I’ve reached the end of my “fourth trimester,” and in grand celebratory response to all things hormonal in this third -child-birthed-body-of-mine, I’m trying to rediscover my new “normal.”

I don’t do baths. But showers, on the other hand, can be a true moment of escapism from my world. Candles + REALLY hot water and I’ve got it made. If I hold my head just right, the water can cover my ears and drown out the nonstop crazy noise Jamin is (ideally) dealing with in the next room. That is, until Aiden tries to break down the doors with his latest request {no matter how hard I try to keep him out-the kid’s going to be permanently traumatized as he constantly barges in on me in the bathroom...I don’t want him suffering from flashbacks when he’s fifteen…I’m surprised he has yet to burn his corneas.}

Anyway, shower: I was in my own world, lost in my maze of thoughts: when today, I reached up to rinse my hair, and pulled out a generous CLUMP, entangled around my fingers. Like some bad flashback to “The Grudge,” my hair is falling out. Brought to me, for the third time of my life, by the symptom known as post partum hormones. I know the routine. My hair is literally falling from my scalp. I wake in the morning and find pieces of it in the bed. The kids have my hairs that have decided to hijack their bodies attacking their faces, fingers, and nasal openings daily. I feel like medusa with hair as my weapon of choice…high on prenatal vitamins. If I decide to try and off anyone, they’ll surely catch me for the trail of involuntary hair loss I shall leave behind. (Hair net. Check.) But humor aside, I can find it quite distressing, these bodily changes that take place post baby. Thank goodness you can’t take it with you.

Sometimes, I distress over the fact that I have nursed my children for three years, and that this is frighteningly apparent when I look in the mirror. It’s quite tempting to come to the conclusion that I just MAY cave and have a “lift” which is secretly a “job” (but sounds way more innocent) and while they’re at it they can take some fat from my middle give me some fake muscle implants…have they perfected the body transplant yet??? I start to think I’m an excellent candidate… when I find it quite refreshing to watch CSI. (Las Vegas) The coroner examines the fake dead people on tv, and there’s usually some chick who had implants. Some little old man who outlived me will be examining my body one day and (whilst concluding accidental death from sheer exhaustion) will know my deep dark secret…I had fake boobies. (How potentially embarrassing. Thanks for the reality check, CSI.) I’ll just be another dead person with fake-miraculously-not-so-saggy woman parts.

 But you can’t take those with you.

 I’m trying to wear heels again. I’d given up for a while, seeing as how my body strongly resembled a bowling ball balanced ever so precariously on toothpicks for the past three years. One strong gust of wind, and I would topple. So here I am again, expanding my shoe horizon with skinny jeans (yes, I have caved after poking fun for so long) and a new boot purchase. I also found some black peep toe pumps on clearance. (I’m living on the edge, I tell you.) I was gazing at my shoe purchases affectionately, and realized the last time I actually purchased a pair of heels was before my brother’s wedding. That was three years ago. Do you realize how pathetic that is? This is quite a realization coming from a reformed shoe ho fashionista. Devastation.

 I can ramble about the changes that have taken place physically, and how I’m trying to get back on “my game,” and “find that balance” but for now, I choose to focus on what matters most.

 Let’s face it. What WILL matter, at the end of my life, is not how fabulous my hair, body, clothes or (GASP!!!!! IT PAINS ME!!!) HOUSE looked… but HOW I lived my life.

I find myself asking the question: Who AM I? What have I become? This new identity on the outside: A balding, shoeless, saggy woman parts aficionado, reformed fashionista, just trying to rediscover myself in a garbled world of diapers, screaming, and sleepless nights. Fashion, career choices, and perky asset losses aside, NOTHING can ever replace the experience of being surrounded by those that I love the most …this blessing that is motherhood. And I wouldn’t trade it for all the permanent perkiness, famous design career (OUCH) or endless shoe supplies… in all the world.

Because you can’t take it with you.  

The last few years of my life have all been a blur. When Jamin and I were childless, we had all the time in the world. Seriously. All the time I could ever want. To do anything. Ever. {We just thought we were busy. We just thought we were tired.}

 I vaguely remember, as if looking through some obstructed, foggy memory, what that was like.

 I went shopping. At the MALL. With FRIENDS. For CLOTHES. That were for ME.

I could do this thing called BROWSING. I could stay out as long as I wanted without having to adjust the stroller, change a diaper, or pop in a pacie and do it all in exact synchronization with meltdown hour due to loss of naps. I could walk down any aisle without uttering short low gurgled grunts of warnings in the semblance of a cow in labor when those little hands reach out for something that cost more than our monthly income. And I could stand and debate over an item for as long as I deemed the situation warranted, without the sudden demand for “SNACK!” And “JUICE!” coming from my immediate lower vicinity. 

But forget shopping. I could take naps. I could lie on the couch for as long as I deemed fit and spend my Saturdays doing whatever I wanted. I could SLEEP IN.

Then one day I blinked. And there was a mortgage. A dog. Three kids and a pair of uber-saggy woman parts to prove they belong to me. And though the numbers may not tally up at the moment to my exact age, I think three kids add up to about five years each. Yep. I think that’s a fair amount.

And I realized I’m old. 30. That’s me. This December. So, thirty plus fifteen gives me the precise equivalent of 45. I know it’s all about perspective, and attitude, but thirty isn’t twenty. And it may be flirty and thriving, but in the grand celebration of feeling a bit creaky and saggy, there are some things I have decided I can no longer pull off. Or bother to. I’m not talking skinny jeans (though the jury is still out on that fashion statement.) It’s the literal things my body can no longer handle due to this dramatically different aging process we call parenthood, and the children that wreak havoc upon our bodies, as a result.

I’m now too old for…

1. Roller Coasters - I could ride with the best of them. I remember doing so many rides at six flags that my equilibrium would be all kinds of screwy the next day. I could eat a full-fledged meal and then go for the ninja backwards. I popped out a few puppies, and the next thing I knew I was suddenly worried that the roller coaster wasn’t that stable. What if we fall off? I’m not so invincible. That I just may lose that hamburger I just downed, and BOY do I have a whopper of a headache. I also think I lost half my spinal cord on that last corkscrew. Now I know what all those disclaimer-warning signs are about. For people like me. I’ve officially joined the masses.  I still love the notion of an all American good time…but I’ve definitely lost my hard core edge in the land of roller coasters.

2. Junk Food - Which, I mean, duh. The obvious. Who really wants to down five double doozies after a package of sour patch kids at the mall a-la-the teenage years anymore, anyway? Okay. Me. When I’m pregs. But with child, I no longer am. Again with the babies and the aging. I used to eat all the stuff I wanted without so many consequences. Cellulite aside, stuffing my face with piles of junk isn’t so much my forte anymore. Stomach ache much? The bod = no longer equipped to handle massive amounts of crap.

3. Tanning bed - I’m over it. I wish I’d never caved to the pressure of teenage years of yore. I’ve always been fair skinned. But seriously, I don’t care to look like the old lady hairspray chick from there’s something about Mary by the time I’m 35. I stopped a couple of years ago. Leatherface much? That’s so nineties, and the damage is irreversible. Let’s face it: you look super insecure when you’re brown in November. It’s okay to be comfortable with the skin you’re in. Who has time? Life is too short to spend hours in the cancer coffin.

4. Horror movies - I went with a group of friends to see Paranormal activity the other night. Yeah. I actually left the kiddies with the hubs. So I’m all lying in the bed, tossing and turning, angry with myself for seeing some stupid movie, trying my best to close my eyes, and get a grip when Jamin decides to be hilarious and put his hand in front of my face. I screamed. And nearly slapped him. I almost died. Of cardiac arrest. In the dark. I’m still not entirely sure I’m giving those up if it weren’t for my loss of…

5. Pulling an all nighter - Which I used to do in college all the time. And you think it would get easier as I am older, but the whole waking-up-to-feed-the-kid-constantly thing isn’t flying with me. Sleeping = essential. Can’t even FATHOM staying up past ten at the moment.

WOW. I’m fun. {And whiney!}

Your turn: I know I’m not the only one. Spill it.  

I live my life in sheer amazement at the ability of my children to transform a clean area into complete wreckage in mere moments. My kids have super powers. As in Saturday-morning-cartoons-a-la-Captain-Planet-mega-powers. They simultaneously punch their little fists into the air and some random voice from the great beyond emits itself (sometimes with giant cartoon sound waves.) I don’t usually have a chance to listen, because I’m chasing them about the house attempting to subdue the chaos, but its some key phrase about letting their powers combine to destroy our home. Neatness=down to zero. These kids are little disaster inducing phenoms with individual tickers…waiting to go off on impact. 

Aiden embodies the characteristics of an octopus in a hurricane. We’ll call him Octorricane boy. A mammoth Octopus with a ridic plethora of arms combined with his intense speed and omnipresent ability to be everywhere at once. No room, surface, or area is considered safe. The noise. The speed. The intensity of it all...give him five seconds and anyone left in the wake of Octorricane boy’s path will rue the day.

Emerson is an exceptional force of nature. She possesses the lifelong ability to cause extreme amounts of sleep deprivation for her parents. When their guard is down, this uncanny strength is paired with violent Richter scale seismic quakes caused by extreme amounts of a not so delicate balance of whining and all out screams when denied any request. I’m quite surprised she hasn’t broken the glass in our home with her unreal achievements in octaves. Seizemo girl is quite the force to be reckoned with when she does not get her way. She can be quite exhausting.

A Tsunami with his special spittle powers and major horrid diapers a-la volcano of bodily fluids is Malone. He’s alternately known as Explosa-boy. You’re enjoying his presence like a nice pretty day on the beach, basking in his smile and his alluring, irresistible face when WHAMO! You’re totally sprayed with this sudden eruption of crap and regurgitated breast milk. The kid remains immobile yet maintains the ability to produce more laundry than Octorricane and Seizemo combined. The constant breastfeeding is a weapon of choice for Explosa boy, weakening his mother by yet another form of exhaustion, and furthering his cause for chaos. He has some mad projectile skills and sometimes intentionally aims for different areas of the room…exorcist style. His forcibly eliminated bodily fluids cannot be matched.

Our home has been declared a national disaster area. The coffee table is now a launching pad of Olympic high jump proportions. The piles of clutter and dust bunnies apparently mate at night, managing to multiply on their own even after they’ve been cleared for the fifth time in a row. The laundry is at its all time pinnacle of ridiculous proportions, growing daily. And yet here I am, once again, trying to keep my head above the diapers.

Hi. My name is Ashley. I quit. I am a reformed OCD clean freak, cured by time and the natural resources that are my own children. It’s a good day if I brush my teeth. I can’t seem to get my “act” together (whatever THAT’S supposed to be) I’m perpetually EXHAUSTED and for now, there are more important things in life than tending to laundry, repeatedly picking up toys and making the beds every SINGLE morning.

With a tag team super human triple threat on the loose, I just can’t beat them.

So, in celebratory surrender, I’m putting up my feet and joining their ranks with some stereotypical stay at home mom bon bons action, while I enjoy the forces of natural disaster with my latest DVR acquirement. All praises to mass chaos and Oprah.

I had just settled the kiddos down for their afternoon naps. Aiden went down for the third time (it takes him a while every afternoon-he gets back up about four times to inform me he only took a baby nap, he wants to color, or his toy is orange-you know…the important stuff) when there was an incessant ringing of the doorbell. Can I just say that people who ring doorbells in the middle of the day are a little thoughtless? Side tangent: I’m seriously considering making a cute PERMANENT little sign that ever so non intimidatingly states: DEAREST thoughtless RUDIES: Children are napping. Leave the package. I’ll find it later. No, I don’t want your Gideonite Bible, Religious pamphlet to be filed under “other” or useless-to-me lawn service. STOP trying to sell me your crap unless you are the Girl Scouts and you have Thin Mints. If it’s after one in the afternoon, babies are sleeping. I am currently finessing the art of coordinated naps. GO AWAY.

Anyway, back to the doorbell ringage... I was sitting on the couch feeding Malone. And…cue the Incessant ringing. At first I ignored it and scolded Chloe who had flown into torrential fits of snarl induced growls. I literally thought she was going to throw herself at the door. I was too busy with a hardcore scolding of miss Prozac to realize what was happening on my lawn.

“ROOM SERVICE!!! ROOOOOM SERVICE!!!” I thought that was what I heard, in garbled sentences through the front foyer, but then dismissed it. Is someone seriously yelling for me to answer the door? I thought to myself. Surely the man who’s voice was floating through my house was UPS. I was expecting a package, (I didn’t think I would have to sign for towels) but I set a non-too obliging, ravenous Malone down, rearranged my woman parts, and, irritatedly, went for the door. Without even thinking, I opened it. I had to shove my snarling fifty-pounder ball of nerves to the side, but I still opened it.

That was stupid.

There was a chopper in my driveway. I’m not a motorcycle kinda gal but I have to say, this one looked like a Harley. I was too far away to tell, but it definitely had the low riding high handles going on, and the fire down the sides kinda vibe. Pretty sweet. It’s owner, a man dressed in motorcycle paraphernalia (as well as a healthy dose of narcotics) who looked to be in his mid to late 40’s was pacing, standing a good distance back in my yard.

“Mrs, Iris? Is Mrs. Iris here?” He began, immediately. Apparently what I thought was being screamed as ROOM SERVICE but thought I had misunderstood for POSTAL service was actually “MRS. IRIS. Mrs. IRIS.” My bad. {Both made absolutely no sense.}

For a moment, it felt like I was on the phone with someone who reached the wrong number. I didn’t know you were allowed to repeatedly ring someone’s door in the middle of the day and then act all confused in person when they answered.

“Uhhh, No. Iris doesn’t live here,” I responded to a slightly irritated Harv (we’ll call him Harv) as I continued to push the snarling protector, Chloe, back. Harv definitely fit the part with his skinny jeans, white tee and leather vest. And he kind of gave me a funny feeling. Harv was a little off.

I had opened my door to him in the middle of the day.

At this point he continued to pace my yard, examining my home. “Are you sure Iris doesn’t live here?” He looked around and then down at his hand into what looked like a crumpled check. “You haven’t ever gotten a 1400 check slid under your door, have ya?”

“Uhhh, No.” I replied. Looking down at the tile in my entryway, baffled, as if I half expected a check to materialize from nowhere right beside Chloe’s eager feet. Don’t we all wish we found 1400 smacks under our doors?

“You sure?” his voice had an accusatory tone to it.

“Yes, I’m sure.” I replied, my own voice becoming a bit incredulous.

“Do you know where an elderly lady named Iris lives?”

“There’s an elderly lady who lives behind us, but I’m not sure if that’s her,” I responded politely, I was eager to bring the conversation to an end, my hand still perched on the door latch. I’ve seen way too many Oprah’s about following your instincts in the face of rapists and danger. (Even though MY womanly instincts regarding the sex of a baby and pregnancy aren’t exactly up to par as of late, they are regarding psychos in my life.) So I was finished talking. Either that, or sic Chloe on him.

{Pause: If you are a psycho stalker killer and you’re reading my blog, hoping to pounce, I have a big dog. A GIANT SNARLING WHOPPER of a DOG who will rip your guts out as you scream for mercy and I laugh maniacally watching you bleed a slow painful death for trying to take any of my children. I’ll just watch you suffer. What??? Okay I’ll call an ambulance and ask you to wait in the driveway since I won’t want you to ruin my house with your gross blood. But you’ll still be in lots of pain and subsequently, big trouble…}

And then Harv began to ramble. And pace. And ramble some more. And I think he was trying to look into my windows and over my fence. He thought I was hiding Iris. And to be honest, I’ve had my fill with the local psychos lately, so I mumbled something about “Sorry, I have no clue. Good luck” And shut the door.

I decided to call Jamin and laugh, and then I realized Harv was still in the local vicinity. Harv hadn’t left. The chopper was still in my driveway and I couldn’t see Harv anywhere.

I still felt a bit uneasy, so I went around and locked all my doors while I aptly described the rude doorbell ringer / naptime intruder. Jamin was headed home, (it made him nervous) but I told him not to worry about it. He obviously wasn’t here to take us anywhere because he showed up on a chopper. I didn’t see him strapping my kids on his back and riding off into the sunset after he left me bludgeoned on the floor.

He would probs just murder us all with his giant hunting knife I was sure he had hidden in his awesome motorcycle vest. The hit man Harv, Hired out by Kanye.  

Even though his chopper remained parked, blocking my entire driveway, I completely lost sight of Harv for a good ten minutes. When I looked out my window again later, I saw him perched on the curb across the street. That was after he paced nervously in the park. And had a loud convo on his cell with his mob boss regarding a disappearing Iris. Bazaar much?

So, instead of helping Harv the sketchmeister, I did what any normal person with too much apparent time on their hands would do. I ducked out in my window and took ample photos of Harv. In case he came back. And tried to off me. That, and since I couldn’t make this stuff up, you know…a bit of spytastic-I-have-absolutely-no-life-check-out-this-weirdo-on-my-blog-action was definitely in order.

After a while, Harv gave up, lit a ciggy, and puttered off into the sunset, while I praised a formerly scolded Chloe. In the meantime I’ll be searching for Iris, the elderly meth dealer. Maybe she needs a helper. I would love to have 1400 dollars under my door. Harv was certainly ready to get his hands on some goods…

We were beginning to feel like the odds were against us the night before our first ever Mills hizzy garage sale extravaganza.

We’d spent a few days clearing out, prepping and tagging. But our babysitters nearly fell through. There was a seventy percent chance of rain for Saturday. Because of those daunting stats, we decided to hold it in our garage. Only when we went to clear it and make a space for the sellapalooza, we found a rogue can of polyurethane had spilled all over the garage floor. I feared the simply unbearable stinch would drive away potential customers. {That, or make them all incoherently high so they would experience an unexplainable spending spree phenomenon…Could be a good thing.} As we desperately tried to air out the smell, in the grand tradition of our SFR home (Swiss Family Robinson) Jamin found, and then quickly massacred a snake, who had apparently decided to take up residence under a spare cardboard box. {yay.} Side note: I’m speaking too soon, and tempting fate, but I’m kind of wondering why a rabid deer hasn’t dove through our dining room window, or my children all been sprayed by a skunk. A bird pooped on Emmy’s face, and a psychotic wombat from Satan’s lair flitted through our living room, so I’m putting nothing past Mother Nature and her never ending plethora of a secret arsenal at the moment.

The next day, however, the garage sale gods smiled favorably upon us, and apparently sprinkled our home with some good juju selling vibes. The smell was bearable, the sun was shining, my parents were able to babysit, and the snakes were still beheaded.

It turned out to be well worth the trouble. I, at least, consider 350 smacks for something I no longer find useful that’s been sitting in our nooks and crannies taking up valuable real estate, well worth the trouble. People basically paid me to purge my home. I soon got over that fear of the whole public display, strip-me-down-and-circle-my–proverbial-home-cellulite/oh-my-gosh-I-can’t-believe-you-actually-owned-this-brass-duck mentality. I didn’t feel so odd once the cash started rolling in. Old wedding gifts, my unwanted jewelry and Jamin’s Indiana Jones hat sold like hotcakes. {Yes. Jamin had an Indiana Jones hat. Yes. It sold like a hotcake. If by singular hotcake I am referring to the elderly man who nearly beat everyone else down to carry home his new find. No. I didn’t want him to keep it even though I had a childhood crush on Harrison Ford…} Trash truly is treasure when it passes to the right hands.

Most of the people who visited the sale were totally normal. And then, of course, in the secondary Mills grand tradition of attracting the psychos like moths to a flame, magnets to a fridge and fatties to a donut shop…there were the total wierdos/borderline psychopaths who ever so graciously paid us a visit. I’ve decided someone out in the Monty area has placed an ad on Craigslist in the personals. Regarding my mug, the idea of stalking me, and the chance to make guest appearances on my blog. {It’s every freak’s dream, after all. I take great pride in my fabulous ability.}

It started with our first visitors. The sale began at seven, but we decided to welcome the early birds, including the strange woman driving up and down our street at 5:30 in the AM in a giant black beaten up van. Up our small hill and into our garage, the influx of shoppers began. And so did the haggling.

Pause: I get haggling. Really. That’s great if you can do it. You’re basically an idiot or completely loaded if you haven’t haggled for a better deal at some point in your shopping career. But I truly fail to understand the people who obsess over the difference of a dollar. Or fifty cents. It’s one thing if you simply can’t afford it. It’s quite another if you’re just. That. Cheap.

The first group of women to enter our setup, were the ones to break us in. They walked around our sale, molesting and disheveling my obsessively nicely piled goods for nearly fifteen minutes, having overtly and offensively loud conversations about how Janice would like this frame, and they should call Tish to see if she wanted that onesie. This was before placing said purchasable items back in their NON-original spots wrinkled, pulled apart, or nearly broken. They then approached us with their desired finds. The oldest woman, (we’ll call her Rhondalita) made a beeline for me with an armful and asked me to make her a deal on the pile she had in front of her. “How much?” Overeager Rhondalita kept asking edgily. She was swaying back and forth while simultaneously waving money in my face. The combination of the swaying and the molestation of my things made me nervous. Note to Rhondalita: It was six o clock in the morning. I hated to break it to her, but early birds aren’t going to get the good deals. Just the great finds. Simple math. I’m not desperate. DUH.

Rhondalita offered us eight dollars for her finds. Some of these things included brand new frames, a fake coach purse, and a gigantic shelf.

“That’s 25 dollars worth of stuff, “ Jamin said to Rhondalita, after he simply responded to her by going through and reading the PRICE TAGS, adding it all up.

“You won’t come down on any of this?” Rhondalita replied indignantly. She then waved her wadded cash in our faces again. “All I have is eight dollars. That’s all I have. Eight dollars. Let’s see…”

I won’t bore you with the details. Because at this point I think distraction was key for these women. By the time Rhondalita was done bargaining, I was ready to pay her eight dollars to get off my lawn. Leaving was something they couldn’t do soon enough. I came down on a few of my prices, and she returned to her car with her finds, after ever so sloppily replacing the ones she couldn’t “afford.” She then came back nearly a second later to purchase something else. Even though she “only” originally posessed eight dollars. She now had nearly three dollars and haggled us down only to pay us in pennies. PENNIES. Jamin cast me an all too familiar look of annoyance as he politely accepted her cash. He then assisted her in dismantling the two dollar shelf she’d just purchased. Sadly, the time it took to dismantle and load said shelf was not worth ten.

We breathed a sigh of relief as we thought they were ready to leave, when Rhondalita (ever so predictably) headed, for the third time, back up our hill. She wanted to purchase yet another two dollar frame, after she attempted to haggle us down AGAIN. This time, Overeager Rhondalita paid up with a twenty.

Jamin accepted her cash (ever so begrudgingly) and then promptly took his time as he counted her change back to her.

In her own pennies.

• I took another impromptu vacay last week. Again, with the whole, simplifying my life thing, it’s been kind of nice. Three chillins can be more than overwhelming at times. I’ve been busy with a few projs around the house, {more coming soon this week} and I’ve been organizing my site and make it easier to access. Too many people have been all, “What? That was on your blog?” So I’m now all, “Hello. Look at my big pictures. And links. Click on them. And read. Yay.”

As usual, there are more posts below. Have a fabo week!

blue prints and old letters

our innermost sanctum of innermost sanctums...

partay on the playmat