Drawing Hearts



Immediately after my stand for self love at the Capital City Farmers Market ended, I wanted to look at my body to see what words were written and take in all the loving hearts people made with markers on my body. As I had used washable Crayola markers from my daughters' art kit, some of the marks were already being lost due to sweat running down the rolls of fat on my back and in between my legs. It was nearly 90 degrees that late August afternoon, and, as we stood in the alley, Melanie captured much of the words on film while we basked in the glow of tears and humanity and joy over the love we had just witnessed.

 

{photo by Melanie Flitton Folwell}

 

As I got home, I stood naked in front of the mirror in my bathroom and looked lovingly upon the canvas that was my body that day. My husband, Eric, read off the words to me that people had written while I scrawled them quickly on the back of a public library checkout receipt. I dreaded taking a shower and losing the feeling of those felt tips on my skin, the warmth of a revolution.

 

{photo by Melanie Flitton Folwell}

 

Soon after my blog post dropped with the video that has now gone viral and been viewed cumulatively nearly 115 million times around the globe, I began replying to the messages of love that began pouring in to my email, Facebook messenger account, Instagram, blog comments and more with simply a heart emoticon. To me, that heart - the simple symbol I'd asked people to draw with a child's marker on my skin and the one I can push a button to leave on any social media post - had become the symbol of the rebellious body love revolution.

 

It turns out others felt the same way. So many of you responded to me that you shared in my message of self-love and were fed up with a society that profits from our self-doubt. You told me how you would've drawn a heart on me if you would had been there (including a handful of celebrities like KEVIN BACON OMG), and sent me the emoticon as your heart for my body and my message.

 

It may be the piece that fat activist and deputy editor at xoJane magazine Lesley Kinzel wrote about my radical art performance that really hit the nail on the head about the hearts. I recommend reading her article in its entirety, but at the end she sums it up with this:

 

She changes the framework, she stands up with confidence and a blindfolded smile and invites them to comment in the context of her own struggle for self-acceptance, and in the shock of this unfamiliar ground, they can only respond with love. They are kind, with no strings attached.

 

What if we looked at everyone around us with such care all the time? What if that was how we looked at ourselves? What a home for all bodies we would build, if only we could be psychically drawing hearts on one another’s skin every time we looked at each other.

 



 

A few days after I ceremoniously washed the marker from my body and watched it swirl pink and purple and blue down the drain and forever into my soul that hot August afternoon, I began drawing hearts on my children. Daily, we get out the Sharpie marker, and as a reminder that all bodies are good bodies, we say something kind to one another and each other, and draw a heart.

 

I believe in you.
You are valuable.
You are interesting.
You are beautiful.
When you make a mistake you are still beautiful.
Your body is your own.
You have say over your body.

You are creative.
Trust your instincts.
Your ideas are worthwhile.

 

I usually pick one of these affirmations each day to say while I look in their eyes or over a bowl of Cheerios. And then I draw a small simple heart. Something for them to look at while they are away from me, growing and leaning in to their own separate worlds from mine, and remember that they are good and strong and that there is no wrong way to have a body. And you know what? They've started doing it back - to me, to their father. Drawing hearts on us and their siblings, reminding us all that every time we look down at a little pen scribbled heart on our skin to follow our own.

 

You are capable.
You are deserving.
You are strong.
You can say no.
Your choices matter.
You make a difference.
Your words are powerful.
Your actions are powerful.





40 for 40

On August 1st I was at the city pool with a very dear friend talking about how I'd be turning the big 4-0 in less than two months time and how I should probably do something epic. Or go on a major vacation. Or buy something spectacular. Instead, I started thinking about how it might be sweet to do forty things. Tiny but beautiful things with people I loved. So I started to make a list under the newly discovered NOTES feature of my iPhone (yes, I'm a bit of a luddite).

My friend contributed his idea to start my 40 for 40 list, so #1 on my list reads, "Go out for a tiki drink with Zac" at a fun Boise bar we love, dressed in our greatest tiki attire, celebrating a kitschy era we appreciate. From there, the list grew to include things like having coffee with my friend Rachel, seeing Brandi Carlile in concert with a few of my favorite ladies, taking my eleven-year-old daughter Lucy to the fanciest French patisserie in town, having my first solo art exhibition, entering my herbs and garlic in the state fair, and browsing the feminist art section at Rainbow Books.

After a summer busy with camping and late night patio parties, I wanted to enjoy one last hurrah to my favorite season with our annual backyard movie night littered with neighbors and friends. I wanted to try paddleboarding with my daughters for the first time and wear fishnet tights and my FAT BABE pin while riding my bike in Tour de Fat. I infused my own vodkas to make a new signature cocktail, had ice cream cones at Fanci Freez, sexted (AHEM) my husband, and found the new baby anteater at Zoo Boise riding on his mama's back.

 

 

Sometime around August 15th, I saw (my new friend) Jae West's video go viral for all the best reasons and thought about it hard with all my fat activist and feminist thoughts and talked about it with some of the best people and came up with a plan which read, in simple non-sensational text in the NOTES section of my iPhone as #2 on my list, "body positive performance art downtown."

{photo courtesy Melanie Flitton Folwell}

Little did I know that my small subversive and personal experiment, one of the 40 things I should do before I turned 40, was to become one of the most life-altering and amazing accomplishments of my time here on this earth. I'm so damn proud of what we've achieved together in the body positive movement over the past month. We have ignited a revolution of love in honor of ourselves and each other.

{photos courtesy Melanie Flitton Folwell}

 

People are often saddened by the thought of turning forty, scared of what being middle-aged means. I say, 40 MIGHT JUST BE MY BEST YEAR YET. Tomorrow, September 25th, I celebrate 40 spectacular trips around the sun and look forward to an even brighter future, given the way we've changed the world, my friends. Thanks for the best birthday present a girl could ever imagine.

On Being Brave

I was told so many times during the near hour stand for self-love at the Capital City Public Market in Boise that I was brave. People whispered it to me and wrote it on my skin with the washable Crayola makers I'd taken from my daughters' art kit. And I've thought about that word a lot lately.

 

For me, wearing a bathing suit in public isn't that brave anymore. (Trust me, it used to be.) My bikinis are comfortable and functional and well-used. They allow me to ride waterslides with my daredevil seven-year-old Alice and allow me to pee with one hand in public pool bathrooms while clutching one-year-old Arlo in the other to keep him from licking the nasty concrete floor.

Something else I wore that day that did make me feel brave, though. That black blindfold (which is really a 1960s rayon belt from my killer stash of vintage clothing) was laden with meaning and putting that on felt courageous. To me, the blindfold represented many things. First, it made me even more vulnerable than I already was. Second, by obscuring my face, it made me more anonymous, so that the viewer could look at my body and see in it their body, any body and every body. And lastly, the black blindfold represented the way that TV and print media have often used black bars to cover the faces of fat people, taking away their humanity by showcasing them as nothing more than a body to be reviled.

Two weeks ago my friend and art partner, Melanie, and I hit publish on a little blog post and a Vimeo video that has now made it's way into hearts and screens around the world. And pushing that button - sharing one of the most raw, pure, honest and inspirational things I've ever been part of with the world - that felt brave to me. It's been picked up by press globally now, and I've been on the television, radio, newspapers, magazines, websites, and more, and the positive message of radical self-acceptance continues to touch people, including celebrities. Melanie's stunning video was edited to shorter versions by both HLN and BuzzFeed, and their cumulative reach has been over 100 million at this point. I'm humbled and honored and amazed and moved to tears several times a day by this overwhelming positivity and belief that all bodies are good bodies.

But, truthfully, the most brave people in this body positive project are you. You have stood up with me, through your messages that are flooding my inbox and Facebook wall and Instagram and my ears and said, "ME TOO." You have shared stories of incredible sadness and joy, love and shame, fear and change.

Because you know, like I do, that opening your heart and your healing to the world can be pretty brave, too.

.....

I have struggled with body image since 3rd grade when a very loving teacher-- in a grandmotherly way, nicknamed me BB for bubble butt. But word got out to classmates and it was fat shaming the rest of my school days. Diet pills and extremely painful liposuction got my 5'2" frame down to a "healthy" BMI and 125lbs two years ago. But with incredible stress and family concerns, I'm now at 175. I struggle with wearing clothes since I am convinced I'll be losing 25lbs "very soon." I heard once, "There are worse things I could be other than fat." I believe that. I'm a mom, wife, teacher, friend, photographer, daughter, . . . . other amazing things. But-- I still struggle. Thank you for being brave. Thank you for being strong.

.....

I, like many people, was very moved by your video and it impacted me greatly. A few years ago I lost some weight and started running 5ks. I got fit. At that time I was contemplating leaving a miserable marriage. Well, I made the decision and divorced my husband of 25 years and moved back to Massachusetts where my family lives. I met a great guy and settled in to a happy life. With that came carefree meals out, and a 25 pound weight gain. Never been happier, but very angry with myself for letting all my hard work go. I start a new job Monday and have been dreading clothes shopping. I am short and stocky and it's hard to find clothing that I feel doesn't make me look fat. So yesterday I went into a clothing store and found a few pieces to try on. I stripped down to my bra and panties and it was the first time I saw my reflection and was shocked at my weight gain. Immediately your video came to mind. I played it back in my mind. Slowly my shock shifted to love and admiration for this body that has served me so well, carried a baby. I proudly tried on outfit after outfit, sizes larger than I was before, but I was okay with that. I found pieces that are flattering and are my style and I left the stores very proud. I would like to get back into running but I want to do it for the right reasons with weight loss being a side effect, not a main reason. It's good for my mind. Thank you for posting your video. You truly helped me overcome a lot of insecurities.

.....

 My 16 year old and I were discussing/watching your blog when over my shoulder I heard the soft sniffles of my tender, introspective twelve year old. She sat next to me, read your post, and together we cried over your video. She then shared how she had recently started restricting her food and hearing the inner critic get louder in her head that her body was not enough. Thank you!!!! Thank you!!! Your example was a bridge to my daughter's soul....and this momma couldn't be more grateful!

.....

I've struggled with loving my [male] body for as long as I can remember. I particularly became aware of how much I disliked my body in the 8th grade. I've binge eaten. I've starved myself. I've purged. I've been fat. I've been skinny. I've been fit. And I've been fat to fit again and again. There isn't a day, even now, that I don't wake up and dislike what I see in the mirror. Why? I don't know. I have a beautiful family who loves me. I lead a happy life. I exercise daily. My diet isn't always clean, but it's not exactly atrocious, either. I don't know if I'll ever come to love my body, but this very moving, and touching video is a fantastic reminder that every(body) is beautiful.

.....

You are my hero. This morning I watched the stand for body self-acceptance you took with the tears flowing freely, tragically and ironically into my drink full of Garcinia Cambogia to curb my appetite with the hope of changing my curvy stretch-marked body with its rolls and thighs that touch. It is a body cloaked in shame and wracked with self-doubt that began with the body messages I received before I ever took a step outside my family home. I struggle everyday to love the body I inhabit and the voice that resides inside. My need to accept myself is a must for myself and even more for my five year old daughter. Your powerful message needs to be seen and heard by every woman I know, as not one has ever looked in the mirror without a critical eye. I hope that one day I will grow to have even half of your strength and bravery. You are an inspiration!

.....

I wanted to just say that as the father of a four year old little girl the world needs more role models like you. You are brave, amazing and beautiful! I know that the world is not always kind and that my daughter will struggle to find her place, but seeing you stand up and put yourself out there and to see the response that other had to what you were doing gives me a small modicum of hope.

 

.....

 

I experienced as a young teen that my value had very little to do with my brain and talent & much more to do with my waist size, caloric intake, and number of hours I spent at the gym. I neglected the things I loved about myself and made "self improvement" my focal point. It did not take long before I was under the thumb of an obsessive eating disorder that controlled my life well into my twenties.
I look back at that little girl and I want to give her a hug and some advice : Be good to yourself first. Recognize the greatness that you are. Don't waste time on shitty people. To thine own self be true.
I cannot thank Amy Pence-Brown enough for being a champion of all people who've struggled with their worth and place in this crazy world. Show this video to everyone you know and tell them you love them and how amazing they are.

.....

Greetings from Malaysia. I'm a 28 year old female. I have always been insecure about my stretch marks and cellulite. I would never wear shorts or bikini in public. I'm even scared that my husband would feel repulsed after seeing my body (I just got married 1 month ago), but it was totally the opposite. He didn't mind at all. In fact he accepts me fully and he said he feels honoured that I'm willing to trust him and show my body. He said he still finds me sexy no matter what. Your video also inspires me to love myself first. So thank you so much!

.....

You are beautiful. I just watched your video and cried my eyes out. BEAUTY HAS NO SIZE. Every woman is beautiful. People in this world are so judgmental. They judge you on how much you weigh or how you look.  I have been so scared for 6 years to walk in public. I'm 14 and when I was 7 I had a ruptured brain aneurysm and stroke. I now have Dystonia. I have been so scared to go anywhere because I already get bullied at school because of my disability. I have been scared of others looking at the way I walk. This year, my first year of high school. I am not afraid anymore. Bullies wanna bully me, have at it because I am who I am.. I am blessed to still be here. God made us all different and we are supposed to love each other.

.....

Brené Brown would say you are Daring Greatly. Show Up, Be Seen, Live Brave. As a 65 year old Idaho gal, your risking has reminded me that I am worthy of love and belonging.

.....

And, speaking of professor and author Brené Brown, here's a little something else she wrote:

"Vulnerability sounds like truth and feels like courage. Truth and courage aren't always comfortable, but they're never weaknesses." She also calls her tribe "brave truth-tellers and daring shit-starters," which couldn't more adequately describe you all.

Thank you for holding my hand and standing next to me and being rebellious. I like this shit we're startin'. xo

{all photos & video by the lovely, talented, witty, badass Melanie Folwell Portrait + Design}

A Stand For Self Love

Two years ago I started this private group on Facebook called the Boise Rad Fat Collective. We're a secret society of super-sized feminazis who can't get laid and sit around complaining about our ugly clothes while eating Big Macs and cake.

RRRRIIIIIGGHT.

That's not at all what our group is about, despite what Internet trolls and mean people would like to believe. In fact, it's pretty much the opposite. We're a group of socially engaged Idahoans of all shapes and sizes who are fed up with mainstream media and society telling us what a valuable body should do\be\act\look like. And while it started with just a handful of my best strong female friends, it's expanded now to include people I've never met (even though we do try to plan regular meet-ups in real life). And generally speaking, we're a positive bunch who share lots of news on cutting-edge literature and scientific studies and fun films and personal stories, while being supportive and thoughtful in our Facebook wall discussions (gasp!). New members are always welcome and, no, you don't have to be fat to join in nor do you have to live in Boise, but you do have to be respectful and smart and adhere to one basic concept - that all bodies are good bodies.

(PSST! And most of us have sex. On a regular hot basis.)

.....

Two weeks ago this video by The Liberators International went viral. The Liberators are a group out of Australia whose mission is to involve people in participatory acts of freedom that allow us to see that beyond our differences there is love and humanity. If you haven't already seen it, you can do so by clicking my link above, but, in a nutshell, it's a moving social experiment where a young Liberator named Jae West sheds her clothing in London's busy Picadilly Circus, armed with markers, a sign, and a blindfold, asking people to draw hearts on her body if they share her promotion of self-acceptance, after overcoming an eating disorder. She has now been interviewed extensively about the importance of the project and how terrifying and exhilarating standing alone half-nude was for her, and the outpouring of humanity that has followed it.

My friend Angie and I posted a link to the video to the Rad Fat Collective and we all agreed it was a powerful performance art piece, and discourse ensued. How would it be received if the woman had been less socially acceptable in appearance, like, fat? And, say, a mom who's nearly 40-years-old? And in a place that was more conservative and less progressive than London like, say, Boise, Idaho? Turns out, we weren't the only people asking these questions and talking about this important project of West's - the alternative media was, too. So, I made a (GULP) plan and asked another one of my friends in the Collective (who also happens to be a professional photographer), Melanie, to document it.

We picked a date (Saturday August 29, 2015) and one of the most pedestrian-rich locations in the city (the Capital City Public Market downtown Boise) at the busiest time of day (noon). I decided to wear a black bikini instead of a bra and undies (conservative Boise) and changed the text on my sign to read something a little different and pertinent to me. I decided to tell no one except the Rad Fat Collective that this was happening, as the idea of leaving the experience organic and up to chance, rather than fill the audience with known body positive activists and friends, was more appealing. Everything seemed in order and to fall into place quickly.

Until my nerves set in.

.....

I woke up Saturday morning after a fitful night's sleep and puked. And bloated with horrid cramps. And a raging period. (Hey, Donald Trump! MAD MENSTRUATING WOMAN ON A MEANINGFUL MISSION ALERT!). And I was terrified. I was scared that I might get asked to leave by the police or that people would yell terrible things at me or that no one would draw a heart on my body and I'd stand there alone and crying for minutes that felt like hours.

Well, none of that came true. Except for the crying part.

.....

I let the farmers' market director (who happens to be a friend of mine) know what we were staging about an hour before the event. Not only did I have her support, she suggested I stand in the middle of the busiest spot of the market, that she would handle any negative feedback or complaints, and could she borrow a marker to draw a heart on me now in case she missed the performance? It was probably with that first heart that I knew this was gonna be good. I had no idea just how good it was about to get.

.....

Melanie set up her camera, Angie was my ear on the ground, and I hit my spot, barefoot, and stripped off my dress. The hush in the crowd around me was instantaneous and I barely had time to tie on my blindfold, prop up my sign and grab my markers before the first woman rushed up to me, touched my hand with her shaky one, told me I was brave and powerful and asked if she could give me a hug and started to cry. And then I cried, too. But I could tell she didn't just draw a heart on my body. She wrote a word. In fact, by the end of my fifty minutes of continuous public support, there were dozens of words that covered my body, and even more hearts.

Badass
Love
THANK YOU
Hope
Strong
Awesome
God Bless You
You are beautiful
You Rock
Divine
Stand Strong
I Love Me
You look great
Power
Amazing
You are gorgeous
Big Love
Inspire

You'll see all this in these photos and the video - that the hugs continued, as did the tears, a flower was placed by a young man at my feet, I got a kiss on the cheek and an ice cold lemonade left by my side for when I was done. And, undoubtedly, like me, you will also see other things in these photos - the sweat running down my rolls of back fat, cellulite (on strong legs that have carried me for four decades), a wonky bikini top with sagging breasts (that nourished three babies), stretch marks (that represent my transition from a chubby adolescent to a curvy teenager to a woman who's been pregnant four times), and darkly tanned skin (from a summer spent at the Boise Public Pools with my friends and my children).

The most important things about this performance, though, are the ones you can't see.

The personal stories of struggle.

The dad who stood in front of me with his two young sons and knelt down to tell them to "this is what a beautiful woman looks like."

Thin women who are embarrassed by their small breasts.

Old women who know life moves too preciously fast to hate themselves any longer.

Teenaged girls who ran up to me afterward as I was walking down a side street to tell me I'm an inspiration and a role model.

One woman came back to me several times during my nearly hour long stand for self love. While you can feel the people who are writing words of encouragement and faith on your body, what you can't see are all the lives you are touching by just existing in this space, she said. All these people that are stopping to look at you and read your sign and watch the rest of us? You've reached them all in ways unimaginable.

And the twentysomething man who stood behind me and whispered, The effects of what you are doing here are far reaching. It's absolutely amazing. The power of this moment will go on and in ways you never thought possible. You are changing more lives than you know.

Oh, Boise, you restored my faith in humanity, you blew my mind with your kindness, you saw the beauty in my body and your own. You are ready for a body positive revolution, and I'm honored to stand by your side. Take my hand, if you need, and I'll pull you up.

We can't truly love one another until we fully love ourselves. And once we do, I guarantee, that together we can move mountains.

Radical Self-Acceptance: The Stripped-Down Body Postivity Experiment from Melanie Flitton Folwell on Vimeo.

 

{all photos & video by the lovely, talented, witty, badass Melanie Folwell Portrait + Design}

 

*UPDATED TO ADD LINK LOVE FROM PRESS AROUND THE WORLD

 

 

CNN

TODAY

People

Daily Mail UK

USA Today

Los Angeles Loyolan

Idaho Statesman

The Huffington Post

Mashable

AOL

KTVB News Boise

Cosmopolitan

The Spokesman Review

Bustle

Yahoo

MSN

PopSugar

BuzzFeed (story)

BuzzFeed (video)

CJAD Montreal, Canada radio interview

Take Part

WGN Morning News Chicago

Upworthy

xoJane

ATTN:

HLN's The Daily Share interview

HLN video

The Stir

Hello Giggles

Boise State Pubic Radio interview

Inquisitr

Glamour

Cambio

University of Idaho

The Arbiter Online - Boise State University student newspaper

The Argonaut - University of Idaho student newspaper

Mamalode magazine, Fall 2015, Positively

Good To Know UK 

The Daily Q interview December 9, 2015

See Jane Do October 2015 radio interview

The Dr. Oz Show, November 23, 2015

Tiny Buddha: Shedding Layers of Pain & Learning to Love Our Bodies

MimiChatter.com: This Woman's Body Positivity Project Should Earn Her Mother of the Year

Nigeria Daily News

Independent Journal Review

Smiles Happen

Shade and Sweetwater: Thank You, Amy Pence-Brown

Courageous Self Love: The Bikini-Clad Beauty Who Is An Actual Goddess

Beauty With Plus, Hungarian blog & accompanying newssite

All Bodies Are Good Bodies - Good To Know UK guest writer, January 2016

BOOK REPORT: Three for International Book Lovers Day

Apparently today (August 9th) is International Book Lovers Day, something I learned about from Reese Witherspoon's Instagram account this morning. I had already planned to write up a little just-off-my-nightstand-book-report on the blog today anyhow, so it was fortuitous.

I've been devouring stories this summer, which is part of the reason I haven't been writing very many of my own here. Let me tell you about three that just made their way back to the library shelves.

 

The best thing I've read this summer, hands-down. Fat feminist fiction might just be three of my favorite words strung together in one description. This is Sarai Walker's very first novel and it's so fun and surprising and a fast read. Subversive stories about female characters that are not centered around men is so hard to find and so satisfying. Plus, Dietland is not what you think it may be. I cannot recommend this book enough, ladies.

 



 

This read was part of my way of extending the end of an era a little longer. For those of you who've been living under a rock, the best television series of all time, Mad Men, ended in May. I've read so many books about the show and life in the mid-century, but just finished this one loaned to me by a dear friend. Author Natasha Vargas-Cooper started with a blog called Footnotes of Mad Men which she later published into this book. There are many chapters/essays on real life of the 60s, in particular, stories of actual advertising Mad Men in New York which many of the fictional characters were modeled after. If you were/are a fan of the show, Mad Men Unbuttoned is an easy informative read.  

 



 

Written in 2012, Lucy and I co-read this book this summer for our Mother/Daughter Bookclub. It's a young adult novel about an 11-year-old girl with cerebral palsy who cannot walk or talk but has a photographic memory. With the help of a few stellar adults in her life, she makes major headway in her education and communication in her late elementary school years, but the story is not without gut-wrenching heartache and the last few chapters will leave you devastatingly in tears. Beautiful and sad and celebratory, Out of My Mind is totally worth it.

 

My nightstand is already littered with new reads, including the short stories of John Cheever and Hold Still, photographer Sally Mann's memoir. With that, I'm off to bed to enjoy them. I hope your summer has been full of beach reads and sweet stories to curl up on the hammock with. 

Diving In

“I’m gonna jump off that high dive,” my reserved, anxiety-ridden, long-legged eleven-year-old Lucy told us on the scenic drive from our Pocatello, Idaho, hotel to Lava Hot Springs.  I gave Eric the side-eye in disbelief.

Located in the mountainous valley of the Portneuf River along the historic Oregon Trail, the site boasts a handful of soothing hot springs pools, several waterslides and a series of high dives, including a dizzying 10 meter diving tower into 17 feet of clear, warm water. It’s the playground of my youth and I was excited to share it with my children. Except maybe not the high dive part.

I tentatively signed the waiver that we wouldn’t sue in the case of death, got the wrist band, heard the instructions. Lucy went right out and climbed the stairs, stood in line, hung her toes over the edge in anticipation, and looked down. The lifeguard held her number up and watched carefully, as did the rest of us. She stalled for what seemed like an eternity, turned and came back down the stairs. She wasn’t ready, she told me. Maybe in an hour.

It was just the time she needed. Lucy thought it through, watched a few others, went on the waterslides, gathered her courage. We talked about maybe plugging your nose, being pencil straight, keeping your arms to your side. She jumped. It wasn’t that bad, she said. It looks so much higher than it feels. She wanted to do it again, but just as it came her turn, a small boy launched off the tallest high dive and attempted a flip which turned into a belly flop that knocked the wind out of him and required emergency assistance from the lifeguards. Lucy turned and came back down the stairs again, this time in tears. The boy’s accident scared her, and knocked her courageous feeling from her heart. She felt like a failure, that her accomplishment was somehow diminished because she couldn’t replicate the jump. She’d lost her bravery, and her pride.

Eric and I spent nearly an hour that afternoon talking her up from her perceived failure. We explained that sometimes being brave means knowing when to stop. It takes courage to know your limits and be true to your heart, follow your gut instinct, take your time.

Bravery can be not taking that risk, it can be saying no.

 

“I’m gonna buy another bikini, a tinier one,” my 220 pound, brown-skinned, body loving, 39-year-old self said out loud while perusing a plus-sized swimsuit website in my pajamas a few months ago, to no one in particular.

And I did it – first a sky blue retro looking bikini with white polka dots and a high waist. It makes me feel glamourous and flirty, strong and sexy. My youngest daughter, Alice, snapped a photo of me wearing it while lounging in the bright sun one afternoon in our backyard while the baby slung the hose around and the neighborhood kids chomped up popsicles. I hesitantly posted it on Instagram and the photo ended up being selected for a curves in bikinis challenge, promoting the fact that all bodies are beach bodies. My prize was a $100 shop credit from my beloved polka dot swimsuit maker. I didn’t hesitate a second to snatch up two new bikinis- a sleek black two piece with a plunging neckline and a cute red, white and blue number with a fireworks print and underwire and boy shorts.

And they don’t just sit in my closet. I’ve worn them nearly every day this summer, to the river and the public city pools, lounging with cold beers and chasing my baby down wet kiddie slides. It takes courage to push your limits, follow your heart, take a chance.

Bravery can be taking that risk, it can be saying yes.

 

We Go Together Like...

I've been lucky enough to write a bit for Mamalode magazine out of Montana for a few years now and have not only become friends with the editor and staff, but have been introduced to some amazing writers along the way. Mamalode is a magazine. A website. A movement. Our readers and writers are moms—with a smattering of dads, kids, grandparents, aunts, uncles and friends. They become Mamaloders because we give them something nobody else does—the truth and each other.

The latest print issue just came out and I wrote a little piece about some of my favorite things, pairings that are meaningful to me, collaborations that are both mundane and extraordinary in our life together.

Your soft chubby thighs wrapped around my thick right hip

Red wine in a mason jar stashed in my purse at the movies

His naked body in our messy bed

Peanut butter chips in chocolate oatmeal bars in my dirty oven with one broken burner

My uterus with a baby kicking around in it

Doing the dishes with storytelling podcasts

Dr. Pepper Lip Smackers in the pockets of all my comfy jeans

Her fingers and our 1913 upright piano

My ass in those leopard print panties from Lane Bryant in the mall

Cold Junior Mints sprinkled on a bucket of buttery popcorn

Her lithe little body and cartwheels and round offs

Our garden and chicken poop

A cigarette with an old friend

Bare shoulders and sun

Your hand on my thigh

A tent and the stars

Fingers and dirt

Kisses and lips.

 

 

FOODIE: The Pioneer Woman Cookbook Challenge | March & April

I know I'd hoped to write monthly updates about my 2015 New Year Challenge of making all 109 recipes in the Pioneer Woman's cookbook, but the spring just slipped away from me. Really, though, there was too much other stuff going on. I did, however, continue cooking and baking and making as planned. So here's our favorites and not so favorites from the past couple of months. Well, April and May at least. I know, I'm so behind. But rest assured I'm still cooking up a storm, just not taking the time to blog about it as regularly (read: I've now boarded the toddler crazy train + summer).

Links to the recipes via her website are provided if available.

THE REVIEWS:

First, the NAWS.

Eggs Florentine: No recipe, except it's exactly like the Eggs Benedict one below but wilted spinach in place of the Canadian bacon. Ugh. I hated it. Plus, leftover hollandaise sauce is not good, at least we didn't think so.

Chicken Parmesan: I thought we'd love this basic recipe, but we didn't. Like, at all.

Fancy Mac and Cheese: PW says this is one of her all-time favorite recipes and so I thought for certain it would be mine, too, but no go. It has several kinds of fancy cheese and bacon in it and STILL. Not that great. Arlo loves it, though. But that baby eats anything and everything and a lot of it.

Pasta with Tomato Cream Sauce: Another ugh. Just okay. I also thought we'd love this simple dish, but no.

Quesadillas de Camarones: Shrimp quesadillas that I thought the kids would like due to their extreme love of shrimp, but nope. We thought them just okay, but we're looking for really good here.

Panfried Kale: Just olive oil and garlic and kale. I'm still not a huge fan of kale, made into those healthy chips or otherwise. It was just okay.

Panfriend Spinach: Same as above, although I like spinach more than kale. I think I still prefer both fresh and in salads instead.

Now, the FOREVER AND EVER AMENS.

Eggs Benedict: I've never made my own hollandaise sauce before, and it was pretty good. It made a ton of it, though, so we made those Eggs Florentine which I thought were yuck. Also, I am not a fan of poached eggs, so we fried ours for this. Pretty good.

Pizza dough: This is a good one and easy and handmade. It makes two pizzas and keeps in the fridge. A new favorite!

Breakfast Pizza: She's got a handful of homemade pizza recipes in the book using her pizza dough, and this breakfast one with bacon, eggs and hashbrowns is yummy! It makes a ton, though, so best made for a crowd.

Thai Chicken Pizza: This is probably our favorite of her recipes these past two months. We all loved this! Chicken with sweet chili peanut butter sauce? My kids love them some Asian foods, and we'd make this a million more times.

Sloppy Joes: We loved these, even the girls and they are the pickiest. They aren't as saucy as Sloppy Joes I've had in the past, which I was so glad for. Don't forget to drain the grease, though, after frying the hamburger.

Cherry Limeade: No recipe on the blog, but basically it's lemon-lime soda, fresh lime juice, sugar, and a jar of maraschino cherries. Shake and serve. With our without vodka. We did it without vodka for March Mother/Daughter Bookclub and of course the girls loved it. A fun, fruity sweet drink.

Pasta with Pesto Cream Sauce: Holy moly, Alice and Lucy couldn't get enough of this. Arlo, too. Eric and I thought it was pretty good as well and super easy. I used the last jar of homemade pesto from the freezer from last summer making it that much easier.

Fried Chicken Tacos: After the Thai Pizza, this is definitely our second favorite recipe. So simple, but the frying in oil with the corn tortillas sends this over the edge of decadence. It makes your house oily and smelly, but in the best way.

Beef Stew: Great flavor, and even better the next day. Would totally make this again and it quickly became a family favorite! Best use of simple ingredients like carrots, potatoes, onion and beef. Her spices are spot on here.

Buttered Rosemary Rolls: These are so easy. Rhodes frozen dinner rolls in a pan with butter on the bottom and top and sprinkled with rosemary and sea salt. The butter makes the crispy and decadent and we all love rosemary. Yum!

Strawberry Shortcake Cake: Lawd have mercy, this was Lucy's 11th birthday cake, and while it wasn't as much like traditional strawberry shortcake as she'd liked, it was divine. Especially the leftovers with coffee the next morning.

#perimenopause #stillseventeen #polkawhaaaaat

I can't even begin to describe how insane my life, and the other four lives in my house, has been over the past few months. So much goodness, so much business, so much school stuff, so much extracurricular activities. All my babies were born within three weeks of each other in March/April, so we had birthday parties for a one year old, a seven year old, and an eleven year old. There's been a testing and a diagnosis and school IEP team meetings regarding my youngest daughter which has been so hard (a story and a post for another day). We've celebrated and played Little League baseball, and won track meets, and participated in piano festivals, and written grants, planted gardens, been in the news not one, not two, but three times in about a week's time. Life is so wonderful and fun and the adventures are amazing and my life is charmed indeed.

 

During all this living of my life, friends I graduated from high school and college with have started celebrating their fortieth birthdays, with grand weekends away, raging parties, and quiet retreats at spas. I've been thinking about how I'd like to celebrate mine, sneaking up on me in just six months. I've also been thinking about how scary it sounds to be 40. How middle of my life I am. Is it really half over? Maybe. But we're all dying, every day. I'm not super afraid of my mortality for my sake, but for my childrens' sake. I have to be around as long as possible for them. There's also this nagging part of my brain that I can't shake: I still feel seventeen. I'm not alone in this notion - one of my dearest gal pals from high school, Mandilyn, feels just the same way. So much so, in fact, that we've been hashtagging each other in all sorts of posts on social media about buying jewelry at Claire's in the mall and loving Taylor Swift and our affinity for the high school TV drama Friday Night Lights as #stillseventeen.

 

As life would have it, Mother Nature has added insult to injury by officially setting into motion PERIMENOPAUSE. Like, seriously, I went to the doctor because my body has gone HAYWIRE and here's the documented proof because THIS CAN'T BE HAPPENING I'M STILL 39 AND I JUST HAD A BABY FOR CHRISSAKE:

 

 

The journey to this diagnosis was two months in the making and many late night internet searches for what seemed to me to be unrelated symptoms that turned out to be related after all. So, to aid my fellow young friends who have entered menopause freakishly early, and should they come upon this blog post in a frantic late night internet search to find out if they are crazy or dying or just MENOPAUSING, here's a list of a few of the crazymakingly odd symptoms that you may be experiencing right now and may last for 5-10 years and may get worse or change AREN'T WE LUCKY:

• Mittelschmerz like you can't believe, but the cramping and back pain doesn't just last a week, it's constant!
• Menstruation for three weeks straight! Heavy and filling the toilet with lots of internal tissue and clots.
• Headaches!
• Moodiness and tearfulness! And not just during PMS or menstruation, but all the time.
• Moments of sudden rage! Like maybe you are making scrambled eggs and talking with your husband and it turns into an argument and you slam the plastic spatula on the stovetop to make a point and it breaks and he's like WTF ARE YOU CRAZY?! and in turn you pick up the entire pan of eggs and throw it on the floor BECAUSE YES.
• Bloating! Again, not just during PMS or menstruation, but a permanently puffed out belly.
• Gingivitis! Swollen, bleeding gums that make it so painful to eat.
• Lack of appetite! Everything tastes off and weird like it did when you were pregnant (hello again, crazy hormones!) which is probably fine anyhow because GINGIVITIS.
• Hair loss! My hair is falling out in huge clumps, just like it does a few months after I give birth. At least it's growing back; I've got a head full of baby gray hairs to prove it.
• Acne! I keep breaking out. ON MY BACK. Which hasn't happened since I was in high school (the irony of #stillseventeen is not lost on me here).
• Weird muscle and joint aches! I threw my back out for the first time in my entire life last week. Ain't got no time for ice when you're crawling after a toddler on the floor. Also, picking up a 25 lb. baby in this condition SUCKS.
• Sudden dark spots appear on your face! The technical term is melasma, or hyperpigmentation of the skin due to extreme changes in hormones. Sometimes it happens during pregnancy, or sometimes you just wake up one day when you're 39 AND LEAST EXPECTING IT and your upper lip is strangely dark brown.
• Itchy dry skin! I feel like bugs are crawling on me and my EARS ARE PEELING. Thank goodness for bulk jars of coconut oil from Costco.
• Breast swelling and tingling! This actually ain't that bad. Except it feels like I'm pregnant but my body is actually doing the exact opposite of making a baby (sob).
• Heart palpitations! This happened when I was pregnant as well, it's something due to hormones and thinning of blood, but it is also a version of hot flashes, I guess. Anyhow, my heart will flutter and race for a few seconds several times a day and it's real off-putting.

I'm stopping there because I'm literally in tears over it. Turning 40 and the loss of my fertility is making me so sad and depressed and I KNOW IT'S FINE and part of life and I'm so lucky and it's no big deal and it's the biggest deal ever and I just have to go through it (MENOPAUSE EVEN THOUGH I'M ONLY 39) like every woman before and after me and be brave and look on the bright side. I'm trying.

So I bought myself a blue polka dot bikini.

Because I deserve it.

And #YOLO.

And #STILLSEVENTEEN.

 

Swim Sexy blue polka dot bikini from Swimsuits For All, size 18 top and size 20 bottom. It might be the best plus sized swimsuit shop in all the world, because of the high quality and ability to order different sized tops and bottoms. It was recommended in a Facebook group I'm part of called the Curvy Girl Guide, and the suit has become such a tour de force we've christened it with it's own hashtags. #polkawhaaaaaaat #thesuit

BOOK REPORT: 101 Ways to Help Your Daugher Love Her Body

Sit up straight so your tummy doesn't hang out. Thin is always in. You look so much prettier when you smile. Guys like girls with big boobs. Now that you've got your period, you'd better be careful. I'd kill to have legs like yours.

UGH.

Having just watched the season premiere of the final season of Mad Men last night, and the powerhouses of the female lead characters Joan and Peggy and the struggles they have fought throughout the seven year run of the show (which takes place from 1962-1970), I just want to vomit a little. Things really haven't changed that much for women in the past fifty or so years.

That's why books like these are so important.

This was recommended somewhere on the Internets, either via the reading list on A Mighty Girl's website or Amy Poehler's Smart Girls Facebook page, but I can't quite remember. (Regardless, both these websites are the ultimate resource for those of you parents of girls.) I picked it up at the Boise Public Library, where I get all of my books because 1) public libraries will change the world and 2) a library card is one of the most powerful things a girl can have in her purse.

 

The book has two authors - one a clinical psychologist, the other an award-winning journalist - and both are women. They combat those clichéd phrases I started with above, all things I (unfortunately) continue to hear spouted to women and girls all around me.  

 

The tips are practical and so easy to implement and there are plenty of them geared towards fathers, too. Seriously, skills like teaching them how to read a recipe and how to read a map, to more intangible things like how to say no and how to ask for what they want. It's such a great how-to guide that reminds us, most importantly, that as parents we are mirrors to what our children learn and know and do. Take a long hard look and reflect what you want her (or him) to see. I can't recommend this book enough as one of those parenting books you should definitely have in your arsenal.

Dear Arlo: A Birth Story

Dear Arlo,

We went camping on Cousin Beach (our name) in Riggins in June of 2013 with Uncle Garrett and Margot and Iris. It was literally 100 degrees and we drank beers and never changed out of our bathing suits. I got super exhausted and slept for twelve straight hours in the tent one day. I think you were implanting in my uterus.

On our 13th wedding anniversary, July 11th, I took three pregnancy tests from the Dollar Tree and they all came back positive. We couldn't have been more excited, or scared.

Three weeks later the morning sickness hit so hard, as did the tiredness and bloating. Six weeks later I got excruciating sciatica and I knew what that meant; it had happened before. It was Labor Day weekend and we were traveling home from the Eastern Idaho State Fair in Idaho Falls and I was terrified. It was the same feeling I had when I miscarried the first time.

The next day I did, in fact, miscarry your twin at home, in the bathroom. I thought desperate thoughts about it being all over. I sobbed tears of confusion and joy during an emergency ultrasound when I first saw you, my little wriggling bean. You are 11 weeks alive. I bled for the next six weeks and puked for six more months. I spent much of my pregnancy with you hovering over the toilet, crying and crippled with worry. My belly continually measured larger than normal and I had extreme pregnancy symptoms, my placenta was too low and you were breech. I believe you and I and my body were still making room for your sibling. I swam twice a week at the rehab hospital pool to get you to flip because the thought of a cesarean birth ripped at my heart. I meditated and reminded myself about hypnobirthing techniques I used with your sisters.

At 36 weeks you turned, head down, and I had a baby shower for you at my house. The contractions had started, and the mucus plug had fallen out. By 39 weeks, I was walking around dilated to 4.5 centimeters. My doctor was leaving on vacation for Spring Break and didn't want me to deliver without her, so scheduled an induction the day after your due date, March 21, 2014, the Spring Equinox. The contractions hit again, coming every five minutes on your due date, March 20. Ah, I said, here he comes. Grandma Lou came to stay the night with your sisters, in preparation for the induction at 8am. We got burgers and Oreo shakes at Big Jud's for dinner and ran into friends. I paced the restaurant, as the chair was uncomfortable, and the contractions were, too. You look like you are about to pop, the waitress told me.

We went home and I slept for five solid hours, waking at 4am. I got in the shower and shook your daddy at 5am. He's coming! All on his own! We drove to the hospital and your daddy dropped me off in front of the family maternity center. I looked up at the bright moon, pacing and rocking and breathing. Two other women in labor were dropped off next to me. We walked a few feet and stopped to breathe through a really tough contraction, repeat, repeat, repeat. The hospital is full. I was preparing to call you to cancel your induction, the nurse told me. No need, I said, I'm already here and he's already coming, on his own.

They put me in the tiniest and least favorite and only remaining room and I'm dilated to 6.5 centimeters. At 7:30am, my water breaks and it's full of meconium, so the NICU staff is called and you and I will be monitored. I breathe and imagine waves in the ocean crashing and that with each contraction my uterus is opening up a bit more like petals of a flower, pushing you out. My thoughts and my breaths are calculated and important and I move into my animal/earth mother zone and shut my eyes so I can't see the commotion. I'm dilated to 9 centimeters by 9am and they are calling my doctor. My bed is broken, so they can't lower it. My veins are too difficult to get an emergency IV into, just in case, but they poke me with a needle a dozen times. I squeeze your daddy's hand and roll and moan and STOP PUSHING, cries the nurse. We all know I'm not pushing, you are making your way out all on your own. The NICU arrives, frantic phone calls are made, the on call doctor makes her way to my feet, your heart rate is dropping so an oxygen mask is haphazardly slapped on my face, my doctor rushes into scrubs in my room, you are crowning with your umbilical cord over your head, it moves and with a flood of blood and poop and fluid your whole huge, pink body is out, and I'm shaking ferociously. Your daddy bursts into tears and it's 9:38am on a gloriously warm March spring day.

I feel strong and powerful and like I just lost a limb. We name you Arlo Valley Brown, after your most kind great uncle Arlo from Weiser, and the Treasure Valley, where we live and love and make our Idaho home.

The NICU nurses rush to grab you but I hear a noise from your tiny lungs, and I know it's okay. Your hair is reddish brown and matted and there's not that much of it, really, compared to your sisters. Your APGAR scores are great and they hand you to me and I cry so hard and you latch on to nurse right away. A few minutes later you squawk at us. Finally, we weigh and measure you, 8 lbs 14 ounces (almost nine pounds! I cry) and 21.5" long (the same as Lucy! I cry). You get a warm bath under the faucet in the sink and we find a birthmark that looks like a bursted blood vessel on your belly (it's still there) and that one of your ears is kind of flat and a bit wonky (it still is). I wear baby diapers filled with ice for the swelling and blood and would give anything for a hot shower. Your Grampy brings me a peanut butter cookie dough Blizzard from Dairy Queen upon request and I order a turkey sandwich from room service. We don't hear a peep from hospital staff for three hours, except for the ringing of lullaby bells each time a new baby is born over the loudspeaker at the hospital (seven of them the same day as you!). Later in the afternoon we are finally moved to a recovery room and I can't stop staring at you.

Your sisters arrive after school to meet you in their matching BIG SISTER tees and they hold you and love you immediately. It's calm and lovely and I get a salmon dinner with sparkling cider and a massage and a dozen white roses and (finally) that shower. The next day the staff photographer comes and takes newborn photos of you and when she returns two hours later with proofs on her iPad, I sob hysterically. Because here you are, my rainbow baby. The beautiful calm after a storm of failed pregnancies and so much pain and more tears and confusion. And with your arrival you brought more joy and love and healing than I ever thought possible.

This week we celebrate our first year with you. You suck your two middle fingers just like Alice, your hair is blond, your eyes are brown, and you've got that lucky ear. You have three teeth, are just about to walk, jabber up a storm, and still squawk at your daddy and I. Eating is your favorite, and so is playing in the water. The backyard chickens are hilarious to you, and you giggle like mad when we tickle under your arms.

Holy moly, we couldn't adore you more. Our Arlo, our baby boy, our little potato. You complete us. Happiest first birthday to you.

Love,
Mama

FOODIE: The Pioneer Woman Cookbook Challenge | February Update

Friends, it's month two of my 2015 New Year's Resolution Revolution to make every recipe (all 100+ of them!) from The Pioneer Woman Cooks: Food From My Frontier, her second cookbook. A few years ago I took on her very first cookbook, and made all those recipes. (Yes, my family is SO LUCKY.) Here are the recipes I made in the month of February, with our family and friends weighing in on each one.

(Links to the recipes via her website are all provided.)

THE REVIEWS:

First, let's start with the NAWS. Because there are so few this month!

Beef & Bean Burritos: These were just alright. She makes them up a few at a time and microwaves them for lunches, but that's a bit too much work for easy lunches, in my opinion. But, I'm also not feeding ranch hands, so there's that. We made them for dinner, rolled them and put them in a baking dish, and baked with cheese and enchilada sauce on top instead. That made them better, Dr. Brown says. Neither of us are fans of ground beef in burritos, but my girls loved these. (But our votes count more, because we are the bosses of this family, dammit, so it's listed in the naws. I probably should've done a just okay category this month because I could've listed these there.)

Rib-Eye Steak with Onion-Blue Cheese Sauce: First off, steak is super expensive. Second, I am, admittedly, not a fan of red meat. I never have been. The sauce was pretty good, but it was just okay. Dr. Brown even agrees, and he loves a good, medium-rare steak. (Gross.)

Twice-Baked New Potatoes: I've made these several times in my life, albeit someone else's recipe. PW's is similar to all the rest. Nothing to write home about.

Let's move on the to the FOREVER AND EVER AMENS.

Lemon Blueberry Pancakes: I love homemade pancakes (and can I get an AMEN for heated up maple syrup?! None of that cold stuff). These were a fun twist, but came out a bit flat (not as fluffy as the photo, but whatevs). And so good. Arlo's very first pancakes, and he loved them.

Best Grilled Cheese Ever: This has been called PW's favorite sandwich recipe in the past, and I have to agree with her, because there is nothing I love more than a good grilled cheese. Therefore, I'm giving this two big thumbs up. It's messy and yummy and while it might not technically be the BEST ever, it's still a fun twist. (Also, rye bread is my favorite, and no one else in this house likes it, so any chance to buy it is a win in my book.)

Perfect Spinach Salad: We made this as a side dish with the above sandwich for dinner. Not a good pair, though, because both dishes are super rich, so it was a bit too much. Warm bacon and red onions with hard boiled eggs make this a winner. Even the girls liked it. Would be great served with a meaty main dish.

Simple Sesame Noodles: Admittedly, we have been making this for years, from the recipe on PW's website. It's so quick and easy and delicious. We always have the ingredients on hand, so it's one of those raid the pantry type meals. The whole family approves. We can't recommend this recipe enough.

Sesame Beef Noodle Salad: This is basically a version of the above recipe. We added leftover steak slices from the blue cheese onion dish above and it turned out great. The best thing about PW's Simple Sesame Noodles is that you can add any kind of meat and veggies to it. Or not, if you're not a carnivore.

Spicy Dr. Pepper Pulled Pork: This, I think, was the clear winner in February. Also an expensive dish (we picked up a pork butt at Meats Royale for almost $40), but great to feed a crowd, with enough left for freezing for later. We served it on rolls with coleslaw for my mother-in-law's 70th birthday dinner. You can adjust the heat a bit by using only one can of chipotles and taking them out before shredding the pork if you're serving kids, like we were. But the flavor is wonderful.

Pots de Crème: My friends always host an annual Oscars Party with a movie themed dinner buffet. This year I picked The Grand Budapest Hotel and served these alongside tiny store-bought chocolate eclairs with pink and blue sprinkles a la Mendl's bakery from the film. To serve a crowd, I made mini pots in small glass baby food jars topped with fresh homemade whipped cream. They were so good, and set right up on the cold back patio in just three hours. I heard lots of yums from the audience on hand. What a sweet treat!

Mid-Range Parent

Alice has always been a highly active kid. And tinier than normal. When she was less than two-years-old she could run and climb with almost as much dexterity as her five-year-old sister. She had a lot of energy that has always needed channeling, so we have always spent a lot of time at Boise's city parks. At 22-months-old, I felt comfortable letting her climb some of the smaller play structures at the park alone, careening down slides and climbing ladders. I was close by, of course, watching like a hawk. One day an angry mother came marching over to me. Your baby is on the top of that play structure. That is very dangerous. You need to watch her better. She glared at me as she climbed up tiny steps to be less than a foot away from her toddler. She's just fine, I snapped back. She can climb these things. But my eyes stung. I was watching her - grow stronger and braver and up and away from me.

I guess I'm not a "helicopter parent."

.....

I always put my babies to sleep right next to my bed from birth. I'm too paranoid that I'll roll over on them and suffocate them in the night to co-sleep, but I'm too scared to put them in their own room. We lived in a tiny 1920s brownstone walk up apartment downtown Minneapolis when Lucy was born, so there was no other room for her to have to herself anyhow. She slept in a little woven Moses basket on the floor next to our bed, or in her carseat because it felt best for her acid reflux. (This was in the days before we knew this was dangerous.) Alice slept in a travel pack-n-playyard in our bedroom here in Boise for the first year of her life and Arlo is doing the same. Because I can't sleep if I can't hear their tiny breaths right next to me. I keep the fan running in the bedroom and check to see if Arlo is sweating, because both are precautions against SIDS. I'm not ready to let him sleep twenty feet away from me instead of one.

I guess I'm a "neurotic parent."

......


I've been writing about parenting and my kids for magazines and newspapers and blogs for the last seven years, so back in 2008 when Lenore Skenazy let her then nine-year-old son ride the NYC subway alone I was following the story. She wrote about it, and it made national news. In fact, it inspired a movement called "free-range parenting" and she launched a more successful career, a book and a blog about it. The basic idea is how to raise safe, self-reliant kids without going nuts with worry. Hmmm, I thought at the time, back when I had a four-year-old and a newborn. She seems smart and logical and wants to teach her son how to safely navigate life in New York. Seems fine to me.

Last year when those poor parents in Maryland were accused of child neglect for letting their six and ten-year-olds walk home by themselves from a park near their house, I was worried. Shit, Eric and I said to each other, we do that all the time. Lucy is a very responsible fifth grader, and we all spend a lot of time at our neighborhood elementary school, just four blocks from our house in Boise, Idaho. Alice is in first grade, but proved to me during the first month of the school year that she would listen to her sister and look all ways before crossing streets, never leave the sidewalk, and be aware of anyone asking her to come into their house or car. I met them half way for the first week or two, watching from a comfortable distance. Since the first of October, though, it's become old hat. They walk not only home from school, but to their friends' houses in the neighborhood, some a few blocks more than four.  Would other parents in my neighborhood call the police on my children? I'd like to hope not. That wasn't the case for those parents in Maryland, though.

I guess I'm a bit of a "free-range parent."

.....


We can’t rely on our neighbors to help look out for our kids, and that’s why our neighborhoods don’t feel safe enough. When you let a 10- and 6-year-old walk home on their own, it feels scary because they’re fully responsible for their own safety. What’s missing is the sense that we’re all responsible for everyone’s children, says a story in the Washington Post.

But how do we change this environment that makes us so detached now? How do we rebuild our village?

We can invite a next-door neighbor over for dinner.
We can make a point of attending neighborhood events, such as farmers markets or park dedications or festivals.
We can make an effort to chat with other parents when we pick up our kids from daycare or school.
We can walk instead of drive, so that we see our neighbors and have a chance of talking to them.
We can teach our children that if they’re alone and feeling scared, they can seek out a woman with children and ask for help. Teach them not to fear all strangers.
We can tie the shoe of someone else’s kid at the playground, or reach out a hand when someone else’s kid wants to get down from the playground ladder. We can ask a parent who’s juggling too much stuff: “Please let me carry that for you.” We can accept offers of help instead of demurring. These small things say “We’re in this together” when every message around us says “It’s all on you,” the writer tells me.

But, I do all of those things above, and I still feel worried about it. Especially this week, as those poor parents in Maryland were found guilty of unsubstantiated child neglect, which means CPS will keep a file on the family for at least five years and leaves open the question of what would happen if the Meitiv children get reported again for walking without adult supervision.

.....

Last night around 4:30 or 4:40 Alice went out front to draw with sidewalk chalk on the driveway. Lucy did homework in the living room and I put Arlo in his high chair with toys while I started spaghetti with meatballs for dinner. Eric had to work late, and I watched Alice from the kitchen window. Our little 1950s ranch house is close to the street with traditional midcentury interior design - a front window above the sink overlooks the street out front to wave at neighbors while doing dishes. Around 5pm a Boise Police Department officer appeared before my eyes in the window, talking with Alice while looking at my house and back down to his phone. My heart stopped beating for at least 2 seconds. I left Arlo safe in his chair and the noodles boiling on the stove and bolted out the front door. Alice kept drawing.

Hello? I said. Hi there, he responded. Just admiring her artwork.

I saw his large black SUV parked down the sidewalk a bit, in front of my neighbors house. I immediately scanned the area for activity; it's not uncommon for BPD to make an appearance in my 'hood. If you've seen any standoffs or assaults or drug houses or possible kidnappings on the news in the past several years, the likelihood that they are taking place in my inner city neighborhood are high. I saw no other cars or officers or suspicious activity, so my heart calmed a bit. I also saw that Alice was fine - unfazed, in fact.

I saw her crouched down here and just stopped to make sure she was okay, he told me. I can see what her favorite book is, as Alice completed a large red and white Cat in the Hat. Yep, I stilled my shaky voice, It's Dr. Suess' birthday week. Did you know that? They are celebrating it at school. Hmmm, he nodded, and slowly ambled back to his rig, got in, and drove away.

I didn't make her come inside with me, as my mind raced. Did someone call the police on my kid being out front alone for the past twenty or thirty minutes? Did they not know I could see her from the window? Did the officer think she was home alone? Did he think I was a neglectful parent? Was he logging me and my address into the "possible bad parent book?" Was it because I live in a "bad" neighborhood?

Or was he simply doing his job as a kind, helpful civil servant, checking on a child crouched on the sidewalk to make sure she was okay as he told me? I hope - I believe - that's the truth.

But, all night long, I couldn't shake the fear that I had done something wrong. Not a fear that my child was going to be hurt or abducted or badly parented, but that I was going to be punished for my belief that she wasn't. The Maryland story and the NYC subway story and all the like stories were running through my mind. When Eric got home, he even felt nervous, worried. Maybe she should only draw in the backyard from now on. Maybe someone did call and report us and the officer just couldn't or wouldn't tell you.

I was just doing my job being a parent. Alice was just doing her job being a good kid. And the police officer was just doing his job to watch out for our community.

I don't know if I'm a neurotic parent, a helicopter parent, or a free-range parent.

What do I know? I'm a thoughtful parent, a careful parent and a trusting parent. It's the best I can do.

These Are The Days (You'll Remember)

6:15am or 7:03am or maybe 7:59am if I'm super lucky | Arlo stands up in his Pack-n-Play and pats my head. Yep, still sleeping in a travel bed right next to my bed because I still wake several times a night to listen to him breathe.

8:01am | Bring his smooshy warm cheeks into our bed, where he pats his daddy awake.

8:05am | I have to go to the bathroom, ahem #2, at the same time every morning when my body starts to wake up and if I don't I won't go ALL DAY LONG and it's sad and painful. During said bathroom trip I always write in my mom's one-line-a-day journal about something sweet or mundane about yesterday because if I don't I won't REMEMBER WHAT HAPPENED the day before the day before and it's also sad and painful (my memory).

8:06am | Hear the girls screaming and fighting over playing Minecraft on the Kindle, even though there are rules about no gaming on weekdays.

8:07am | Scream back at the girls to stop screaming. (Because: brilliant parenting.)

8:10am | Wander to the kitchen to turn on the kettle for hot water for Arlo's bottle, praying that Dr. Brown pre-set the coffee pot the night before (he didn't).

8:11am | Yell for the girls to come eat breakfast and watch them pour cornflakes more on the counter than in the bowl but whatever.

8:15am | Feed Arlo his bottle while checking Facebook and email for anything that needs immediate morning attention (read: gossip or birthday notifications or reading new mean comments on late night news articles on KTVB's page or snoop on the latest updates on a fight happening on another friend's wall about politics or breastfeeding or Taylor Swift).

8:30am | Try to get Alice to stop doing cartwheels and get dressed for school and remind Lucy to please don't forget to put deodorant on today.

8:45am | Hard-boiling eggs for breakfast (while Instagramming them, of course!) and yelling at Alice because now she's round-offing and still in her pajamas.

9:00am | Dr. Brown to the rescue, smoothing out the bumpy socks and finding the matching gloves and calming the preteen about how late it is and getting both girls out the door for the walk to school with a mug of coffee from a nice, steaming pot that he has now made for both of us.

9:15am | I hide the Kindle for the rest of the day and kiss Dr. Brown goodbye, sending him on his merry walk to work with his podcast already streaming through earbuds.

9:19am | Change Arlo's first poop of the day (he's regular like Mama) and stare at the diaper because the contents still look remarkably like they did when he ingested them 12 hours prior. Worry about whether or not he's extracting the necessary vitamins in his tiny system.

9:22am | Settle back into various morning internet routines, reading messages and mail and news stories while refilling coffee mug 3x.

10:00am | Check the paper wall calendar (read: your life scheduling bible) on the fridge and pray you didn't schedule any meetings or appointments before noon since 1) you're not dressed 2) it will completely fuck with Arlo's morning napping routine.

10:01am | No meetings today, actually, no reason to leave the house at all unless we want to. Snuggle sweet baby boy into his fleece sleep sack for his morning nap and turn on the stuffed bear that blares the beating heart sound that neither you, Arlo or Dr. Brown can sleep without now.

10:02am | Stand outside the bedroom door for a manic minute, trying to decide in what order and how many things that you need to accomplish in the next hour sans baby.

10:03 - 11:15am | Write a blog post, print and mail off a grant, put in a load of laundry, fold another load of laundry, take my braless boobs outside with the kitchen compost bowl to dump, let the chickens out, pick up the handful of goddamn pink Idaho Statesman ads in bags strewn across the front yard, close the door on the Little Free Library, wave (embarrassed) at my neighbor, order my niece a birthday gift direct mailed from Etsy the day before her birthday, send an apology text to parents of said niece for late gift. Basically, cram as much shit at possible into a little over an hour's time.

11:17am | Grab screeching baby from his bed while your landline is ringing for the fifth time this morning with some toll free number appearing on the caller ID screen. I pick up and hang up on them immediately.

11:30am | Prepare bottle #2.

12:01pm | Remember that you need to call St. Als about a billing question because you can't keep straight all the bills and all the monies for all three children and your birth 11 months ago and a vasectomy 4 months ago and why are we just getting charged and still paying for these things? My cheek hangs up my iPhone on customer service rep (GADS!) and I call back again and wait for 4 minutes and restate claim and apologize for the baby perched upon my hip that is yelping into the phone.

12:33pm | Phone rings again with a representative from a local organization that is reviewing one of the grants I wrote for our school garden (yea!) but again I have to apologize for said hip screeching baby. (She isn't amused.)

1:06pm | More poop. More worrying. Facetime Dr. Brown to show him and express my concerns.

1:31pm | Friend texts she's stopping by in a few. Shit. Strip Arlo out of pjs and pop him in the tub with me while I shower carefully, sidestepping his slippery body and that pointy Big Bird toy.

1:40pm | Dress Arlo in a 6 month sized shirt and 18 month sized pants which both remarkably fit his tiny 11 month old body perfectly because baby clothing sizes MAKE SO MUCH SENSE.

1:51pm | Friend stops by to drop something off and I apologize for the cornflakes and pick up Alice's dirty underpants from the living room couch and I lie and say that our "house is unusually messy because WE'VE JUST BEEN SO BUSY."

2:04pm | I realize that I've forgotten to feed Arlo (and myself) lunch, so I put some frozen peas in the microwave while wiping the breakfast food off the highchair with a baby wipe. I search the fridge for leftovers for myself because if there aren't any, I'm eating a cold plain tortilla.

2:39pm | Googling about starting whole milk a month before Arlo's first birthday somehow leads me down an internet rabbit hole of searching Pinterest for ideas on how to make a play tent and then I end up watching the newest Ask A Mortician YouTube video and then my another friend messages me about what age I think is appropriate for our daughters' to read Are You There God, It's Me Margaret? and we end up chatting about Girl Scout cookies and mutual friends and, eventually, world domination (truth). All the while, checking Instagram on my phone and posting more pics of random things around my house using artsy filters.

2:47pm | Wonder what time I last gave Arlo a bottle because he's crabby. I think maybe he's got a fever so I grab the Vaseline and anal thermometer because Mama takes no chances on inaccurate temps and hold his legs tight while singing Katy Perry songs to get him to keep still.

2:51pm | While making another bottle, I hear sirens in the distance and freeze, holding as still as possible to hear their location better. I can't decipher how close they are, so I run out to the front sidewalk to make sure they are not headed towards the girls' elementary school a few blocks away.

2:55pm | Satisfied that no one I love is in immediate danger, I return to a house filling with smoke from a now empty water kettle turning black from all heat and no liquid.

3:11pm | Will we have time to walk up to the corner market to pick up a lemon needed for dinner? We haven't left the house today and Arlo could use the fresh air and I could use the sunshine, so we take the next 15 minutes trying to find shoes and wrangle his tiny body into a hat and coat he hates.

3:40pm | Make it to the market and halfway home when I realize Arlo's ditched his hat out of the stroller somewhere. I turn around to see it floating in the wind several blocks back. I seriously consider how many other winter hats we already own and if I need to retrieve this one or let it go. Rational thinking sets in, and we retrace our steps.

3:54pm | I decide, every day, to try to lay Arlo down for his second nap MINUTES before his two sisters come barreling in the door after school with their fighting and gymnastics. (Because again: brilliant parenting.)

4:00pm | Baby up, girls in, fighting started.

4:12pm | Demands for stovetop popcorn begin and will not cease. Swipe something small and dangerous from Arlo's mouth for the 39th time today. Have I changed his diaper lately? Did he poop today?

5:01pm | Start pacing the sidewalk watching for Dr. Brown. Re-enter the house to see ants, everywhere, eating some remnants of food. Fuck, I think, but leave it.

5:06pm | Lucy is watching Maroon 5's "Sugar" video on the TV on repeat a thousand times AND LOUD OMG. Alice is now spewing at me all the details of who said what and who touched what and how she looked at her and what happened in P.E. and what the duty on the playground said and who cried at school.

5:35pm | Dr. Brown still isn't home and I start washing a basket of purple fingerling potatoes to prep for dinner and I briefly think how lucky we are to still have fresh produce from last summer's garden until I dump half the basket which is full of dirt along with the potatoes into my sink and the whole thing turns to mud crusted piles of dirty dishes still from last night.

5:39pm | HOME. Another adult in the house THANK THE LAWD.

6:07pm | I carry Arlo outside (I'm pretty certain my right hip is permanently marked by this child's spot) to see how Dr. Brown is faring grilling the steaks (read: desperate attempt to talk to another adult for any amount of time/number of minutes possible). He grabs my ass.

6:31pm | We eat as a family. Alice wants to draw a card from our question basket, but Dr. Brown makes one up instead. If you could go anywhere on vacation, where would you go? Lucy: Universal Studios in Florida. Amy: Paris. Dr. Brown: Hawaii. Alice: Roaring Springs Water Park. In Meridian. (We decide that Arlo's dream vacation might be Atlanta, Idaho, though, so he wins by default.)

7:01pm | Lucy, it's time to practice the piano, I say.

7:11pm | Lucy, please practice the piano. Now, I say.

7:18pm | I told you to practice the piano CAN YOU NOT HEAR MY WORDS? I SHOUT.

7:18 - 7:38pm | Piano is practiced for the next twenty minutes. I attempt to tackle a kitchen full of dirty dishes.

7: 40 - 8:00pm | Repeat the same scenario as above, only this time VIOLIN. (I'm so tired.)

8:01 - 8:15pm | HOMEWORK. (14 minutes worth? SMALL MIRACLES.)

8:15pm | Showers and baths commence. Our parental tag team on this nightly scenario is ON POINT.

8:29pm | Adam Levine really is hot.

8:35pm | Baby Arlo on lap with bottle in one hand, paperback in the other, Lucy and I read together while I can hear the names Almonzo and Pa from the bottom bunk in the other room. (Again, parental units divide and conquer like old pros here.)

9:07pm | Everyone tucked in after teeth flossed (Six cavities! $88 a piece! That's what savings accounts are for!).

9:10pm | 2nd attempt at finishing the dishes, sweeping the floor and finally eradicating the ants. For now.

9:40pm  | I'm so fucking tired. All I want are my 'jamas, my bed, and the copy I just picked up from the library of Lena Dunham's new memoir. I'm on the chapter about her wild college sex years and I can't wait to live vicariously through her adventures because I'm 39 and it's 9:40 and I'M IN BED ALREADY.

9:58pm | Brief thought about possibly having sex tonight.

10:00pm | Out. Like a light.

And as you feel it, you'll know it's true that you are blessed and lucky.

It's true that you are touched by something that will grow and bloom in you.

These are days.

FOODIE: The Pioneer Woman Cookbook Challenge | January Update

Whew, this is so much easier than I thought it would be. I've decided to make at least two recipes a week from the cookbook, which really helps me feel less overwhelmed when thinking about 109 recipes to get done in 2015. I've stayed right on top of it for this first month, but haven't felt strong love for most of the recipes (except one, which I'll save for last here). I have, however, been thrilled to find a compelling reason to finally open the box of vintage Lenox china c. 1960 that haven't been used in at least ten years. Every Sunday night is Pioneer Woman dinner, and we bust out the gorgeous gold leaf china. What a fun new tradition!

THE REVIEWS:

Let's start with the NAWS.

Chicken Tortilla Soup:  My Lucy is the biggest soup fan and she loved this. Dr. Brown and I both thought it just okay. We make a version of this ourselves that we've perfected over the years, and we think it's better. The addition of cut up corn tortillas, though, is a brilliant idea.

French Onion Soup: Meh. Julia Child's is SO MUCH BETTER. I think it's the addition of chicken broth in this one that just makes it blah to me.

Hummus: So garlicky that it gave me a super upset stomach. Admittedly, I'm way sensitive to garlic (unless I'm pregnant - I know, weird), but Dr. Brown has a stomach of steel and eats ALL THE THINGS and it did the same to him. Also, Dr. Brown is Greek, so we are a bit snobbish about the Middle Eastern foods and we have a Mediterranean cookbook with a killer hummus recipe that this one does not beat.

Brie-Stuffed Mushrooms: We made these for Katy Bowl Sunday (football WHA?!@#) when our friends the Zehnas were in town from Utah, along with the hummus above (and PW's bacon wrapped jalapeno poppers which were in her first cookbook and we will make for the rest of time they are THAT GOOD). These were the best of the naws, but not amazing. Fine, but I'm not searching for just fine in this quest.

Pork Chops with Apples & Grits: Much like garlic doesn't agree with my stomach, grits do not agree with MY ANYTHING. Listen, I've even lived in the South for a short time (I went on exchange during college to Charleston, SC) where grits were served at every single meal (sigh) at my college dorm lunchroom. I've tried and tried and tried and even made them homemade myself to no avail. I ain't doin' it. Also, the pork chops weren't that great, and I do usually love them with apples. Dr. Brown did like the grits (he thought them better the next day), so he gives this one a higher ranking than I.

Let's move on to the FOREVER AND EVER AMENS.

Rigatoni and Meatballs: I made this for my grandma's 85th birthday party dinner and OMG WE ALL LOVED IT. Seriously, those meatballs?! We used tomatoes we had roasted with garlic and herbs from our own summer garden and frozen in the sauce and they truly made the difference. This recipe is not on PW's website (which is where I've linked all the other recipes here), so you'll just have to get the book if you want to make it. Also? Kid-approved. Even Arlo loved his teeny tiny bite sized pieces.

Meatball Sliders: PW directs you to use the leftover meatballs and sauce from the recipe above for these and holy moly, we almost loved these more than the rigatoni above. Paired with baked French fries, it was a super easy leftover kind of meal for a weeknight. Alice and Lucy also loved this one.

Classic Hot Wings: These are spicy as hell, but Dr. Brown is the wing connoisseur and he gives a big stamp of approval. It makes a ton of sauce, though, so you could probably cut back on that, or else more wings than the recipe calls for.

Roasted Cauliflower: We made this as a side dish to Dr. Brown's BBQ ribs and both agreed that this was the best way we've ever eaten cauliflower, hands down. So yummy! (Again, no recipe on PW's site for this, sorry!)

 

 

Billie's Italian Cream Cake: This, my friends, was January's crowning jewel. The best recipe I made all month. This cake is a winner. It took hours, was three layers high, and was my grandmother's 85th birthday cake. It was even better the next morning with coffee. Super rich and lovely. I'm a huge cake snob, and once you've had homemade cake, you'll never, ever, ever be able to eat store bought or boxed cake mix cakes again in the same way. We all give this the highest ranking. Grandma-approved!



Power to the (Fat) People

Six years ago I started my own body revolution. I devoured books, like this one and this one, and started following fat feminists like Marilyn Wann, Ragen Chastaine, Lindy West, Tess Munster and Jes Baker. They helped me find my way and find my voice.

Three years ago I spoke to a sold out crowd at the Egyptian Theater downtown Boise about how to be fat and fabulous. I stood on that stage and was more scared than I had ever been. I told Boise that I weighed 250 pounds and my life's purpose wasn't determined on whether or not you wanted to fuck me and that I was happy with myself, just the way I am and that I eat cake and celery. Ignite Boise filmed all the presenters' five minute pitches, and posted them on YouTube. My little talk has been viewed now by around 900 people, and commented on by various trolls (the term for being a prick on the internet because you can). They wrote things like "this woman wants to keep people down" and "people like you make me so angry" and "you lost your way for a number of reasons."



Two years ago I got the burning desire to once again bring my ideas of Health at Every Size and fat acceptance to a wider audience. At an event similar to Ignite Boise, I proposed a public, family-friendly, dessert picnic for International No Diet Day at the very first Feast. The whole thing was a dinner event at the Visual Arts Center in Garden City and the house was packed and I was nervous but talked about body love and size discrimination and healthy relationships with eating and food. The audience votes on the best community/art project proposal and the winner got $1000 to make it happen (it wasn't me). But, once again, I felt good about getting the message out there, even when one female audience member came up after and was like, "I'm all for loving your body and stuff, but wouldn't your event be so much better if you, like, served fresh veggies and fruit instead of desserts?"

The next day I began a week-long, painful miscarriage of a baby we had already grown to love, somewhere around eight weeks along. The day after that I found out that a local male business owner who goes by the Twitter name "Cranky Clown" was at the Feast event and had been live tweeting negative things not only about my message, but about my body, my words, my mind, my family, my friends, and about fat people in general. And when I found out about it, I tweeted him back, and his responses got more hateful. Some of his other local Twitter friends joined in and started attacking me, too. (And, yes, I know his real life name and his real life business - that he has since lost - but I won't tell you here.) Years later, he still tweets on occasion about how much he hates fatties. He never thought, I'm fairly certain, about the real life woman at home, curled up in a ball, bleeding and in tears, wrapped up in grief around a hot pad while she missed her daughter's kindergarten registration.

About a month later, the fat hatred and misogyny found its way to my Facebook wall, where I had begun posting body confident links and messages. This time, the meanest came from two different men, who I knew barely in real life, and a handful of women, who I also knew personally. After mean-spirited back and forth banter I had to unfriend them, on the internet and in real life. I took the entire summer off from the internets because these bigoted trolls had so damaged my heart, mind, thoughts, and activism, that I desperately needed a break to heal. (Years later, these people, too, still post on Facebook bigoted and sizist commentary.)

But I came back, stronger and louder. The trolls are still here, on the internet and in my little Idaho city. In fact, I'm currently fighting some misogyny due to my strong, loud voice. This week Lindy West, a nationally known writer and feminist and fat activist, told a story about a particularly hurtful troll who created a false Twitter account, posing as her recently deceased father, on NPR's This American Life. She tweeted about it, he read it, and apologized to her. They have a live telephone conversation on this particular podcast and the story will both break your heart and make it grow. This woman encounters trolling and hateful comments about her weight and feminist stances on a daily basis, so her skin is thick.

Mine? Not so much. Also, I'm no Lindy West. I can count the troll commentary I've received on one - okay, two - hands. Does that make it hurt less? No. Have any of my trolls ever apologized? Never. In fact, Lindy's troll is the first person I've ever heard of admitting to his hatred and trying to make up for it.

Do I write this because I want you to feel sorry for me? Not at all. What do I want, then? When you hear or read someone using bullying, dangerous and hurtful words, I want you stand up next to me, and speak loud and strong, too.

THRIFTY: Homemade Bath Goodies

Every year for the holidays, the girls and I love making homemade and handmade gifts for our friends and neighbors. Often it's baked goods, like my family-famous pumpkin bread, candy or cookies. Some years, though, we get a bit more ambitious and want to make something new and offbeat, not your traditional Christmas goodies. This past year was one.

 

 

As always, I love to use inexpensive ingredients and reuse and repurpose items. This fall we had harvested our lavender plants, dried the flowers, and put them in the freezer to preserve. I had also saved this bath sachet recipe on a Pinterest board several years ago and knew these would be perfect.

 

 

I had a box of powdered milk in my pantry, as well as oatmeal, rubber bands and twine. I ran to my neighborhood Dollar Tree and grabbed a few boxes of baby washcloths, which were 4 for $1. You could, however, just use any scrap of fabric you have, cheesecloth or muslin.

 



I think the images do justice in place of written explanation on how to make these (read: SO EASY). I typed up these little directions, printed them off, cut them and attached the to the sachets.

OATMEAL LAVENDAR MILK BATH SACHET | Tie the twine to hang the bundle under the faucet as hot water fills the tub. Squeeze the sachet to release the herbal properties into the water, or swirl the sachet around in the tub. The tub is now your giant cup of herbal tea! Once the bath is over, shake the wet herbs into a flowerbed, compost, or other container for disposal. The washcloth is yours to be used again!

In addition to the bath sachets, Alice and I whipped up some brown sugar coffee scrub. Every day after drinking my pot of java, I dump the grinds onto a large tray in the garage to dry. Once dried (this may take a few weeks because you really want them to be very dry), you mix the coffee grinds, brown sugar, olive oil, a tiny bit of vanilla extract, and a few shakes of cinnamon. I used a version of this recipe, but quadrupled it to make a lot more. Having a plethora of baby food jars from Arlo, I spray painted the lids a festive red, filled them with this yummy scrub, and tied on a cute paper tag. This scrub is ideal for dry hands and feet and works really well. It makes a huge mess of coffee grinds if used in the tub, though, just FYI. For this project, I had all the ingredients on hand, and repurposed the jars and paper tags, so it cost me next to nothing. Both projects turned out great, were fun to make in the kitchen, and so easy for the girls to help with. They'd be perfect for Valentine's Day or Mother's Day, too!

STYLE: Chewbeads

My friend Kristyn wore a strand of these really cute large turquoise beads to a party about a year ago and I complimented her on them. She told me they weren't real costume jewelry, but these safe spongy rubber-type beads for teething babies. You guys, this blew my mind. Being pregnant with Arlo at the time and knowing the chewiness that comes with baby territory, I couldn't wait to get my own.

Fast-forward about six months and I had my wee babe in my arms and he was so drooly and trying to eat all my unsafe vintage necklaces. I called around town and found out that both our baby boutiques downtown Boise, Cassis Kids on Idaho and Buns in the Oven in BoDo, carry Chewbeads. They are 100% silicone necklaces that are cute for mom and safe for baby. They come in a variety of styles, but the classic one I'm wearing here is the least expensive, running about $29.99. The colors are fun and funky (I picked bright yellow but they have more muted colors like brown and black if that's more your style) and I can't even tell you how much Arlo loves them. As soon as I put them on in the store, they went straight in his mouth. Worth every penny.

FOODIE: A New Year's Resolution Revolution, Take Two

Resolution, resosmultion. I don't resolve to do most things, but I can totally get behind the desire to evolve. So I never do New Year Resolutions, but New Year Revolutions.

This year I'm taking on an old favorite. In 2010, I made the pledge to cook every single recipe in the Pioneer Woman's brand new, and first, cookbook, a la Julie & Julia. I've been a fan of Ree Drummond since way back in her beginning blogging days, and now she's a full-fledged celebrity chef. Five years ago I was super successful in making all fifty-something recipes in her book and it was a treasure and a treat. Many of those recipes are now mainstays in our culinary repertoire. I'm a bit of a Food Network Fangirl (see the Food Network Cookoff I've hosted every year for the past five years). I'm also a bit of a cookbook hoarder. Combine the two and you've got a kitchen revolution in the making.

For 2015, I decided to take on the challenge of making every single recipe in one of my newer cookbooks. I lobbied for Smitten Kitchen, or maybe Paula Deen's classic, but Eric won me over with his profound love of PW, so I hearby announce that I'll be making all the recipes in her second cookbook, The Pioneer Woman Cooks: Food From My Frontier (2012).

I'm really excited. But also a bit worried. Because there are 109 recipes in this book. ONE. HUNDRED. AND. NINE.

Rest assured, I'm aware that means I have to make at least two recipes a week for the entire year. Or have several parties where I make, like, ten of them. A handful of recipes are cocktails, and some are side dishes, so that should help. But, STILL. And, if you've ever made PW's recipes before, you know they can be massive, home-cooking, comfort food undertakings. And so, so worth every minute and ingredient.

A few recipes from this book are tried and true family favorites already, so I'm scratching those from the list: Simple Sesame Noodles, Restaurant Style Salsa, and her Apple Dumplings. Not because they aren't amazing, but that they are SO AMAZING that we make the all the time already. They've been a staple in our house for years, as I first discovered the recipes on her blog. (In fact, the year I took on the Pioneer Woman in my Food Network Cookoff I won first place with those Apple Dumplings in the dessert category because MOUNTAIN DEW is the secret ingredient.) Also, two recipes at the end are canning recipes and while canning pushes me outside my comfort zone in a good way, the recipes are for sweet pickles and strawberry jam, two things I do not love. So, 104 recipes it is.

Wish me luck.

(PS I'll be grammin' all this over here and posting regular updates on the blog. Last night I made the Roasted Cauliflower and it was truly the best cauliflower I've ever eaten. Eric agrees. And, yes, I always write notes in my cookbooks for future chefs and memories sake.)

A Death in the Family

I'd just moved from Portland to Corvallis, Oregon, to move in with my boyfriend. I loved him, but I'd left a museum career and friends to go to a small town where I knew no one but him. This boyfriend was in graduate school and working as a teaching assistant and doing research and never home. I had a shitty job I hated at the county mental health clinic. One day in the staff newsletter of the shitty job I saw another county employee had posted an ad for a bunch of feral kittens she'd rescued at her farmhouse and that they were free to a good home. She'd had them spayed and neutered and they were healthy. I drove out immediately after I got off work at 5pm. As a champion for the underdog, when faced with selecting a pet, I will always, always defer to the least pretty/likeable/difficult. (As a child, when presented with a litter of purebred miniature poodles I selected the runt born with only three legs and loved him to death.) So, I picked the tiny gray and white kitty, hiding under a chair. Oh, honey, you probably don't want her, the kind-hearted woman said. She hates other people and other animals, she's been picked on here by all the other cats.

She's perfect, I said.

I took her home in a cardboard box and she crawled behind the stove and hid there for days. Eventually, she snuck out to pee and we named her Zooey, after a character in one of my most favorite J.D. Salinger novels. She puked 35 times in one hour after getting vaccinations to move across the country from Oregon to Minnesota. We popped tiny anti-anxiety pills into her throat with tweezers. Zooey slept on my belly every single night for seventeen years. Her purrs were the soundtrack all of my babies grew to in utero. She loved chirping at birds and drinking the water from under the Christmas tree. I cleaned up her cat puke every day for seventeen years. She hated my children, but loved Eric fiercely. She never once climbed on our countertops or peed outside her litter box.

About a year ago, at the age of sixteen, Zooey started peeing blood, her fur was matting, she was puking more than normal, all classic signs of kidney failure in older cats. She was still eating, drinking and purring, until she wasn't anymore. We loved her so much and waited and watched as it got worse and worse and this past July our beloved Zooey died. We came home from a camping trip in Atlanta, Idaho, to find her bleeding from the mouth, eyes sunken in, and barely moving. Eric wrapped her in an old towel and we placed her in the cat carrier she'd ridden in to move across the country with us two times, for her very last car ride. The girls and I sobbed goodbyes and sent Eric off by himself to the Idaho Humane Society to euthanize our very first baby. He held her and cried with the kind technicians and brought her home in a handmade baby quilt and dug a hole in our backyard under the lilac tree. We handmade a headstone with a garden marker kit from Jo-Ann Craft Store.

Everyone cried for days, weeks. Lucy kept hearing her meow for food, Eric kept picking her hair off everything, I kept feeling her clawing at the side of our bed. Alice helped pack up all her things to gift to a friend in Utah, another young girl, bringing home her very first kitten. It was a joy to gift her our precious Zooey's items.

It's been five months now, and I don't think of her every day any more. Her picture still resides on our fridge and clumps of her hair still get swept up from underneath furniture, but it's becoming less and less. A few weeks ago when we pulled out the Christmas boxes everything, all the emotions of loss, came rushing back when Lucy pulled out Zooey's stocking. It hung by our fireplace every year and Santa never forgot to stock it with some toys or special cans of soft food. She burst into tears that wouldn't stop, my girl.

We came up with a plan for that stocking and that grief. Lucy and I decided to donate a portion of the monies we earned with our artsy crafts we sold at Wintry Market and the Boise MADE Pop Up Shop to the Idaho Humane Society in memory of our dear cat. Today, with friends in tow, we made the trip to donate $30 in cash to the place where we our sweet Zooey took her last breath and was able to be euthanized with kindness and love. A place that gives so much honor to the animals in our lives, through living and dying. It's a small gesture and the cash isn't really that much, but to our family, to Lucy, it was huge. And so important. Sometimes to best way to grieve a death is through living a good life, in moments big and small.