tongue tied

As we all know- one of my few "talents" is talking.  (Just because we all learn to do it by the time we are two- and it happens to be one of our most basic functions as human beings doesn't make it any less of a talent, ok? whatever) So I rarely (if ever) find myself tongue tied.  If there is one thing I am comfortable doing in an awkward situation - it is talking.  I talk to strangers in the grocery story check out line, women I have never met in the Nordstrom nursing lounge, single dads at the park (that is for anyone who has ever wondered why they see the single dads at the park talking to me, it is my talent) people just feel the need to talk to me- and I happen to be Ok with it.  JT always laughs at the amount of strange information, or deep secrets, I come away with after these random encounters with strangers.  I blame it on the Hairstylist in me.  There is something about sitting in a chair with someone combing your hair that forces you to spill your guts.  And apparently I have that affect on people even before they sit in my chair.  But this isn't about how easily other people talk to me- it is about how easily I talk to them.   Accept for this one time I found myself tongue tied.

You hear about people meeting their favorite movie star and then going completely blank or stammering incoherently until Security is called.  They mess up their one opportunity to exchange conversation with their hero or role model, or heart throb.  That would never be me.  Or so I thought.

Recently I had the opportunity to go to a Retirement Celebration for my favorite High School teacher, Ms. Bedtelyon.  She was my hero.

I had a rare opportunity to be her student for all four years of high school.  Not because I kept failing her class and having to retake it, she was the English teacher who taught the Advanced and A.P. English classes.   So my A.P. English class primarily consisted of the same teacher and students for all four years.  She did have a sort of Team Teacher, Mr. Nicholson (Bob), that taught us Sophomore year and frequently throughout the other years, when you talk about Ms. B you have to include Bob as well.  ( I don't know why we called him his first name, we just did.)

She taught me important facts like: You don't have to have a point to have a point.  ( you will only understand that phrase if you had Ms. B or an obsession with obscure Beattles movies from the 60's)

pic from here

 She taught me a love for Charles Dickens and a disdain for Jane Austen.  (Fortunately I can still love the movies made from her books without having to love the books themselves.)  She encouraged me to dream about traveling through Europe living off of art and baguettes.  She scolded me for using words like "alot". Oh wait, that is two words.  (You are only laughing right now if you love Ms. B)  She taught me to love writing.  (So if you enjoy reading my blog, you should thank her, but don't tell her about all of the grammatical errors I make... some day when I am rich and famous I will have an Editor to fix all of that.)  Ms. Bedtelyon was absolutely inspiring as a person and as a teacher.  And Bob was about as much fun as you could possibly have while still learning.  Most of my academic memories from high school include them.

*sigh*


Oh yeah, I am writing a post about the time I got all tongue tied and lost my cool (and my only talent).  You would think having spent four years with Ms. B and Bob that I would feel absolutely comfortable talking to them again.  After all, as far as the Language Arts go, they raised me. And as near as I know, they loved me as well.

So how did it happen?  How did I walk in to the auditorium of my alma mater Lindbergh High School and speak jibber jabber?

There he was: Bob.  I was almost speechless. Almost.  He was one of my high school heroes.  The teaching partner to my beloved Ms. Bedtelyon.  My theater teacher and debate coach.  One of my favorite teachers ever (accept for the times he kicked me out of class for talking too much).  He was not Brad Pitt.  He was someone I had spent nearly everyday with for four years.  He was simply a teacher.  He was talking to one of my fellow class mates and it seemed like a great opportunity to say Hi.

I entered the conversation in time to hear this class mate talking about his 3rd Doctorate Degree that he was working on, and the Universities that he is teaching at.  (I should interject here, that I always felt a little inferior in my A.P. class since many of the students were in A.P. everything and I was only in A.P. English.  I also dated The Jock in our High School, and was a future Hair Stylist.  All of which seem to be ammunition for those who consider themselves "Intellectually Superior".)  As I heard him talk about his many intellectual accomplishments I felt my one true talent (talking alot)--- (ha ha, again, you are only laughing at the word alot if you know Ms. B) slipping down my throat.  Suddenly I wasn't talking to the brainiac from High School and my favorite theater teacher- it was like I was talking to Brad Pitt and George Clooney.  Why was I so tongue tied???

That is when Bob turned to hug me and asked what I was up to these days.

Suddenly I felt I had let everyone down.  I don't have three doctorate degrees.  (I don't even have one Bachelors Degree!) I didn't go on to be a famous actress from the time I spent with him in Theater.  Or an inspiring English Teacher following in their footsteps.  I have never even been to Europe to study art and eat baggettes (although I ate my fair share of them in Madagascar.) I had nothing.  I felt my tongue begin to twist and turn.   The title Hair Stylist had never felt so simple.  And really, that isn't even what I consider myself.   I am a Mom.

And that is what I said.  Only I didn't say it with pride or joy.  I said it with embarrassment and failure.

"Oh, me?" I answered weakly "I just stay home with my three kids"

I said it.  For Ms. Bedtelyon the most horrible word in the English language is "alot", for Katie Tyler that word is "just".  And there it was.  Attached to myself and my children.

Just a mom.

I wanted to cry.  I was angry that I didn't have a Bachelors Degree in English.  That I didn't go on to be a writer, or an actress, or any of the things I was sure I would do when I last left that High School auditorium.  I was angry that Bob or Ms. Bedtelyon would somehow know I had never traveled through Europe breathing in the Art and History that they taught me in Humanities.  I felt like a failure.

But more than any of that, I was mad that I used the word "just".

I am a stay at home Mom.  And I care deeply about that career choice.  I chose to have kids and stay home with them - even when I could have chosen differently.  I don't have 3 doctorate degrees,  a stamp filled past port, or a best selling novel- not because I couldn't have those things.  But because, for now, I have chosen something else.  Something that I actually love more than art, or literature, or anything else in the world.  My family.

After my pathetic response, and then the awkwardness that followed, Bob reached out and put his arm around me telling me about his own young child.  (If you know Bob, you are in shock, he was the bachelor of bachelors and seemed to have no intention of "settling down".  Yep, he has a kid.)  He was not disappointed in me.  He didn't think I had given up my potential for some superfluous job.  He was actually happy.  And in fact, Mr. Smarty Pants Tons of Degrees came up to me later to tell me that he would trade every degree he had for my job.

Not only was I tongue tied- I was humbled.

When will I realize that I am a success?  When will I accept myself and my choices?  When will I be strong enough to claim my title as a Stay at Home Mom with pride?  And when will I remove the word "just" from my vocabulary?

So I didn't meet Brad Pitt or anyone famous.  But I did get to hug my two favorite teachers.  (And the best part was Ms. B remembering me-  after years and years of teaching, and hundreds of students- she remembered me!)  Hopefully I get a do-over someday.   Hopefully I regain my talent for talking.  Hopefully I can smile and tell them that I am teaching my own kids a love of the arts and literature.  And hopefully they will be proud of me as well. 

Three reasons I love being a stay at home mom.

You're so vain.

"You're so vain, you probably think this song is about you, don't you? You're so vain."

My mom loved to sing this Carly Simons song to us as kids whenever we were acting a little too into ourselves.  By the way, my mom had a song for every occasion:  Washing your kids' hair? "I've gotta wash that man right outa my hair" from South Pacific.  It's a Monday morning? "Monday Monday, can't trust that day" by the Mama's and the Papa's.  There was a song for everything.  And primarily, the song for me was "Your so vain."


This week, my vanity back fired on me.

It all began a few months ago when I was visiting with a friend who is a P.A. and she noticed my eyelids.  Ok, I am about to reveal something deeply personal and shocking- and even point out one of my saddest flaws: I have puffy, saggy eyelids.  Promise you will not stare at them next time you see me!

I am not talking puffiness under my eyes from lack of sleep from staying up talking at the Weeds' house till 1:30 in the morning last night.   Although I have that too.  (And, let's be honest,  I enjoy the name drop of my most famous friends-but seriously- someone else needs to get famous soon, I am tired of them being my only famous friends!)  I am talking about my eye lids being puffy.

What? You have never noticed? (*phew*)
What? You have totally noticed??  (*aagghhhhh*)
What? You never noticed before, but now when you see me it is all you can look at? (*crap*)

I know you don't think you have ever noticed if someone has puffy eyelids or not.  But some women are blessed with smooth, flat, tight eye lids.  Picture Dana - if you don't know Dana- picture any girl on a cosmetics commercial.

 

Why does this model's eyes look so pretty?  It is her smooth, tight eye lids.  The perfect canvas for the beautiful art of make up.  You can clearly see the division between the upper and lower  parts of her eyelid.  There is room for shadow and light.  Because of this, there is depth and and an overall look of youthfulness and beauty.

These are not my eyelids.

And when my friend noticed this- she pointed out that there is a surgery that can suck the puffiness out of the upper lid giving you this effect.  And the surgery can be covered by Insurance.  My heart lept with joy at this news. 

Why do I care so much about my eyelids?  They aren't that bad, you say.  

Something about me: I L-O-V-E make up.  I have always loved it.  Not only for the fact that it makes my freckle face look less like a 12 year old boy and more like a 26 year old woman.  But I enjoy putting it on.  In fact, I look forward to doing my makeup from the minute I get up.  For the little artist in me, it is a chance to start out every morning with a fresh canvas and limitless combinations of color and light.  I have heard people say that women put on makeup for other women.  Nope, not me.  I put it on because I love it.  (And I guess I am OK with the results being that I look more attractive with it on)  So when I was told that my canvas could be surgically fixed to give me a better working space for my secret passion- I was thrilled!

This week I finally got around to going to see my friend's eye doctor.  I expected him to give me a referral to have this surgery performed and thus change my life forever.  When I entered his office on Monday I looked forward to the life changing event in store.

But much to my horror - he began to actually check my vision!  What? To get insurance to pay for it, I would need a legitimate reason?  Not just that my eyes get tired at night (from the added weight of puffy lids)  or that I was being deprived of artistic opportunity by my hereditary deficiency.  They wanted to see that my vision was compromised by my lids.  

Let's be honest, I have faked my way through quite a few tests.  Even lied on some (namely: the hearing tests I took in elementary school because I was terrified of getting a hearing aid).  But how to fake a vision test? I was clueless.

By the end of the exam he agreed that my lids were puffy and unsightly.  (Ok, he didn't say that - but he was thinking it) But he laughed at the idea that my Insurance would cover the procedure.  Then he told me that the reason my eyes are tired at night is not because of the added weight of heavy lids- but because I might be slightly far-sighted.

What? 

So instead of giving me a referral for an amazing cosmetic surgery- he handed me a pair of glasses.

Glasses!?

I will admit that glasses can be a very cute accessory.  I even had a pair of fake lenses once because I thought it was kind of fun to look all smart and stuff.  But to have to wear glasses every day?  Forever? 

The ironic end to this story:

I went to the optometrist to fix my eye lids so that my make up would look even better and so that I could enjoy the eyes that I covet on other women,  and ended up walking out with a pair of glasses that completely hide the make up that I love putting on!  Who cares if you have the perfect smokey eye if your glasses cover it up?

I am still "practicing" wearing the glasses (with the lame- trial glasses frames) to see if I actually need them.  Riley loves them, and insists that I wear them.  I am not sold on the whole idea.  

I guess that is what vanity gets you.

Glasses.

Me and Macie and Glasses

Now the really depressing part. 

I took a million pictures to try to show you how good my make up looks and why this is such a tragedy for me...

 And none of them really showed how good I think my make up looks!  In fact, it hardly looks like I am wearing make up at all.  I guess I shouldn't be so sad about covering up my art work after all!

*** In case you can't tell, these pictures and post were actually taken and written over a year ago.  I have just been too annoyed with these pictures to hit publish. (I am not a good "self photographer" I guess.)  (And too embarrassed of my "four eyes" to wear them in public.)

*** Second disclaimer:  I did end up wearing my glasses in public and not a single person noticed.  Ironic.

Boundaries

On my way to church this morning I was already writing this blog post in my mind.  It was going to be a witty and chiding take on Mormons affected by Ward Boundaries.

(I think I should quickly explain some of this, for those that are not Mormons who have no idea what I am talking about.  One of the characteristics in the LDS church is that we are organized by our geographical locations.  Each unit of the church is called a Ward.  A Ward is defined by a specific geographic area.  Part of the logic in this outlining of boundaries is so that you will go to church with your own neighbors.  And therefore build relationships of support within your own immediate community.  All of our clergy and teachers are non paid volunteers living within those ward boundaries that are asked to minister and support those that live around them.  For some, this might seem to be a burden; being "told" where and when to go to church.   But for me, that has never been the case.  I have never felt like anyone has "told" me where to go, and what to do.  I feel that we are asked to follow these boundaries to best support those within our own neighborhoods.  And I have always felt blessed by those that I lovingly consider my "Ward Family".  The bottom line is that we want all of our members to be ministered to, loved, and accepted.  And it is easiest to do this when they are in your community.  Hope that was clear.)

I knew that today we would be learning about some boundary changes and that some of our Ward would be changed to participate in a new Ward.  I pictured myself, writing my blog, sort of mocking the "mormon culture".  I could make a point that boundary changes are like moving to another state while staying in your same house.  The lines drawn around our homes to define a ward may as well be the electric fence surrounding District 12 in the Hunger Games.  (This is where fellow mormons would laugh and nod).  I could also joke that changing wards is as serious as severing family bonds with a simple line drawn in the sand.  I sat in my "designated pew" at church and racked my mind for funny jokes and little mormonisms that relate to boundary changes, and reveled in the popularity this would bring to  my little Blog. (P.S. we don't have designated pews... but, man, we are creatures of habit)  But then they projected a map onto the wall for all of us to see.  And the redline that divided our house from the rest of my friends' houses was as sharp of a shock as any electric fence could be.  It's funny how without changing houses, or cities, or any move at all; I could instantly feel so far away.

Suddenly it wasn't funny anymore.  Suddenly I couldn't laugh at the idea of being "banished" to another ward and disowned by my friends at church. It all became real.

A year (and some months) ago when we decided to move in to Jennifer's basement, and rent out our own house (to save on money while JT is back in school full time) I knew this was the place for us.  I prayed and felt so strongly that the Lord wanted us to live here and not up in Seattle near campus.  I felt it had something to do with saving money, supporting our friendship with Jennifer, living near close friends, and staying in our ward. I had no idea it would mean changing wards.

After the announcement, on our way home from church, Riley started crying.  She doesn't want to move to a new ward.  She doesn't want to make new friends.  None of the other kids in the new ward will be at her school.  She won't know anyone.  She has a good point.

Of course, since no one is actually "telling" me what to do, I could stay in this ward.  I could ignore the counsel (heck, I have 3 kids at church, I could say I was distracted and didn't even notice the map with the changes!), I could just keep coming to the same place with the same people.  I could use the excuse that the house we own is still in this ward, and that eventually we may be moving back to that house.  I could explain that my 3 year old does not do well with change and is going to scream and cry when she sees a new nursery.  I could even point out how my daughter closed herself in her room this afternoon to cry because she was so sad.  Any of those reasons would justify bending the rules a little.

But I am not interested in bending any rules. Not because I am a rule follower (which I am, and it drives me nuts!!).  Not because I feel like someone is forcing me to make these changes (because I don't).  Not because I think I am too good to bend a rule.

I don't want to bend the rules, because I believe in them.  Really believe in them.  I support the organizational structure of the church.  I believe it is to the benefit of the members to be supported by their neighbors.  I believe that these boundary changes are not implemented to make Riley cry or to pull me away from my friends (or the best calling ever!! Teaching Relief Society once a month!) or to test my faith. (Shockingly, I don't think that everything revolves around me... most things, but not everything.)  I believe that this is done for the benefit and improvement of the members of the church.  And since I want the improvement of all members of my church, I am willing to change wards to do that.

I don't know what the exact benefits and blessings will be by following this counsel.  I don't know if Riley will end up loving it, if I will be strengthened by a new friendship, if JT will grow in a new calling.  I do know that we will be blessed.  We will be blessed for our obedience.  It is the price I pay for peace.  It isn't an easy price.  And I don't do it out of guilt, or fear, or weakness.  I do it out of love.  And not just love for the members of the church, but love for my Savior.  I also know we will be blessed for our willingness.  Things always work out.  It is that simple.  And the more willing I am to submit my will to Heavenly Father's will, the sooner things seem to work out.

So Riley and I may be teary eyed for the next few weeks as we make the transition from old friends to new (while living at the same address, so weird) and Macie may will cry when she steps into the new nursery, but I am confident that we will have peace.  What began as a funny, almost satyrical post, actually ended up being very tender for me to write.  And even more tender for me to live.

P.S.  Is it weird that I am most sad about changing Volleyball teams?  I had so much fun on Tuesday playing with the Crestwood Ward!  I don't think I will ever have that much fun again!! (insert Riley's pouty face and door slamming)

A little flashback

So what if it is September? And I am suppose to be posting pics of the adorable outfits my kids wore on their first day of school.  Or maybe a picture of the delicious breakfast and fabulous child friendly lunches they took with them.  So what,  I am a bit behind.  So I am not be quite ready to post about back to school.

I should probably be posting about the fun we had this summer.  The vacations with perfect photo opportunities.  The outings and picnics and bike rides.  Maybe even the 4th of July.

But I am even more behind than that.

So here we go.  Easter.

I pretty much love dying easter eggs.  (Too bad I can't stand hard boiled eggs, the smell, the texture, the taste, the smell...) And I was happy to see that my kids inherited that love from me.

Can you tell I am feeling lazy? I am not even adding any captions to the pics.  Yep. That is just how I roll today.

Riley and Macie sharing eggs during our neighborhood Easter Egg Hunt. Cute.

If you think sharing eggs is cute, holding hands is even cuter.

And being Easter Bunnies is cutest off all.

(these were lollipops, like ring pops)

That was our Easter.  Hopefully by January I will be able to post our summer.  (which was wonderful)

And so that you don't think that our Easter was purely eggs and candy,  here is a picture that Riley drew for Easter.

Jesus Christ, resurrected with Riley.  Pretty sweet, huh?

I feel like that may have been my most bland blog post ever... oh well :)  Just wanted you to all know that we are still alive and kicking (even if I haven't been blogging).  Of course, since the pics are from Easter you really don't have anything current to go off of....

George Nelson - that's my Dad.

The problem with growing up is realizing what an idiot you were as a kid.

It's Father's Day and this year I am focusing on my Dad instead of my husband... no, not because I almost forgot about Father's Day gifts this year and then couldn't afford the super awesome idea I had so now I have to improvise last minute and who wants to post about a last minute gift for the whole world?  After all, I am all about keeping up appearances.  So naturally, I am going to blog about my own Dad instead.

Ok, that isn't the real reason.  The real reason is that I cut his completely gray hair the other day and got kind of freaked out because he looked like an old man, and not my Dad.  And then I got scared that maybe I am not doing enough and saying enough and all of that stuff that scares you when you realize your dad is not 49 anymore.  And instead of being normal and calling him- I am posting a blog, since I am still dysfunctional enough to avoid awkward sappy conversations with my family.

When I was leaving on my mission I had some friends come to my Missionary Farewell (an opportunity for a missionary who is about to begin their mission to speak in church before they leave).  After the meeting these friends, who I have known since I was 14 years old, said "was that your Dad?" referring to the man who gave the opening prayer.  "Yes" I answered a little confused.  "Wow." they said "In all these years we have never actually met your Dad!"  We had a pretty good laugh about the fact that they had known me for 9 years and never met my dad!  But if you know my dad, you know he is not a "lime light" kind of guy.  

I hate to admit that sometimes I have felt like I didn't even know my dad that well. We didn't have the easiest relationship growing up.  (This is where me being an idiot comes in.)  Now that I am raising Riley (who has some of my most ridiculous attributes) I can see why I might have been a difficult child.  Stop laughing, Nelsons.  And I think because of that and some differences in interests (who knew my dad didn't love parties and nail polish and that I didn't love bird watching and math) we weren't very close growing up.  That is kind of hard to write for the whole world to read.  (yep, the whole world has started reading my blog) But luckily I am growing up and a lot of that has changed.

So here goes a few of my favorite George Nelson highlights.

Graduation (1997) - after graduation the school wanted all of the grads going to the all night Grad Night to stay at the school while we waited for the buses to come (that would take us to gamble, dance, and eventually be hypnotized into stuffing my bra with a ton of napkins in front of the whole senior class) so that we wouldn't sneak out and get drunk, defeating the purpose of the all night Grad Night party.  I was exhausted.  And I was saying how much I wished I had an ice cold Diet Coke to give me a little boost for the night.  Growing up LDS, caffeine had been strictly prohibited... ok, it was definitely frowned upon, and so the idea of my dad (a former Bishop) approving of his daughter consuming caffeine seemed highly unlikely.  But the next thing I knew, my Dad left the excitement and picture taking to run up the road to 7-11 to get me a Diet Coke!  It sounds really simple, but to me it was huge.  It was my Dad saying "I know you.  I know what you love, and even though I don't necessarily approve, I support you."  Maybe it was just him saying "Kate, stop whining, I will go get you the Diet Coke if you will quit whining about it!" I like to think it was the first. :)

About a year later- during the new stage of Post Graduation Freedom I made some mistakes that I was not proud of.  Mistakes that I knew would disappoint my parents.  (Even worse than my Diet Coke addiction.)  After seeking counsel from my Bishop down in Utah, I decided to call home to talk to my parents.  I was pretty scared about how they would react, after all, I was their perfect angel! (Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha.  That may have been the funniest thing I have ever written on my blog.)  After I talked to my Mom, who was really calm about the whole thing, she handed the phone to my Dad.  I cried when I told him what I had done and how bad I felt and his response literally changed my life.  My dad answered that he was proud of me. Wha?? He told me as a Bishop he had always counseled the youth to share their struggles with their parents and they rarely did.  He was proud of me for applying the Atonement to my own life, and for being brave enough to go to my parents for help.  And then, the best part, that he loved me.  My entire perspective on the Atonement of Jesus Christ changed in that moment.  My understanding of a loving Heavenly Father who cries with us, and desperately wants us to seek his guidance was personified in my own dad.  I think that is a huge reason why I am still active today.  I knew in that moment that the Savior would always be forgiving.  I knew that mistakes were human and part of life.  That using the Atonement to heal my broken heart would actually make my Heavenly Father (and my earthly father) proud of me!  It is one of my most cherished memories with my Dad.

Some less significant, but still favorite moments, with my dad are from a trip we took as kids to Disneyland.  I was about 12 years old, when dads aren't cool.  And I remember my Dad handing us each $20 for food and $20 for whatever else we wanted to buy in the park. We were shocked!  (For a family that shopped at thrift stores, and treated a snickers bar like a huge event, getting $40 handed to me by my Dad was like winning the lotto!)  That is when I found out that my Dad has an extremely generous heart.  Way more generous than I even realize.  I know he has always given freely to our church, to programs that he loves like Boy Scouts of America, and even to his children.  That $40 has gone along ways.  Much farther than the cotton candy I bought.

One last attribute of my Dad's that I have always admired (and one of the things that I looked for in a spouse) is his ability to resist the temptation to gossip about people.  I really have never heard my Dad say an unkind word behind someone else's back.  I have never heard him say anything negative about any of my siblings or any of his friends or coworkers.  I have seen him bite his tongue, and even cringe when others around him begin to gossip.  In fact, when he does talk about anyone who isn't present it is always to praise them.  (I should start having my sister record conversations with him because I know he is bound to compliment me at some point, and it is nice to hear.)  He even has a saying about how "Small people talk about other people, average people talk about things, and great people talk about ideas." And he really lives what he says.  The conversations we have had since I have become an adult (and not an idiot) have been uplifting and inspiring. This is one area where I fear I have fallen short of the example he set. ( I blame it on "being a talker", that I feel compelled to talk about everything and everyone.) But when I think of my Dad's example I am more careful to only talk positively.

There he is.  And obviously, that is  my mom too.

So there it is.  If you have ever wondered if my Dad really exists, he does.  And I am grateful that he is my Dad. 

Happy Father's Day.

Early Valentine's Day

It's a shame that Valentine's Day only comes once a year.

OK, not really.  It is such a fake holiday anyways. Created by an elaborate conspiracy of vendors who are just out to make money. Some say it was Hallmark who kicked off the need for one more card to be purchased, written in (or if you are my husband; left untouched in the bag on the counter for weeks after Valentine's Day), gagged over, recycled, and forgotten. Others think it was a group of desperate florists with an abundance of red roses that were too cliche to sell so they needed to invent a reason for them to be a necessity in every American household once a year.  And still others believe that it was a collaboration of pharmacists, low on their quota, who targeted the desperation of women who feel like crap spending the holiday alone and therefore turn to the loving arms of an anti-depressant.   Does the price of Zoloft go up in February like the price of diamonds?

In any case, who ever invented Valentine's Day must be sitting pretty.  Or fat from all of the chocolates.

But it is a holiday that I have always celebrated.  My mom made us cute little Candy Bar Valentine's every year (before they were cool on pinterest) and that was the one day a year my dad picked out a card (indicating that he could, in fact, tell all 6 of his kids apart, even though we were often called by each other's names) and wrote in it that he loved us (I have kept many of them).  I have always liked V-day.  And really, I am narcissistic enough to love one more holiday where people tell me they love me and buy me stuff (even if it is a gimmick).

This year, however, I decided that I would be on the giving end.  Having just received my Silhouette Cameo (a crafting toy I had coveted) for Christmas, and having just set one of my 90 Day Goals to learn how to use this new toy, I decided to make a vinyl sign for my man. (*chorus of women saying "awwwwww" and all of my male readers asking "Why isn't my wife as awesome as Katie??" because every guy wants another painted piece of wood to hang on the wall*)

Of course, like most well meaning people, I began the project the week before with Christmas-like excitement and anticipation. I would be the most thoughtful wife.  Not to mention crafty- which apparently is the new standard for stay at home moms.  I would be praised by my goal group, adored by my husband, and respected in the blogging world (of 4 people who read my blog).  I would feel complete.

However, in reality, I would fight with my Silhouette (yes, I fight with all forms of technology) and end up spending the night crying and cursing and hating my new toy.

Some of you may be aware that it is in fact not February right now.  And you may have realized how strange it is that I am writing about an accomplishment from months ago.  You may be thinking that this post has been in the que for months and that this was the first opportunity I have had to post about my amazingness.  Or if you know me well, you assume that I took the pictures of that project and then left them on my camera until the SD card was full and just finally got around to downloading them to my computer in June.  Some of you die hards may even be judging me, seeing that I have failed in the crafty standard set for my particular occupation by not promptly blogging about any and all crafting pursuits.

I am here to clarify.

It's June 13th and I just finished JT's Valentine's Day present on my Silhouette.

Just the sign, I didn't make the pillows, I haven't reached that  pinnacle of crafting.

I am not sure if this counts towards next year's Valentine's Day and I am even more awesome for being 8 months early?  Or if my Goal Group will still praise me for finishing a 90 Day Goal in about 120 days?  Or if I have completely lost my status as a successful stay at home mom because there are no embellishments on my vinyl sign?  Who knows.  All I know is that I am no longer afraid of my Silhouette.  Mostly.

Just what I always wanted

A few months ago, when my super talented daughter, Macie, won a prestigious art contest with her Easter Basket submission, she received a gift card to Toys R Us.  Of course that meant an immediate trip to the most fun store on earth!

Here is Macie with her first Prize Winning piece of Art- notice the Blue Ribbon?

Here she is with the Toys R Us gift card.

I had no idea that this trip to Toys R Us would actually prove life changing for me.

After spending hours combing through each aisle for the perfect toy for Macie, we stumbled upon the Barbie aisle, and this is what we found.

Tears welled up in my eyes as I saw the Barbie "All Dressed Up" head.  I had no idea they still made them!  I was flooded with emotion as I dropped to my knees to get a better look.  There were all of the old accessories.  Nail polish, make up, a brush, but also new additions like a flat iron, and fake nails with decals.  My kids stood in confusion watching my eyes well up with tears.  (Ok, maybe I didn't really cry... or maybe I did...) I explained that this was the toy I had always wanted.  Oh, how I had dreamed of having a Barbie Head of my own to do her makeup and braid her hair.  It was probably the toy I wanted most in my childhood.  I snapped a pic and sent it to JT to show him the toy I had always wanted.  He laughed and told me to buy it.  But the practical not ridiculously childish side of me resisted the urge.  Riley was as devastated as I was to not put the Barbie in our cart.  But I knew our house was already filled with toys and that if I want to spend $30 on makeup - it should probably be at the Lancome counter of Nordstrom.

It has been a month or two since Macie's artistic triumph and the day at Toys R Us. I had completely forgotten how my dreams had almost come true, when Blake lit up with excitement one afternoon before Mother's Day.

He came running to me and said "I know what I am getting you for Mother's Day!! It is something you have always wanted!"  I shouldn't have been surprised, after all, he is JT's son and JT is one of the most thoughtful people I know.  I laughed a little and wondered if I would be getting some Ninjago toy or Hot Wheels car.  (I should have known better than to be skeptic of his motives, that is something that Riley or I would have done, but not Blake.)

When Mother's Day arrived my kids were as excited as I was to open gifts.

Don't mind my no makeup, towel, and robe, it was Mother's Day!

 

Riley scratching her nose- this is why I should always double check the pictures even when JT tells me "it looks great!".

Getting excited!

Best Friends For Life!!

I could not believe that after all these years I finally had a Barbie Head of my own!  Of course, the kids love her almost as much as I do (emphasis on the almost).

Blake styling Riley while Riley styles Barbie.

Macie joined in on the action.

Some moms want nice jewelry, vacations, flowers, chocolates, thoughtful cards, and walks through the gardens, not me, I want children who know me well and love me.  Kids that think of me and what would make me happy.  And nothing makes me happier than playing (and braiding Barbie hair) with my children.

(Don't get me wrong... I still like jewelry and flowers and personal trainers at the gym and all of the wonderful gifts that JT gets for me! *I need to mention that so I don't get a Hot Wheel Track for next Mother's Day*)