It's REAL

Just so you know,

In case you have been wondering,

Pregnancy brain is a REAL thing.

Earlier this week I discovered that instead of throwing Jack's cloth diaper in the diaper bin, I had thrown it in the garbage. Only I didn't know I did it. It wasn't like one of those putting your keys in the fridge kind of things where as you close the door you are like, "What am I doing?"

No, I really had no idea I had done it until I went to throw away a paper towel and low and behold, there is one of Jack's cute bottom covers in the trash.

Sheesh.

However, that is nothing compared to today.

Today I met a gorgeous and interesting woman.

She captured my attention immediately. She moved with grace and poise. I just HAD to talk to her! We were at church and so it was easy to sit next to her, hear bits of her story and enjoy her easy smile.

I hope that doesn't sound stalker-ish. It wasn't really. Some people just exude that "I'm interesting and your life would be better if you knew me" quality, and she did for sure!

This is an author edit.

Apparently I also have difficulty

telling stories when I am with child.

Because the previous paragraphs

sound really creepy.

Even with the "I'm not a stalker" disclaimer.

I didn't sit in her vicinity and listen to her talk to

other people. I sat next to her and

struck up a friendly conversation.

Please don't think I'm an eavesdropper.

Anyway, after the meeting she ended up staying until everyone had left except for me and the other leader (I may not have mentioned that I'm helping with a mom's group at my church, but I am... today was our first meeting). Anyhow, I asked this terribly fascinating woman if she was waiting for someone and discovered that her husband is away on business and she wasn't looking forward to going home.

So I did the only thing I could do. I invited her to my house for coffee.

And she accepted!

That meant that she walked into my house with the random garbage smell (not usual, and a surprise to me when we walked in, oh yay!), laundry all over the couch (usual), stains on my carpet(permanent) and all other manner of mess.

But hospitality doesn't wait for laundry!

We had a wonderful visit.

I was able to offer lemonade with fresh slivers of ginger, which I hope compensated for half the pile of laundry. And I was granted the distinct privilege of making the "best nachos" she had ever had. Yahoo!

I wonder why I put "best nachos" in quotes.

An hour and a half into our very pleasant and easy conversation my doorbell rang.

?

It was Lizzie, my sister. She had the phone to her ear and almost immediately I realized my mistake.

For those of you who don't know,

My sister Liz lives two floors below me

in our condo complex.

I had a dentist appointment scheduled at 2:00 and Liz was at my door at 1:50. OH MY GOSH! How did I totally and completely forget that?! How?

Here is how the whole thing went:

The previous day I had called my mom

and arranged to call her at 1:00ish to see if Jack

was asleep or awake.

If he was napping she was going to come to me

and if he was awake I was going to bring him to her.

When she didn't hear from me

she called Lizzie.

Lizzie in turn came up and knocked on my back door.

Which I also didn't hear.

So she came to my front door and rang the doorbell.

And that is when I realized that I hadn't called my mom.

Does it make more sense now?

So I called my mom, who was supposed to be watching Jack and she headed over. This wonderful woman who I just met today offered to stay with Jack until my mom arrived. And I accepted!

I dashed out the door without a proper goodbye just as my mom was walking in.

How embarrassing! What a confusing, sloppy first impression I must have made.

But the day is done. My teeth are clean and hopefully my potential new friend won't write me off as a nutcase after this encounter.

So seriously. Pregnancy brain. It is REAL.

Thanksgiving Highlights

What?

Your Thanksgiving didn't include 55 people, a power outage, a round-robin of crying babies, sleeping on a love seat, a gorilla costume and a teeny-tiny chihuahua?

I thought that was totally normal!

My mom's side of the family has always been big, but with my cousins getting married and having babies, the number just keeps growing!  

This year, to accommodate the whole crew we rented an old army barrack on the Washington Peninsula. We met there on Thursday, each family bringing a dish for the holiday meal.  We reserved the space through Sunday morning, so we all planned to spend several nights there.  

My extended family is full of wonderful cooks and funny people.  So we had good food, great conversation and a healthy share of competition in everything from card games to trivia to ping pong.

Several unexpected events did occur though.  After everyone had served up their dessert the power inexplicably went out.  One moment it was bright and cheery and warm, the next moment it was pitch, PITCH dark.  All the exits had emergency lights, so we huddled in groups around the doors or around those clever individuals who thought to bring flashlights and head lamps.  

The outage actually lent a festive, adventurous feel to the weekend, that is until about 11:00, when we all realized we hadn't brought enough blankets to keep us warm.  It was FREEZING! I packed way too few coverings and Andy and I spent the first night tightly huddled on a very squeaky twin bed. (I actually was very  happy about this because I LOVE cuddling to sleep, but Andy is of the variety that prefers to have his own space in bed.)    

Well, we started the night in the same bed anyway.  The other interesting dynamic of the late nights was the fact that there were... one, two, three four, (I'm listing names in my head)... 10 young kids at the fort.  Seven of those were sleeping in one wing.  And, oh yeah, there were no doors to our rooms.  So every little peep echoed down the hall for each mother, father and child to hear.  

That was hard for some of the babes... mostly mine.

How embarrassing.

And tiring.

Usually Jack will wake up a few times, and kind of talk or cry himself back to sleep.  But when I knew that every other kid might wake up any second to Jack's babbles, I spent the whole night on edge.  Once Jack was awake, he only would go back to sleep if I bounced him and would only stay asleep... in my arms.  Ugh.

The first night Andy took him downstairs and they slept together on a couch.  I made a bed on a love seat (it looked a lot longer in the dark) and later brought my nephew Dane to sleep with me as he was also having trouble sleeping in a new, noisy place.  

Have you ever slept crunched up on a love seat with a baby?  You don't really do much sleeping.  Babies are wiggly.  And sweaty.  And they have a tendency to head-butt you in their sleep. That really hurts.

Several moms decided it wasn't worth it to stay another night, but the Aichele's stuck it out.  

I spent another night on the couch with Jack.  

Actually, I took the first shift and Andy took over at about 5:30 in the morning. 

We left that afternoon.

Despite the hiccups and sleepless nights, it was a joyful holiday.  My extended family is kind and gracious and ready to enjoy every event.  They welcomed my mother-in-law (Andy's real mom who drove up from Texas with her chihuahua-service dog) warmly and eagerly accepted Jack when my arms were tired of holding him.

One of the most enjoyable activities for me was making a gingerbread house with Ellery.  In the weeks leading up to our trip, every time I'd seen Ellery she asked me if we were going to make a gingerbread house that day.  Each time she was been crushed when I said no.

I had resolved that we would not try that activity again this year since last year it was kind of a disaster.  The short version is that Ellery kept saying, "This isn't working!" and I, after calling my mom to come rescue me, dissolved into a sort of hysterical combination of tears and laughter.  Later that day when my mom asked Ellery how it went she said, "Emily laughed and laughed and cried and cried."  It was true.

But my sweet sis was persistent (and apparently oblivious to the failure of last year) and I wanted to redeem myself. My mom packed a kit and on Friday afternoon we created a masterpiece.  It was delightful.  I have conquered the gingerbread house (although I think I need to review the story of Hansel and Gretel as I stumbled as I told it).

If you ever are doing a gingerbread house with a young child, I HIGHLY recommend that you hot-glue the structure together before the child is involved and then do the decorating with the little lady (or gentleman).

Here is our creation:

Our method was for Ellery to tell me where to put the frosting and then she would stick the candy on.  After the first application of frosting I already had some on my hands.  Ellery noticed it and said, "Can I lick your thumb?  You have frosting on it."

Here are a few other photo gems from the Thanksgiving adventure:

 I love my family!  And my heart is full of gratitude. I hope you are able to say the same.   

The Chase

I wonder how many hours and tears and thousands of dollars I have spent in the pursuit of beauty.  

A lot of days (maybe... almost, most days) I feel like I keep my beauty cravings in check, but then a day like today comes along and I am reminded of the true state of my heart. 

Today was haircut day.  I intended to just look at a few pictures of styles before I went to my appointment, but before I realized what I was doing, I had spent an hour looking at pictures of Victoria Beckham's beautiful hair AND perfect face AND sculpted body and losing every ounce of confidence I've ever had, all the while forming a list of the items I simply must acquire to up my beauty quotient - none of which I actually need. Why do I so easily buy into the culture of beauty when I know it is not what I want? (actually, I really do want to be beautiful... just not in that worldly, expensive way)

The hope of coming home more lovely than I left is always there on haircut day. Sometimes I cry when I realize that a trim didn't change the scale or shrink my nose or give me more money to buy all of the high-fashion accessories that I crave. Sometimes I keep my head and heart straight and just go about the business of getting my hair cut.  And every so often I am able to be totally pleased with me, just the way I am. 

Today my hair turned out fine... but not like the picture of Posh (ya think?!).  I confess that left me disappointed.  Silly girl that I am.  Maybe one day I won't be won over by that foolish hope and cruel disappointment, but today, again, I was.

But here's the crux: 

I serve a creative God.  He thought of and executed everything beautiful on this planet.  I firmly believe that my love of beauty starts as something holy, delight in what He has crafted and designed, but it quickly becomes distorted, misplaced and cheap.  Instead of being in awe of HIM, the creator, I identify the creation and admire, verging on worship, it.  I want it to be the other way around.  I want to be transformed by the creator, not transfixed by the creation.

Oh Lord, please forgive me.  Change my heart.  Give me a new measure of beauty.  Make me aware of what influences me and what I allow to speak into my heart. Strengthen me to live in a way that admires beauty, but is not consumed by it. Thank you for your faithfulness.  And thank you for all things beautiful.

To Save My Life

I'm okay with admitting that there are lots of things I do well.  

If it came down to a life or death situation I could paint a pretty awesome jungle mural or whip up some delectable crab wontons.  I could style a bride's hair, give a french manicure or a healing head massage.  I could probably even make a life-like bouquet of tissue paper flowers.  (If you are trying to think of a situation where any of these skills could save a life, stop trying.  It could happen, just go with it.)

But if threatened with the end of my life, no matter how hard I tried, there just seems to be no way for me to produce eatable cookies.  

I just threw away a whole batch of rosemary shortbread dough.  Shortbread.  How hard is that?  I printed off a fail-proof recipe from the internet and set about mixing it all up.  I didn't start my project until late last night and the dough had to refrigerate for an hour.  I was pretty tired so I thought, "Emily you are so brilliant!  Jut make the dough tonight and bake them tomorrow.  An hour, 10 hours, what's the difference?"  Apparently there is a big difference because when I pealed back the lid of my storage container this morning, the whole thing was sour. 

Gross!  

And pathetic. 

I've thrown away more batches of failed cookie attempts than I care to admit.  Even Andy, who is quick to praise almost everything that comes from my kitchen, shakes his head at my baking.  Each time I watch the pathetic lumps of baked dough drop into the garbage can I think, "I've learned my lesson.  I won't even bother any more.  I'll just admit defeat."  But then the random cookie craving hits, or my need to produce something, and what do you know, I'm back in the kitchen studying the cookbook and promising to follow the recipe EXACTLY this time.  

That is my problem.  Baking allows for no creativity.  Too much of one thing or too little of another and it doesn't work out.  I prefer to just throw together ingredients that I think will combine nicely.  Just wing it.  That doesn't work in the cookie world though.  Too bad.  

So once again I have wasted perfectly good butter, sugar and flour and have nothing delicious to show for it.  Now you know my short coming.  Cookies.  Don't ask me to make them for you.  I can't do it.  I really admit defeat this time.  

Really.