kara

Kara is a military wife and mom to two little handfuls: Crew and Caia. Here is installment number 3 of her column on my Blog "Real in Red Heels." Click here to read her past posts. Stay tuned for updates from a real chic woman who become a mom and now, has no idea where her red heels are!

To Mothers of Mini-People, 

You are beautiful. 

You are beautiful with stains on your shirt, smeared mascara and yoga pants. You are beautiful even though you didn’t wear your yoga pants to work out. You’ve been on your feet for 12 hours and that is a pretty great workout in itself. Not to mention all of the times you sprinted to divert your kids from danger and disasters. Plus, your kids probably help you practice the fine art of portion control by snatching food from your hands, plate, and feeding constantly from your chest. Don’t feel guilty for not working out. 

You, yes you, you are beautiful. You did work out. You have to have the alone time, the endorphin rush and the confidence that your body is stunning and strong, even the parts that are squishy or saggy or stretched. They are gorgeous. They carried life and assisted God with a miracle. Smile at your battle scars, Warrior Women. Don’t Photoshop them away, be defined by them. Some are longing for them.

You, you are beautiful, even you who birthed a child from your heart instead of your body. Welcome to the ranks of motherhood. You, surely, have stretchmarks on your heart from the courage to embrace another’s genetic material wholeheartedly, adopt another fully and expand your family, name and heritage without hesitation… for some on a moment’s notice, too. You answered the call to love and accept a precious person born from another mother and it’s likely been costly, inconvenient and SO very worth it. 

You are enough. 

Absolutely enough whether you have nourished a baby from a bottle or your breast, do not feel guilty. Great work! You are keeping a totally helpless little thing alive through your diligence and dedication. You did great, epidural or not, c-section or otherwise. Do not have remorse if your birth story has little in common with your birth plan. You were strong and courageous. You have superpowers and they include going with the flow when life throws you curve balls. 

Your parenting style is perfect. Perfectly scheduled or perfectly chaotic. It’s perfectly you. You are doing your best. You make judgment calls constantly. Parenting is not a black and white endeavor. We live in a world of gray matter. Everyone has a theory and bag of tricks that worked for them. But, you are different and so are your kids. 

Each. 
One. 
Of. 
Them. 

Don’t beat yourself up for the pile of unread parenting books on your nightstand. Good for you. I bet you are so busy parenting that you haven’t had much time to read (or sleep, or eat, or use the restroom alone.) Sleep does a body good so when the choice to read a parenting book or Google another theory or take a nap comes around, I suggest sleep. Rest your weary soul, your burning eyes and achy muscles. Rest your mind that questions and second-guesses. 

You are doing great. 

You are appointed to these mini-people. They were given to you, specifically. Guard their hearts. Do your best to guard their minds and bodies, too, but toxins and toxic people are everywhere. Teach them to think for themselves and choose well. Teach them to survive and speak up. Teach them their feelings are valid and should be named and expressed. 

Teach them that love is a verb. Teach them that Grace is a verb too. 

You will make mistakes. You will feel inadequate. Do not dwell in a place of insecurity and inadequacy. Do not compare yourself to other mothers or your children to theirs. It is a waste of time and, honey, you do not have time to waste. 

Be unique. 
Be confident. 
Accept your Calling. 

Most importantly, accept Grace for yourself and let it flow through you to them. You are more than enough for this challenge. You are plenty, but when you doubt it ask for help. It takes more strength to accept help than to do it alone. 

Carry on (literally, right? I know you feel like a pack mule.) You will always remember these times. I pray the endless wiping of bottoms, noses, counters, floors and tears will be etched into your heart. 

Never forget this season, because someday you will be able to help an exhausted, struggling, questioning mom of mini-people. 

I pray that your expectations will be managed and seasoned moms will mentor you. After all, mom’s of all ages need support and solidarity instead of criticism and competition. 

I am thankful for the women in my life, especially my mom, who taught me these lessons. You are Gracious. You are beautiful. You are wise with womanly instinct and I love having you on my team. 

Love, Kara — with Cindy Raynor DeMent.

Real in Red Heels: Christmas Letters

Kara is a military wife and mom to two little handfuls: Crew and Caia. Here is installment number 3 of her column on my Blog "Real in Red Heels." Click here to read her past posts. Stay tuned for updates from a real chic woman who become a mom and now, has no idea where her red heels are!

I may sound like a scrooge, but I assure you I’m not.  I LOVE Christmas more and it is my favorite time of year.  

…Until a week after Thanksgiving when my mailbox is flooded with Christmas cards and letters from my friends and family.   Please don’t take this the wrong way and please don’t delete us from your list.  Everyone looks SO cute and their little (or lengthy) letters make them sound SO perfect.   At times, I read them and smile, then lay them down on the counter and feel guilty.  In a silly way, they make me feel like a bad mom.  I feel like a bad mom, because I haven’t written a letter to brag on how amazing my kids are, but I have posted 200 Facebook statuses documenting their comical antics throughout the year.  I feel like a bad mom, because despite being a (sort of) photographer, I have very few family pictures of ALL of us that I love… let alone, love enough to print in mass quantity and expect people to look at on the fridge for a year.   I feel bad, because I just lied.  I don’t hang anything on my fridge, because I am a little bit OCD and it bugs me to look at clutter.  If I don’t hang photos of my own children on the fridge, I probably won’t hang photos of yours (even though I love your kids!)  My kids don’t sit still and they do not smile on cue so our family shots look more like circus shots or mug shots.  They get dirty faster than my highest shutter speed can snap a picture and that is 1/4,000^th of a second!!   I feel like a bad mom, because I would rather poke my eyes out than stay up late at night printing, signing, stuffing, stamping and addressing envelopes.    I feel like a bad mom, because I don’t even have most of your addresses!   Seven years ago, I collected them all for wedding invitations and made a Google spreadsheet of important addresses.   Do you know how many times twenty-something’s and military friends move in seven years?  I haven’t even tried to keep up and I feel bad for the friends and family that try to keep up with us.  Truthfully, we have had so many addresses that I freak out when I get gas and have to type in my zip code to use my credit card.   My card has actually been declined at the pump, because I had attempted too many zip codes and it appeared to be a fraudulent transaction.   I feel like a bad mom, because I am too cheap to spend $100 on cards and postage.   We spend it on care packages for troops, kids in need and airfare to visit people in person during the holidays.   It’s a nice tradition and all, but I just can’t buy into it, figuratively or literally. 

If you mail out photocards and letters, please don’t take this as judgment.   It isn’t at all!  It may be jealousy for your organization, dedication and adorableness.   The closest I’ve ever come was a digital slideshow and I sent out a link to “Go Green and Stay Out Of The Red.”   Traditionalists may think that is tacky, but we got a positive response.   Whatever works, right?

I’ve written an electronic letter this year.   It is from the perspective of my 8 month old daughter and it isn’t exactly a brag letter.   It is very real and sarcastic.  I hope you find it to be refreshing.   I hope that someday, about a decade from now, I will read it in her baby book and grin.  I will think of this tumultuous time and tell myself that I wasn’t a bad mom after all, but an exhausted mom trying her hardest to prioritize. 

Without further ado, here is our family Christmas letter that you’ll never get in the mail… 

Merry Christmas!

2013 was a pretty big year for me.   I was born so that was a pretty fantastic moment for mankind and the world.   It was a fast and easy delivery for my mom and I won her favor from the beginning.  I even slept well for the first four months… just long enough for my parents to tell everyone that they had an angel baby.  Syke. It was a really good joke, but I played them.  Four months ago, I decided to stop sleeping through the night and stopped acting like a sweet, mellow child.   I’ve developed into a sassy, slobbering, smiley girl that acts more like a puppy.  My favorite hobbies include blowing raspberries at people, growling at strangers, roughhousing and wrestling with my brother, escaping from everything, getting wrestled into fresh diapers and clothes, eating crumbs and treasures off of the floor, (actually just eating anything), swimming, and playing with Crew’s toy cars and airplanes.  After all, SOMEONE had to teach that boy how to share!  I respond particularly well to the statement “you’re beautiful!” and say “Da-Da” when I hear the garage door open meaning my dad is home from work.  I refuse to say “Mama” and it’s making her crazy.   She blabs on and on with a monologue about how she does everything for me and I can show my appreciation by uttering two simple syllables, but I’m holding out on her.   My plan is that I won’t say mama until my second birthday.  Bahaha.  Guess what else? I have ninja coordination and rock climbing skills.   I was playing with my brother yesterday in the living and when my mom walked into the kitchen, I snuck away, climbed all the way upstairs silently and stealthily and played in my brother’s room.  I did all of that in two minutes while she heated up a pre-made meal.   I regularly play in the dishwasher and trash can and take the phrase “one man’s trash is another man’s treasure literally.”   She says I’m going to give her gray hair and a heart attack.   I’m bald so hair, gray or otherwise, sounds good to me.  I’m in the 4^th percentile for height and 50^th for weight so basically, I’m a compact version of awesome. 

Can we talk about my brother? Woah.  He is intense and really loud.  I think his volume control is defective.   He NEVER. STOPS. TALKING.   Like, EVER. He likes science and asks mommy hard questions about the food chain, the weather, marine life and meteorology.  He asks questions like “Are dinosaurs fake or real?” when he is being tucked in at night.  He has a lot of helpful tricks and tips for dragging bedtime out.  I am learning his ways.   We should get gold stars for stalling.  Crew is completely obsessed with airplanes.  He carries them everywhere.  He has about 20 model planes and he even bathes and sleeps with them.  I steal them sometimes and polish them up with slobber.    He doesn’t like it, but he washes them and sends them to the maintenance shop (AKA every kitchen cabinet).  Everything is turned into an aircraft carrier, runway or control tower.  I know I’m only 8 months old, but I am already SICK of hearing about airplanes.   I have heard about landing gear, wing flaps and vertical stabilizers a million times.   He talked to some WW2 vets at the Boeing Air Museum this year and they showed him missile hatches. Crew steals AA batteries now and drops them from his airplanes as missiles. My parents are concerned about that on many levels. 

Crew likes to cook, sing and take electronics apart too.  He loves me a lot and we make each other laugh.  We are going to be lifelong friends… even though he is a big can of crazy!  

My dad is wrapped around my little (egh.. chubby) finger.  I give him a big, gummy grin and kick my legs around like a wild woman when I see him come home from work.  It is the best part of his day.  

Seriously, can someone get the number for Clinton and Stacy on What Not To Wear? My mom needs a makeover.   She has bags under her eyes, her hair is usually in a bun and she usually wears hoodies and UGG-ly boots.   It can be so humiliating to be seen with her in public.   She tries hard, but she gets worn out getting up all night with me, carving watermelons into sea turtle snacks, taking us on trips and teaching Crew his letters.    After a lot of coaxing, she got Crew to practice writing some letters this week.  He wrote “Ho” all on his own and now he writes Ho on every blank piece of paper he can find.   It is hilarious.  Maybe he is trying to tell me mom that she looks like a Ho-Bo?!   I hope he doesn’t mean anything else by it!?

Anyway, it’s late and I’m off to bed.  I am going to wait until the house gets quiet and my mom gets settled in bed and starts to doze off and then I’ll cry.  It’s hilarious.   It is like an April Fool’s joke every time she lays down.  It’s a trick I read on the Internet to guarantee that I am the last child, the only girl and the baby of the family.  It’s working out well! 

Merry Christmas from my crib to yours!

Love, Caia

Real in Red Heels: Halloweird

Kara is a military wife and mom to two little handfuls: Crew and Caia. Here is installment number 2. Click here to read her introductory post! Stay tuned for updates from a real chic woman who become a mom and now, has no idea where her red heels are!

Crew as "Dusty the Cropduster." Caia as "Amelia Earhart" by day and "Kara Sally" my Cabbage Patch doll by night.

It's 10:30am and this has already been a very long and very weird day. It's so weird that I'm renaming today "Halloweird."

Full Disclosure:  I have mixed emotions about Halloween.  Growing up, it was always an awkward holiday for me.  As a Christian family, we weren't into the creepy side of the holiday.   I was privileged to be Bible characters like Esther for "Harvest Parties" or leave school early to have ice cream with my friends while the other kids participated in costume parades.  (Although in 3rd grade, I got to stay and participate since we each had to dress up as an adjective and naturally, my adjective was short.)  Anyway, halloween is on a very, very, VERY short list of things in my childhood that were strange and that I wanted to change.  As a family of our own, we chose not to over-analyze the day and make it awkward for our kids.  We see it as a day to be creative with costumes that aren't creepy and visit with our neighborhood friends while we eat candy.  We all love candy.  Candy can't be controversial.  

Understanding my worldview, my creative side is off and running with things this year.  I saw an ADORABLE idea on Pinterest for my baby girl and enlisted the help of Philip's aunt in Minneapolis to knit something.   It came in the mail yesterday and I proceeded to finish her costume and a large accessory that needed to be painted.   I stood in the garage in 30 degree weather at 10pm painting a box to cover her stroller.  

My son asked to be Dusty, the Cropduster from the movie Planes.  He loves everything related to aviation.  I think families that have a united costume theme have more fun so I regroup.  The baby and I can have a morning costume that goes with his and an evening costume that goes with my original plan.  I'm going to be an airline stewardess, my baby girl is going to be Amelia Earhart and my husband a pilot.    Of course, I'm a little cheap and don't want to spend too much on silly costumes when that money could be used for better things so I do all kinds of digging, repurposing and borrowing to get it together.  It didn't take any effort at all.  ::eye roll::  We have to decorate our trunk for my son's preschool "Trunk or Treat," so naturally I stayed awake until all hours of the night wrapping it with blue wrapping paper while cutting out clouds to make it look like the sky.  I follow the preschool guidelines to offer snacks that aren't too sugary and decide to pass out bags of pretzels from a basket.  Get it? I'll be a stewardess passing out pretzels, because peanuts would be WAY too controversial.  (Everyone has an allergy these days, in case you missed the memo.)     

I go to bed at 11pm.  I wake up with the baby at 1am, 3am and 5am.  By 5am, my mind is racing with the rest of today's to-do's.   I get up and make 4 dozen sugar cookies that look like pumpkins.  I make an apple-cinnamon oatmeal bake and even homemade marinara while I'm at it.  It is amazing how productive a woman can be while the rest of the house is asleep. 

Then, my son wakes up and says his ear hurts.  .1243209 seconds later, he seems fine.  He says it again and I send him up to his dad, because he is more helpful in this arena and I am slowly, but surely rolling, cutting and baking away... tray after tray after tray.  Hip, hip, hooray.  (Sorry, I'm sleep deprived and read too many children's books that rhyme.)

I hurry and get my son to preschool with just enough time to stop at the store for last minute items, run home, shower and change out of my hobo clothes.  (Seriously.  Mismatching sweats, bun on my head, bags under my eyes... bad!)  I went to the Dollar Store and even felt embarrassed there. (See? That's pretty bad.)  On my way out, I get a phone call from the preschool teacher that he threw up and that I needed to turn around and come get him immediately.  Ugh.  Throw up. Ugh.  Now?  I simultaneously felt relieved that we could all go home and sleep and simultaneously annoyed that after ALL of this effort, the game is over, the show is canceled and we are going home.  He can't participate in his first Halloween at school activity ever.  How ironic?! 

I go and pick him up and his preachool teacher is in the bathroom with him, calm, caring and loving.  My son is jabbering away talking about his art project.  The teacher said "He seems fine now. Completely normal."  We get in the car and he asked for candy, then proceeded to ask 983 questions about missing Trunk or Treat and Trick or Treating later with the neighbors.  He sang all the way home and waltzed in the door to find sugar cookies on the counter.  He was ready for one, or two or ten, but I intercepted and told him to keep his germs far, far away from the kitchen which made him cry.   So here I am with a "sick" kid who is acting normal, 60 unfinished sugar cookies, a giant pot of sauce without meatballs and several costumes that may or may not be used.  

My son keeps asking for treats, the baby is on my lap while I type this and my husband is watching ESPN while asking "why I'm typing so furiously?" I don't know what to say, at least to him.  I'm relieved, annoyed, exhausted and humored by it all.  Hindsight is 20/20 and I don't think my parents sheltered us from this holiday for "religious reasons," I think it was because they were too stinkin' tired to take on any additional projects.  It was strategic and smart.  Taking your kid out for ice cream is so much easier and cheaper!  Was anyone else shocked by the sticker price of dwindling bags of midget candy? Halloween is exhausting and expensive.  

 Halloween. Halloweird.  Hallo-we-don't-need-more-work!   

P.S. My parents dressed up as Willie and Kori from Duck Dynasty and passed out candy at their church's Trunk or Treat this year.  How progressive, huh? 

Real in Red Heels

I am so excited to introduce a new special feature on my blog! My friend Kara has agreed to begin contributing to a (hopefully) weekly column we are going to call "REAL IN RED HEELS." Here is installment number 1. Stay tuned for hopefully more of a real chic woman who become a mom and now, has no idea where her red heels are!

Yes! That's me and my husband taken during pregnancy #1.

Hello webby friends! I’m Kara and I’m half the woman that our dear Wendi is. I am half of her height and have half as many children. Surprisingly, I am just as worn out, and she says that my two might be more exhausting than her four!

I’m going to let you in on a little secret ... I used to have it together. By “together,” I mean that my house was always clean according to my OCD standards, our dinners were homemade and fancy and my outfits usually matched and were actually a little bit stylish. Don’t get me wrong, my 5’0" self never modeled for Vogue and InStyle never called me for interviews, but I embraced fashion and used it as a way of expressing myself. I used to be a jet-setter and have traveled to many countries around the world. It’s a story for another day, but I even studied abroad in Africa, alone, at 21 years old. I did an internship in a second language and survived a military coup and malaria, simultaneously. I thought I was pretty tough, smart and independent. In many ways, I did possess those traits, but I was incredibly naïve when it came to love, marriage and babies in a baby carriage.

Then one cold, gray February day, I bore a son and became a mom. Other than a few awful HOURS of him crowning without any painkillers, it was a perfect day. 

(You read that right, sweet virtual sisters, he crowned for 2.5 hours but wouldn’t come out.)  

The second day, he started to cry and he wouldn’t sleep. He screamed all night long until I was physically shaking from exhaustion. My husband wasn’t in the hospital room that second night, because he was home sleeping after being at the hospital for 48 hours. He was a resident physician (with Wendi’s stellar hubby), and he was busy delivering another woman’s child when I arrived at the hospital. 

(I should have known then that this parenting journey was going to be the adventure of all adventures!)

My son cried for weeks and weeks and didn’t sleep through the night until 11 months old. It turned out that he had reflux and was an early teether, but in the moment, I was confused and so. very. tired. I took four showers a day, because we were both covered often in spit-up. I was clean, but a rumpled mess. I lived in t-shirts and yoga pants.  

Okay, I lied.

I saved the yoga pants for my dressing up days when people were coming over and wore t-shirts, giant hoodies and pajama pants most of the time. My chic wardrobe turned into cottons only and my most frequent accessory was spit-up. My hair was most frequently fashioned into a bun, but not a beautiful ballerina bun, more like a sloppy knot on top of my head away from the death-grip of sticky baby hands.

I looked awful for an entire year and this is from the girl who wore high heels to the L&D and left the hospital in a dress, leggings and high heels with my baby in a Moby Wrap.

Seriously.

I did that.

We even stopped at the store so we could pick up fresh groceries on the way home. I literally wandered the aisles of the commissary with an ice pad under a dress in high heels with a baby strapped to me.

You are actually laughing out loud, aren’t you?
It cracks me up now.
I started to get my groove back by the time my son turned two years old. I had caught up on my sleep again, reorganized my house and started doing creative things like baking cakes with fondant, taking pictures and wearing socially-acceptable outfits.
It was great.
Then, I got pregnant again.
Back to baggy clothes and leggings and practical shoes like ballet flats (or slippers.) I live in a cold, northern climate and I did the thing that I swore I would never do and bought Uggs.
Okay, I lied again.
They aren’t real Ugg’s, because those babies are expensive. I wore knock-off Ugg’s -- Fugg’s.
Here I am with a 3.5 year old wild child of a son and a sassy, spunky 6 month old. I spent three hours getting them to sleep tonight, and my husband is gone again. He’s a good man, but the military trumps our marriage so I’ve been a single-parent for the past month. During which, my lovely baby has started teething fast and furiously and has stopped sleeping through the night.
Perfect.
Who needs sleep?
In all honesty, I looked at the clock this afternoon expecting it to say 6:30pm and it said 3:30pm. Ahhh. Have you ever had one of those days? The kind when you think the power must have gone out and messed up your clocks, because there is NO WAY that it could ONLY be 3 o’clock in the afternoon?
I am at that crazy place again.
It’s the tired, frumpy, try-not-to-be-grumpy mom stage. My hair is back in a bun, my pants have babyfood on them, and I have only worn make-up three times this month. I should be legally required to wear mascara and concealer under my eyes, but I haven’t, because I don’t want to waste the time or product on a preschooler and a baby. I have a joke that the other parents at my son’s preschool must think we are homeless. If you think I am joking, these are the cartoons that have been sent to me by my friends and neighbors THIS WEEK!

I hope they made you smile. If you have little kids at home, I hope you feel encouraged. I want to normaliz mama’s!

In line with me "keepin' it real", here is my maternity photo from pregnancy #2. A far cry from pregnancy #1, don't you think?