I knew I would have a hard transition into motherhood.  Even before Abby came, I struggled to feel like I was getting around to everything that was important: keeping the house clean and organized, investing in friendships, teaching with thoughtfulness and excellence, volunteering, blogging, reading, decorating, cooking, etc…etc…etc.  Even on a normal day, my “to-do” list was daunting, and if you caught me on a day after I had just read my Better Homes and Gardens or a blog at Simple Mom…look out!  I was going to do all of the above, plus maintain an organic garden, can my own peaches, and knit sweaters for every gift-giving occasion.

Since Abby has been born, I have been thankful that I still feel like “myself,” and that all of my pre-baby interests and activities haven’t been sucked into the the diaper pail.  However, that also means that I’m still trying to do everything AND take care of a newborn on top of it all.  Occasionally, I feel like I pull it off.  But usually, I end the day frantically trying to scratch a few more tasks off of my to-do list, and fall asleep adding items to the agenda for tomorrow.  I’m self-aware enough to have noticed that this was not a sustainable pattern…

…but when getting out the door to attend a Christmas party last week drove me to desperate, frustrated tears, I had to admit to myself that I had hit a breaking point.

The next day, when I could think clearly about the whole episode, I concluded that I was just trying to do too much.  I tried to think of what I could put on the back burner that would allow me to focus my energy on fewer tasks, and give me some room to breathe.  But what would I give up?  Keeping the house clean?  Getting dinner on the table?  Reading?  Getting papers graded on time?  The problem is, the things that are (technically) non-essential are the ones that keep me feeling sane.  I could stop keeping the floor swept, but it would bother me every time I walked on it.  I could make us frozen pizzas for dinner every night, but then we’d get fat and I’d have to add exercise to my list of things to feel bad about neglecting.  Blogging, reading, scrapbooking are fun hobbies, but taking them off the table wouldn’t clear that much time daily, and I’d miss them the most.

So I’ve given up on the idea of simplifying.  Now, in classic Lindsey problem-solving mode, I’m looking for the answers in organization and scheduling.  What will my final solution look like?  I don’t know yet.  But I have two weeks off of work, two weeks for Stephen to be home with me, two weeks to make a game plan for the spring semester.  I’m planning to have a new schedule mapped out just in time for January 1, the most optimistic holiday of the year.  I’ll keep you posted.  (And if you super-productive multitaskers out there have some ideas, pass them along!)

I’ve really been enjoying reading Lenore Skenazy’s blog at FreeRangeKids.  (For those of you who missed it, this is the mom who took a bunch of flack for letting her child ride the subway by himself.  Her basic premise is that parents don’t do their kids any favors by overprotecting them and micromanaging their lives to keep them from all pain and  harm.)

I really love this, in theory.  Stephen and his brothers grew up running around their property with slingshots and BB guns.  I would love to see Abby grow up to be (reasonably) fearless and strong; I want her to be curious and scrappy and not dependent on me for her security.  Unfortunately, the biggest obstacle to Abby being a rough-and-tumble Free Range Kid is…me, her neurotic, paranoid mother who imagines axle-cutting carjackers around every dark corner.

I don’t know where my constant worry came from, or really when it began.  But I realize that it is not rational, and that it’s a bit of a problem.  So, for the sake of my child, who should not have grow up into a timid little mouse, I must first become a Free Range Mom.  Yesterday I made a big, brave step: I took Abby for a walk at the city park.

Stephen and I found this wonderful walking trail last weekend.  Right in the middle of town, it’s a wide, paved sidewalk that winds through trees, across little babbling brooks, and beside green fields.  10 yards down the trail, the road noise is literally drowned out by the sounds of wind and insects.  It’s quiet, relaxing, and secluded.  Thus, it’s appeal…and it’s obvious danger.

After carefully weighing the risks, I decided to venture out.  Here’s how it went down:

Approaching the entrance to the walking trail.  A city worker is welding on part of the hand rails.  I make eye contact with him (Don’t even think about it, buddy…I could identify you in a line-up, now), and smile.  He makes a comment about the nice day.  I respond politely and keep walking at my brisk pace.  Although he seemed nice enough, I look back over my shoulder a couple of times just to make sure I’m not being followed.

I’m barely out of sight of the parking lot and I decide to turn off my iPod and enjoy the sounds of the wind and the water.  It’s so relaxing I barely even remember how much bravery I am demonstrating just to be here.  My mind wanders and I enjoy the mental meandering.

Passing my favorite part of the trail- a large rock spillway with two loud waterfalls.  I imagine my flexible future self stopping to let Abby stick her feet in the water and splash around.  Of course, as soon as she was finished I would cleanse her with a sanitizing wipe to remove the amoebas from her little hands and feet…but I digress.  I consider parking the stroller by the bench and reading my magazine for a while in this picturesque spot, but since it’s really sunny and Abby is in long sleeves, I decide against it and keep walking.

Stephen calls between classes to check in and finalize our plans for the evening.  I make sure to mention that I am at the park.  “It’s two o’clock and I’m passing the spillway,” I say, hoping that he will remember this detail if I turn up missing and they need to know where to send a search party.  We agree to meet at our house at five.

The trail is open to the public, but many of its features are still under construction.  The signs of workmen are everywhere.  Along the sides of the path there are plastic Gatorade bottles stuck in the branches of trees and assorted wrappers on the ground.  It’s like the trail that Hansel and Gretel might have left if they had stopped at 7-11 for some snacks instead of bringing their own bread.

Around the next bend in the road I see sunlight glinting off of a truck.  More workmen!  I debate whether to turn around before I get too close and they have a chance to see me.  Finally I lift my chin resolutely–onward!  The men are actually not that close to the trail; they are clearing some brush in the distance.  I wonder– who is more likely to bother me– one solitary welder (no witnesses) or three heavy equipment operators (pack mentality)?  I start to feel slightly guilty about my elitist prejudice.  These are probably very nice men who would just as soon come to my aid if I needed it.  But…I’m a good Calvinist and I believe in the total depravity of every man.  Am I crazy for being out here without a concealed handgun to defend myself?

Further down the trail.  I do not seem to have been followed.  I allow myself to enjoy the sun shining on the different colored grasses, and scope out prime spots for this year’s Christmas card picture.

30 minutes and 1.25 miles later, I come to the end of the trail.  It dead ends at a different busy road.  I make a mental note that if I ever have an emergency on the second half of the trail, I can flag down help here.

Triumphantly, I tap my sneakered foot agains the curb and do an about-face.  Now Abby is facing away from the sun and I open up her stroller shade to let her enjoy the fresh breeze.

About halfway back down the trail, I spy two moms pushing their strollers in my direction.  As we get closer, I want to salute them, “Hello, fellow brave travelers!”  But I settle for eye contact and a smile.  One of the moms is also walking a dog that she calls Bella.  This gets me thinking about Twilight, which is a pleasant way to spend the next quarter of a mile.

Past the bulldozing workmen, past the spillway, past the litter.  Before long I can see the welder working industriously at the entrance.  He seems to have made good progress down the railing, which makes me almost 100% certain that he has  not been following me this whole time.  His back is to me, and he startles a little when he hears me approaching.  “You scared me,” he laughs as I walk past.  Ironic.

I am now walking beside the busy street, and now I’m back in the parking lot.  I get Abby strapped into the back seat, and the stroller stowed in the trunk.  We drive off toward home, unscathed and stronger than ever before.

Last weekend I went on the hunt for some shoes for our upcoming vacation.  I wanted some black shoes that looked dressier than tennies but which still provided lots of comfort and support for days of walking.  I discovered that the selection was much better for BROWN shoes of this description, and I didn’t find any black ones that I loved.

The least-losery choice was a pair of black Sketchers brand shoes from Academy.  Stephen suggested that I try the selection at the Waco Academy to see if I could find something similar that I liked more.  So today I went by the store on my way home from work, and had no luck.

I saw my original choice immediately.  “Oh, those are uglier than I remembered.”  I thought.  I kept walking and checked out all of my other options.  Bottom line:  I didn’t love any other shoes, and of the new choices, my favorite was $44.  The shoes I had originally seen in Temple were $29.

“What is the harm in trying them on one more time?”  I thought.  And I did.  And, they were really comfortable.  And so I bought them.  Ugly, yet comfortable…am I really at this point in my life?  I’m not even 27!

And yet, I’m strangely excited about this purchase, and eager to try them out at work tomorrow.

UPDATE:  I’ve worn the shoes for two days, and my feet feel GREAT!  No complaints in the comfort department.  Here are the pics:

Any of you who know me and/or follow this blog already know that I am full of good intentions and horrible follow-through when it comes to a healthy lifestyle. But my lack of follow-through has never failed to dampen my enthusiasm for all the latest ideas for dieting/weight loss and exercise (even to this point:  “You lost fifteen pounds when you got mono?  Are you still contagious enough to give it to me?”). Curves has been going okay for me in terms of exercise, but a recent article in Reader’s Digest renewed my interest in more healthy eating. The article features an “anti-girth, pro-earth” diet; I’m definitely anti-girth, and I’m trying to incorporate some reasonable “green” habits into my life, so I was intrigued.

The basic premise is that reducing one’s consumption of animal products, especially meat, is a healthy eating choice that also cuts down dependence on industrial meat production, which can be kind of nasty when you get into the details. The author adopted an eating routine that he called “Simple ’til Six”: eating “nearly vegan” until dinner time, and then eating a “normal” dinner, including dessert. The application for readers is not to adopt the exact same routine, necessarily, but “to eat less of certain foods and more of others — specifically, plants, as close to their natural state as possible.”

The author’s testimony of weight loss and improved health, combined with an appeal to my semi-green sympathies, led me to consider how I could adopt some of the same principles. I thought I could 1) Cook at home more, period. 2) Try to eat less meat and fewer carbs for lunch and mid-day snacks, and 3) Cook one vegetarian meal per week. Combined with my post-Thanksgiving commitment to more Curves, I expected to see the pounds start just falling off of my lower half.

So I Googled vegetarian recipes at work the next day, and I ran into my first dilemma: I didn’t like most of the ingredients involved in the “hearty” looking meals. I started to review the list of non-animal foods that I like:

• bread
• chocolate
• Kix cereal
• broccoli
• potatoes
• chewing gum
• avocados

So, when I trim down that list to cut down on my simple carbohydrates and sugar, I’m left eating broccoli and avocados for every meal. It sounds boring even to me, and Stephen is definitely not going to go for it. So, I’m stumped. Either I stick with my current, “pro-girth, anti-earth” eating habits or I have to start trying some new veggies. It’s a very tough call, and the jury is still out on which direction I’m going to go. I’m sure you’ll be hearing about it either way.

I’ve noticed that I’ve been getting headaches much more frequently lately. I began to worry that was developing a brain tumor, so I called Dr. Clint, who ruled out the possibility of the tumor and told me that I probably am having tension headaches due to my sunglasses pinching my head right above my ears.

I like the trend of sunglasses with large frames, because I feel like it should be easier to find glasses that don’t look or fit too small on my large head. Unfortunately, it’s not working out this way. I’ve bought two different pairs of glasses, both of which ended up pinching. (To be more honest, I didn’t buy the second pair. Leslie gave them to me, even though they were actually Mom’s.)  So now I have to look for a new pair.

I hate sunglasses shopping like most people hate swimsuit shopping. I usually end up trying on a million pairs, and leaving with nothing but a reinforced “big head” complex. HOWEVER, I can’t keep wearing my current glasses, and driving and walking without sunglasses is out of the question for even one more day.

To be sure that my new glasses won’t put any tension stress on the sides of my head, I think I’m going to look for something more like this:

We’ve been in Killeen with the youth group for two weeks now, and I’ve been resisting panic as I’ve been flooded with vivid memories of my own high school experience. I didn’t really make much of a splash in high school; I was always most content when I was propping up a wall with one or two friends, enjoying the antics of the self-confident from afar. Although I still have to actively resist my wallflower tendencies, I’ve felt as though I’ve achieved significant personal growth in this area in the years since graduation.

Unfortunately, it just takes a few minutes in the youth room on Sunday morning to bring all of my worst social habits back into play. Although I know that I should be the confident adult, introducing myself to students and expressing a sincere interest in their lives, I still find myself wanting to squeeze between the soda machines and watch the ping-pong matches in peace. Or, if I’m really bold, maybe I’ll sit down next to the girl who reminds me of myself in high school (slightly unkempt hair, shirt buttoned up too high, slightly defensive standoffish manner) and ask her what she’s been reading lately.

I’ve tried for the last two days to reason with myself. I was very blessed by adults who befriended me when I was in high school, and I feel, in a pay-it-forward kind of way, that I owe it to God to do the same thing for lost and lonely youth now that I am older. Besides, what do I have to be afraid of? My hair and clothes are almost always attractive and appropriate. I have physical indicators of success- husband, job, house, car, dogs. I have vast amounts of wisdom and experience that I could share with these impressionable youth. And yet I can’t seem to shake my sixteen-year-old self, cowering behind my I Love Lucy day planner in the face of these girls with their boisterous laughter and slightly manic energy.

I’m still debating whether I’ll try to stick it out or find my true calling rocking other people’s babies in the infant nursery instead. In the meantime, I’m enjoying the easy company of my fourth grade pals during the week, relaxing in their uncomplicated and easy-to-win affection.

A dietitian came to speak to our classes last week, and while I don’t think my kids walked away with any new convictions, I left the assembly feeling like a walking lump of lard. The articulate, trim nutritionist impressed upon us all the waste of empty calories, inspired us with visions of bodies nourished by organic, vitamin-rich, non-processed foods, and shamed us with statistics about current American gluttony (average consumption of 150 pounds of sugar per year, up from 2 pounds 100 years ago). I walked away intimidated and inspired by the new science which recommends that all American eat nine, yes NINE servings of fruit and vegetables daily. Egad!

So that night I went to the grocery store to stock up on some nutritious snack foods. I was reminded again of why I have not embraced this habit sooner- yikes! Fresh food is expensive! So I bought some apples and bananas and called it a good start.

While I was there I remembered that I needed to get some groceries for our Superbowl party. So I added chips, cookies, candy, dip, and frozen appetizers. It was not long before my good start was buried beneath the Doritos and cheese sticks!

I vowed to re-commit myself to healthy living on Monday after the Superbowl. But today, we still have lots of leftovers from the weekend’s festivities, and I can’t justify wasting perfectly good food. Maybe next week…

I work very hard to convince myself and everyone around me that I am an adult to be taken seriously. In many ways, I still see myself as a twerpy little eighth grader who is still in desperate need of fashion and makeup tips. It’s hard for me to understand that other people don’t share my perspective.

My quest for adult actualization suffered a major blow yesterday. I went to the orthodontist.

I am only getting orthodontics for my bottom teeth, so it didn’t occur to me to worry about the effect that this metallic adventure would have on the old ego. Bottom teeth don’t show up in pictures, right? I realized my gross miscalculation as I sat in the waiting room with several twelve year olds and their parents. I felt my self-esteem balloon deflating rapidly.

It didn’t help that most dental hygienists tend to be nurturing types who treat all patients like their favorite grandchild over to play for the afternoon. One of them kindly showed me around the office (unfortunately she neglected to show me the complimentary toothbrushes, which I regretted later on in the visit when the doctor showed me the close up digital snapshots of my teeth). Another helped me fill out my information forms. A third charmed me by offering me cookie dough flavoring when I had my impressions made.

The consultation was painless enough, once I got out of the view of the prepubescents in the waiting room. I answered questions about my dental history and let the nice lady take x-rays and pictures of me (dang! Should have fixed the hair today. Now a very unflattering digital image accompanies all of my information). It got a little awkward again as she explained the office’s dental health incentive program which rewards patients with wooden tokens for such accomplishments such as wearing the office t-shirt to appointments, regular brushing, and making A’s on a report card. These tokens can be cashed in for lucrative prizes such as CDs, mousepads, and gift certificates. I didn’t know which was worse- her implying that I would be interested in such a juvenile extrinsic-motivational system, or the fact that I was kind of excited by the idea of getting a free t-shirt and an opportunity to win gift certificates just for brushing my teeth.

Anyway, due to the nature of my particular maxillofacial situation, I’m looking at 10-12 months of braces, which is not too bad in the long run. My dad, the dentist, has promised me that my smile will eventually sag (“just like everything else”), so I am happy to straighten up my bottom teeth before this becomes an issue. In the meantime, you can stay tuned in here to the blog for all the highlights of this little adventure.

While Stephen is back in school and while the primary benefits of my career remain “intangible” (as it was explained to me in my job interview), we’ve been trying especially hard to keep our frivolous spending to a minimum. I pared down pretty admirably, but ultimately I proved to be the weakest link.

I feel very vain and high-maintenance by admitting this, but this blog has functioned as a public confessional before, so I’ll go ahead and spill. As I have perused my credit card statement, looking for places to trim more for next month, there is one very obvious frivolity that I insist on overlooking: regular charges to Escape Nails Spa.

I try to justify this expense: I wait three weeks between visits instead of the recommended ten days. I take myself to the low-grade salon that only charges $15 a visit, subjecting myself to chatter in a language I don’t speak and the possibility of nail fungus every time. My current salon is running a 20% off sale until after Christmas. But the fact of the matter is that I can’t bear the thought of attending holiday parties and visiting family with my nubby, mangled fingers in their natural state, undisguised by the lovely smooth layer of acrylic and polish. It would be as bad as the classic dream of arriving to class in my underwear.

People have asked me why I don’t just stop biting my fingernails, as if it’s as simple as a matter of willpower. It’s as ludicrous as asking a compulsive gambler why he doesn’t just stop playing slots. Nail biting is a harder habit to stop than smoking, because there are no patches. I can’t even get rid of all temptation without cutting off my fingers all together, and that would be no good, for then how could I blog?

I can trace my nail biting goes back to a traumatic incident in my childhood–the time my parents made me stop sucking my thumb. Dr. Freud would say I must have experienced some trauma during my oral development phase to have such a strong fixation. (Think what you will about Freud, but this would explain my irrational attraction to the idea of smoking. Besides, Freud was a genius.) But unfortunately for this theory, my childhood was basically trauma-free.

I’ve tried bitter nail polishes, latex gloves, sheer willpower, self-bribery, band-aids, prayer, and basically every other home remedy I could get my hands on. Nothing works, except putting on fake nails. And that only lasts as long as the nails.

I don’t know what my long-term solution will be. For now, my compromise is to keep my nails through the holidays, which happens to be as long as the sale continues at my nail salon. In January I will let them go natural, and I will be hoping for lots of opportunities to wear mittens.

My whole family is exceedingly self-conscious about picture-taking. And by my whole family, I mean me, and occasionally someone else. In our family, Thanksgiving is always a time for celebrating God’s blessings while also lamenting those mysterious physical flaws that seem to be exaggerated ten times in a photograph. The perfect encapsulation of both of these holiday sentiments is the family Christmas picture. To accompany a glowing letter of the joys of the year, we must take a photograph that represents an afternoon’s worth of self-deprecation and digital touch-ups. It usually goes something like this:

Stage 1: The Discussion of Options Other Than Taking a New Picture

Family Member A: “What about that picture of all of us at [special event]?”
Family Member B: “Oh, no, I have a double chin in that picture.”

Family Member C: “Well, we are all in the picture from [mid-year holiday]…”
Family Member D: “Oh, gross! My face is so pasty. People will think you’ve adopted Casper.”

Family Member E: “I liked that picture from [different event].”
Family Member F: “Yeah, but my hair is curly in that picture, and I’m wearing it straight now.”

…and so on, until the only option left is to subject ourselves to the torture of photography once again.

Stage 2: Preparation

All other options having been eliminated, Mom sets a color scheme for this year’s pic, and we all go borrow clothes from one another in an attempt to find an outfit to best represent our true selves to the camera. And by we all, I mean that I wear a shirt belonging to Laura.

We decide on a faraway scenic location and pack into the car.

Stage 3: Photo Shoot

We all feel very beautiful during this phase. We arrange ourselves on various inanimate objects in the location that we have selected, striking mostly serious poses, with a few silly ones to show off our fun-loving side. After each shot, Laura checks the digital display and reassures us that we look fabulous.
“You look especially gorgeous today, Lindsey,” she praises me specifically. (this turns out to be a lie)
After about twenty shots, we feel tired and cold, so we load up in the car and go home for…

Stage 4: Bitter Reality

Laura immediately loads the pictures onto her computer and we gather around to see if maybe this year the camera has captured our true inner beauty. Then the fun begins. One (different) person always looks great in every picture. “I like that one,” the lucky person will say.

This comment is followed by someone else protesting: “No, I have a funny smile/look fat/am not looking at the camera/have my hair blowing funny/am slouching/am partially hidden by [insert name]/hate that picture of myself for no rational reason.”

The picture is discarded as an option and we move on to more of the same. Photoshop, which is not on any of our computers, is offered as the solution to every problem.

Stage 5: Depths of Despair

When all of the picture attempts have been deemed disgusting, we all put on flannel pants and hoodies and eat ice cream.

Stage 6: Steel Resolve

As it starts to get dark, we resolve again to get a picture before nightfall. We put our Christmas Card Outfits back on and retreat to the back yard for a few dusky shots. These are quickly taken, quickly loaded onto the computer, and a winner is chosen. The urgency of the final hour has enabled us all to smile at the camera without any double chins or hunched shoulders or lazy eyes at exactly the same second. We order prints on walmart.com before anyone can change her mind.

And thus ends the saga until next year. God bless us every one!

*Personal note- exempted from all of this madness is my brother, Alan the Photogenic Prince, and my husband, Sir Stephen Who Does Not Care. They strike their poses and look exactly the same in every picture, willfully oblivious to the drama that surrounds them. Dad does not get this exemption because of his occasional references to his resemblance of his own father.