White bodysuits = plague...

I've been clumsy all my life, lucky to walk in a straight line without tripping over my own feet and mastering using a handrail whenever one is available for the safety of myself and everyone around me. So it should be no surprise that, even as an adult with no adult beverage in hand, eating can sometimes get the best of me. It's something that has been well documented by my family throughout the years with countless embarrassing pictures that have been shown to every boyfriend I've ever had. My boyfriend now makes fun of me whether I drop something down my front publicly or privately and particularly likes telling the story about crab legs for my birthday. The short version is the butter stains never came out and I can never wear that shirt in public again.

Over my years of endless clumsiness, I have learned how to at least downplay the damage, as it's often impossible to avoid  altogether. Jackets, patterned shirts, a sweater I remove before eating... these are all basic tactics to avoid attention for my food's attack on me. Something basic that any klutz, like myself, would know is to avoid the color white. Unless it is an ironclad requirement for a uniform or something, avoid white like the plague.

Now babies. They are messy little creatures. Newborn, infant and toddlers are all messy. Now the level of messiness often differs with each age. Newborns are messy mostly from formula and poop. Two stinky items that are just part of being a newborn (assuming you aren't breastfeeding). Infants have that plus cereal and baby food on a daily basis. And they have the uncanny talent of tossing food off their highchair in all directions. You need a 360° shield just for feeding them at times...although the family dog might dispute the shielding decision. And toddlers. You can probably take the whole formula thing off the list, but add dirt, mud and anything else they can get their adorably grimy hands in. And most toddlers are potty training and depending on how eventful that is, I'm going to leave poop on the list. And don't misunderstand me, I'm not saying parents don't clean and bathe their children, I'm simply saying that kids earn those baths on a daily basis. It's normal and unavoidable.

Which brings me to my point. Why in the world are the most common Onsies, the ones every parent has and uses, white? Who sat in a meeting decades ago,  looked to their right and said "Well, Bob, white seems like a good idea. Let's mass produce 'white'." Sure, it's probably cheaper to produce white,  rather then dye them, but have you seen the price of them now? I'm thinking a couple cents difference really isn't going to matter at this point. Formula stains don't come out, even with ultra concentrated bleach. And the baby detergent doesn't even touch them. So far for me, poop does come out, so maybe I should count my blessings on winning that battle. Seeing some onsies a mom graciously donated to me in larger sizes have all sorts of different colored stains. Which, I could care less because Sophie will undoubtedly add more of her own, but the point is, white shows everything.  And absolutely, you can try to resell them when the time comes when you're done making babies. But people generally don't pay for stained clothes, even gently used,  $.25 clothes. So now, you have to add them to the sad pile of pre-pregnancy jeans that we will forever be stuck with, unless you want to donate them. (Which, let's be honest, I'll hold onto that dream of squeezing my butt into the jeans for at least ten years.)

To have a basic, everyday bodysuit for a child is a great idea. But maybe make white the minority and color combo packs the norm. It's just more practical to have the kids wear something with color that can maybe hide the stain a bit better.

I just got done with Sophie's laundry, specifically the white onsies, can you tell? My stockpile of pristine white onsies is slowly dwindling as every week passes. *sigh*

Who I am :)

I am currently a part-time working mom to my beautiful 2 month old baby girl, Sophia. I grew up in suburbia where you can reach out both arms and touch two houses at the same time. All my classrooms growing up had 28-32 kids in them and shopping meant a 5 minute drive in any direction. I lived in a small enough town where we still leave our houses and cars unlocked, but large enough where I only knew a handful of the people living around me. It was diverse enough where a kid with a faux hawk, tattoos and enough piercings to set off a metal detector a mile away wouldn't cause a second glance. I worked about an hour away in a business hub mixed with grand homes that probably housed wealthy families that came with professionally groomed lawns. I drank Starbucks more than I'd care to admit and I window shopped boutiques that I couldn't afford. My friends and I often took our lunch at sushi restaurants. On Friday or Saturday night, it was not unusual to go out for a couple drinks. And I never knew meeting a man 3 and 1/2 years ago would change all that.

For one particular mother's day, my mother, my neighbor (who has been like an aunt to me) and I drove up to visit my neighbor's mother. It is a two hour drive north and when one arrives, it's as if the world has transformed to a quaint country paradise. We all got our hair cut and headed out to the bars to have fun on our girls' weekend. Little did I know, when Marmie (my neighbor's mother) called her great nephew up, I was being set up. Saving you from the mushy love story, I'll jump to the part where we ended up together. For 2 years, we drove the two hour trip every weekend, never missing a week from seeing each other. A year and a half ago, I took a part-time job to live with my boyfriend and start on our life together.

Now I'm still adjusting to the full-time, small-town living. To say it was, and continues to be, a culture shock would be an understatement. From not knowing my neighbor two doors down to knowing almost all my neighbors that live on our mile. That's right.  "The mile" replaced the term "neighborhood" or "street". The closest store is 20 minutes away. Sidewalks only exist in town, which is also where the stores reside. Tractors going down the road are just as common as cars. I can now correctly identify the crops growing in a field 95% of the time. Restaurants are majority mom and pop shops that have had their regulars for the last 20 years. If you're new to town, forget trying to blend in. You will stick out and fitting in will be a daily challenge. You will be identified soley by your last name at times. (something I have naively thought died out in the 1800's. "Oh, you're a 'Thompson'? Great family..."). Life moves a little slower and yet, it's difficult to find one truly lazy person. If you are in a bind, it's not naive to think someone will stop to help you. Actually, you'll have lots of people wanting to help. A small community seems to have what a big community no longer values: a strong bond to each other. While in a large community, there are enough resources at hand where you may never have to know your neighbor, a small town must rely in each other to survive. But with that reliance comes friendships and bonds that strengthens the community as a whole.

I'm getting off track. Let me push my soapbox aside for moment and get back to the subject at hand. Me. So I'm a displaced suburb-loving girl who fell in love with a down home country boy. While I always pictured myself a mother, I never pictured myself doing all those extended motherly tasks, like laundry. Or organizing stuff. Or doing dishes on a daily basis. So they have become my challenge. For years I've taken care of myself by doing my laundry, made my lunches, cleaned my room, etc. I never thought running a household would be so different than what I was already doing. Now it seems like an overwhelming task that I can't quite get the hang of. But I'm trying and maybe one day, if I'm lucky, I'll have it down to the perfect science like my mom and so many other women out there.

This will be my journey, where I juggle motherhood, being a girlfriend, keeping a sense of self, random thoughts and soapbox speeches and trying to sneak in this domestic glory that I so desperately seek!

Disclaimer!

I'm a Googler. An at-home researcher. One of those annoying people that will type in symptoms and situations into the search bar and see what pops up. So when I found out I was pregnant, I was unleashed on the websites, blogs and the message boards that thousands, maybe even millions of people visit every day. And even though I ended up being a silent stalker for the most part, one thing I learned is everyone parents differently. And some parents will fight and debate about their parenting styles to the death. And while that sounds fun and all, I'm not here to debate or argue over how I raise my child. I don't mind an opposing view, but I don't enjoy how rude and distasteful most of these debates become.

With that said, the point of me writing will probably be for myself mostly. Something I can look back on one day when my baby (and maybe babies one day) are grown. Plus, with so many blogs that have the same subject, I don't want to get my hopes up of thousands of followers. But for any curious soul that stumbles upon my blog, I hope you can join me in finding the humor and irony of life. Especially those of you that are parents, have significant others or live an average, dysfunctioning life, like me.

Cliff Note version: Be nice and laugh a little :)