Fashion Tips From the Mighty Zah

This post is sponsored by P&G.

Allow me to present a brief Ezra Fashion Retrospective, with bonus style tips that you can absolutely use in your everyday life, I am sure of it.

Our theme for today is "Better Together," and Ezra definitely has some very strong ideas about what clothing items are better when paired together...

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1. Worried your socks might get cold? Layer on some brightly colored sock-sweaters. (Also known as a second pair of socks.)

2. Superhero shirts, always. But best when hidden under a karate uniform for maximum Clark Kent/MAN O' STEEL impact. (This one was from Old Navy, and I am kicking myself for not buying duplicates so I could, you know, WASH THIS SHIRT MORE THAN OCCASIONALLY.)

3. You'd never know this Yoda hat came from a Halloween costume. By which I mean the opposite of "never" but hey, he's happy. Let's go to the park, you hilarious little weirdo.

4. Spruce up a basic shorts-and-tee combo with lots of colorful Band-Aids. 

5. World's greatest dinosaur raincoat and rainboots by Hatley. Too-small sun hat by I have no idea, he found it in Ike's room and now insists on wearing it everywhere. Also I don't know where those bright orange shorts came from, but he loves them because they match his favorite sock-sweaters. 

6. Double denim + unnecessary snow boots = WERQ

7. Just because it's summer doesn't mean you can't wear your mom's earmuffs. You probably shouldn't, but fashion is all about taking risks. And suffering. And whining about your ears being hot but still refusing to take off the earmuffs.

8. Forget the "arm party," the latest hottest trend in accessories in the "wooden spoon and spatula party."

9. I don't honestly know what he does all day at preschool, but when he comes home like this I'm pretty sure it means that it was COMPLETELY AWESOME. 

This post is sponsored by P&G. With Tide®, Downy® and Bounce®, you can keep your summer fashions looking new up to 50% longer.* Text CLEAN to TARGET (827438) for mobile coupons.

*vs. leading value detergent alone

(Please don't put your unnecessary snowboots, earmuffs or wooden spatula party in the washing machine. Please put your worn-seven-days-in-a-row superhero shirts and THOSE PANTS in there ASAP, however, my lands.)

 

Girls Who Wear Glasses & Boys That Break Glasses

This post is sponsored by Rivet & Sway.

So...this happened.

Which was awesome. 

I have worn those glasses since...let's see*...before Noah was born. That means they have survived years of not only my own idiocracy, but also the infancies and toddlerhoods of two grabby, destructive children. 

*IT'S A VISION PUN DO U GEDDIT

OHS HAI.

Child number three, alas. It was just too much to ask for a simple pair of reading glasses. Especially if said reading glasses were stupidly left out on the coffee table, in plain sight and easy reach of said child. 

Honestly, I'm such a rookie sometimes. WHATZ THE WORST THAT CAN HAPPEN?

To be fair, though, I've been whining fairly regularly about my aging eyesight over the past year, getting headaches, squinting a lot more at screens and pages, and ever-so-casually bumping up the font size because technology, whippersnappers, my lawn and reasons. I knew it was time to get another eye exam and a new prescription, but I just didn't, thanks to my trusty ol' pair of specs being handy and pretty much close to good enough. 

So in a way, I did you a favor. Ur welcomes.

But even after Ike snapped my glasses in two, I still wishy-washied around about it. I don't like shopping for glasses. It stresses me out, trying on frame after frame, since I don't ever really know what looks good on me but always feel like it's never the stylish frames, but rather the old-lady styles that I am not cool enough to pull off ironically. Also, I was a blonde the last time I shopped for frames. Also also, my right ear is ever so slightly higher than my left. Which means an ill-fitting frame can give the impression that my entire face is kind of...slanting down to the left.

(Maybe because it is? Oh, God.)

ANYWAY. About two days after the great Glasses Snappening, I was approached about possibly doing a sponsored post for Rivet & Sway. Which is a website that sells really awesome high-end frames, and offers the services of a personal stylist (Ritzy. HI RITZY.) to help you pick out a selection of frames to try on at home. THAT'S WHAT WE CALL TIMING. I answered a couple questions, uploaded a head shot and within a few hours I got an email with a few different recommendations to choose from.

One of which looked EXACTLY like the frames I would immediately gravitate to in any store in the world. They're a more up-to-date and flattering version of my old specs. Classic tortoise with flecks of blue. 

THOTS????

The second pair is the kind of frames I always WANT to pull off. Bolder, darker and more prominent. In the end, though, I'd usually shy away from glasses like this because I thought they were "too much" for a super-pale blonde. Ritzy recommended these mostly to pair with my current hair color. 

THOTS????

For the third pair, I picked...well, not really something wildly oddball, but different from any glasses I've worn in the past. Metal instead of plastic, a bit wider, and in a copper color that manages to match my hair perfectly in some lights, while looking completely different in others. (Thus making them the hardest to photograph. I don't think I'm doing them justice here!)

THOTS????

Okay, so I do seekritly (or maybe not-so-seekritly) have a favorite pair, but where is the fun in that? Let's crowd-source this sucker. Which specs get your vote? 

This post is sponsored by Rivet & Sway. Get $25 dollars off a single pair of frames between now and June 30, 2013 using code SUPER-MOM.

Want to share the love with someone else? Nominate a Super Mom in your life here, with a short story about her superpower. (250-500 characters.) Grand prize winner will receive two pairs of Rivet & Sway frames, and a monthly delivery of Vosges Haut-Chocolat for a year. Two runners up will receive each receive a pair of frames and the exotic truffle collection from Vosges. Enter by May 12, 2013; winners announced via Facebook and notified by email on May 15, 2013. 

The Search for George Washington

This post is sponsored by Colonial Williamsburg. Book your stay at colonialwilliamsburg.com

Whenever I take my children someplace new, I learn something new about them. You'd think I'd remember this and take them to new places more regularly, but instead I tend to overthink trips and destinations and convince myself that no, they're not old enough for that place or well-behaved enough for that one. I get bogged down in logistics (car? train? hotel? packing? gaaaaah?) and completely underestimate my kids' capacity to find something fun about...well, pretty much any place on earth. 

This past weekend I learned that Noah is quite the fan of George Washington. I had no idea. He ran up to every single costumed person and asked them if they knew George Washington. He chased after several older men on the off chance they were George Washington, only to be more than a little deflated to learn that they were not. 

I can't lie: At one point there were tears. TEARS. He wanted to meet George Washington that badly. 

Ezra, on the other hand...

...was much easier to please.

(Though that still didn't stop Jason from spoiling him rotten at the gift shop, with a COMPLETELY UNAUTHORIZED BY ME purchase of some wooden cork guns, that go pop-pop-pop-pop all the livelong blessed day. I was shopping for Mother's Day gifts and came back only to be informed that both of my children had run off to fight the British.)

Luckily, our map informed us that there would a "Public Audience with George Washington" the next morning at the Governor's Palace. 

We showed up early. 

Just in case we had to clear the gardens of any traitors.

And then, the moment — and the man himself — arrived. 

And Noah was captivated. Thoroughly, completely captivated.

(ALSO: HAT. I booked a hotel package that included a free hat for the kids; Noah was all, NO FREE VAGUELY COSTUME-LIKE HAT. He changed his mind after about an hour in the Revolutionary City because tri-corner hats are dope, yo.)

The "public audience" was actually really impressive — 45 solid minutes of Q&A with the audience, so the actor is basically doing improv and needs to know his history like nobody's business. I assumed Noah would be bored, that this talky history lesson was probably not what he was expecting. (George Washington riding in on a unicorn, maybe, and taking out an army of orcs right before our eyes.)

And yet once again, I underestimated him. He sat there quietly the entire time, watching and listening intently. Finally he whispered that he really, REALLY wanted to ask George Washington a question but didn't know what to ask. He and Jason quietly debated and eventually settled on one.

He raised his hand.

George Washington pointed at him. 

"Sir," he asked, his voice nervous but clear. "How long have you served in Congress?"

And George Washington answered his question. (Not very long, as the Congress had been formed very recently and had only met once at that particular point in time.)

And Noah beamed and settled back in his seat.

After the talk was over, this happened:

While Jason and Noah waited for their turn to take a photo, I sat further away with Ezra and Ike. (Double stroller, y'all. Do not attempt Colonial Williamsburg without one.) Another grandmother approached me.

"It's not every little boy who gets to talk with George Washington!" she said.

I laughed and explained that Noah had been waiting for that moment allllll weekend. 

And I realized she was crying. 

"Are you okay?" I asked.

She grabbed my hand. "My husband's in line to meet George Washington too. But I wanted to meet you. Your little boy is so special."

And with that, she was gone. For the second time in two days, Noah's sweetness and enthusiasm had made a stranger cry. 

(I swear I am not making a single word of this up. Colonial Williamsburg is full of nice people who want to randomly compliment your children. It happened CONSTANTLY, at every activity and restaurant and store we visited. And I believe it's more of a reflection on the general loveliness of the crowd than the all-around amazingness of my children, who, you know, CAN be amazing but can also be...not.)

We extended our stay by a few hours so Noah could see George Washington again in another street performance. He hopped up and down and waved and hung on his every word, completely in the grips of some historical version of Beatlemania.

"HEY EVERYBODY," he would randomly shout to people on the street, "GEORGE WASHINGTON IS HERE! HE'S ALIVE AGAIN! HE CAME DOWN FROM HEAVEN FOR TODAY TO ANSWER MY QUESTION!"

Later, he talked us into buying not one, but TWO different biographies about George Washington for him to read during the car trip back. When we got home we printed out the photo of him and his new pal so he could take it to school and show his class. Now it's hanging in his room, above his bed. 

So will we be going back to Colonial Williamsburg? Uh. Yeah. We will. Where else can my kid hang with his idol? 

P.S. Ike was there too. He also seemed to have a very good time, particularly at breakfast, lunch and dinner. He and I were equally enthusiastic about the food, which was delicious.

(Not a fan of the hat, however.)

This post is sponsored by Colonial Williamsburg. Book your stay at colonialwilliamsburg.com

My Childhood Brush With Historical Re-enactment Fame

This post is sponsored by Colonial Williamsburg.

My dad was a history buff, which is such a Dad Thing, isn't it? He especially loved American history, so my family took lots of trips to battlegrounds and historical sites, and toured just about any oldish hollowed-out structure that existed Way Back When and managed to survive the great Suburban Strip Mall Onslaught of 1983. I went trick-or-treating as a pilgrim for like, three years straight in preschool.

We took two trips to Colonial Williamsburg — one when I was about Ezra's age, and another when I was a few years older. In my head, the trips have long since blended together. I remember the costumes and the blacksmith's shop, the hoops and the sticks, and being generally delighted that you could talk to everybody and watch them do things, like animatronic museum figures brought to life. Because even at four years old, I guess, I was more used to being entertained by robots than actual human beings. 

At some point, I was "chosen" to march in some...thing? A parade of some kind? And I was given a flag to carry. I don't remember being asked, but according to my mother I reacted as if God Himself had touched down on earth, handed me a flag and told me that the future of humanity depended upon me being awesome at marching. 

Apparently I whispered a very shy, quiet "yes" to the volunteer scout. But my face was straight-up screaming CHALLENGE ACCEPTED. I WILL MARCH THE HELL OUT OF THIS. I WILL BE AWESOME.

I do remember marching. I remember feeling rather famous and special. I remember feeling completely awesome.

My mom mostly remembers the fact that I refused — R-E-F-U-S-E-D — to smile. At all, not even a little bit. I also refused to look at her or my dad or the camera, but stubbornly kept my eyes fixed directly on the ground a few feet in front of me. I looked positively miserable and probably a little bit bratty.

But of course I wasn't. That was just me TAKING THINGS VERY SERIOUSLY. My duties as a flag-carrying crowdsourced child-tourist volunteer were VERY SERIOUS TO ME. Did the real and actual colonial children smile as they marched to save the future of humanity?

I...don't know. I'm not sure they covered that on the tour.

Here is where I wish to God I had a photo to scan and include — a photo of me and my miserable sourpuss face, holding a flag and probably wearing bright pink shorts and an historically inaccurate Minnie Mouse t-shirt (or maybe I got dressed up? curse my hazy brain!), marching and TAKING THINGS SO VERY VERY SERIOUSLY. 

But we have no photos of our Colonial Williamsburg vacations. None. On our first trip, the camera malfunctioned and overexposed the film. My mom can't remember what happened to the photos from our second trip — the film got lost or left behind? she thinks? — but for some reason our modern-day cameras were cursed both times for violating the historical immersion experience and I have no photos. 

We're taking the boys there in two weeks. It will be my first time back since going as a kid, and my first time taking my kids somewhere that I specifically went as a kid. I will be taking a digital SLR with two batteries and multiple memory cards. I may have already packed it and obsessively checked the bag several times just to be sure. I will have my phone, Jason will have his, and I've told Noah he can carry one of our old phones and use it as a camera if he wants.

In other words, THERE WILL BE PHOTOS.

And I promise to smile in some of them. 

This post was brought to you by Colonial Williamsburg. Book your stay at colonialwilliamsburg.com.

 

Cloth Diaper Dropout

This post is sponsored by The Honest Company. 

Deep, dark confession time, you guys. I mean, be prepared to have dozens of illusions and dreamy dreams shattered.

Right now my baby is wearing a disposable diaper. And in an hour or so, I'll probably take that one off and put another disposable diaper on him. Just cuz. And I won't feel bad about it either, so there.

DUN DUN DUUUUN.

Okay, so let's back up: Last summer, Ike developed a rash. And I mean a rash as in a R-A-S-H-H-H-H. I will spare you (and my poor kid) a description of said rash, though I am pretty sure you can Google around and find pictures of something similar and then NEVER SLEEP AGAIN. 

It was horrible. I took him to the doctor, who mostly just shrugged because she was jaded and hard and going to medical school is probably a lot like Google Images only all the time. She recommended some over-the-counter creams and a slathering of Aquafor or Triple Paste, which I obediently purchased along with a package of disposables. 

I used the creams. I used disposables that leaked poop and exploded overnight, covering poor Ike in that disturbing goopy-jelly-gel...stuff from the guts of the diaper. I disinfected my cloth diapers with bleach and tea tree oil and grapefruit seed extract, per the Internet's helpful instructions. 

The rash came back. We rinsed and repeated and tried again. I took Ike back to the doctor and got the same advice, only this time to maybe try a different...brand? Ehhhh?

The rash came back. THE RASH KEPT COMING BACK.

No matter what I did, dear Internet, I could not beat that rash. It flared up in cloth (especially in PUL) and in disposables. It flared up whether I used the creams once a day, twice a day or at every diaper change. I'd use the creams for a solid week after his skin looked better and think we were FINALLY okay and then BAM. A few days later we'd be back at square bloody one. I changed detergents, I bought NEW cloth diapers, I soaked his butt in baking soda, I let him run around naked, I used weird smelly ointments my MIL sent me, and I got the strangest, most creeped-out looks from the cashiers at the drugstore when I showed up buying every possible yeast/fungal cream and ointment they had to offer. Dang, girl. Change out of your swimsuit, or something.

Finally, I changed pediatricians. I showed up with medical records in one hand and a seriously flared-up rashy baby in the other.

The doctor listened to my tale of woe and nodded nicely but probably a little patronizingly. I could see the advice forming in her brain — obviously we didn't use the cream long enough, or change him often enough, or have you tried letting him run around naked or OH MY SWEET MERCIFUL CRAP YOUR POOR BABY.

Yeah. The instant she saw the rash she wrote us out a compound prescription for The Big Guns. (Basically the same stuff I used on mah boobs while breastfeeding. Human bodies are weird.) With double refills.

It was about a month-long regimen of cream, which meant ONCE AGAIN, we were going to have to use disposables. 

Two more things happened right around this time, though:

1) I completed Ike's application for preschool and was told in no uncertain terms that yeah, he needed to wear disposables there, too. You go be a hippie on your own time, lady. 

2) I was asked if I was interested in doing a sponsored post for The Honest Company. They sell disposable diapers but we know you cloth diaper so maybe you'd be interested in the non-toxic cleaning products or bath and body care products or OH MY SWEET MERCIFUL CRAP PLEASE SEND ME SOME DIAPERS.

Here's the thing: Despite writing approximately five hojillion blog posts about cloth diapers, I've bought and used disposables plenty of times. I mean, please. When we travel, sometimes. When our washing machine broke, ye gods. I don't think anybody deserves to get their cloth diapering gold star taken away just because they don't feel like dealing with a wet bag in an airplane lavatory, you know? Also, there's no such thing as a cloth diapering gold star, so everybody just calm down.

I've tried several times to find a good "natural" and/or biodegradable option, but have never been all that impressed. I have enough complaints about regular disposables — some of the eco-friendly diapers felt about as effective as wrapping my baby in a couple paper towels. So I admit I was...not really expecting a whole lot from the Honest Diapers, which are plant-based. But they were free and they were cute. 

So...I think you guys get the way I "usually" do sponsored posts around here, right? Blabber on for awhile about a tangentially related topic and then work the brand/product in without it being necessarily a ringing endorsement. (Though I would never, EVER do a post about a company or product I didn't at least like or respect.) But it's true that not every sponsored post is necessarily going to be about a product I can't live without and/or would rush out to buy with my own money again and again and again.

I used the package of Honest Diapers I was sent. I promptly went to the website and plunked down my credit card for two more packages. TRUTH.

One package went to preschool. The other stayed home. Those are the ones he's wearing now. They are white with little black skulls on them and they kill me. KILL ME. They also don't leak and Ike can wear them overnight. (OVERNIGHT. Overniiiiight!) Jason positively loved them, and his expectations were probably even lower than mine, since he forbade me from ever trying another "natural" brand after a very unfortunate restaurant incident with one of the older boys that he's still not over. If you're looking for a better disposable, either for full-time use (go for the subscription bundle to save money) or just as your sometimes-cuz-you-feel-like-it-backup, I really recommend them. Thumbs to the up. 

The rash? Is gone. For real and good this time, so far, fingers crossed. We've been clear for almost a month now, and Ike is back in cloth most of the time but not all the time. Because...

(These are his Tough Guy diapers, apparently.)

(By the way, our pediatrician recommended giving potty training a try, sooner rather than later, to give his poor sensitive skin a permanent break. I admit I'm not really looking forward to that, but hey, at least I'm already kind of prepared.)

(THE TRAINING PANTS HAVE ROBOTS ON THEM YOU GUYS. ROBOTS!)

This post was sponsored by The Honest Company. Sign up for a free trial (plus shipping) on a subscription bundle. Get free shipping on your first order only with code FreeShipAmalah (expires March 13, 2013). 

 

Ezra the Collector

This post is sponsored by Citrus Lane.

First of all, I would like to establish OUT LOUD that this is a safe space, and more specifically, this is a safe space where we can open up and admit that yeah, our kids are weirdos.

Even more specifically, Ezra is a weirdo. Like kind of a weird-y weird level weirdo.

I don’t know how to describe this one particular behavior he exhibits (and has exhibited for YEARS) without referring to the name of a popular yet distastefully horrifying reality show on A&E, so maybe this picture will give you an idea of what I’m dancing around:

Hey, Ezra! What have you got in your pocketses today? 

20 minutes later, I think the pile ended up being 27 tiny Lego bricks, studs, berries, croissants, mugs, chalices, various non-Lego thingamajobs and two lint-backed pumpkin stickers that he got around Halloween.

And every single item is a treasure. His preciousesss. And every single item must be checked and accounted for several times a day, until he forgets about the entire collection completely. Which usually happens right around the time he tosses his five-pocket cargo pants into the laundry hamper. Because by that point, he’s moved on to a collection of slightly larger plastic sundries inside a coin purse, empty tissue box, or Ike’s talking plastic picnic basket that no longer contains any of the plastic picnic items, because Ezra has filled it to the brim with even more tiny Legos, three rubber scoops of play ice cream, a spatula, seven toy cars and a handful of broken crayons that he deliberately fished out of the trash when I wasn’t looking and is now guarding with his very life.

Jason just up and flat-out calls him a hoarder. (Affectionately! I swear. It’s not like we’re finding cat carcasses in his bed. Just all the baby books from Ike’s room, a bunch of Smurf figurines and maybe a Happy Meal box.)

I just think the kid likes…containers. Containers full of things. He’s like a pirate with a very DIY aesthetic and original take on the boring-and-done treasure chest. Gold coins? Whatever. Check out these extra stomp rockets and this roll of packing tape! WE’RE GOING TO BE RICH.

(Ezra, pictured here in Oversized Container Full of Tiny Things & Also Ezra Heaven.)

Over Christmas break, he stumbled across a backpack that I’d bought for him to take on long car trips. I guess he thought I’d thrown it out or something (LIKE I DO WITH BROKEN CRAYONS AND PROBABLY EVERYTHING ELSE HE LOVES), and was so, so happy to see it again that he insisted on wearing it nonstop for three days straight. At the dinner table. While playing outside. To restaurants. To bed.

So I wasn’t too surprised when school started back up, he insisted on carrying the backpack. Now, Ezra does not NEED a backpack at his preschool — in fact, backpacks are explicitly listed as something the children are to leave at home. But Ezra really, REALLY wanted to take that backpack to school, like his big brother.

So I let him take the backpack to school. Because I have better things to do in the morning than get locked in a battle of wills over a backpack with a four year old. Like, say, NOT getting locked in a battle of wills over a backback with a four year old. 

Over time, the backpack went from being empty to…well, becoming yet another one of Ezra’s containers of weird. He added a notebook and some pencils...and then some finger puppets, a sandwich cookie cutter and the instruction booklet from our microwave. 

So I realized we maybe needed to curb the backpack habit, especially since I learned he was refusing to take it off once he got to school. And while his teacher was completely understanding and accommodating of the backpack, he was a little less excited about the daily show-and-tell of broken pencils, Legos, empty DVD cases and talking Elmo phones.

It was right around this time that I agreed to do a sponsored blog post for Citrus Lane, which sends out age-appropriate, monthly curated boxes of eco-friendly baby and kid gear, toys, bath products, you name it. They sent me a couple sample boxes. One for Ezra and one for Ike, IN THEORY. In reality, once I opened the boxes, they were both Ezra's. All his. Because they were...containers. Full of…things. Bath toys! Books! Fruit snacks! Monkey dishware! Lotions and bath soaps and AHHHHHH!!!!

As I watched him paw through the assortment of surprises, I suddenly realized that I should have boxed and wrapped all his Christmas presents into a similar single box o' wonder. 

Among the bonanza of items in our boxes was…a Skip Hop elephant lunch bag. Ezra just about passed out. A small…Ezra-sized…container…with a handle…for carrying…for which to put things inside…lunch-y things…omg…

Now, again: Ezra does not need a lunch bag. He eats a school-provided snack mid-morning, then comes home at noon and eats lunch here.  

But some kids in his class stay all day. And these kids do indeed bring lunch bags/boxes, which they deposit into a classroom fridge each morning as they arrive. And it turns out that more than anything — even more than a backpack full of Monopoly pieces, miniature rubber tires and plastic teacups — Ezra wanted to join them. To be like them. 

He didn't actually care about the actually eating lunch at school part, but just the morning ritual of putting lunchboxes inside the refrigerator. This is what makes you "cool," apparently, in today's modern trend-setting with-it-happening Montessori classroom. He even tried to put his backpack in the fridge on several occasions, and then tried to talk his teacher into letting him at least put some random pieces of toy fruit in there instead.

In other words, this lunch bag from Citrus Lane was the greatest gift that never would have occurred to me to buy for him, but there it is. 

(So long, Play-Doh carrying case! We are moving. On. Up.)

Ezra still doesn’t stay at school for lunch, but every morning he packs up his lunch bag. He gets real sippy cup and fills it with water and shovels some Cheerios into a baggie. Then he adds two ice packs and a few extra essentials.

(Essentials like: Toy milk, wooden donut w/back-up icing slab, Lego construction worker, plastic pepperoni slices, felt tomato, some kind of stuffed lettuce pillow thing, sandwich roll and an entire Thanksgiving turkey.)

He takes it to school and puts it in the refrigerator, where it sits untouched (and non-distracting-like) all day. I arrive at noon to collect him and his lunch bag (which before I took these photos had just emerged from a vigorous cleaning after being sent down the playground slide into a mud puddle, because it and Ezra are best pals). Then we go home, where he dutifully unpacks everything and puts it all back in its proper place. 

 

He’s never been happier, the goof. 

***

Want your own box of random inspiration and handy essentials for your own little weirdo? Leave a comment between now and next Wednesday and I will select a random winner for a FREE box of awesome from Citrus Lane. 

"BUT I NEVER WIN." Dude, I know! Me neither! But for us, here's a coupon for 50% off your first box — that's only $12.50! TWELVE FIFTY. After that, monthly boxes of baby-, kid- and mom-approved products and toys start at just $21. Head over to citruslane.com and use coupon code AMALAH50 from now until March 6th.

Fine print: Coupon applies to monthly subscriptions only. Offer valid for new customers only. Subscriptions automatically renew to full retail price.

Amalah + Exercise = ErrorDoesNotCompute

(Greetings! This post is sponsored by pvBody.)

I am not much of a work-outer. I've had my moments of fitness dedication, but that's all they usually end up being: Moments.

Fleeting moments of Going! To! The Gym!...immediately followed by months and months of listlessly watching the membership fees auto-deduct from my bank account before working up the energy to cancel. (Usually by claiming that I was moving. Sometimes I would wait until I actually WAS moving, just to spare my squishy, out-of-shape self the trouble of coming up with a convincing lie.)

One time I got obsessed with Couch to 5K and stuck with it for...I don't know. Maybe until the 3K mark. The weather got hot, then the weather got cold, then I got bored with my running mix music choices and then there was a lot of good TV on, or something.

Yoga, pilates, kickboxing...all things I tried once or twice before losing interest. (Or, in the case of yoga, once or twice before managing to sprain an ass-cheek so hard I could barely walk for days, so like SCREW THAT, HIPPIES.)

But it's obvious now that this pattern cannot continue. I've had three children. I'm turning 35 in a few days. My job is so desk-bound that it doesn't even require the occasional walk down the hall to the printer or copier anymore — I just sliiiiide my chair two feet over to the left. I love to eat ALL THE THINGS, but since having Ike my metabolism has basically decided to go retire in Boca or something. 

(All those pounds I tried so desperately to gain during the pregnancy? The pregnancy weight that I never actually put on thanks to all the months and months of vomiting? Yeah. I weigh more now than I did when I was carring a full-term baby inside my body.)

(As for the weight I lost during that insane juice fast thing, I managed to keep about half of the pounds off. For awhile. And then I went to Vegas and basically ate and drank the entire city under the table. Whoops.)

ANYWAY. All of this windup is basically me procrastinating on telling you my real secret shame:

Yep. Me and Billy Blanks. Kicking it 1990s style. Though I'm sad to report he no longer sports the blue spandex unitard. 

I did Tae Bo back in the day when it was uber-popular — on VHS, yo — and you know, it really worked for me. Granted, I was in my very early 20s and 1) had zero children, 2) had my old metabolism, and 3) was too broke to buy enough food to overeat ANYWAY. 

But still, I distinctly remember getting in really good shape from all the invisible speed-bagging and imaginary round-housing. And I also stuck with it for quite awhile, since I found it to be a pretty good stress releaser. I think I continued with it semi-regularly until our VCR broke and we bought ourselves a DVD player, or maybe until we moved to our third-floor condo and I realized that Tae Bo and hardwood floors and cranky downstairs neighbors didn't mix HEY I KNOW I'LL JUST JOIN A GYM INSTEAD.

(Cue the wah wah wah waaaaahhhh sound.)

So whatever. I'm done with the trendy workout fads that everybody else is doing and swearing by. You will never see me at CrossFit or running a marathon, because I'm at home, ungracefully punching the air and sweating and grunting and trying not to kick my toddler's head.  

It may not be cool, but at least 1) I'm actually DOING SOMETHING, and 2) hey, it's not Sweatin' To The Oldies, though I'd never knock that one either, because my mom and I used to do that together when I was in junior high and I always thought it was pretty fun and oh my God you can get the complete collection for like, 30 bucks gotta go BRB.

...

This post is sponsored by pvBody, who offer awesome monthly boxes of designer fitness apparel customized to your style and favorite kind of workout. While Tae Bo wasn't an option on their style quiz, I absolutely LOVE the leggings and workout top they chose for me. Eat your heart out, Billy, I may be panting and wishing for death by minute 45 but I LOOK SUPER CUTE. 

USE THIS LINK and get a $15 Lululemon gift card AND 25% off your first box when you sign up for a membership. New Year's resolutions, here we all come, with a little help of getting shiny new clothes every month to remind you to stick with your workout goals this time, AMY. 

 

My Two Disneys

Ahoy there! This post is sponsored by Disney's Epic Mickey 2: The Power of Two the video game.

So don't tell my children, but the Discussions Have Begun around here. The "okay, when do we bite the bullet and take this crew to Disney World" discussions. Do we wait until all three of them have hit the minimum height requirement for most of the rides? Or go sooner, while they're all younger and we might get more OMG AMAZEBALLS CHILDHOOD MEMORIES OMG bang for our bucks? 

Is Cinderella's castle still listing to the left like that? Where are my legs? What's with all the shrubbery in the photo? I HAVE SO MANY QUESTIONS ABOUT MY PARENTS' PHOTO FRAMING DECISIONS.

My family took two trips to Disney World: Once when I was an adorable little five year old. 

FACT: I loved Robin Hood because there was a song in the movie that mentioned the word "underwear."

And then again when I was a tragically awkward 12 year old:

Oh dear God.

So...yeah. I actually remember each trip pretty equally. When I was five, the highlight was the Character Breakfast. 

I met Snow White and my brain melted out my ears. I think I may have even cried. 

Also: BALLOONS! 

When I was 12, I spent a lot of the trip fantasizing that I was actually there with Joey McIntyre from New Kids On The Block, and that everywhere I walked the crowds were so jealous of us and our love, which was pure. And real. 

Expectation, meet reality. And my fanny pack. 

Meeting the characters as a five year old:

Bubbly adorable joy! With pigtails!

Meeting the characters as a 12 year old:

I feel like it loses a little something once you're THE SAME HEIGHT AS THEM.

Wearing a 'MICKEY' t-shirt to Disney World = Totally being That Guy. 

I loved both trips, though, in different ways. When I was little, it was magic. When I was on the cusp of 13, it was...well, it was fun to still be a kid and at least pretend that I still believed in that magic (and that my autograph book would be worth millions someday, because I mean like PINOCCHIO SIGNED IT).

I kind of can't wait to go back and see what kind of Disney my boys get to experience. 

And to be fair, judging from the background crowds, I think 1990 was simply an EPICALLY AWKWARD TIME for all of us as a nation, across the board. 

This post was sponsored by Disney's Epic Mickey 2: The Power of Two the video game.

Red 40, Sugar, HFCS Everywhere, and Not a Drop to Drink

This post is sponsored by the Brita Bottle for Kids.

If I may be obnoxiously braggy for a second...

AUDIENCE: Oh, just for a "second?" Really? As opposed to...

Shut up! You all just shut up. Yes, for a second. Start the clock: None of my children drink soda. 

See? If you read that sentence fast enough, I am pretty sure you could get through it before the end of one-Mississippi. 

The thing is, none of my children drink soda because they don't like it. Noah and Ezra have both taken exactly one sip of soda in their entire lives, and to this day remember it as a horrible moment, a total betrayal of their faith in delicious, refreshing liquids. The second the carbonation touched their innocent tongues they shrieked and...well, I wouldn't say they spat it out as much as they simply opened their mouths wide and stared at me helplessly as the soda dribbled off their tongues and all over the table. 

They both refused to touch anything "bubbly" after that. Which is great. My soda = bubbly. My special wine-juice = oh, you know that's bubbly. 

Which is great. Soda is terrible for kids. Terrible for...well, everybody, really, and oh how I wish I could similarly recoil from a cold can of Coke, or at least be able to have it in my house without drinking it (followed by two more in rapid succession). I would be very, very happy if my children never picked up the habit and remained blissfully unaware that there are beverage choices beyond water, milk or watered-down juice. You know, for special occasions.

(God, doesn't our house sound like fun and a half.)

While I'm aware that eventually, it's all going to be out of my hands, I would very much like to live in my little dreamy-dream world of only healthy beverage options for at LEAST a little while longer. But it's already getting challenging. We went to a birthday picnic a couple weeks ago where the only drink choices for the kids (who were all in the toddler-to-age-six range) were red Kool-Aid pouches and cans of orange soda. 

Okay, health food snobbery aside, the fact is that Noah in particular CANNOT have that stuff. Artificial coloring and his little nervous system do not play nicely together. It makes him hyper, unfocused and incredibly anxious. But there we were, out on a playground on a hot humid day, and he was thirsty. The adults had already laid claim to a small stash of bottled water for themselves (or for their kids, since I swear I wasn't the only stick-in-the-mud who blanched at the idea of giving Kool-Aid to my child on top of the already endless cake and ice cream and candy). 

The only options I saw were giving in and letting him drink the red stuff and deal with the behaviorial consequences...or hoisting him up to take drinks some a somewhat suspect-looking water fountain near the park's bathrooms. 

Confession: I told Noah the juice pouches were bubbly and took him to the water fountain. 

So that's where I was, awkwardly holding up my 50+ pound child while still locked in a mental battle over which was worse: Red 40 or all of the GOD KNOWS WHAT in the water, when another mom came over to wait behind us. 

She had a water bottle with her. She unscrewed the cap and filled it up a the fountain, and I realized what it was. I realized what it was because I had JUST THAT WEEK agreed to write a sponsored post about one. (The post you are reading right now! So meta! So Neo-in-The-Matrix-saying-WHOA and stuff.)

It was a Brita Bottle for Kids, with a built-in water filter. You know, the exact sort of thing I would have killed to have in my bag that day. Mine was still in the mail.

It arrived a couple days later. Yay!

Oooooh!

(Both to the bottle and my fresh pedicure, yes.)

Ahhhhh.

(WHAT? It was my first pedicure since right before Ike's due date. I'm a little jazzed about my return to non-Hobbit-feet-ville, okay?)

Anyway, it's a brilliant little jobby thing. I love that I don't have to risk the contents of my bag getting soaked by hauling water around in "spill-proof" sippy cups (HA HAHAHAHAHA) and that I can fill it up anywhere, as many times as I need to (the filters last about two months). Since Ike isn't yet proficient with the sports-style spout, I bring a take-n-toss cup with a spout or straw for him then squirt filtered water into that. (Which isn't nearly as high-maintenance diva-ish as it sounds, since the water is filtered instantly and fills his cup up in a few seconds.)

No more over-priced, wasteful bottled water from vending machines, no more lamenting over non-healthy sugary beverage options, and no more babbling like a crazy person to other moms at the water fountain over their brilliant cup solution and that MINE'S IN THE MAIL MINE'S IN THE MAIL WAIT WHERE ARE YOU GOING I JUST THOUGHT IT WAS AN AWESOME COINCIDENCE IS ALL. 

P.S. Ezra got his hands on a Kool-Aid pouch at the party and proceeded to drink at least three of them. He was a PEACH and a HALF the rest of the day. A hyper, shrieky, radioactive peach. OMG. 

Brita has offered me five additional bottles to give away to you guys. Leave a comment on this post between now and next Friday and I will randomly select five comments (via the robot at random.org) and then you, too, can be the weirdo on the playground shrieking about your magic filter cup being in the mail. Or, you know, you can be cool about it. Totally your call. 

This post is sponsored by the Brita Bottle for Kids. Learn more at Facebook, Twitter and YouTube. Brita is teaming up with non-profit Alliance for a Healthier Generation to encourage kids to swap out sugary beverages and drink more water. As part of their partnership with the Alliance, Brita will donate more than 4,000 Brita Bottles for Kids to schools across the country to encourage healthy habits in their students.

Rock Out With Your Kraut Out

This post is sponsored by Kraut Rocks

I've written about the semi-complicated process of sponsored posts. I love them, I need them, I also kind of fear them because I tend to overthink them. What if the client hates it? What if you guys hate it? Cue the self-doubt-fueled writer's block gaaaaahhhhhhhhh.

But then sometimes a sponsored post comes along that involves hanging out with an old friend, gossiping, drinking beer and cooking mussels and hot dogs and sauerkraut over an open flame on a bar counter wait WHAT.

There's a month-long sauerkrautaganza going on in D.C. right now called Kraut Rocks. Top Chef's Spike Mendolsohn is the host and several other local chefs are featuring their take on sauerkraut on their menus. I was asked to write a post about it. 

Amy's Mouth: Sure! Why not?

Amy's Brain: Why not? You mean other than the little fact that you don't particularly like sauerkraut? 

Amy's Wallet: QUIET, YOU FOOL.

At first I thought maybe I would do a cooking demonstration of my own, or we could visit one of the participating restaurants and photograph me attempting to gain a new appreciation of sauerkraut the superfood, but then when I saw the final list of chefs I remembered that OH YEAH, THIS HAPPENED. 

"This" = appearing as a judge on an episode of Throwdown With Bobby Flay, once a upon a time, a long time ago, in a galaxy far far away where I only had ONE CHILD and was only about 10 weeks pregnant with Ezra. 

As I (repeatedly) mentioned in my posts about it, Throwdown judges are punked right along with the local chef. In our case, the local chef was Teddy Folkman of Granville Moore's. We've been buds ever since. 

(You may also remember him — or a totally unfairly edited, pretty much fictional version of him — from The Next Food Network Star. He's shrugged that one off; I still get rage-face-y over it. SHUT UP TELEVISION YOU ARE FULL OF LIES.)

ANYWAY.

(Holy cats, this is the longest wind-up ever, no?)

Teddy seemed like 1) the perfect person to re-introduce me to the wonders of the kraut, and 2) the perfect opportunity to get paid for doing something I'd totally do for free. 

In this case, consume some alcohol and then come dangerously close to setting my hair on fire.

(Look at those percentages. LOOK AT THEM.)

(Look at how well this could end. LOOK AT IT.)

Teddy, being awesome AND a fairly regular, long-time reader of this very blog, came up with a pantry-raid idea for our little cooking experiment. He grabbed a ton of typical kid-friendly ingredients and other stuff most of us are likely to have on hand, and proceeded to explain that you could make a broth for mussels (his specialty) with just about all of them. 

Right down to the dehydrated cheese packet in a box of macaroni-and-cheese.

(Cook milk, butter and shredded real cheese with powdered cheez product, add mussels, serve over the pasta and favorite chopped herbs.)

It was like an episode of Chopped. Only drunk. 

Then he put me to work on our Frankenkraut creation.

My crowning contribution to the proceedings: I can chop hot dog coins like nobody's bizness, yo. 

He offered to let me actually cook the mussels, at which point I put down the knife and laffed and laffed, because dude. I like you. I really don't want to burn your restaurant down.

So, into the pan went:

Butter

Sage

Hot dogs

Sauerkraut

Spicy mustard

An apple juice box

Beer (a pilsner)

And mussels.

...

You guys.

YOU GUYS. 

AH NOM NOM NOM.

These suckers smelled amazing. The sauerkraut broth? So full of win. I loved it. I am totally stealing it. I am brining my Thanksgiving turkey in it. I am going on a sauerkraut recipe bender AND NO ONE CAN STOP ME. 

KRAUT ROCKS!

*drops mic*

Here's a video of Teddy making another version of kraut mussels and then drinking beer with Spike, Mike Isabella and Ryan Wheeler. So basically a recreation of our cooking session, only with more talent and dignity.

(Locals can actually order this dish at Granville Moore's this month...the rest of you GET IN THE KITCHEN AN' MAKE ME SUM MUSSELS)

Giveaway! Check out the recipes and pick a favorite. Tell me which it is and win a $100 prize pack (t-shirt, coffee mug, one of those beer steins from the video that I am TOTALLY COVETING and a restaurant gift card).