I'm not a blogger {but I play one on Facebook}

For the last two years or so, Consider Me Krysten has been the place I bring random bits of writing. I don’t have a format, or a theme, or any sort of schedule. It’s technically on blogspot but, I’ve never really felt like it was a blog. In fact, when people call it a blog, it makes me feel a little sheepish, a little imposter-ish, a little like a big fat phony. Not that I don’t love it here but, let’s be honest, I’ve never really gotten into the swing of the whole blog thing.

While (secretly) reading a few other blogs this morning, I started thinking about what it is about Consider Me Krysten that makes me feel like I have no right to group myself in with actual bloggers.

Here’s my top 10:

1. I don’t do fashion.

Like, at all. I hate shopping for clothes and when I do buy something other than work pants or pajama pants, it usually comes from Target or Walmart. Like, for real. I don’t do clothes, I don’t do accessories, I have never been to Charming Charlie or Forever 21 or Anthropology or Banana Republic. I usually go ‘shopping’ once a year. Like, “Let’s go into all of these cool stores and try things on and Ooh and Ahh over fabrics and prints and patterns” shopping and that’s when my BFF makes me go as part of her birthday weekend. I’m only there for the company. I don’t try things on.

I NEVER actually buy anything.

2. I don’t do Pinterest.

Not really. I mean, I like E-cards and the Humor section. I pin the occasional idea or nerdy tid bit. I often ‘like’ other people’s pins. I’ve never actually looked at something, pinned it and then later, made it, cooked it, built it or wore it.

3. I don’t do selfies and my Instagram pictures aren’t very exciting.  

With the exception of the occasional “Hey, Kid, come here and let’s play with the camera on my iPhone” picture, I don’t do self portraits. I think in order to feel like I had a good reason to post a picture of myself, I’d have to be wearing something trendy, have a new necklace on or have some cool, Pinterest inspired hairstyle to share which, if you read number 1 and 2, you’ll know that I…don’t. Like, ever. The pictures that I do post usually involve some over-the-top cute thing one of my kids is doing or some random something or other I can’t help but share. It took me three weeks to figure out how to make a collage, another three to figure out what some of the Instagram lingo meant and another two to figure out hashtags. I only follow people I know and no one follows me that I haven’t met in real life.

Bloggers are good at Instagram. I’m not.

4. I don’t do giveaways.

I don’t even know what language that is. I see these giveaways on blogs but, I wouldn’t know the first thing about actually having one.

5. I don’t have a niche.

If someone were to ask any one of my readers from Facebook, “What’s her blog about?” I’m pretty sure the answer would be, “Um, well, I’m not sure what it’s about but, I like reading it.” I’m not a hippie or a bible thumper. I don’t coupon or meal plan. I let my baby sleep in my bed because I’m tired and lazy, not because I strongly advocate co-sleeping. I breastfeed because it’s convenient and free, not because I have a super strong hatred towards formula companies or think that breastfeeding is the one and only way. I don’t have a definite political stance on anything. I have about 15 things that I cook for dinner on a regular basis, at least two of them are considered breakfast, and not one of them has a ‘recipe’ that you couldn’t find on the back of a Campbell’s can or box of Bisquick. When I need to know how to get a stain out, I Google it. I don’t workout on a regular basis. I’ve never had a big, life altering transformation that I could ‘blog’ about regularly. In fact, I don’t really do anything ‘regularly’ enough to blog about at all. Seriously, the only thing I do ‘regularly’ is NOT something you want to read about.

Trust me.  

6. I don’t know how to make blogger friends.

My BFF recently went to a Blogging conference where she met up with a bunch of women who she has become friends with in bloggy-land. She has emailed these ladies a million times, commented on their blogs and they’ve commented on hers. She follows them on Instagram and they follow her back. When she met them in real life, she felt like she already knew them. She had a blast and posted the whole thing both on her blog and on Instagram. I don’t know how to do that.

I’m blogger handicapped.  

7. I don’t craft.

This sort of goes hand in hand with Pinterest and having a niche but, I’ve noticed that when a lot of bloggers seem to run out of things to blog about, they post some sort of DIY, which is cool if, you know, you’re crafty but, I’m not. Michael’s freaks me out. I only own a hot glue gun because it was pink and five bucks and I felt like, because I was a mom, I should own one, ya’ know?

I think I’ve used it twice.

8. I don’t know how to make a ‘button' and I don’t speak ‘sponsor.’

Just about any blog I’ve ever read has this thing on the side that says, grab my button. There is usually also a bunch of buttons from other bloggers with a title that says, meet my sponsors or something like that.

Um, I’ll be real honest. I don’t know what either of these things mean.  

9. I don’t Tweet.

When I have those days where I feel like maybe I want to try and play real Blogger, I’ll call the BFF and ask for advice. She usually advises me to follow people on Instagram (Which we’ve already decided I don’t do) and suggests Tweeting. She’s built an amazing fan base using Twitter. I know that just about everyone has a Twitter account. I do have one (I think) and I’ve used it maybe twice. It confuses and intimidates me, which is ridiculous.

It’s also the honest to Jesus truth.

10. I don’t have haters.

I am in NO WAY complaining about this. I love that all 50 or so of my readers from Facebook usually have either nice things to say or nothing at all.  I have noticed, however, that any blog I read usually has a comment or two where someone has their panties in a bunch about something. They’re pissed because the blogger is too happy, too bitchy, too brash, too sad. They offer their opinion about how the blogger chooses to feed their kid, be a wife, raise their children, handle their Elf on a Shelf. No one seems to be dissatisfied with what I share, which raises a question: If you post a blog and no one is pissed off, does the post actually exist?

I wouldn’t know, I’m not a real blogger. I just play one on Facebook.

Happy Thursday, Friends.

go. do. be.

Mama Misses People

Yesterday afternoon, I was sitting on the back porch while Jeremy shared a story with me. He had his back to the door and couldn’t see Brodie behind him, who was placing sticky, three year old hands all over my freshly Windexed door. I made a quick motion for B to move his hands and before J could turn around, B had disappeared. J then looked at me, puzzled, and asked, “Who are you talking to?” and for a minute, I think he actually thought I had lost my damn mind. After I explained that B had been there just a second before, he said, “Oh, I thought you were talking to yourself in the reflection. I was going to suggest that you get out more.”

Oh, Hubby. If you only knew how much I needed to.

When I woke up this morning, after I changed Baby E and stuck a nipple in her mouth, I grabbed my iPhone and opened every social media app on it. At 6:30 am, however, there isn’t usually a whole lot happening and I found myself totally bummed. I realized that I was feeling isolated and would have given anything to read about someone’s traffic jam or spilled coffee or tantrum throwing toddler. I just wanted to interact with someone, anyone, out there in the ‘real world.’ It then occurred to me that, while social media is great, it is not, in fact, the ‘real world’ at all.  It was at that moment that the light bulb above my head turned on and I figured out that I miss people.  

Desperately.

I desperately miss people.

I miss grumpy customers and chatty co-workers. I miss talking to the hung-over guy at the bar at 7 am as he drones on and on about his latest love-gone-wrong. I miss reliving my youth through my 20 something friends at work with no kids and laughing about their biggest problems being things like where to spend spring break or who’s going to feed my cats while I’m in Vegas for the weekend. I miss talking to the Barista at the Starbucks next door about business or the crazy homeless lady who won’t leave our complex. I miss the old man at the counter who says totally inappropriate things but no one gets offended because, well, because he’s an old man and he tips well. I miss telling stories that take an hour because we’re talking in between running food and re-filling coffee. I miss my boss, with her, “So, you wanna hear my story…” which usually involves a trip to the ER with one of her kids or some crazy fight she’s had with her husband.

Yes, yes Amanda, I desperately want to hear your story.

I really do love being home with my kids. They’re entertaining and amazing and really very easy to get along with. But, there are only so many conversations I can have about Power Rangers. And it’s not that Jeremy isn’t great company, because he is. On the weekends, when we’re lying around watching random marathons on Netflix or hanging out in the backyard joking about how much therapy our kids are going to need later in life, I’m not lonely at all. But, Jeremy works long hours so that I can work short ones. During the week he’s up at 2:30 in the morning. He goes to bed early and the hours that he’s home are often spent cooking, doing dishes, hushing babies, brushing teeth, disciplining crazy kids and getting ready to do it all over again the next day.  

If I would have taken a normal maternity leave, I’m sure I would be in no rush to return to work but, the fact is, I’ve been off since February and I’m kinda starting to lose my mind. Add to that the fact that I’ve been at my restaurant for almost two years and it’s never really felt like work. I never really feel like I’m getting paid to be there but, rather, like I’m hanging out with a big, dysfunctional family and we happen to be sort of hospitable and serve strangers when they’re hungry.

I miss my dysfunctional family.

So, no offense Facebook and Instagram but, I’m kind of over you. I’m ready to have real conversations with real faces, faces that change with every silly story and grumpy customer. It’s not that profile pictures and status updates aren’t great but, I miss the voices that accompany, “So, this asshole…” and “Do you want to know what my husband had the nerve to say yesterday…” I want to be irritated with bad tippers and amused by whatever antics the cooks are up to. I’m ready for my feet to hurt from an eight hour shift, my apron to be full of cash and my belly to hurt from laughing.

I’m ready to go back to work.

July 12^th can’t come soon enough. And I don’t feel guilty about saying that. Mama misses people. And that’s okay.

Happy Thursday, Friends.

go. do. be.

On the eleventh day, God created Chaos

The eleventh day started at 6 am.

The hubby was long gone back to work but, thanks to my (almost) brand new coffee pot generously donated by my neighbor, Susan, the coffee was still hot.

THANK JESUS!

We had a cup of coffee, a feeding, a bath (Due to a blow-out. And for the record, after my third baby, I’m still slightly amazed how a newborn can poop up) another feeding, some lotion, some powder and a cute outfit (Duh).

By 7, it was time to get Logan up, in the shower, dressed, shoes, hair, teeth, pack a lunch, pack a backpack, pack a snack & a pillow for Movie Day and make sure he had two bandaids on his big toe so he wouldn’t scream his bloody head off. I had to dress and brush Brodie, too. He’s not in preschool right now so at least there was only one lunch to pack. Finding Brodie’s shoes, however, was a feat in and of itself and I may have screamed, “If you don’t find it, I’m leaving without you!” at least once.

I had to brush my own hair and teeth, find my own shoes, have another cup of coffee and stop for one more feeding. I’m sure if I wasn’t running a million miles an hour, Miss Elizabeth would have been fine but, I’m pretty positive newborns are born with a sensor that tells them when you are busy and it triggers some sort of, “OMG, MOM! I’m STARVING! Please stop what you are doing and feed me again before. I. die.” response.

And, of course, it was during this particular feeding that Brodie went poop and needed my help wiping. He’s such a big boy! And I’m so proud of him! (Confession of the day: Sometimes, I think diapers were easier than potty training)

By 8, I was loading car seats and kids into my car. It was the first time I’ve had all three in the car at the same time. Logan, thankfully, can buckle himself but Brodie and Elizabeth had to be loaded and buckled. (Insert sweating). The good news is, dropping Logan off at school by 8:10 means he can eat breakfast in the cafeteria.

God Love Public Schools.

After drop-off, we were down to two kids, which may sound easier but since I dropped off my main ‘helper’ at school, it really wasn’t because I had to make a stop at Walgreens. Brodie, who never found his shoes and insisted on wearing his Elmo slippers, had to walk like a big boy in the store and Elizabeth screamed through the whole trip.

We made it home by 8:45 and had another feeding. (Quietly chanting, breast is best, breast is best, breast is best…right?) I stalled Brodie long enough to get through the feeding, after which he demanded Dinosaur Chicken for breakfast.

Whatever.

Elizabeth went down for a nap, Brodie ate his chicken, I started a load of laundry (Four people make a lot of laundry, Five people make MORE laundry. Right. From. The. Start.) paid some bills, wiped down a counter or two, emptied some trash cans, fought some bad guys, read a book, put on Netflix…

And started another pot of coffee.

Here I sit, 10 am, ready for a nap, still grateful for my family of five, but a little more exhausted than I was on day four, when I had help during the morning hustle and bustle. I’m confident I’ll get better at it. I’m psyched there are only two more days of school left.

I’m positive newborn snuggles and three year old kisses and six year old hugs make it all worth it.

So, for those who have been asking, that’s pretty much what it’s like so far.

Three kids. Bam.  =) 

Happy Day Eleven, Friends.

go. do. be.

Postpartum Elation

I’ve been known to suffer from the more than occasional bout of depression. The clinical kind. The baby blues kind. The oh my god why is this happening to me, what the hell is wrong with me kind. I’m no stranger to lows. Sometimes they’ve required medication, sometimes they’ve required major life changes and sometimes they’ve required a simple solution of un-slumping. The point is: I get sadness. I understand anxiety. I am well aware of what it feels like to be an emotional mess.

When my sister in law, Meganne, was getting ready to give birth to my nephew a few weeks ago, I called my brother, Austin, and told him, “Please be warned that your Love may be an emotional mess for awhile. Please don’t take anything she says personal for at least the next six months. Hormones are the devil. If she tells you that you are messing anything up or that you are worthless, I promise she doesn’t mean it. She really does love you. I promise.”

I’ve been there. At that point, I had given birth twice. I had brought two babies home from the hospital. I had cried over the smallest things and yelled over the smallest things and lost my shit over the smallest things. When I brought Brodie home, I cried for weeks over just about everything. I spent a lot of time on the couch thinking, “I can’t do this. I’m outnumbered. I’m not going to be able to keep up. I’ve made a mistake in thinking I could be a mother to two children. They deserve better than me.”

And I believed it.

While I know there were also times where I was happy, where I was grateful, where I was overjoyed, those times often get overshadowed by the sadness, by the tears, by the hormonal mess that was Krysten during those times in my life.

Currently, I’m dealing with something very different. Something I’m not as familiar with. Something that I want to make note of so that next week if I find myself on the couch, crying, thinking that I’m even more outnumbered, I can always remember where I was today. And today I’m dealing with something I’ve started calling Postpartum Elation.

It sounds a little like this. And yes, these are actual things that have come out of my mouth the last few days since I gave birth to Miss Elizabeth Everdeen Nunn…

“I feel like my heart is going to burst open and rainbows and butterflies are going to pop out.”

“I want to bottle up the feeling in my insides right now so I can share them with everyone in the world.”

“I love you. And you. And you. And you. I love everyone.”

“This is what life is all about, right here, this moment, nothing else in the world matters but this.”

“I want to hug everyone.”

I know, corny right?

I. can’t. help. it.

Because I know that hormones can play tricks on anyone, I will admit that I’m a little skeptical of these feelings. Sometimes I fear that at any moment the bottom is going to fall out and my high is going to become a low. Maybe because I’ve done low before, maybe because I know hormones have a mind of their own, maybe because I believe I can’t possibly stay happy for long periods of time. Whatever reason, I’m not delusional enough to think there aren’t going to be rough days, hard moments, overwhelming situations, anxiety attacks but, today? Today those things are nowhere to be found and all I have is the beyond blissful good stuff.

And I wanted to write it out because, as Kurt Vonnegut says, "I urge you to please notice when you are happy, and exclaim or murmur or think at some point, 'If this isn't nice, I don't know what is.'"

And it is. It is SO NICE to be here. To feel this way. To have this life. To have this family. To have this feeling. And no matter what happens tomorrow, I will always know I had it today. 

 My water broke at 11 pm. When Jeremy and I got to the hospital, we literally got a mad case of the giggles. We laughed for an hour straight.

 In love. On impact. I didn't know just how bad I wanted her until she got here.

 A BOW!!

 And then there were three.

 Celebrating our Ten Year Anniversary in the hospital with Chili's take out and cuddling in a hospital bed.

And I just had to share.

Happy Tuesday, Friends

go. do. be.

Dear Pregnancy {and your evil little friends}

Dear Lack of Sleep,

Look, I get it. You’re preparing me for when Elizabeth arrives. You want my body to be well adjusted to functioning on you before she gets here so that I don’t freak out and try to throw her out the window. I know you want what’s best for both of us and everything but, here’s the deal:

I’ve done this before. I’ll be alright. I promise I’m not going to shake her when she wakes up for a 2 am feeding. I PROMISE. I’ll adjust when the time comes. I didn’t shake either one of the boys (very hard) and I managed to quickly adjust to their schedules as not to put coffee in their bottles or formula in my coffee cup. They survived. They were loved. I did fine.

Please, please let me sleep.

Dear Brain,

Please calm the eff down.

Like I just explained to Lack of Sleep, I’ve done this before. There is no reason to be freaking out right now. Sure, you are allowed to be excited and nervous and everything but, could you please do it at a reasonable hour and not in the middle of the night? I know you are eager to get this Three Kids show on the road and stuff but, you have to calm down a bit and let me relax. You running constantly isn’t doing either of us any good. And stay away from Lack of Sleep. She is not, I repeat, NOT your friend.

Dear Restless Leg Syndrome,

Go away. No one likes you. You have no friends here and you are really, REALLY starting to piss me off.

And stop egging Lack of Sleep and Brain on. They don’t need your flippin’ help.

Dear Bladder,

SERIOUSLY?!

Dear Sciatic Nerve Pain,

You are being completely ridiculous. I have two kids to take care of. I can not be all crippled and in pain with you. I have more important things to do. There is hair to wash, breakfast to make, lunches to pack, monsters to scare away, shoes to tie and boo boos to kiss. I’m really busy right now raising people and you constantly shooting debilitating pains down my leg is really cramping my style.

Dear Nausea,

I thought we talked about this around week 18 and we both agreed that you were going to stay away. I know it’s hard and you think I’m really fun to hang out with but, I assure you, I’m not. It’s not you, it’s me. Please go bother someone in their first trimester. They’re already expecting it. There is some woman out there who has been trying to get pregnant for three years and finally saw two pink lines and will totally welcome your company. She’ll be grateful for it. You two will make a perfect match.

Me? I’m over you. Accept it and move on.

Dear Trial of Labor and VBAC,

You don’t scare me.

Bring. It. On.

Dear Pregnancy,

You really are beautiful.

I want you to know I think you’re amazing and I’m really glad you chose me again, no matter what I say sometimes. Growing a person from scratch is really quite an honor. I feel blessed beyond measure to have you in my life. If it was just me, you and the fluttering fetus, we’d be great. It’s those other bastards that give you such a bad rep. You, my dear friend, are a miracle and nothing compares to you. Thank you for coming back when I least expected it and giving me one more chance to soak you in. It’s been very exciting to be able to share you with the boys. They think you’re pretty neat, too. I love the way you make Jeremy look at me all googly eyed, like I’m some kind of rock star. I love lying on my left side at the end of the day and letting you and the baby move and dance around while I watch Grey’s Anatomy. Fetal hiccups are borderline blissful. Listening to Brodie sing Ba Ba Black Sheep to my belly and watching Logan kiss it goodnight are two things I’ll never forget. I appreciate what you’ve done for my hair and my nails. My skin isn’t looking so bad, either. You have yet to leave any stretch marks this time around and for that, I thank you. I’m so glad you chose to give me a girl to grow this time. Fussing over pink things has actually made those evil friends of yours more bearable. (just don’t tell them I said that)

You have done nothing wrong and I want you to just keep on keepin’ on for about 3-4 more weeks, okay?

You’re doing great. Thank you for being you. I love you.

Love,

Krysten

Happy Birthday, Foxy Roxy

I’m not sure exactly when it happened.

I’m not sure exactly how it happened.

All I know is that it happened and I thank God every day it did.

We became allies.

I dropped the Step in Mom and she dropped the Step in Daughter.  

We became two women, on the same side, who have inside jokes and share real hugs, instead of a strong willed woman and a strong willed kid, fighting on opposite sides of just about everything.

She became my lifeline.

She became my best friend.

I became the endearingly imperfect mother to her perfect grandchildren.

She became the perfect grandmother to my endearingly imperfect kids.

I figured out she only wanted the best for me. That she only wanted the best for everyone.  

I started listening to her with open ears and learned I wanted to be more like her than I had ever realized.

She became my hero.

We’re different in more than a million ways.

She’s organized. She follows a routine. She never leaves the house without make-up. She’s always well put together. She always has a plan. Her sponges never stink and her toilets never have rings.

I’m a hot mess all of the time. And so is my house.

She loves me anyway.

We’re the same in more ways than we ever really knew.

We love people intensely. We forgive quickly. We’d each be the first to kick your ass if you mess with someone we love.

There is a full family of people with different last names and mis-matched DNA that would all be lost with out her.

She’s the rock that holds it all together.

She’s Super Mom.

She’s Super Grandma.

She’s Roxy.

And today is her birthday.

I’m sure glad you were born, Roxy and that you didn’t run for the hills when you figured out my Dad had a two year old. 

I love you.

Happy Birthday. 

It's Okay Thursday {Late Morning}

It’s Ok.

It’s Ok that Logan was an hour late for school this morning.

It’s Ok.

Because he was tired. Because Brodie was tired, too. Because I knew if I let them sleep an extra hour, they’d be in better moods, which meant I would be in a better mood. Because I was dressed AND had make-up on when we finally made it to school, which, I’ll admit, never happens. Because some days, it’s more important to like your kids than be on time.

Much better mood than yesterday. This is what he calls "Cute Face"

Me and The Bump. Feeling totally Spring

It’s Ok.

It’s Ok that I woke up to two sets of pissy clothes this morning, piled in the bathroom floor.

It’s Ok.

Because they changed their own pajamas in the middle of the night and didn’t feel the need to wake me up. Because one peed on a pallet in the floor and the other one peed in the top bunk which left a dry bottom bunk, which they both climbed into and fell back asleep. Because I finally made it to that pile of clean laundry and put it all away, so when I had to wash a load of wet clothes and sheets this morning, the laundry room was already emptied out.

This is a huge Krysten Success.

It’s Ok.

It’s Ok that my schedule has been off this week and I’m a little behind on sleep.

It’s Ok.

Because getting up with Jeremy at 3am means he’s been at the dinner table every night this week, that he’s been at tee ball practice and tee ball games and cub scout meetings, that we’ve been able to have a couple of quiet cups of coffee together, even if it’s in the middle of the night. Because I’ve gotten some major writing done in the wee hours of the morning while everyone else is still asleep. Because Brodie has finally learned to watch TV quietly while I sneak in a nap. Because I’m getting ready to have a third baby and I’m going to have to learn to function that way in a few months anyway. I might as well get used to it before I have a crying newborn to feed.

It’s Ok.

It’s Ok to buy maternity clothes at Wal-mart. And baby clothes, for that matter.

It’s Ok.

Because they’re cute. Because they’re cheap. Because I want to look cute but refuse to spend too much money on clothes I won’t wear after about July. (Ever again, I swear it this time. NO MORE BABIES!) And why not buy a cute onesie for three bucks that Baby Girl is probably going to puke on anyway? It. Has. An. Owl. On. It!!

It’s Ok.

It’s all Ok.

Happy Thursday, Friends.

go. do. be. 

Linking up over here today.