DEAR BEAZUS

(A love note to my unborn daughter)

Dear Beazus,

Your beautiful name is actually Beatrice but we started calling you Beazus while you are in my tummy and it has kind of stuck. Plus, if you could hear how cute Clementine says it you'd totally understand why Beazus is really the absolute most charming and lovely thing you could ever be called. What I should call you is Busy. Because you are oh, so busy kicking and twirling and jabbing me. I anticipate seeing you for the first time and realizing you are actually an octopus. This would make so much sense, actually.

Clementine and I say a prayer every night and we always talk about you. How we are excited to meet you. How we pray you are healthy and stay in my tummy long enough to grow a tangled mop of hair just like Clem has. Pray for me too? Mostly for energy and patience. Being trapped in this body right now, in the state it's in, well, it's hell. But you are worth it; no doubt in my mind you are worth every tear I've shed so far and every tear that has yet to fall. 

Tonight some of your cousins dropped by. You should have seen how completely adorable Clementine was with little Cole. All she wanted to do was kiss him and hold his bottle. She even gave him the cutest high-five when he stretched open one of his little hands. Get ready to have the BEST big sister ever. She will love you and teach you and share with you as best she can. I know you will grow up admiring her and guess what, so will I.

I guess the last thing I have is a warning or a series of warnings, really. I'm warning you that you're in for a wild ride with this family. Your dad is off-the-charts CRAZY and will probably make you pee your pants well into adulthood. Be prepared to have your toes and legs and neck and belly nibbled on by all of us. We can't help it, we are part carnivore when it comes to baby flesh. We sing about everything. Clementine can vouch for this next one: I will love you so much that sometimes I'll just stare at you. Don't ask me what I'm thinking about during those times because oh, I could write a book about that. 

Love,

Mama

This is your sister, and she is so rad. Promise.

HASHTAG CLEMENTINE

Some of my close friends and family will remember when I was about 6-months pregnant with Clementine I worried that I didn't love her or that I was going to be a terrible mother. I didn't sit for hours and think about her or imagine how life would be with her. Probably, mostly, because I really had no idea what to imagine or think. Motherhood and a tiny baby were just beyond my ability to pretend.

So actually, I don't think I was one of those moms who bonded with their unborn baby. I mean, I was happy to be pregnant, happy for the chance to be a mom, grateful that she was growing healthy and strong. But I just didn't feel mom-like or get overwhelmed with loving her. Not until those first few minutes, hours, and days at the hospital.

Our first encounter was a few minutes after she was born. I was super high on morphine but managed to lift one of my 85 pound arms to her tiny head as a nurse held her close enough for me to see and touch. My first words to her were, "hi baby". Swaddled up she looked even smaller than 4.5 lbs and in my drugged out pillow brain I almost thought I had given birth to nothing more than a baby head.

About six hours later I finally coaxed one of the nurses to break every hospital rule and take her out of the nursery and bring her to me so I could see her with a clear head. So I could hold her with arms that didn't feel like they actually weighed 85 lbs each. I held her for about 30 minutes before word got out that I had a preemie baby outside of the nursery and she had to go back. But "hi baby" and 30 minutes was all I needed to fall for her hook, line, and sinker.

Everyday this kid, this little girl who once was born half the size of our 8 lb cat Agnes, will do or say something that turns my heart into a big clump of gummy bears. In these moments it is best if I'm not driving or doing anything that requires logic and reason. Because I don't have any. The only thing I'm really capable of doing is breathing in and out and falling even deeper in love with her. I'm fairly certain that is my new job; I fall for this kid again and again, every single day.

So the fact that I'm six months pregnant with baby girl #2 and not feeling a really strong maternal bond doesn't freak me out the way it did with Clemmy. I know it will come. It will come when we meet and every moment after that. Just like Jerry McGuire, she'll have me at "hi baby".

THE REINVENTION OF ME

Subtitle: This reinvention is something that continues to change every. single. day. Today's post is a simple snapshot in time of the me I am right now. Tomorrow I may be a slightly different version. Hopefully a better one.

I'm learning to, or rather I'm being forced to, become less vain. It's something we all say we want to do, but ultimately that means letting a lot of our pretenses go. De-vaining is super liberating but oh, so painful and emotionally overwhelming. It's also not that fun.

A few years ago it was really super dooper important that my house always appear clean. These days, clean is relative and oh my if you could see the dust in some places or the disorganization happening in my closet or the bag I haven't completely unpacked since our Christmas visit to Logan. Just the fact that I feel comfortable enough to mention this publicly should show how well I'm progressing.

A few years ago I really took my personal style seriously. I'd bow to some of the trends but mostly I tried to dress to the beat of my own drum. I also spent hours thinking about and working toward not gaining weight. Now I wear the yoga pants and wash my hair twice a week and one of my new year goals was to not gain that much more weight. Hah pregnancy!

This morning at 9:55 my friend Kelly sent me a text asking if Clem and I wanted to go to story time at the library at 10:15. The library is probably 10 minutes away. There I sat, in yesterday's yoga pants (p.s. I haven't done yoga in about 4 years), my hair hadn't been washed since Monday, I still had makeup on from yesterday, and my teeth weren't brushed just yet. I looked at Clem, obviously already growing bored of the games we always play and I just had to take her. I brushed my teeth but not my hair. I threw on a jacket, wiped the makeup from under my eyes, a little lipgloss and we bolted out the door.

While I was there I got a library card, too. I'm that girl now. Yay me!

I love how social Clem is. She just walked up to this boy during play time and started riffling through blocks with him. She is so independent. And she is oh, so cute.

LET THEM WEAR SEQUINS

Let me preface this post by saying that I love the two ladies who did wear sequins and I think it is fabulous of them to do so.

When you are 41 and pregnant, plus you are chasing a toddler around the house who only recently figured out how fun it is to walk, it's just plain hell. The first few months were a blur. I was so tired/sick/sick/tired that I was in survival mode and yesterday's clothes all the time. My best moments were in the morning so I made sure to be all the mom I could be early in the day, mostly so Clem wouldn't hate me for being curled up in a ball or gagging over a toilet from about 2pm on.

Oh, and also, thank you to the makers of Yo Gabba Gabba for getting us through. It may not be the best thing for a kid to watch that much TV, but she learned cool songs and dance moves and I could lay on the couch and die a quiet, pathetic death while learning the importance of baby steps vs big steps.

Just a few days before Christmas we did a gender ultrasound and found out we are having another girl. Yahooo. Don't get me wrong...I love boys. I married one. I think they are cool and cute and essential to the human race. But having one baby girl makes it feel like all the babies in the whole world should be girls. Does that make sense? It does to me. Nate said he wanted a boy but the first word out of his mouth when we learned her gender was, "yay". It's nice to know those coats and shoes that were worn six times will get used another six before they go into full retirement.

We'll probably call her Beatrice.

So by New Year's Eve I was 17 weeks and feeling a little better. Mostly not queasy and able to manage any remaining quease with the magic of ReliefBand. Get one. Trust me.

We were getting together with a few friends for dinner and party afterward and I seriously wasn't looking forward to any of it for one main reason. I'm big. Like EVERYWHERE big. Not just the cute barely there baby bump kind of big that you may expect at 17 weeks. Also, having a fibroid the size of a softball in my uterus has made it really uncomfortable to wear clothes. So while I know I have the option to go get a few cute maternity pieces, I'm less inclined to do so because I probably won't wear them much. All I do wear, all that is really comfortable, is some version of the yoga pant, a tunic or tee, and Ugg boots (that Nate got me for Christmas and that I love. Thanks honey). Pressure of any kind on my stomach is basically out of the question painful.

So back to New Year's Eve. I just didn't have the energy to try and look good (good being relative). My two girlfriends going to dinner, who I love (remember?), are gorgeous. And one is even pregnant and just a month behind me. But she is still a size 2. And the other is just thin to begin with and they are both super pretty and they dress great and have amazing style and I just knew they were gonna look "new year's eve" fabulous next to my "you're lucky I even came" style.

About 30 minutes before we needed to leave for dinner I moped into the bathroom to try and make the best of a seriously depressing situation. I put on eyeliner (I rarely do this) and eye shadow (I NEVER do this) and I combed my hair. I stood there looking at my almost familiar face in the mirror, a little heavier, looking older and more tired, and I thought, "eff it". I just couldn't do any more than that. All the blogs and Pinterest posts and Instagram photos were sifting through my head and I had all these expectations about how I was suppose to look. But "eff it".

That "eff it" moment was big for me.Because I normally would have tried on everything in my closet. Looking blindly for the one combination that would make me look like I used to look. Like I still had style and self respect. But there, standing in front of the mirror wearing a striped tee, yoga pants, and my Uggs, I made a decision. "Let them wear sequins", I said. This is me right now. This is who I am. I know I have style hidden under these layers of motherhood and pregnancy pounds. And that style can come out and play later when it's time. But right now I'm not going to even entertain the idea of anything other than what I am. I turned off the light and walked out wearing just what I had on before. No stylishly mismatched layers or belts or heals. No skinny jeans or tailored jackets. Just me and my knits.

So there I was in a swanky, dimly lit sushi restaurant. I was the only one with a toddler on my hip (babysitters on new year's eve...yeah, right), I was the only one essentially wearing pajamas, I was the only one who probably also felt insanely comfortable and warm and finally, FINALLY, okay with it.

Don't get me wrong, I really do still wish I was  a size 2 pregnant girl with shiny hair and glowing skin. I promise I'd be so very cute. But I'm not so I'm choosing to be okay and even grateful for what I actually am which is a healthy body engaged in a bit of a miracle. Also, I have the biggest boobs known to man. So there's that.

p.s. how cute is Clementine in this picture?

BLAME IT ON...WELL, A NUMBER OF THINGS

It's been so long since I updated the blog that the entire blogger interface has changed. Blame it on what I think is post-partum or the side effects from Zoloft (to treat the post-partum), or the fact that I have a baby whose face I could stare at from sun up to sun down and never ever get bored. Blame it on one or all of those things. Anyway, here I am.
Every night after Clementine has had a bath and is safely snuggled in her jammies, cuddling with her pal "hippo" and laying in my lap sucking feverishly on her bottle I turn off the lights, listen to her suck and swallow and suck and swallow and I say a prayer. A few things dominate the prayer every night. 1) how insanely grateful I am to have her; healthy, happy, dorky perfect little Clementine Imogen Conger. 2) that she always knows without a doubt that she is loved by me, Nate, God and Jesus. 3) that she will grow to be confident, brave, happy, kind, forgiving, strong, and gracious. There also might be something in there about "please sleep through the night" but I can't be certain.
Dr. Phil says the biggest influence on a child's life is the same gender parent. Um, folks, that's me. I'm carrying that yoke. Me. The self deprecating, overly anxious, slightly lazy, incredibly insecure girl over in the corner wishing she was home wearing sweats and eating Nutella with a spoon.
I've gotta pull myself together. I've got to become graceful and brave and kind to myself and others. I've gotta mellow out and stop obsessing over being perfect. My neurosis is the absolute last thing I wanna pass on to my daughter.
The amazing and very unexpected twist in this story is that Clementine is probably the biggest influence in my life right now, too. The little girl that poops in her pants and would eat a dead mouse if she found one on the floor. She is so mellow and comfortable in her own skin. Things make her happy. I make her happy. She is unabashedly social and has this gift for drawing people out and making them smile. She is healthy. She's not perfect. She encourages me to act foolish and talk to strangers and take her to the zoo even when I'm feeling particularly fat that day. It turns out, elephants don't give a damn how much you weigh.
And then I started wondering if Clementine is saying her own little prayer at night while I rock her to sleep. A prayer for me. A prayer about how she is so grateful to have me, here, healthy, to take care of her and make her laugh and teach her how to be authentically dorky. Maybe she is praying that I'll know I'm loved by her, my parents and Nate and Heavenly Father and Jesus, too. And I like to think she is also praying that I'll grow up to be confident, brave, happy, kind, forgiving, strong, and gracious. Also, I'm pretty sure there is something in her prayer about when she wakes up at 2am that I'll hear her and come rock her back to sleep because she really just want to know that I'm still there even when it's dark.



Clementine is now 13-months old. She knows lots of words and animal sounds. Her favorite books are I Want My Hat Back and Barnyard Dance. She started crawling shortly after her first birthday and loves climbing stairs. She also (pictured above) prefers to cut her teeth on large pieces of dirty bark selected from the flowerbed where cats have peed and birds have undoubtedly died. I tell myself it will just put hair on her chest. I love her.

MEMORIAL DAY

I'm feeling more and more responsible to do something to really observe memorial day.

As a girl I remember gearing up for the day and it had nothing to do with big BBQs or planning extra fun outings with the family. We would harvest mounds of lilacs and peonies from around the yard (I did not appreciate how abundantly these flowers bloomed or how they smelled, stupid little girl Tonia). Anyway, we'd harvest the flowers and make big gorgeous bundles and put them in tin cans. And then we would visit cemeteries across Northern Utah where many of my relatives are buried. I don't even need to tell you how delicious our car smelled on those car rides because you have a nose and you've smelled them and can only imagine what it might smell like if you were in a station wagon full to the ceiling with lilacs and peonies.

Today was family day. We got up and spent some time together in the morning until Clemmy was ready for her morning nap...which bled into the early afternoon. Most of the time her naps are about 60-90 minutes long but every once in a while (heaven forbid she tell me which days it's gonna happen ahead of time) she will go down for her typical nap at say, 10 am and not wake until 1pm. It's true. A three hour nap. Today was one of those days.

After she woke up and had some lunch we decided to take a walk around the lake and then stop and play in the sunshine for a while. Which is exactly what we did. Clem hung out on the blanket looking adorable and cheered us on as we tossed the frisbee. I'm not even going to try and be humble, Nate and I both throw really well. And we hadn't done that in such a long time and it was a lot of fun to be with my family, in the warm sun, having a good time together. On our way home we swung by the neighborhood gelato shop and indulged in some blood orange and ace (lemon, orange and carrot) gelato. Delish. Clem loves.

Then it was home for concert preparations. Clem got a bath and jammies, I packed dinner, made a bottle, packed warm clothes for everyone...and then we were off to Red Butte Gardens to see Blind Pilot open for The Head and The Heart who opened for The Shins. It was a good show. And then the temperature started to drop. FAST. First it went from warm to warm with a breeze. Then from warm with a breeze to cool with a breeze. Finally it finished up with really chilly with an even chillier breeze. Clementine was wearing all the warm clothes I packed plus my concert tee plus all the blankets I packed. And with all those layers stuffed into the bjorn carrier...it was a recipe for an unhappy girl. I don't blame her. I have bad claustrophobia and I can only imagine how I would feel in all those layers plus someone holding me a little too close.

So we ended up coming home early. Which was just fine because I was freezing and so was Nate and especially so was Clemmy. Now baby is sleeping away all stretched out and free in her crib (toasty warm) and Nate and I are ready to call it a day. Next year I'm gonna try and do something more thoughtful with our day so that we can give a little thought to why we celebrate. And next time I go to a concert at Red Butte I'm packing hot chocolate, more warm clothes, and tons of blankets. And probably some food that I make, too. Because I got hungry and they don't make great veggie burgers. Just sayin.

I love these two people.

We Conger girls smile even when we're freezing.

WEEKLY GUILT JOURNAL

It's here. It's late. It's guilt the way guilt should be enjoyed...topped with a light whip topping of guilt. And colorful sprinkles of guilt dusting the guilt whip topping. What is a guilt journal you ask? Here is the explanation from my first-ever guilt journal.


You know how sometimes just talking about things makes you feel better? Well, I'm putting that to the test in a new weekly series I'm calling my "Guilt Journal". Every Mormon girl has one. Maybe not neatly printed out in the leather bound book she keeps bedside...but it's there. It could be masquerading as a "to do" list or it might just be rattling around in her conscience. One way or another, it exists and it wreaks havoc on her mental health.

1. I'm drinking WAY TOO MUCH SODA. Stop me, oh oh oh stop me. I've been really tired lately. Partly because I've had a few late nights mixed with a little cherubic alarm clock that has no snooze setting. But also, I'm drinking a ton of it because that little Tonia voice inside my head keeps saying, "mmmm, cold tingly soda right outside in the garage. Go get one before you fall asleep loading the dishwasher". And then I do it. Like I'm a robot without conscious thought of my own. I crack open the can and take a swig of the effervescence and I have the will to finish the dishes and move on to the laundry or maybe the toilets.

2. The toilets. They need cleaning. The last few times anyone has even walked thru our front door I'm positive they are going to ask for the loo and I'm dying inside. Because that bathroom doesn't properly represent me. I'm a clean, sparkly, minty smelling bathroom kind of girl. And that doesn't even sort of describe my bathrooms right now. If you come to my house, do no ask to pee in my bathroom. Because I'll say yes, and then immediately break up with you and never look you in the face again.

3. My skin. Let's start at the top. My face skin has really taken a hard hit. After Clementine I think I lost whatever hormone gives your skin the ability to bounce back. Now mine just lays there like a salmon filet losing its battle with gravity. Also, I'm getting a lot of zits. I know I need to take better care of my face and it is safe to say I probably need to get a facial to hit the restart button. Moving on to the rest of my skin...it's dry. The kind of dry that will sneak up on you and turn your hands to leather and your legs to snake skin with no warning. It's my fault because I like to take hot baths followed by being too lazy to ever put lotion on. It's my fault. It's my fault.

4. You know those books you can make with shutterfly? Well, last year around Christmas I thought it would be fun to make one of Clementine's first 6-months and give one to my grandma, one to my mom, one to Nate's grandma and one to Nate's mom for Valentine's day. You know...how cute, loving other moms do. So I started, and it was looking really cute, and the captions were the kind that would make anyone cry. And it was coming along fine. And then I stopped. And I thought, no biggie, I"ll give them for Easter. Easter came and went. And I thought again, no biggie, I'll give them for Mother's Day. And that day also came and went. So now Clementine is 10 months old and I still haven't made the book and now I just think I should hold off and make one that covers her entire first year and give them to everyone on Clementine's birthday...or for Halloween, or for Thanksgiving. Or hell, let's be honest, maybe for Christmas.

5. My closet needs to be cleaned out. I don't even need to go into a lot of detail about it. Let's just say it's full of stuff I never wear. There is some I want to wear again, and some I know I'll never ever wear again in my life. It's just such a daunting task. Tantamount to cleaning out our basement which really needs to happen. Partly so I can sleep at night and partly because we are starting to think seriously about finishing our basement in the next few months and I just don't think they will start construction with my piles of crap with no purpose or intent laying around in every single corner.

Can I please stop at five? There are so so many things I feel guilty about but I just cannot bring myself to admit more than five at a time.

Unrelated to my guilt but needing opinion: We are getting a new dining table and I need support or a reality slap. Someone? Anyone? What do you think about this table and these chairs? I can't decide if I want this light wood color or white (for the chair). Someone please take my hand and walk me into the light.