No, really, you shouldn't have ...

I have a plethora of posts to catch up on since taking a much-needed sabatical from writing for the last two weeks (but I will continue my theme posting through November, or at least until I am caught up on our lives, and, at last check, it was winter 2009) but first, a VERY SPECIAL Frugal Fridays post.

With just under two months until Christmas, my guest room is slowly filling up with boxes and bags of holiday cheer, most of which, of course, were bought with a coupon. And amid the (ever-growing) Toys R Us Express that is Collin's holiday haul, I have amassed more than 10 toys to donate to Toys For Tots thanks to a wonderful Kmart coupon for $5 off any toy $5 or more. Pretty pastel tea sets and shiny Hot Wheels sets ... all fun, all useful, and all free. Fabulous! I love the giving spirit of the holidays knowing that my efforts will ensure that needy children will have something to open under the tree.

So now that I have gotten the mention of my altruism out of the way (to make me feel less guilty about what I am about to say), I can discuss the flip side of the giving spirit -- the gifts that no one would want, and yet I still seem to get. To be clear, I am not an ingrate. I love most presents, and am always touched by the effort that is put into buying or making them. Ah, there's that key word: effort. Really, how how hard is it to ask someone -- or their spouse -- for birthday or Christmas ideas? Or, if nothing else, to not buy them golf clubs as a fertility tool?

But that's not how my in-laws roll.

So, without further ado, a primer on some of the gifts I have received over the years:

Christmas 2003: Nothing says Merry Christmas to your son's girlfriend (who you don't really know -- or like -- well) like a gift certificate to Victoria's Secret. Granted, I love Victoria's Secret -- even if they have yet to create a Forklift Bra for post-pregnancy -- but hello, awkward. I smiled sweetly and said something about being thrilled that I could get some new flannel pajamas ... and promptly went out and bought a glittery bra and matching underwear, to be used in conjuntion with my other gift ...

... Because there's nothing like a post-coital Icee.


Christmas 2004: Polyester yarn, a big letter J ... how could a girl get so lucky? And did I mention that the water bottle leaked the first time I used it -- when I was home with both a horrible cold and cramps -- and I woke up from a nap thinking I'd wet the bed? At least I wasn't wearing the previous year's gift. Wet glitter isn't nearly as sparkly.


Christmas 2007: My mother-in-law went on and on about how long she spent picking out this "candle lantern" in the store ... Funny that for someone with a black belt in shopping, I have never seen a store called the Partylite Catalog. Re-gift much?! And to think that my sister-in-law got a gift certificate to Gene Juarez instead ... Who needs a mani/pedi when you can have a flammable disco ball? And, because marriage is all about sharing, Chris can lay ownership to this beauty ...

... And I can lay claim to the surround sound that they bought him the same year. Yep, surround sound, for a living room in which I am currently sitting less than 15 feet away from the TV. Happy holidays, and thanks for deafening us! Then again, I suppose that being deaf would prevent me from hearing the whir of the Icee maker ... had I not taken it back for its complete inability to actually crush ice.


My birthday, 2007: And speaking of whipping up a snack, who DOESN'T think of Al Roker when they're contemplating stromboli?


My birthday, 2008: Ah, the gift that will go down in history. My well-meaning(?!) in-laws bought me a set of golf clubs to help me get pregnant. (Direct quote: "You just get out there and golf, and you'll be pregnant in no time!") All you need to know is that I managed to get myself knocked up later that month, the golf clubs never made it out of the box, and Collin got some rockin argyle with the profit I netted on Craigslist.


Christmas 2008: Nothing sounds better to a poor, tired pregnant woman than a little pampering, so I was elated to get a Gene Juarez maternity massage as my gift. I think I even did a little waddle-dance in the living room after opening it. I was not, however, dancing at the front desk of the spa after my hour of bliss when I found out that my newly unemployed self had to pony up the Amex and cover half the cost. Talk about a zen-sapper.


My birthday, 2009: I will totally wage war to use a coupon so I can get my kid a free single-serve organic chocolate milk, but when it comes to jewlery, I have no qualms about dropping mucho dinero on little blue boxes of pretty silver necklaces and shiny bead earrings. I love, love, love Tiffany & Co., and the vast majority of my jewlery comes from there. THIS, which I was told looks just like me, does not ...

... And neither does this. Yes, this is a dry-erase calendar that you can hang on a wall, but mine is a little fancier. I just couldn't find it online, and unfortunately, mine now resides in the home of whomever bought it on red-tag day at the Lakewood Goodwill. So you'll have to imagine fancy red script across the top that reads "Hey Good Lookin, Whatcha Got Cookin?" I don't know; maybe Al Roker has one in his kitchen.

And just so you don't think I am the only lucky one:

Chris' birthday, 2008: Tabletop fun for sports fans ages 7 and up -- and therefore a very appropriate gift for your son's 29th birthday.


Chris' birthday, 2009: There's nothing like a wolf walking stick ... for a man who doesn't actually hike.

And best of all? Christmas is coming.

Oh, how they grow ...

So by now you know that I am a recently reformed fall hater, but here's a new element: I also hate Halloween.

(But I swear that, contrary to how this photo looks, my attitude has not rubbed off on my son.)

Of course I love free candy (especially Reese's Cups, with which I have had a longstanding love affair; seriously, if I get a hold of any this year I'll lose all semblance of self-control) but I hate tromping around in the wet leaves in a costume (at least here in Washington, where it is rarely nice on Oct. 31) and even worse, answering the door to God knows who until well past dark.

However, since becoming a mom, I have rediscovered the joy of Halloween costumes, which, I have decided, are the best thing about this holiday (with caramel apples as a close second). Getting to dress up as a Sprite or a witch was always my favorite part of the holiday, so the past two years, I have spent endless amounts of time hunting for the perfect costume for Collin.

Last year, he was a little tiny Glowworm (from Gymboree), and this year, he is a very active bear (from costumexpress.com, and I must say that it was not easy finding a non-creepy/hokey looking bear).

And both last year and this year, he has gotten his first opportunity to wear his costume at Bumpie Halloween parties.

Last year, the party was held at the Seattle home of Michelle, one of the first Bumpies I ever met, and Collin was among the little ones lined up in a row on the couch, unable to escape pacifier and bottle thieves, while the moms feasted on fabulously fancy pastries.

This year, I had the pleasure of co-hosting the party at my friend Jen's house in Kent, and it was a ton of fun, even though you wouldn't guess that from Collin's expression in most of the pictures! Blame teething, a bear costume and being dragged out of bed earlier than usual. He did have fun, though, and very much enjoyed a ridiculous consumption of sugar.

Speaking of food, that was one of my key roles since the fabulous Jen provided her home and a ton of adorable decor. The gathering was potluck style, but I made cookie-dough truffles with orange drizzle (I added yellow food coloring to the pink frosting I already had and prayed for the best), fabulous boo cups (crushed oreos, chocolate pudding and whipped-cream ghosts), caramel apples for the moms (because seriously, when do moms ever get party favors?!) and sherbet punch (which I need to admit I wouldn't have been able to make without the lovely Keri picking up, uh, all of the ingredients). I love these kind of projects!

It's so much fun being able to get together and celebrate Halloween with other moms, especially since our kids aren't old enough yet to really enjoy it. And it's also wonderful to see how they have grown in a year. Remembering Collin, Holden and Max lying on Michelle's living-room rug last year and then seeing them chasing each other for possession of a toy lawnmower (thus making them impossible to photograph) on Sunday was both hilarious and nostalgic.

Our babies are growing up.

But fortunately, I have at least another year before Collin rebels against soft and adorable costumes.

I hope.

As we go on, we remember ...

The older I get, the more I feel that there's really something to be said time. Or, more specifically in this case, a decade.

In some ways, 10 years is a lot of time. And in others, it seems like just yesterday.

Tonight, it was both, as the Clover Park High School Class of 2000 gathered for its 10-year reunion at the Varsity Grill in Tacoma. I was on the planning committee and worked to ensure a great showing of Warrior alumni, but I admit that I was a bit worried on Wednesday when I saw the RSVP list. My fears were all in vain, though, because the turnout exceeded our expectations.

It was great catching up with old friends and talking to people with whom I have gotten to know better since high school (mostly thanks to Facebook). Jobs, marriage, children -- they all forge unlikely bonds. It was really nice to see the coolest guys in school light up with the air of proud fathers as they talked about their families, and to see people who were once wallflowers grab a drink and mingle.

It's also amusing to see groups split off the same way that they did when we walked the halls of CPHS. I chatted with most everyone there, but spent most of my time with fellow swimmers and my core group of Krissy (my sister), Christina (her best friend) and Jessica (my then-best friend) and we were joined by Jacque, who flitted in and out of our posse as she changed schools, came back, and left again. It was a blast to catch up on what we have all been up to for the last 10 years, but it also felt so comfortable as the old memories -- and drinks -- flowed and we saw familiar faces come through the door.

I will admit that I was nervous about my reunion. I didn't have my Pulitzer (or 200 pairs of shoes) and I hadn't quite lost the amount of weight I had hoped to, even though I am down about 21 pounds at this point. The nerves got the best of me because I was too stressed to sleep much last night ...

... and I overslept this morning, waking up one minute AFTER I was supposed to be at Gene Juarez. After calling and begging them to hold my appointment, I flew out of the house and down to the mall for a haircut and brow wax. I pulled out a new outfit from Nordstrom, my brand-new Tiffany bead earrings (that replace the pair from which I lost one on Chris' birthday) and fabulous beaded shoes. That alone replaced some of my confidence, and although I knew I wasn't exactly what I hoped to be, what I was, in fact, wasn't so bad.

Tonight, I got to stand alongside my classmates and say that I am , in fact, a journalist, which several people remembered as being my dream. My current stint as a sportswriter covering both high schools and Washington State football drew both impressed looks and total shock. After all, in high school, if it didn't involve Swedish goggles and a Speedo, I wasn't interested. And I got to talk about the love of my life, my adorable son, who apparently has quite the following on Facebook. (His wardrobe got several comments. Hee.) I was proud of who I have become, and that, above all else, was of the most importance to me.

All in all, not too bad for the little girl from Lakewood who wanted to be Lois Lane -- and turned out to be just that, and a not-so-desperate housewife all at the same time.

Now, if they only had a Pulitzer for truffles, and I'd really have something to talk about in 2020 at my next reunion ...

Travel like a rockstar ...

It's not secret that Chris and I love to travel.

Over the course of my being a stay-at-home mom, I have been asked if I have a trust fund and been snarked at for taking Collin on three vacations before he turned one. I just shrug. Because of my admittedly fabulous money-saving skills, we have been able to take some really fun trips over the years.

I'll flat out admit that I am not big on A) road trips and B) family vacations. I don't find either relaxing -- spending hour upon hour in a car, or spending day after day with family members, can be physically and mentally wearing. Been there, done that, and don't really want to go any further than Pullman. Thanks.

On the other hand, I will gladly board a five-hour flight to Hawaii for a week. And, when all is said and done, it can be just as affordable as a weeklong road trip when you factor in gas, hotels, food, etc.

So I present my top five tips for traveling like a rockstar -- on a backup singer's budget.

1. Travel in the offseason: One of the smarter things that we do is go to destinations when they aren't as hot (or are literally extremely hot). High season in Hawaii is April through November, so we went this year in March, and the cost was considerably less than in the spring or summer. I have been to Maui five times; twice in the winter/early spring, and I vastly prefer it. Lines are shorter, planes are less crowded, condos are cheaper, etc. The water isn't going to be as warm at certain times of the year, but you also may be spared from having to see old, hairy men in transparent white speedos strutting along the beach. (Unfortunate true story.)

Of the four times we have been to Las Vegas in the last three years, the best time (morning sickness aside) was when we went the weekend before Thanksgiving in 2008. Hotel rates were dirt cheap and we were able to stay at the Mandalay Bay for four nights for a fraction of the cost of two nights during more popular times of the year, generally March through May, and September through November. The last time we hit Sin City, for our anniversary this year, we went at the end of June and prices were also very reasonable -- and the temperature very high. While 105 degrees in dry heat may deter some people, our craptastic summer here in Washington made it VERY appealing. Besides, there's nothing like a cool drink on a hot day.

2. Shop around: Don't automatically assume that Expedia or Travelocity is going to be the best deal. I have found great rates through Costco Travel, on the airlines' websites, and through smaller online travel agencies. I bought my ticket to San Francisco in April through Hotwire, which isn't as well known as others, but I got a $10 rebate by using a booking code I found in my Entertainment Book -- and the price was the same as on United.com. Hey, $10 is $10 -- or, in my case, three skinny vanilla lattes! I was about 90 seconds away from booking a great Vegas package on Expedia for January 2008 when I saw a pop-up for Travelocity, zoomed over there and noticed they were offering $50 off for booking with an American Express. Sold. I also have found great deals on car rentals by going with local agencies rather than Hertz or Avis. Sure, the cars may not be as fancy, but ... it's a rental car.

3. Don't get hung up on little details: For being as Type A as I am, I don't stress about certain things when it comes to travel. If you want to check a bag, just do it. Yes, it's annoying to pay $25 just so you don't have to carry all your underwear around with you, but it's a hell of a lot better to just plan to do it rather than get stopped at security or the gate for having excess carry-ons and being forced to check them -- for a fee. (And no, this hasn't happened to me. I pack like a girl, and therefore couldn't go somewhere overnight with a measly carry-on. Because of this, I could never backpack across Europe -- not that I'd want to.)

And if you don't have time to buy food at the gate, don't sweat it; most of the airlines offer reasonably priced fresh food. I had a fabulous antipasto plate on the way to Maui that was just as good as something in a bistro. Some of the airlines even feed you for free (Continental and Hawaiian are among them) but trust me on this: If you eat the barbecue beef sandwich on Continental, your chances of getting brain cancer are probably going to increase since they heat them in the nasty plastic bag. Stick with the salad. It's a lot safer.

4. Lie: It's probably wrong to advocate lying, but I'm a sucker for a nice hotel room. Have I mentioned that I've been on my honeymoon TWICE this year? And once with a 9-month-old, no less? Seriously, the hotels, especially in Vegas, are hurting for business in this economy, and they don't seem too put out to give you a better room. I generally don't care too much about the room size because I'm usually not in it much, but hey, a strip-view at the Planet Hollywood is pretty nifty, and an ocean-view condo is VERY nice. And if you're a more ethical person than me, offering a tip the person checking you in never hurts. Chances are they won't take it -- it's illegal in most hotels in Vegas -- but it will likely get you bumped up a floor or two.

5. Prioritize: One benefit of repeat trips for us is that we don't feel a need to fill our $25-to-check suitcases with every souvenir in sight. Sure, we get a shirt or two, or an addition to my Starbucks city mug collection, but we have other priorities. Simply put, we're foodies. We love trying local cuisine, from alligator in New Orleans (that wasn't me) to Kahlua pig in Hawaii (that was definitely me) and we budget accordingly. In Maui, where nothing is exactly a bargain, that means going to Costco for staples such as milk, cereal and snacks (another benefit of staying in a condo) and eating dinner out. That way, we aren't wasting money on breakfast (which is usually a yogurt for me) and paying $4 for a bag of chips at a beachside cafe. And while we enjoy a stop at the Hard Rock Cafe or Bubba Gump's (and not just in Hawaii, either), we also look for local hot-spots where the food is fabulous, fresh and often comes in heaping portions.

In Vegas, we love the buffets. LOVE. And we greatly benefited from the Buffet of Buffets promotion when we were there in June. For $34.99 each, we had a 24-hour pass to use at any of the Harrahs property buffets. Considering a dinner buffet at one of the higher-end hotels can run you close to $30, we were ecstatic -- and planned accordingly. We bought the pass at The Paris on our first night around 7 p.m., had a fabulous dinner of French cuisine, hit Planet Hollywood for a late breakfast/early lunch the next day around 11:30, and then went back for their dinner buffet at 6 p.m. We saved more than $100 by using this pass. We also found coupons for places at which we wanted to eat in coupon books given to us at check-in. Given how much we saved, we splurged on dinner at Spago to celebrate our wedding anniversary. Two words: Fab. Ulous.

And furthermore, don't feel obligated to book sightseeing excursions when you're making your trip reservations. You may change your mind, or end up pressed for time, and I have found that a lot of times, you can find just as good, if not a better deal, by waiting until you're there. Between coupon books, deals for staying at certain properties and rates depending on when you're visiting, you can have a great time for a steal. Show tickets in Vegas can be a real bargain provided that you're willing to wait until the day of to buy them. If we had booked a luau with our travel package to Maui, we would have paid $95 a person. It turned out that Maui Kaanapali Villas has a partnership with the Hyatt Regency Luau, and we were given a voucher at check-in for a buy one, get one free luau. Total cost: $95 for two people.

Poi has never tasted better than when it's a bargain.

Six degrees of devastation ...

"Blogs are just little diaries for people who can't actually get published." --Lauren Weisberger, "Everyone Worth Knowing"

I'm sure that a lot of women would say that the hands-free breast pump, or maybe the swaddle blanket, is the greatest mom invention ever, but I'd have to give that distinction to blogs. Granted, the pump is pretty useful -- I'd actually blog while rocking my Medela -- but I can't help but think that being able to read and find comfort through other mothers' words is priceless.

I have met some of the women whose blogs I read, and others, I will never meet.

But I have shared their elation and their heartaches. I have laughed and cried along with them. It's pretty profound when you consider that these emotions are invoked over the Internet. But you don't have to see someone with their child to know the love they feel for them. You don't have to hear a woman's quiet sobs to know that it took a mere moment to shatter her world into a million pieces.

When I started blogging in 2007, I didn't know much about the process other than that it was a good way to get my words and feelings down on paper. Or screen. Whatever. I told a few of my friends that I was starting a blog, but I didn't really anticipate anyone reading it. It was my outlet for dealing with my miscarriage, where no one could interrupt me or tell me that I should feel this way or that way. It was my own space, and I so desperately craved it as I got asked on a daily basis how I was doing.

Fast-forward three years, and people ... actually ... read ... it. I still have trouble comprehending that sometimes; that anyone would care what I have to say. As I have said before, I don't consider myself particularly interesting. I'm a journalist and a mom, not a rockstar or a superhero. But I'm extremely flattered that people do read my ramblings -- because I'm certainly reading other women, who are reading other women ...

It's like some form of the six degrees of separation, of devastation, of elation. Everyone knows someone who knows someone who has a blog. It's kind of fabulous. And it never fails to amaze me how easy it is to become wrapped up in someone else's story; to feel, to cry, to pray for them. So no, I don't buy the quote above -- not one bit. Blogging, especially about such issues as the difficult, wonderful journey that is motherhood, provides a way of reaching out and relating, of offering support, even in the most unconventional means. And two of the blogs I have been reading are proof of that.

"The Heir to Blair" tells the story of one woman's battle with postpartum depression in the wake of a miscarriage -- and then having her first child. Her words are painfully real -- her description of her feelings of inadequacy, how she would go huddle in the corner of the shower as her baby screamed in his crib; how she hit rock bottom and ended up in the perinatal psychiatric unit at the University of North Carolina. Ironically, I had read a big story on postpartum disorders and the groundbreaking unit that hospitals all over the country -- including in Seattle -- are working to emulate just a few months ago, but her words gave a face and a name to something that no woman should EVER be ashamed of.

"Enjoying the Small Things" is the tale of a happy family of three that expanded to four -- and found their world turned upside down. When the author's baby girl was born, they learned that she had Down Syndrome. Sitting on the couch, reading her recounting of the birth, how this tiny baby locked eyes with her mother, as if to say that she knew that she wasn't what she had been expecting, but asking, hoping, for her to love her, had me in tears. Her anguish, her heartache, her joy -- and the love she has for both of her daughters -- is breathtaking. You don't have to have a child with a disability to understand, to sympathize, to applaud their achievements.

I can say from personal experience that there is something extremely liberating about blogging. It is so much easier to be open and honest when you don't have to look someone in the eye as you confess your darkest secrets and deepest wishes. When you don't have to answer to anyone for feeling the way that you do. I can honestly say that I wouldn't say some the things I have written about out loud, to even my best friend -- as evidenced by the fact that she said to me, upon reading my post about nursing guilt, that she had no idea the emotional struggle I had gone through.

I only wish that I had found a blog with which to relate after my miscarriage because I truly think it would have helped. After all, my greatest source of support (other than Chris, of course) came from women I talk to through the DSL connection in my study. And some of them have become what I honestly believe will be lifelong friends.

And speaking of friends, their blogs also provide a wonderful source of reading material, of support, of entertainment. I absolutely love seeing their children grow and the journeys they go on; their expressing of hopes and fears and smiles and tears. My heart broke along with one friend's as she wrote of the pain of weaning her son; I understood oh-so-well how difficult it was, and felt a pang of wistfulness that she was so successful at nursing. I was ecstatic as I read of a friend's son's progress in physical therapy, and cried happy tears as the words of another friend's birth story flowed across the screen.

It's free therapy, as both the reader and the writer.

It's the power of the Internet at its best.

It's something that I truly love.

Oh, and for what it's worth, I found the swaddle blanket to be completely useless.

Living Lois Lane: Sweet Home Seattle

"Take a look around you; nothing's what it seems. We're living in the broken home of hopes and dreams. Let me be the first to shake a helping hand; anybody brave enough to take a stand. I've knocked on every door on every dead-end street, looking for forgiveness and what's left to believe." -- Bon Jovi

Here's a little bit of info that not many people know: Once upon a time, in college, I proclaimed that I wanted to work at The Seattle Post-Intelligencer -- not The Seattle Times.

I had applied to the P-I's summer-internship program in the spring of my sophomore year, and to my surprise, was a finalist for their reporting internship. That, coupled with their coming off several big series that had earned them a lot of acclaim, piqued my interest. So, one day in The Evergreen's newsroom, I told Chris (then my boyfriend) that "you can work at The Times and I'll work at The P-I."

He looked at me like I was crazy.

It didn't take me long to realize that he was right. The Times was the golden standard for newspapers in Washington state. To many journalists fed up with The Oregonian's arrogance, it was the premiere publication in the Northwest. The Times had won Pulitzers. Plural Pulitzers.

I had a goal. Now I just needed a shot.

So that fall, Chris literally dragged me off the couch to apply for The Times' copy-editing internship. I wasn't feeling well, but he knew I would feel a hell of a lot worse if I blew the deadline and ended up selling shoes at Gottschalks the following summer. So off to UPS I went in my pajamas to send my application as next-day mail. It was the costliest piece of mail I have ever sent -- and one of the best investments I've ever made.

I'll never forget my first introduction to The Seattle Times. I interviewed for the internship the day after Thanksgiving as a snowstorm got underway -- and snarled traffic up and down Interstate 5. Not easily detered, I had Chris drive me up to Seattle to meet with Karen, the chief of desk editors -- and the woman who would become the Perry White to my Lois Lane.

We hit it off immediately (even though I am pretty sure she was inwardly laughing at my pink cellphone) but I was so nervous that I spilled a bottle of water all over the desk where I was taking the editing test. I couldn't believe that I was sitting in a real newsroom, and such an amazing one at that.

The night Karen called to offer me the internship will go down in pink history as one of the greatest moments of my life. I was on my way back to The Evergreen from the Bookie when my cellphone rang. As I stood outside the Murrow Center with a latte in my hand and snowflakes falling on me, I uttered the words that changed my life.

"Yes."

The Seattle Times' staff lived and breathed news, and the walls of 1120 John Street reflected just that. It didn't have the pizzazz of The P-I's globe (which appealed to me on a very Daily Planet-esque level) but it was a real, live newsroom, kicking ass and taking names since 1896. Who wouldn't want live that life?

I did. So much that I never actually applied for jobs during my senior year of college. I was so enamoured with The Times that I spent all of my free time hoping and praying that they had been enamoured enough with me over the summer. Having an internship at a major metropolitan daily on my resume gave me legitimate credence to apply all over the country -- Denver, Dallas, San Fransisco, Atlanta, Boston ... but I didn't.

On a snowy day in January 2004, an e-mail arrived from Karen, offering me a temporary job on the News Desk. It was an ink-stained dream come true.

And, for four and a half years, I felt a flicker of exhileration every.single.day. when I pulled up in front of the magestic Seattle Times. I never, ever took it for granted.

So when I left, I wondered if the actual Seattle Times, like many of the people inside, would also lose its luster. That what the newsroom stood for would be forever tainted in my mind. But here's the thing: I can hate what happened to me, but I can't hate the memory of my time there. I would be lying to myself to do so. I loved my job second only to my husband. And I loved being in that newsroom, even with the air-conditioning problems and dust dating back to 1896.

I have been back inside the newsroom three times since my departure in December 2008. Once on Collin's one-month birthday, when I was in Seattle for a lactation class and dropped by to introduce him to my former co-workers; once in July when I stopped by to walk to Starbucks with a friend after a birthday party and came inside to escape the heat for a few minutes; and today.

I had put off going in to print the clips of my best work (that I didn't do before leaving since I was too busy trying to not throw up at my desk) because, well, while dropping by to say hello is all good and fine, actually sitting down at a computer seemed like a surefire way for all of the memories of what I had lost to come flooding back. Fortunately, Karen solved the problem for me by loaning me her nice, secluded desk. Wow, so that's what it's like to sit in the boss' chair.

Not that my visit didn't go unnoticed. Not by a landslide. I had Collin with me, and he's nothing if not social. And fast. And loud. He made it his personal mission to cover nearly every inch of the newsroom and meet people in every department. He collected Cheez-its, new friends and a Thomas the Tank Engine train as he went, alternately with me or two of the women with whom I had worked on the desk as I frantically printed out headline after headline.

But the thing is, it didn't bring back bad memories. Walking around the newsroom with my son was like coming full circle. I grew up at The Times. I started there shortly after becoming engaged, and my tenture extended through getting married, my first pregnancy and subsequent miscarriage, Chris losing his job, the first trimester of my pregnancy with Collin ... It was the breeding ground for not just my professional, but personal growth, as well.

I admit that I almost laughed out loud when Collin made a beeline into the same office where I had sat, nearly two years ago, to be laid off (way to pick 'em, kid) but I also couldn't help marveling at the continuation of my growth. I have made a nice life for myself as a mom and freelance journalist. In a way, I wouldn't have even been able to do that without The Times. Don't get me wrong; I'm not saying I'm grateful that I lost my job. NOT AT ALL. I doubt many people would stand by and applaud as their dream shattered into a million little pieces. But I do see the irony of peace and happiness coming in the wake of unemployment.

And I also see what I loved for so long. The sights and sounds of a newsroom, with people buzzing around, chasing leads, editing stories ... I've spent so much time being angry, and then looking for forgiveness, that I didn't expect to find something left to believe in.

It turns out that after all these years, the smell of ink is still magical.

Falling into fall ...

When people talk about the virtues of the Pacific Northwest, the fact that Oregon and Washington really have all four seasons often comes up. We don't roast to death in the summer and we don't freeze to death in the winter. Spring is a pleasant yet rainy season of daffodils, and everyone just loooooves fall.

Well, except me.

At least in the past. I am now a reformed fall hater, but until last year, I never had much use for the gradually colder, gradually rainier, gradually darker portion of the year leading up to the wonder that is the holiday season. I know it's kind of ironic that I would dislike fall so much but love cold, dark winter, but I'm the kind of person that starts playing Christmas music in October. I love everything about the season, and that, somehow cancels out the dreariness that is January and February.

But fall ... it's always been a nonentity for me, tolerable only because of college football and Starbucks' caramel-apple cider.

And then I became a mom.

People always say that your perceptions of things change once you have children. Things you used to do -- like speed, and I mean really speed -- suddenly seem like a very.bad.idea. And things that once seemed unfathomable, like standing in line for eight years in a hot, packed department store to see Santa, become the norm, as if you've been doing them all your life.

Last year, I kicked off the fall with a trip to hot, muggy Florida. Not exactly the kind of occasion where you pull out the sweaters and order a pumpkin-spice latte. And when I left Seattle, it was still nice out -- warm enough, in fact, that I wore flip-flops the day before my departure. But when I returned, fall had arrived in full force. The leaves were changing (and falling all over my lawn, which is something I still hate about the season) and the air was crisp.

We decided to take advantage of it. To create some family traditions with our little bear. To embrace fall with a new perspective.

And that started at Spooner Farms in Sumner.

For having lived here my whole life, I had never been to a real pumpkin patch. If we even got pumpkins, we usually picked one up outside Albertsons or QFC. Perfectly respectable, but now, so pathetic -- especially now that I have realized how truly lucky we are up here in the Northwest to have access to real pumpkin patches.

Our trip wasn't far and our visit wasn't long, but it was my favorite fall activity of last year. (And considering the Cougars' abysmal performance, there isn't even a close second.) We loaded up the car with baby gear and my mom, and headed out to Sumner to wander through the mud in search of the perfect pumpkin, stopping only for pictures and freshly roasted corn on the cob.

It was during this trip that I shot one of my favorite Collin photos of all time -- the one at the beginning of this post. I absolutely love it.

And, as early as this summer, seeing that photo on our calendar for October got me excited about Spooner Farms again.

So this Sunday, we headed out to Sumner again, comfy shoes on and Starbucks in hand. We thought we had learned our lesson about the mud, but last year, it wasn't raining while we were there, and this presented a whole new challenge. So did Collin being mobile, because once he saw wide open (muddy) spaces he was ready to run, run, run.

We didn't want him going face-first into a puddle, especially not in his carefully chosen outfit that I started pieceing together back in August. But we did let him down long enough to take some wonderful photos. It's amazing the difference between 2009 and 2010. Still happy, still adorable, but a totally new bear.

And it was wonderful to get to experience the pumpkin patch through his eyes. The sights, the smells, the textures, the mud ... Collin picked out his own little pumpkin (and threw several on the ground) and even got to see a live turkey (while I stayed a safe distance away from the scary!bird in line to pay).

That alone is enough to make me a fan of fall.

Just as long as Chris rakes the leaves, that is.

A mother's guilt ...

This is a hard post for me to write. It's something I have been thinking about for months, but have put off. But I have come to the point where I need to get it out, put it into words, and then maybe I will be able to see that it isn't so bad. Because for the last 16 months, I have carried around a lot of guilt about something that was totally out of my control.

They say that childbirth is a traumatic experience. But for me, the aftermath was what continues to haunt me. So I am choosing to write about this, not only for myself, but in the hopes that maybe, just maybe, I will be able to help someone else who has lived or is living what I went through.

To let them know that they aren't alone -- and to let myself heal.

I always knew that I wanted to breastfeed. It's better for the baby, it helps the two of you bond, it's cost-effective, etc. I did my research, I bought my swanky pump, I read up on latching methods and nursing holds ... and then Collin was born. After 17 hours of labor, he entered the world, and upon being cleaned off and wrapped up, was brought to me for a little delivery-room breakfast while I waited for my own cream of wheat to arrive. My wonderful L&D nurse helped get him latched on and he sucked a few times, his little jaw working as he took in his first colostrum. I was thrilled. We had succeeded.

And it all went downhill from there.

In the postpartum box that I called a room for the next 24 hours, all three of us slept. Or, more accurately, one of us slept and two of us tried to. So I chalked up his sleeping for most of the day to why he wasn't eating. But realistically, I knew that something was wrong when, every time I tried to nurse him, it wasn't working. What had happened between the fifth and fourth floor?

My extremely pushy nurse brought me a nipple shield and tried to basically push him onto my breast. He snoozed on, he wouldn't latch, and finally, in the middle of the night, he cried. And cried. And I cried, too. "You're hurting him!" I snapped at her, and she backed off. He finally seemed to latch with the shield and, as far as I could tell, took a couple of halfhearted sucks before going back to sleep. And it went on like this all night. She nagged, he cried and I got closer to falling over the edge from lack of sleep.

The lactation consultant who came to see me before my discharge was less than helpful (and the one major black mark against Swedish in my book). "The nurse said you can't nurse without her help," she announced within 15 seconds of coming into the room. I was ashamed. I should have been able to do this, I thought miserably. I had carried Collin for 38 weeks and three days all by myself, and now I couldn't feed him? No. That wasn't going to happen. I wasn't going to LET it happen. I assured her that I would be fine now that I had a few hours of experience under my belt, and she left without ever looking at my breasts. Remember that.

An hour and 40 miles later, our little family of three was home. For all my trying, Collin didn't seem particularly hungry and was far more interested in sleep. I didn't think anything of it. Surely not every newborn wanted to eat every two hours; some of them were tired after the (horrific) journey of being born. The books even said that every baby is different.

In the late evening, when I finally tore myself away from him long enough to take my first shower since before leaving for the hospital on Friday, Collin introduced the word (and eventual nickname) whambulance into our household. He was having none of it, and Chris finally got him settled down with a lot of pacing and a little gentle bouncing. So back to sleep he went.

Around 10 p.m., I actually got him to latch for a few minutes, and I was ecstatic. I could do it! I didn't need a pushy nurse or a mean lactation consultant! But my excitement was short lived as he lost the latch and lost his patience with the whole situation.

And by 10:15, an exhausted Chris was headed out the door to go do the one thing I had never wanted him to do: buy formula.

It wasn't that I was against formula by any means -- I was a Similac baby myself, and look how well I turned out! OK, maybe that's not the best example. First of all, since I planned to exclusively breastfeed, I hadn't done any formula research. I hastily told Chris to buy some Nestle GoodStart, having babysat for several families who used it in college, and prayed for the best.

It wasn't so much that I had an issue with giving Collin formula; it was that by doing it, I was conceding that I wasn't able to successfully breastfeed my son. I was admitting that I was a failure. And for someone who is used to success, that's a hard reality to swallow.

When Chris returned, I sat on the couch and cried while Collin inhaled a 2-ounce bottle like he'd never seen food before. And, essentially, he hadn't. I was nearly hysterical upon the realization that I had basically starved my baby since he was born because he couldn't latch. Never mind that he slept most of the first 24 hours; I was officially the worst mother ever. Or at least that's how it felt as I sat up half the night cradling my sleeping child in my arms and frantically Googling nursing tips between preparing bottles of formula.

Granted, we didn't know any better. No one had talked to us about what to do if breastfeeding wasn't going as planned. No one offered us any formula and NO ONE looked at my breasts. If they had, it would have taken all of two seconds to see that I have small, flat nipples. I feel so much closer to my readers now after sharing that little piece of information.

For the low price of several hundred dollars and a lot of tears, I was able to get some tips for boosting my extremely low milk supply (worsened by my slow start to nursing) and feeding Collin with a different type of nursing shield than I had been given in the hospital. Emily Pease, the outpatient lactation consultant at Swedish, was an angel in capri pants. I don't think I could have done it, or found the self-confidence to even try, without her. Picking up the phone to even schedule an appointment was hard for me. I didn't want to get my hopes up and then fail again.

My sessions with her -- and the endless bottles of Fenugreek -- made a world of difference, but I still had to supplement with formula. I hadn't been giving him much, but it became evident that he wasn't getting enough from me alone, so I had to increase the amount of formula. I would nurse first and then top him off with a bottle. Sometimes he would drink two ounces; sometimes, six. It was hard to not feel guilty, but the feeling of knowing I was giving my baby what he needed eventually won out.

And being able to breastfeed him at all was the greatest feeling of accomplishment. He may not have been getting much, but it was something. If he had two ounces, it was two more than he would have gotten had I not tried. I would stay up late pumping and in the time most women could fill five freezer storage bags, fill one, ounce by ounce; night after night.

And on we went with this little routine. Once Collin started eating solids, he drank less milk, so my supply started to decrease again. He nursed, on average, three times a day (morning, afternoon and night) and had bottles at other times. I watched him grow and thrive under the regime of formula, breastfeeding and pumped milk. I fed him on planes, in my car, in the women's lounge of every Nordstrom in the greater Puget Sound area.

I haven't worked so hard at something -- ever.

I cherished this special time between Collin and I, and vowed to continue as long as we could with the ultimate goal of making it to his first birthday. But I quietly hoped to surpass that and get to 15 months. Once an overachiever, always an overachiever.

And I would have, had my gallbladder not decided to revolt against my body on the morning after he turned one. I landed in the emergency room -- and Collin got his big introduction to whole milk. My surgeon mandated that I couldn't nurse him until the drugs were out of my system, and since I hadn't been able to feed him since the night before, I was already engorged -- and totally screwed. And thus began my immediate, against-my-own-will weaning.

I admit that it does bug me a little, but I am insanely proud that on the night of May 30, 2010, I was able to look down at my 1-year-old son and know that I had made it. That we had made it. That all of the pain, all of the tears were for the greater good.

But the tears have not dried completely. Once in a while, I have a good cry over the guilt I continue to feel over what I perceive as my inadvertent starving of my baby during the first 36 hours of his life. Rationally, I know that he was fine, that he wanted to sleep, that he would have made his displeasure known. But a mother's guilt is powerful, and the realization that Collin's late-evening meltdown was probably sparked by hunger -- and we didn't know it at the time, continues to eat at me. Shouldn't a mother have known better?

And then I see my happy, healthy child run by -- or better yet, run toward me with his arms open for a hug -- and I know that I did my best. For him. For us. And I also know that Collin will probably be a teenager and I'll still have that last frozen bag of breastmilk in my freezer. No joke.

It turns out that some things are worth more than a Pulitzer.

My powerful me ...

"I'm trying to be my powerful me. It’s in there, but I have to find the strong part underneath the layers of ‘I'm shit. I'm never going to go anywhere!' " -- Teri Hatcher, 2005

I love that quote. I have always related to Teri (and not just Lois) on some level, and this is representative of that. I completely understand what she's saying. But while she finds her powerful self in front of the camera (and, apparently, in non-Botoxed photos on Facebook) I have found mine through words.

When I'm writing, I am my powerful me.

As I have said before, I started my blog in the aftermath of my miscarriage. I wanted -- no, needed -- an outlet to work through my feelings in a way that fanfic wasn't going to provide. Sure, I still worked on stories, and I maintain that "This Ain't a Love Song" wouldn't have be nearly as strong without such personal pain behind the words, but once I got pregnant, I basically stopped writing.

I have wondered if it has to do with writing being my coping method for my infertility and it not being needed anymore, but that's not it. I didn't know what the issue was. I started stories, but didn't finished them. I blogged, but infrequently. My sister-in-law joked that The Daily Pinky should be called The Monthly Pinky.

And eventually, I realized, that in doubting my professional self-worth, I had lost my voice.

Ironically, for all the talk about gatekeeping and being the voice of the people, journalism doesn't give you much of one -- at least not personally. Being a reporter or editor means you do just that -- report or edit. You report on the number of fatalities in a crash; you write a headline about the record-setting temperature; you mention the score of the game, but not that the team played like crap. With few exceptions, you don't get to have an opinion.

Side note: Working in Editorial is one of those exceptions. I absolutely loved subbing over there, and took any shift offered, even though it meant being at work before 10 a.m. I had so much fun writing headlines that brought out my snarky side, my emotional side, my congratulatory side. I got to use exclamation points! I got to have fun! (I even did an entire column of letters to the editor with "Lois and Clark" episode titles worked into the headlines. A link to it ended up posted on the ficboards with an OMG!!!! not knowing that a fellow member of the fandom was responsible. Ha.)

But back to the point. When you're a journalist, you have to establish your own voice independent of your career. But when you're a journalist, your personal and professional lives often tend to run together. So when you're not a journalist anymore -- at least in the "here's your paycheck" kind of way -- you're effectively silenced.

Fortunately, since regaining some professional confidence -- and starting my month of blogging -- I am really and truly loving writing again. It's not headlines; it's not football; it's not fanfiction. It's life. It's putting my feelings down on paper so that I can one day reflect upon them, whether that be next month or in 10 years. I may not have a job, but I do have words. Lots of them, it turns out.

And I can't express how much I appreciate the support of those who have been with me as I work through my issues and express my fears and share my proudest moments and most mortifying memories. Some of you have been with me since the beginning, and some more recently, but it really is a thrill to know that ANYONE is reading what I have to say, since that was never even my objective.

On some level, it's reminiscent of my days in newspapers. Seeing someone reading a copy of The Times in Starbucks or on a plane -- and knowing that I had edited some of those stories and written some of those headlines -- always ignited a spark of joy. Sometimes now, I admit, it sparks a wistful feeling.

I have been reading a lot of blogs lately and quite honestly am blown away by some of them. The insight, the emotion, the imagery that these women evoke through words is awe-inspiring. And then I look at my own blog and shake my head. I'm no superhero. I don't have a captivating tale to tell or a message to save the world. I'm just here, plugging along as a wife, a mom, a friend. A journalist, a miscarriage survivor, a bargain hunter. But I'm OK with that.

One of the good things about blogging late at night (other than the peace and quiet and ability to watch fabulously terrible shows like "Hellcats" that 3 a.m. affords) is that I have all day to think about what I am going to write. I naturally spend a lot of time wracking my brain (and bugging Chris) for decade-old details in "The Story of Us," but I have found that my internal filter is in overdrive these days.

Every post starts with me weighing the merits of blogging about whatever it is; whether it fits with the day's theme; whether it's too much or too little information to have any lasting impact; whether photos are too personal. I walk a fine line between wanting to invite you into my life and guarding my family's privacy. I'm not going to discuss my sex life or admit my weight, but I'm also not going to NOT talk about the trainwreck I married into, or be specific about what went down in the hallowed walls that border Fairview Avenue.

It's relevant.

It's part of the story.

It's me.

And I thank you for coming along on this journey.

Coming out of the closet ...

Welcome to Frugal Friday, where I will attempt to impart wisdom upon my 10 readers so that they can learn to be as fabulously thrifty as me.

Well, not everything.

A girl's got to have some secrets.

I was going to start with the art of couponing, but that is a post (cough novel cough) that will require some advance writing, so I am going to begin in my favorite place -- the closet. It's no secret that I love, love, love buying Collin clothes. And, if I do say so myself, he's one well-dressed bear. I mean, look at that photo -- and that isn't even all of his clothes!

So the natural question is: How on earth can I afford to do this?!

Here's the bottom line. I buy my husband Ralph Lauren shirts; my son looks like a walking Baby Gap ad; I carry designer bags ... and I don't work. Well, at least not 40 hours a week. Well, at least not 40 hours a week that I get paid for. Anyway, back to the point; this isn't Therapeutic Thursday. I know that people wonder how it is that we can afford to eat out and buy new clothes and take vacations when one of us is working -- and one of us is spending.

And in all honesty, I get annoyed by the occasional attitude that pops up about it. I personally don't see how it's anyone's concern how my husband and I spend our money, but you know, some people just have to make their opinions known. It's not like I'm choosing shoes over a new furnace. I don't buy what I can't afford. I'm a smart shopper. I work hard at it. And my family benefits.

I think working in retail on and off for two years in high school/college helped me figure out how to get the best deals and the most bang for my buck. Namely, shopping in the off-season. I know that people say it's too much work, too much to store, etc., but I would rather pay $5 for a $29.50 pair of shorts and find somewhere to put them than pay full price next summer. Besides, we're going to Maui in March and finding summer clothes in what still feels like winter in Washington is no easy task.

True story: As I was being wheeled off to the operating room for my gallbladder removal, I told Chris that if I died, to tell Collin that I love him, to raise him well, and that there was a tub of clothes under the bed for the fall and that he better not forget them. I'm not kidding.

If you want to come and rob my house -- and really, really piss me off -- don't take my TV. Start with the big plastic tub of brand-new, carefully folded Gap and Gymboree clothes. I have amassed quite a collection of clothes for late winter and spring/summer in a 2T at fantastic prices. Pajamas for $4.79. T-shirts for $3.59. (And one that I got today at the Baby Gap for a mere $1.19!)

Granted, Collin could have a big growth spurt -- but that is one reason why I do it. He's going to be in the next size eventually, so if I see something that I want for a good price, especially a good, basic piece, like track pants, jeans or t-shirts, I'm going to snap it up. And slowly, I build a stockpile. But I'm smart about it -- I don't fall into the trap of buying something just because it's cheap. If I wouldn't put it on Collin today, I'm not going to want to do it in six months.

Finding out we were having a boy at the end of December 2008 happened to coincide with The Children Place's big winter clearance sale and Gymboree's Big Red Balloon Sale. So, naturally, I wanted to buy clothes, and did I ever. I did so well that come last fall, Collin needed very little in the way of casual clothes because I got them all for dirt cheap. And I did the same last December -- I knew we were going to Hawaii and would need summer clothes early, so off to Gymboree I went. I managed to outfit Collin in shorts and swimwear for about $4 a pair. Some people wouldn't deign to dig through the red bins, but for me, it's all about the thrill of the hunt.

I have done the same for Chris -- his standard work wardrobe is khaki pants and polo shirts, and I have found that the latter are considered more of a spring/summer item. Therefore, it's easy to find them for dirt cheap once the fall clothes start hitting the racks. All of his shirts are designer -- Ralph Lauren, Calvin Klein, Lacoste -- and I don't think one of them was full price. (Best steal: $9.75 for a RL one in 2006. He still wears it.)

Another way I save money on clothes is by being loyal to stores. I'm not huge on credit cards, but I do have them for the stores I shop at most -- Macy's, Gap and Gymboree (and a Nordstrom debit-type card) and I generally only use them there and then pay them off at the end of the month. That way, I have no debt, but I also accrue points and earn rewards in stores where I spend money. I got Collin's entire line of Gymboree gator clothes for spring for $14.21. No joke. I stacked rewards and a coupon and rocked it. I currently have $90 in Gap rewards on my desk that I have accumulated over time and plan to use them for a winter coat and some pants for Collin. If you are able to be responsible with a credit card, it can really pay off.

And, of course, I use coupons. I refuse to pay full price for most things. I will make exceptions for such items as shoes and bras -- because I will only buy good-fitting, quality ones -- but I am not going to shell out $50 for a sweater that Collin is going to wear for three or four months or jeans that I won't be wearing in 20 pounds.

So I subscribe to e-mail newsletters and get catalogs for the stores where I shop so I know about sales and can weigh the advantages of shopping in-store or online (there are occasionally additional online discounts for Gap and Old Navy). I hold off on some things, such as coats and most shoes, until the Nordstrom Anniversary Sale. It's a lot of money all at once, but I'm also loathe to decide I want something a month after it's over and then pay full price.

I also belong to a forum for Gymboree moms that has subfolders for discussion of every children's clothing brand imaginable -- that's where I learned about coupon stacking. I hold onto coupons and use them when there is a sale going to maximize my savings. And, taking it a step forward, I get stores to price-match. Nordstrom is by far the best, and, to my surprise, they actually matched Piperlime's price on the black dress shoes I got Collin for the holidays this year during their recent 30% off Give and Get event. I even bought my last Kate Spade bag with a Friends & Family Coupon -- at Nordstrom. They were happy to do it -- they want my business. I admit that I laugh at people who think coupons are uncool and therefore refuse to use them. Trust me. Saving money is far cooler.

Lastly, I take advantage of deals such as answering questions for a survey on vaccines that earned me gift cards to the retailer of my choice (Baby Gap, in this case) or by writing reviews for Websites such as Viewpoints to get Amazon.com giftcards. Imagine that -- being paid to give your opinion. And there's nothing like buying a pair of See Kai Run shoes and knowing that you didn't pay anything remotely close to full price.

And THAT is how I keep the argyle and the cash flowing at the same time -- all while staying home with one stylish little guy.

Life's a beach ...

So, today is supposed to be Thrifty Thursday, but hey, it's my blog, so it's going to be Theraputic Thursday instead, and tomorrow will be Frugal Friday. Hey, come to think of it, that's catchier, too. Anyway, this day of my month of blogs will focus on my strengths and weaknesses, both emotionally and physically. Sure, my blog in general does that, but this is more about the mind-body connection and maintaining the fabulousness that is me. ;)

Today marked a milestone -- I have lost 20 pounds. And it wasn't an easy road. Not whatsoever.

Have I ever mentioned that I still have my prom dress from the cruise to hell? That when I danced with and got dumped by/dumped Chris on the Sea of Love, I was a size six? And have I ever mentioned that the damn dress is in a box in the bottom of our guest-room closet? Bottom line: It pisses me off, and I don't want to see it.

But here's the thing: I did this to myself. I ate cheesecake, I didn't exercise, I ordered pasta and a snack was a good idea at 1 a.m. Some of the circumstances surrounding my weight loss and gain were out of my control, i.e. my miscarriage, but largely, it was my choice to not take advantage of when I wasn't sitting at a desk for eight hours a day. It was raining, it was cold, I was tired ... I had every excuse to not get up and move.

It wasn't always this way, though. Tired of carrying around four years of dining-hall food, almond chicken and calzones, I went on the South Beach Diet in 2006 and lost 41 pounds for my wedding. When I started, I didn't know if I'd be able to pull it off --I almost cried one night when my friend at work had rice with her dinner and I was eating yet.another.salad. -- but I'm the kind of person that benefits from a little incentive. It's not too surprising given my career choice -- journalism, especially copy editing, gives you instant gratification. Most people don't see the outcome of their day of hard work on their doorstep the next morning.

So back in January 2006, shortly before beginning my carb purge, I ordered my wedding dress. Two sizes too small.

Now if that isn't reason to get off the couch, I don't know what is.

And it worked. I ran. I ate brown rice. I traded the caramel macciatto lattes that I loved for sugar-free vanilla ones that I learned to tolerate. And on June 24, 2006, I rocked my strapless satin white dress. On June 26, I had pizza for dinner.

And herein lies the problem with the South Beach Diet. If you don't maintain the low-carb lifestyle, you immediately start to gain the weight back. If you stop exercising, you're in trouble. And if you can't get pregnant and start eating pie, you're doomed.

But if you're willing to put in the effort -- and treat it as a lifestyle change rather than a diet -- South Beach works.

I only gained 16 pounds during my pregnancy, so losing the baby weight wasn't too hard considering that Collin counted for 7.13 pounds of it. But then I plateaued. I had so many breastfeeding issues that I wasn't burning enough calories and shedding pounds like some of my friends. Skinny bitches.

Just kidding.

Well, kind of.

It wasn't until my gallbladder was removed at the end of May and I was forced to immediately stop nursing that I got on the road toward being a fitter, healthier me. I lost several pounds in the aftermath of a week of bland food (soup and jello), and the pain stifled my appetite, anyway. When I got onto the scale at my post-op appointment, there was enough disparity betwen the number I saw and the one when I was weighed at Urgent Care that fateful morning that it got me fired up to continue the decline.

After all, Collin is only getting more active. I need to be able to keep up with him, and sitting on the couch isn't doing anything except wearing out the cushions.

So, once I was healed, I got out the Wii Fit I had bought a couple months earlier. Over time, I came to look forward to the time of day when my Mii would snowboard, ride a Segway, hula-hoop and throw snowballs. (I admit that I created a Chris circa '96 Mii and get some form of perverse pleasure from pelting him.) I am extremely happy to have gotten up to an hour of working out; a mix of cardio, balance work and yoga (I rock The Tree, just for the record) and, most importantly, I have been running. We own a treadmill, but I hated using it. I have always hated running. HATED it. But with the Wii, it's so much easier. I especially enjoy watching terrible reality shows while doing the free run.

And then in August, I signed up for Trash the Dress, a photo shoot led by two of my wonderful photographer friends that required me to get back into my wedding dress. It didn't ocurr to me until after I had committed to the project that there was no way in hell that I was into anything related to that dress other than the garment bag. The Wii Fit alone wasn't going to cut it.

It was time for the big guns -- I was going back on South Beach.

And this time, I had a new set of challenges. I didn't cook as much back in 2006 (i.e. had yet to master the art of alfredo sauce and truffles) and I didn't have a toddler who grazes rather than eats on most days. It was way too easy to partake in a handful of his crackers or the other half his sandwich. He wasn't on the diet, of course, but both Chris and I were, so we had to make meals that could me modified for Collin (and try to not cry as he ate rice with his Indian food and we sat there with our sad little plates of tandori chicken).

For two weeks, I turned to my old staples, cooking Baja bowls (essentially shell-less burritos) and lots of chicken and vegetables. I created new salads and chowed down on veggie sausage patties with sugar-free syrup for breakfast. (They really aren't as gross as they sound, and besides, I don't eat eggs, which is the No. 1 suggestion for breakfasts during Phase 1.) And we gorged ourselves on sugar-free fudgecicles.

At the end of Phase 1, I was down several pounds, but I knew that I had to be disciplined as I entered Phase 2 and reintroduced good carbs such as brown rice, whole-wheat pastas, some fruits and whole-grain breads. Emphasis on good. No juice, no chips, no pie. But it's been a very worthwhile lifestyle change for our whole family. Collin eats spaghetti with whole-wheat noodles just as readily as he did with semolina ones. He likes sugar-free jello, and he was already eating organic wheat bread. We have cut out a lot of the unnecessary sugars and carbs and added more vegetables and good grains.

And between that and the Wii Fit, I am down 20 pounds -- and I did it on my own. I didn't take diet pills, roll myself in saran wrap or do any form of cleanse. I don't believe in quick fixes that don't work in the long run. I did what I do in all aspects of my life -- I worked for it. I didn't cheat.

Actually, that's not true. I do occasionally have a sliver of chocolate torte that Chris brought home from work, or sushi on my birthday, or a glass of wine while out to dinner with a friend. And I'm sure I'll be tempted by cheesecake sooner or later. But there's nothing wrong with that. I love food too much to become robotic about it, to suck the joy out of eating or cooking.

I'm OK with this being a long-term process. I want to do it right. I want it to last. And just like last time, I want to look great on a beach in Hawaii. I have set the goal of being down 55 pounds from my starting point by the time I board a plane to Maui in March. There. It's in writing. And I feel that I can really get to that point if I keep at it -- and be have some self-control when egg-nog season comes rolling around.

And as for an incentive?

Well, uh, there are these really gorgeous (read: ridiculously expensive) leather boots I saw at Nordstrom the other day. They'd look good with skinny jeans.

And they'd look even better on skinny Jenn.

Living Lois Lane: Don't Stop Believing

It's no secret that I have, on occasion, had a hard time coming to terms with where life has taken me professionally. Finding -- and losing -- my dream job (and, seemingly on some days, my career) all before the age of 30, has been the catalyst for sleepless nights, for tears and fears -- and clarity.

But I didn't expect our family trip to Pullman to evoke such emotions.

I love going back to visit Washington State. To walk around campus, to eat at familiar places (i.e. the best Chinese food EVER), to cheer in a sea of crimson and gray as the Cougar football team takes the field ... It's a real rush every time, and it never gets old.

We have been going back every year since I graduated in 2004, with the exception of 2009 (H1N1 outbreak on campus + 5-hour road trip with a 3-month-old = bad idea) and, as I try to explain to my eye-rolling Husky friends (most of whom can easily go back to visit the purple palace via Metro bus), it's about so much more than football. It's about embodying that spirit of being a Cougar. About reliving the past. About self-reflection -- at least this time.

As we walked amid the brick buildings and lush landscape after the trainwreck that was supposedly a football game, I couldn't help but marvel at how full circle our trip to the Palouse felt. That we were back in the place where we fell in love -- with our son. But I didn't feel old, nothing close to the way I have bemoaned my age in the face of my upcoming 10-year reunion. I felt complete. And yet, as I looked up at the second floor of Community Hall, where I spent two (school) years of my life, I also felt a bit envious.

Living in those rooms were young women just starting out. Away from home for the first time; trying to find themselves in the world; setting out on the path to find their passions, their careers, their futures. Maybe they would be doctors, lawyers, politicians. Maybe, god help them, they would be journalists.

Once upon a time, that was me. A skinnier, less worldly, less jaded version of myself, who had yet to set foot in a real newsroom. Who had never fallen in love -- with a guy, or a job -- and who had never had her heart broken -- by a guy, or a job.

And for a moment, standing there, all grown up, with my perfect little family, I wished I was that girl again.

In retrospect, it all seemed so easy back then. So exciting; so wonderfully uncomplicated.

There was no mortgage to pay; no wondering if I was done in journalism -- or just getting started -- no stories to write; no appointments to make ... Oh, to be 18 again, with nothing to worry about other than finishing Shakespeare essays and trying to both get Chris' attention and repel him at the same time.

It's also no secret that music has been an important element of my personal journey -- that "A New Day Has Come" soothed me during my fertility struggles; that "The Search is Over" marked a new chapter as we welcomed the baby that would be Collin into our hearts; that "The End of the Innocence" served as the backdrop as I left Seattle on a snowy December night.

So, on that Sunday morning, as we drove out of Pullman, I popped in the first CD I could reach: Journey's Greatest Hits.

And as the familiar lyrics of the second track washed over me, and I saw the university in my rear view mirror and my son in the backseat, I blinked back tears.

I knew at that moment that even if I had the chance, I wouldn't want to go back and be that girl again. I wouldn't want to edit my story and change everything; to not understand what felt like to truly live, to love and lose; to prosper and suffer. To become stronger.

But if I could go back, I'd tell that girl this:

Don't stop believing.

A new era for the little blog that could ...

... drive a Type-A person crazy, that is.

Ah, October. The 10th month of the year -- meaning that I only have three months left to catch up on so many memories from not only 2010, but 2009 as well. I am aware of the irony of working in a deadline-based profession and being such a slacker in other areas of my life, but hey, I had a child. It takes a lot of time to scrub pudding stains out of a beige couch.

Anyway, I have decided that in the interest of being so behind on blogging, well, everything, that I am going to use October to catch up on other posts. I mean, seriously, I never even blogged about our trip to the pumpkin patch -- and we're about to go again. Hello, pathetic.

In order to make it easier on myself, I have come up with themes by days. "Memorable Mondays," will attempt to cover the last year's worth of events in our lives; Tuesdays are for "The Story Of Us"; "Written Wednesdays" will be when I write "Living Lois Lane" entries; "Thrifty Thursdays" will look at my fabulous money-saving methods, since people keep asking how I manage to vacation in Hawaii and single-handedly subsidize the Baby Gap, while not working, no less; and Fridays will be my free day, to write about whatever I want.

In short, my readers will be tired of me by November 1. But it's all for the greater good.

After all, I started this blog as a way to put my feelings into words in the aftermath of my miscarriage. And I not only have done that, but it has evolved into so much more. It has become my diary, my scrapbook, my soapbox. These pages have documented my personal journey as I recovered from losing a child, got pregnant with and gave birth to another. They have followed Collin's life, from birth. They have documented the rise and fall of my career. These pages are, in essence, me.

So I will share with you this memory, in honor of it being Monday. Two years ago today, I found out I was pregnant -- and my life was changed forever.

It was, without a doubt, the greatest -- and scariest -- day of my existence.

Last night, I was lying on the couch watching "Up In the Air" with a sleeping child curled up with me (after his teething woes woke him up), and I couldn't help but marvel at how two years ago, I didn't even know he existed -- and yet on some level, I can't remember life without him.

That the night when I came running out of the bathroom screaming (and giving Chris a stroke since he had no idea I was taking a pregnancy test) would shape me into the person I have -- and continue to -- become.

That now, we do things we always did, but they're totally different. I am not going to say much more than that, because I want to discuss things more in-depth later (and I am half-asleep), but I will end this entry with these two photos, taken on the same weekend, two years apart, and you'll see what I mean.

2008:


2010: