Camping? Not Me, Thanks.

Memorial Day Weekend makrks not only the unofficial kickoff of summer, but also of camping season. And once upon a time, I was one of those outdoor enthusiasts who gladly packed up the car and headed for the wilderness, where I could wipe my ass with poison ivy and shower in subzero water.

Not anymore.

Why? Because of one too many poison ivy rashes and subzero showers, of course.

I used to be made of hardier stuff. Growing up, most vacations found us calling a tent home, whether we were in the No Man's Land that is the Upper Penninsula of Michigan or the sunny beaches of South Carolina.

I once washed my hair in Lake Superior (which is the same temperature as a frozen Hell, for those of you not in the know).

I once got a severe case of diarrhea when the only toilet I had access to was a stinking Port-a-Potty baking under a 90-degree sun.

I once stomped on a fire ant hill and ran screaming back to my mom with armies of stinging red hellions traveling up my thighs.

But at the time, I thought nothing of it. Those adventures were just part of the Camping Experience.

Experiences that also included swimming in ocean surf, collecting Hermit Crabs in buckets, roasting marshmallows on an open fire and giggling with my brother in our own "Grown-Up Tent" after lights out.

Then I grew up. Well, maybe not "up," but older. Old enough to have my own set of car keys, friends and camping equipment. And camp we did.

My best friend and I once camped in weather that reached freezing temperatures at night, in the rain, then washed off in the aforementioned sub-zero showers.

Before we were married, my husband and I once went camping on Lake Michigan—in an area where the water, warmed by the nuclear power plant just at the other end of the beach, was decorated with used condoms and empty beer bottles.

Not to be deterred, the next summer we set out for a campground on Lake Huron, only to be awakened in the middle of the night by a tornado siren. After spending several hours praying to a nameless God as I sat shivering and drenched on a pitch black beach (we were told that the tornado would turn back before it hit the water), I vowed never to camp again.

But it wasn't until a weekend of rustic camping (i.e. peeing in the woods), left me with a poison ivy rash up and down my legs and thighs so bad that they were swollen to the size of tree trunks that I made good on my promise.

While smearing myself with Calomine lotion and popping steroids, I swore never to camp again. And I haven't.

Because of this, our vacations have become much less frequent (a clearing in the woods is way cheaper than a hotel, yo), but significantly more pleasurable.

When it rains? I can go inside.

When an unexpected cold patch hits? I can turn up the heat.

When a tornado threatens? Well, I still quake in my boots, but at least I'm dry while I do so.

So, all you hardy, I-don't-need-no-cushy-mattress types, enjoy your mosquito-ridden, rain-soaked weekends. I'll be toasting you from inside my air-conditioned living room, munching on s'mores roasted in my microwave.

Cheers!

From Couch To Frustration.

The Couch To 5K is a fine, fine program. I'm in my fourth week (although redoing week three), and so far I've heard nary a protest from my knee, ankle or back, which means I must be doing something right.

But damn is it frustrating.

I remember when I could run four miles. Four! Uphill. Barefoot. Through the snow. Okay, maybe not that last part. But the point is, I could run pretty dang far, and it felt good.

But now?

Now I'm huffing and puffing and generally making a fool out of myself as I trot past garage sale attendees and playing kids and dog walkers.

Now I'm looking at my iPod every five seconds to see how. much. longer. untilthetorturestops.

Now I'm red-faced and sweating and pulling at the shorts that are riding up my too fat thighs.

Now I'm miserable. Miserable and only running three minutes at a stretch (and I'm using the term "running" very loosely).

It makes me long for the good old days. Those summer days two years ago, before pregnancy and those three abdominal surgeries.

The days when I could run.

I know I'll get there again. I just have to keep at it, keep working, and ignore the frustration.

Bur damn, I wish there was a fast forward button.

A Moment For Thanks.

I am thankful...
For the fiery blast of sweet smelling air that hits my face when I walk outside.
For the blessed coolness that caresses my skin when I walk back in.
And for the flats of rainbow-hued flowers waiting to brighten my garden.

I am thankful…
For the evenings spent watching Tori splash under the hose.
For the days that lengthen far into the night.
And for the cricket and frog symphony that lulls me to sleep.

I am thankful…
For the sunshine that flickers across my closed eyelids on a lazy afternoon.
For the cool grass that tickles my feet as I walk across my yard.
And for the warm trickles that fall from my hands as I play with Tori in the sand.

I am thankful…
For the sandals that free my feet from their suffocating winter prison.
For the whirly skirts that swirl around my legs.
And for the sleeveless tops that welcome the freckles back to my shoulders.

I am thankful…
For the scent of grilling hamburgers racing on the wind.
For the cool drips of condensation flowing down a glass of lemonade.
And for the creamy goodness of the season’s first ice cream cone.

I am thankful…
For picnics in the park.
For afternoons at the beach.
And for long holiday weekends.

I am thankful for summer.

What are you thankful for? Link up at Alli 'n Son and tell us!

Tori Walks!

Tori took her first steps almost two weeks ago. And ever since, I've been trying to capture them on film.

Well, I am lots of things, but a master cinematographer is not one of them. So it took me a while to get anything. This was my first sort of successful attempt:



But I wasn't satisfied with the amount of walking shown. So, after numerous attempts, I got this:



Forgive the shaky camera work, and the lack of editing (I can't figure out how the dang program works). But we have walking...and now there's proof.

And yes I know, I'll never sit again. The thing is, I wasn't aware that I ever got to sit before!

Top Ten Signs You Have Baby Fever.

I do not need another baby right now. In fact, I'd go so far as to say a baby is the last thing I need right now. It's taken 14 months to feel like I have any idea what I'm doing. To feel anything other than tired and frazzled, as a matter of fact.

But part of me really wants another baby.

That's right, people. I have a small case of baby fever. How do I know? Well, gee, I thought you'd never ask. Here we go...the top ten signs you're jonesing for a babe.

Pictures of wrinkly, newborn babies bring a tear to your eye. And not one of remembered pain, but one of "ohmygodsheissocutecanaIhaveonenowplease?"

You attempt to sell your child's outgrown clothes, but can't bring yourself to do it.  Because, sure, you have no plans to get pregnant again, but what if you did? And what if it was another girl? A girl who conveniently enough, was born at the exact same time of year? Then you'd want those clothes again, wouldn't you?

You start rationalizing why you don't really need the guest bedroom in your head. After all, you only have guests once every other month or so. Besides, those pull-out couches are surprisingly comfy! And hey, they could always sleep in your bed...

You start keeping track of your cycle again. You know. Just in case.

You look at pregnant bellies, and instead of smiling in sympathy, you have to stomp down a pang of jealousy.

You start sentences with "next time..." I'll exercise all the way through. And I'll watch what I eat. And...

You allow yourself to picture driving a minivan. And you don't feel the urge to vomit.

Speaking of vomit, you tell yourself morning sickness wasn't that bad. After all, it only lasted a couple of months. And those preggo pops were awfully tasty...

You give yourself a mental high five when your husband slips and says things like "our kids" (plural).

You find that you're almost disappointed when your period arrives on time. Not that you were "trying" but...

So yeah. I think I have baby fever. But I'm pretty sure I can wait this one out. Kind of sure. Sure I am.

How about you? How do you know when you're suffering from an acute case of GimmeABabyNows? And how 'bout you go visit Oh Amanda and spread some Top Ten Tuesday sugar around?

My Daughter, the Bottle-holic.

At Tori's twelve month appointment, my pediatrician looked sternly at me over her glasses and asked, "is she still getting bottles?"

When I shamefacedly admitted that yes, I hadn't even attempted to wean her from her naptime and bedtime bottles, she launched into a full-blown lecture.

I had better do it sooner rather than later, she said.

Every day I waited, I made the eventual trauma of having to go bottle-less a little worse for Tori. Delay too long and I might as well start a savings account to pay for her future therapy bills.

Plus, Tori's teeth were in danger of rotting out of her head and when they did, she'd be the only second-grader with dentures in Bloomington.

So, the pediatrician advised, I should just start replacing the milk in her bottles with water, and before anyone could yell "say cheeeeeese," she'd be off the bottle and on her way to a picture perfect smile.

Thoroughly cowed, I swore to follow my physician's sage advice.

The day after Tori's appointment, I replaced the milk in her bedtime bottle with some warm water. But when I gave it to her? She took one short guzzle before making a horrified face and throwing it clear across the room.

And her screams? Might just have pierced the sound barrier.

Needless to say, I went and got her some milk.

The next night, I tried the old switcheroo again, with equally painful results.

And again the next.

And after that? I gave up. There is only so much pain my ear drums can stand, you know?

Besides, I like (make that love) those few quiet moments we get together while she drinks her bottle. She curls up on my lap in the big blue chair and grabs her bottle with one hand while she runs the other through my hair. Meanwhile, I bury my nose in the sweet grassy scent of her head, close my eyes and enjoy her warm, heavy stillness.

Then, when she's done, she turns around in my arms and chatters at me, playing with my lips and beeping my nose. I beep her back and together we giggle, reconnecting after the long hours apart. It's easily one of the best parts of my whole day.

So yes, my daughter's a bottle-holic. But while they say the first step is admitting you have a problem, I'm not ready to do anything about it yet.

Is it so wrong to want to hang tight to this last little bit of baby-ness just a little longer?

Who Wants to Vote on My New Header?

My husband, creative maestro that he is, has decided he wants to start designing blogs. So, of course I told him he could start with mine. What we've come up with so far is a drastic departure from what I currently have, so I thought I'd put out feelers before it becomes reality.

Obviously, this is rough. But what do you guys think? If we go this route, I'm thinking my tag could be something like "writing my way through life, one wrong turn at a time." Maybe.

Be honest (but as nicely as you can, please).