This one would be much funnier with pictures...

The other day, a kid insulted me.  I know--a junior high kid insulting a teacher. 

Shocker.

I'm going to tell you what he said, but you need to prepare yourself for the, the inhumanity.

Are you sitting down?

He said,  "Mrs. Reed?  Why are you always the same?"

I'll wait while those of you who had to grab a hankie and fan yourself regain your composure.

He continued on, "I mean, you always wear your hair the same, you wear the same jacket...why don't you do something different with yourself?  Do something with your hair, or something?"

I don't remember my exact response to all this, but I think it amounted to the equivalent of, "I know you are, but what am I?"  AND IT'S A HOODIE, NOT A JACKET.

Classy, huh?

It wasn't so much what he said, but the way it affected me.  I would love to blame hormones--but I didn't cry (of all the things I've learned about teaching junior high, it's that you never let them make you cry, and you try really really hard not to accidentally cuss in front of them.  So far, so good.)--but I'm pretty sure it was just my ego that got the best of me.  He played on my two feminine insecurities: my hair and my wardrobe.

Always the SAME?  Really?

When I woke up the next morning, after giving the whole incident way more time in my brain than it warranted, I had to laugh.  This kid has known me less than 30 weeks of my 35ish years.  He has no idea how NOT the same I am.  And quite frankly, I love my hair.  It's not movie star or model hair, but it does what I want it to on a regular basis, and there are no weird bumps or humps on most days.  I love the style so much I will probably keep it a while longer.  I did go darker once, but my husband said, "Please don't do that again."  (after the fact, of course)...

But the kid wasn't around for my junior high days.  For the mullet.  For the orange "Sun In" sun kissed hair.  For the perm after perm after horrible perm, trying to get my hair to look like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. 

Nor was he there (or even born for that matter) for high school, when my hair was slightly better, at least for the 90's.  But we're talking big hair.  Huge.  It was also my first voyage into the realm of highlights...which was terrifying to me.  That and all the perms made it break off and look horrifically bad for a while... but at least it wasn't orange.

He wasn't even there in college, after I finally gave up the perm and the big bangs.  When I tried to be Jennifer Aniston.  When my hair was the least of my worries.

In the end,  I realized that although yes, I do wear a pretty, um, standard wardrobe to school, and yes, my hair style doesn't change much. But I'm a teacher living on a teacher's salary, and I spend most of my wardrobe money on my kids, and  my years and years and years of bad hair experience allows me to admit that it's far better for me to not fix what ain't broke.  But always the same?  Nope.

Not even close.

Plan B..or C...or...whatever.

As a parent, I have learned that having a Plan B is essential to my sanity. Plan A's only work out part of the time, right?

Like when my son was in the early potty training stages and we went on a shopping trip to Tyler with real big boy underwear on, and he refused to go to the bathroom when I took him. No, he chose to go to the bathroom on the floor in Dillard's.

Plan B.

Or when Kevin proposed and I decided that June 2nd was the most sensible day to get married, because March 6th was too close to the TAKS test (yes, I know, roll your eyes. I do too.)...and then about a week into our engagement I realized that letting the T.E.A plan my wedding day was ridiculous.

Plan B.

Or when Jackson was 10 months old and we decided to be wise and start trying to have a baby then because it took us a year and a half to get pregnant the first time. Two months later I took a pregnancy test into the Dillard's bathroom and cried all the way home.

Plan B. And perhaps some anxiety medication.

You get the point. I also realize I have had some pretty significant life moments in Dillard's. (If you are employed by Dillard's and reading this, I totally made up the part about my son peeing on the floor of your store. He would never do that. Noooo. Not by the Fossil watches. Not right before we sprinted out of the store. Not him. Never.)

Anyway.

After Sadie was born, we wanted to learn from our previous miscalculations. We made a deal that after--and only after--Sadie turned 2, we would try again for baby Reed #3 until I turned 36. I could lie right now and say that would give us a 6 year window, but in reality it gave us right at five months. If, at the end of that five months we weren't pregnant, we were going to take that as a sign that we were meant to be a family of four.

Plan A was almost a go when my husband came up with the wonderful idea of a family vacation in New Mexico next Christmas. When we proposed the idea to everyone, it was well-received and less than two days after Christmas we were already reserving a cabin for next year.

In all the excitement, someone reminded us about our plan. Wouldn't it be funny to be nine months pregnant in the middle of a snow covered mountain?!?! Unmedicated labor at 5000 feet! Good times!

Yeah boy. Whee.

Perhaps we were going to need a Plan B. Again.

We decided to stick to Plan A until the end of February. If Reed#3 had yet to materialize, we would wait and try again from August until the end of the year.

Plan B.

Or in this case, not! How 'bout that?

Monday, Monday

I've always thought Mondays got a bad rap. This particular Monday, lived up to all the hype. Not in any sort of life-altering way. Just in the how-the-heck-does-so-much-stupid-crap-happen-before-8 a.m. sort of way. Literally. Before 8:00 a.m.

In order to tell this story to the fullest, I should start around 12:30 a.m. when Sadie woke up crying. Sadie, our deep sleeper. The one who has disturbed our sleep approximately 3 times since she was four months old. Did I mention that Jackson--our frequent waker--was spending the night with Nannie and Dado? Kevin got up with her the first time--and if I weren't so nice, here would be where I would insert his crappy Monday story, but I will refrain--I got up with her the next four times. Yes, four. In one night, she doubled her up in the middle of the night count. Every time, she stopped crying when I entered the room. She didn't have fever, and didn't seem to feel particularly bad. I held her, turned on her music, even tried putting her in bed with us, but nothing seemed to be what she wanted (again, not crying, just wide awake)...so, me being the mom of the year that I am, put her back to bed and decided that the next time she cried, we would let her self-sooth. She started crying about 15 minutes later, and Kevin got up and shut our door. Apparently, however, I can't sleep with our door closed and knowing my baby is crying. So I stayed awake. And listened for her cry. Because that was the plan, right? Finally, around 3:30, I couldn't take the sound of her crying anymore. I opened our door to silence. What? I thought it was just a temporary respite. I listened. Nothing. So instead of going back to bed, I go back upstairs. I sneak in her room to find her zonked out, and from the looks of it, she'd been that way for quite some time.

I was hearing things. And losing sleep. For TWO HOURS.

I also woke up late. And I have morning duty this week. So instead of eating my bowl of cereal at home, I poured my milk in a coffee mug (with a lid) and put my cereal in a baggy and thought I'd made a brilliant decision. When I got to school, I stuck the mug in my purse for approximately two minutes so that I could open the door.

In case you're wondering, two minutes is just enough time for 10 ounces of milk to leak out of a sealed coffee mug and into the bottom of my purse.

Around 8:05 my husband emails me to say that my mom thought Sadie had a sore throat and fever. Mother of the year, that's me.

But Monday didn't get the best of me. Or Sadie for that matter. I think she might be teething, but no fever right now.

I wish I could say the same for my purse.

Resolved.

This year my new year's resolution was pretty simple: give up Dr. Pepper.


I gave up Diet Coke in the spring--aspartame creeps me out a little--and I figured since I didn't drink DP at home, one here and there would be fine. I might have had one every two weeks. So I was basically giving up something I didn't indulge in much anyway.


All in all, a pretty lame resolution.


Then two weeks ago my husband came home talking about this diet one of his friends had started. He emailed me the plan. And a sample menu. He was seriously considering starting this journey. We both had gotten sucked into watching "The Biggest Loser," and the reality of what we really needed to do--for our health, for our kids, for our overall well-being--had begun to sink in. It didn't hurt that we're planning a huge family ski trip for next December. Also on our "to do" list is baby Reed #3...and I definitely don't want to start out that pregnancy here.


But we didn't just jump in head first. We took the rest of that week to plan and think and research. The diet itself was constructed by a friend of ours who knows his stuff when it comes to nutrition. There wasn't one single aspect of the plan that seemed unreasonable. Lower calories, less sugar, more fiber, lean protein, healthy dairy, lots of water, green tea...moderation. Nothing seemed gimmicky or trendy. It made sense.


So we jumped in with both feet.


We started on Monday, before we got our own individualized plans, but we covered the basics. We cut our calories. We drank our tea. And water. I became very familiar with the locations of all the restrooms at school.


This journey has incredible promise. Until this week, I'd never put much thought into food. Eating. I've been on diets before. I've had success before. But I tried my best to take all the thought out of it. This isn't an easy fix. We have literally spent hours planning our meals. I almost did a happy dance in the middle of Brookshire's because I found a cereal low in calories AND high in fiber. I am constantly thinking about ways to vary our meals so that they are healthy AND appetizing. I find myself reworking recipes I see in magazines. Every day is like a little puzzle of food that I put together ahead of time. In order for the plan to work, I have to know exactly what I'm putting in my mouth.

We have spreadsheets.

I am embracing the sugar withdrawals. My new best friend is named Splenda.


Of course, the real moment of truth came Saturday when I stepped on the scale on Saturday.
I lost 4 pounds! Kevin lost 7!! Yea us!

I spent Sunday evening watching "Brothers and Sisters" and planning our menu for the next week. I am happy to say the process, while still quite a process, is getting easier. I don't have to plan so much for breakfast and lunch if I already know what dinner is going to be. Again, think food puzzle. Or, if you're like my husband, think competition.

Game on.

Birthday Girl!

Sadie turned 2 yesterday. The last time I dedicated a blog totally 100% to her, she was seven months old, give or take. My, how time flies.Kevin and I debated about what to do for her party all the way up to last Monday. We'd pretty much talked ourselves out of doing anything major when we agreed she needed something special. So we threw together a last-minute family party for her...and by last minute I mean I sent out a text on Monday afternoon for the Tuesday afternoon party. Lucky for us we have good friends and family who apparently have little to do the week after Christmas. Also lucky for us there was a bakery in town with very little to do on a Tuesday afternoon. I realize this is the last year I can get away with impromptu birthday celebrations...but it turned out swell.

Sadie is the quintessential independent child. Except for all the times she clings to my leg and wants to be held, that is. Her favorite words are "I did it!" which, depending on when she uses it, has different meanings. If she is in the middle of doing something and you try to offer assistance, she will say, "No, I did it!" which translates into, "No mother, I would really like to finish this task on my own, thank you very much." If she successfully completes said task, well, "I did it" needs no translation.

She spent thirty minutes today putting her pants on by herself.

Because she screamed "NO! I DID IT!" when I got within a foot of her.

But, in the end, she did indeed, do it.

She also wants to do everything Jackson does. Ev-ree-thing. Last week we went to the mall, and Jackson got to jump on that bungee trampoline thing. After five minutes of watching her big brother jump and laugh and flip, Sadie was all about the jumping. The harness was too big and she barely got a foot off the trampoline, but for those five minutes she was as big as Jackson.

She is our daredevil, our hardhead, our little charmer...the one we will probably have to bail out of jail someday. She will sweetly bat her eyes at you when you tell her to do something and say, "no thank you" before she walks away. She can stare down the best of us, and when you get that look just know her heels are firmly dug in. She is also the one who said, "thank you, momma!" about fifteen times while I assembled her baby doll bed tonight. She is our princess. Our big girl.

Happy birthday, Sadiebell!