty by himself followed by a "Jinxies!" as he corrects himself while talking to himself. Progress? I'm not sure.

But now I've got myself a new issue. A new word has sprung up among us that he will say to my face and it is a word he made up.

"Geemit." Hmmmm. It sounds a lot like "Dammit." But it isn't "dammit". And he knows this. So I'm finding myself in a quite an odd fix. I know what he means when he looks at me and says, "Geemit, Mommy! Geemit!"

But he's not saying "Dammit!"

So do I get mad? Because I know what he means? To his credit, he did figure out an alternative exclamation which really is not a curse word and especially not a word that anyone would recognize out in public, really. In fact, it really is quite clever. But of course I will never say this out loud and he will only know this when he reads this in many many years...

Plus, it's not as dainty and feminine as "Jinxies!" But it's not as rude and potty as "Dammit!"

NOW WHAT DO I DO!

Let it slide and let it slip? Be proud of the "Geemit" rather than the "Dammit?"

UGH!!! Why does he have to exclaim exclamations anyway!? He's only (almost) three! What does he really have to be angry about?? Or is because he's (almost) three that he has everything to be angry about because he's figuring out his tiny intense emotions and that's just what they do??

Will this too pass shall? Am I reading too much into this? Should I be laughing? Because if it were someone else's kid, this sure would be funny! And you're probably all thinking "I sure am glad my kid doesn't say those words!" And that's fine. Go ahead, judge. I can take it. On the side and as I write this, I do think it's kind of funny. But as I write that I think, no it's not! So really I am not sure if it's funny or if I am raising a clever little potty mouth. Or both.

A little advice here, dammit please!

Geemit!

https://babytealeaves.blogspot.com/2009/04/geemit.html

Choices

For clarification, I just want to say, I love staying home.

I wouldn't have had it any other way. I could not physically bring myself to drop my son off at daycare and go to work. I had the option. But I couldn't. I don't judge other women for doing it, I think staying home versus not staying home is an extremely personal choice and everyone should decide what is good for them and their family. I am on everyone's side when it comes to making personal decisions for family. Just to make that known.

Two of my very favorite friends in the world had monumental news for me this week. I had worked with both of them in tv news as grunts. The very bottom rung on the career ladder. Making zilch. Eating, breathing, sleeping work. We were the single, climbing the corporate ladder-20-somethings, passionate, obsessed, go-getter career-women. Able to move or travel anywhere in a single bound should the opportunity present itself. Late nights? Ok! Holidays? Sure! Work through lunch? Of course! No days off? It's necessary! Breaking news? Vacation postponed? Done!

Then, the longer were were in, all of us who started together were really starting to get somewhere. Things had started taking off for me, too, when I got a job as a writer at a bureau at one of the biggest news agencies. I was making it happen. Finally getting somewhere. Gettin' a little respect.

Then I got engaged, left that job, moved back to Florida to be with my husband-then-fiance, and popped out a couple of kids. On the career front, I put things on hold. I decided to stay home. I tried to picture going back to work, but when it came time to make the ultimate decision, I just couldn't do it. Maybe it was because the first one came at 34 weeks and I felt the need to stay with him as long as I could. Then when he was 10 months old and just starting to even think about working again, I found out I was pregnant.

So this week, both of my friends were offered their dream jobs. All that hard work, finally paying off. One works in entertainment and will be paid (and paid well) to travel and cover entertainment news. The other is becoming an actual management big-wig at one of the cable networks. I saw the title. It's unbelieveably fantastic. I can hardly believe it had it not been for her new shiny business card she presented to me, but it's true and they both so deserve it.

And I am doubled over with happiness for them! I mean, this is what it's all been for! Finally! I feel so honored to have been there with them at the beginning. All that thankless work for crap pay is turning into something out of a dream!!

So leave it to me to make their news about me, right?

After all of the excitement over the weekend and talking about it and congratulating them and giddy girly-ness and squealing, when it all settled down and I got a few minutes to myself, after loading the groceries into the car and sitting down at the steering wheel to turn the car on, I just broke down.

And cried. 9 o'clock at night in a grocery store parking lot by myself. Apparently this bothered me in some way.

I was completely overcome and I didn't know why. I wouldn't change a thing in the world about staying home. But I guess I couldn't help but wonder, what if?

Where would I be had I not taken a time-out? What stories would I have covered? What honors would I have had? What amazing people would I have worked for and with? What contacts would I have made? What stories would I have to tell? Which job would have been next? How much closer to my dreams would I be now?

Instead, now I wonder, "What is my dream?"

I'm not that 20-something jet-setter anymore. I don't even know if I have that in me anymore. I thought to myself this hurricane season about offering myself up to freelance in the field should a hurricane hit, but then thought, duh, I'm still nursing, it's not like I can pump in the middle of a satellite truck in the middle of a bunch of old tv guys looming around.

When I calmed down a little after being sideswiped by these emotions I didn't even know I had, I thought about choices. How interesting that choosing a seemingly-simple path like getting
married could take someone down such another, completely unpredictable path. How choosing to get married would parlay so quickly into 30-something, home ownership and having children. And a whole different person of "me" entirely. These were things we chose. I chose. I didn't even think too much about it, come to think of it. I just went with the current of my life. I drifted along, naturally doing what came to me, leaving career for another day, another time. I never asked myself what the options were, I just knew what the options weren't. Like, for reasons very important to me, not marrying this man: not an option. Not moving home where my family was: not an option. Waiting to have kids: not an option.

I did so little thinking about where I was headed that I don't think I prepared myself for how I'd feel once I got there. I didn't foresee how I would feel when I saw what happened to all my friends who chose "Option A", while I chose "Option B".

I didn't think that far ahead.

My only consolation, which is a pretty big one, is that when I look back, I don't see "Option A" as an option. Yes, me. Go-getter-career-girl. I wouldn't change a thing. I wouldn't have chosen "Option A" because that would have meant choosing something other than my husband, who is my absolute, well, absolute. That's really the only way I can put it.

It must follow, too, that somewhere along the way, my career took a backseat. Literally, without telling me, it got out of the driver's seat, closed the door, and sat itself in the back. One day, I woke up and bam! I deemed this man and my family my number one priority. So I guess if we're talking about choices and having it all, I should be so proud that I had pictured my life a certain way and I made that happen. I always pictured marrying the type of man I married. I always pictured having children. I always pictured staying home with them. And I did that.

So what's the problem then? If I wouldn't change a thing, then what's the problem?

Maybe I think it'd have been nice to see how far I could go. Because choosing an entirely different path usually means new forks, and the new forks lead to new places and you can't go back to choose a different first path which would have led to the first set of forks because those are all closed now. But had I chosen that first path, what dream jobs would have been offered to me had I just kept on? What would I have been capable of? I guess, though, that I only need look as far as my front door for that.

I'm capable of raising two loving and hysterically funny children, one of which makes "bandaids" out of turkey slices and plasters them all over his face and the table on their fake "wounds". Of being a wife and on occasion, an understanding one. Of actually cooking a meal without sending anyone to the emergency room. And for that matter, actually being able to "throw something together" and having it taste (dare I say) good. Of coming up with creative ways to teach my children, like "Crazy Carrot Man" for the Letter C. Of reading the same book over and over and over again at bedtime without getting annoyed. Of being able to not exist on Ramen noodles and bologna alone. These are things I wouldn't have known about myself had I not chosen this path. Who knew I'd love being a mother so much? That this path would have chosen me, really, more than I have chosen it?

So I put my career on hold for a while. So it appears I won't be some big manager at a news network anytime soon. That means I have more time to dream up something else, right? To construct a new, maybe even better evil plan. Mwahahaaaaa!

After all, I wouldn't be a woman if I didn't ponder, cry, and/or obsess over this age-old inner conflict about career versus family, right? Because that's what we do.

Now.... back to the Batcave!

Choices

https://babytealeaves.blogspot.com/2008/10/choices_14.html

Tip Jar Mania

Oh, I do have a question. Does anyone use the daycare at the gym? (Before I ramble on about the following, I really am curious to know how other gym daycares are and if they're trustworthy).

I thought I might check out the daycare at my gym today to see if I might have enough guts to have the kids go there and play while I work out (I mean, it's only for an hour or so). No, I haven't done the daycare thing yet at all, call me lame, yes, and I haven't done the non-family babysitter yet either because I am probably wayyy overprotective (that's another issue entirely) but my family is usually around to watch them if I need someone and I prefer to have family except out of total necessity if possible. And for the gym, my mother-in-law usually watches them, but I was thinking that on the rare occasion she can't, maybe I could take them with me.

But I was really put off by the giant TIP JAR that was on the desk.

Because I thought, oh, ok. So if I tip, you'll not treat my kid like crap? And it kind of pissed me off. A tip jar at a daycare?

AM I MISSING SOMETHING HERE?!

And then it got me thinking about tip jars in general. And how pressured I feel to tip ALL THE TIME, even employees who are getting a regular wage and who don't actually serve me food or do anything, really, other than take my money in the original capacity that is paying for something at a cash register.

In New York, when I worked at one of the news channels, I got so fed up after going to a deli where I bought a sandwich and used my debit card and there was a place to leave a tip and total just above the signature and I wrote in a tip because I thought I had to even though all the guy did was literally hand me the sandwich and I thought, the world has totally lost it and is completely out of control with the tipping.

So I went across the street, back to work with my sandwich and put a tip jar on my desk. Because why not? I wasn't making that much money, either. All my money went to my ridiculous $1000 a month 200 square foot studio apartment that was smaller than my news director's office and I had to eat bologna sandwiches most of the time. Why shouldn't I ask for just a little bit more!

The funny thing was, people actually started putting money in it. But it was usually only change and it was for the Lucky Bucket. I had a little red, tin candy bucket at my desk that became infamous, we called it the "Lucky Bucket" (I even passed it on to a friend of mine in a ceremony before I left the job). But it was always full of some kind of candy and it took on a life of its own; people I didn't even know were passing by to check what was in the bucket, people I knew (and even those I didn't) were even filling it up sometimes. So when I put the tip jar there, people would occasionally put money in there to contribute to the Lucky Bucket which I thought was hilarious. Because it was totally unnecessary and I had the tip jar there just as a joke and a statement. Mostly though, people put smart ass comments on sticky notes in there and that was really what it was there for.

Anyway, I do "get" that anyone can use some extra cash, including people who don't make great wages. I am not totally callous and terrible. But I can't help it. Even when I go in to get takeout wings and the girl at the register literally just turned around, grabbed the white grocery bag full of food and handed it to me, I still end up tipping because I am pressured by that line in the receipt called "tip".

Come to think of it, maybe it is just me. I have always been somewhat confused by tips and who to tip (in New York, it's pretty much everyone, especially around the holidays -- your landlord, your doorman, the person at the salon who washes your hair who is not your hairdresser because they have separate people for that, etc etc). But when it comes to like, furniture delivery or housekeeping, the groomer, or the nurse who waxes my eyebrows at my dermatologist's office (I still don't know the answer to this one by the way), I am always running around in a fury and googling and asking people, "Am I supposed to tip them??"

In instances where I am sure that there is a tip involved, I am an over-tipper. Because I was a server for many moons in my college days at quite a few nice restaurants (I made the best money at Denny's though, but that's another story) and I made a meager $2.25 an hour + tips and there were many times I felt like a servant rather than a server and I understand them well and I want them to feel uber-appreciated. So I tip them rather well and I can't ever bring myself to stiff anyone ever. Even if they hated me.

Anyway, I could just be getting irritable at my old age (although I was 24 or so when I put that tip jar on my desk so maybe I'm always that irritable) that everyone's trying to get in on tips. Including the lady at my gym's daycare. (She even made sure to mention the tip jar even though it was quite large, right in front of my face, and marked in very large letters "TIPS".) So it goes that I no longer know the rules of tipping and I feel like a complete and total schmuck now if I go through the Starbucks drive-thru and don't leave another damn dollar on top of the total for my (delicious) $500 Skinny Vanilla Latte.

Tip Jar Mania

https://babytealeaves.blogspot.com/2008/08/tip-jar-mania.html