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I may not be buying new clothes for myself this year, but I’m coming out of a pregnant/postpartum fog and I’m ready to infuse some style back into my life. I’m starting to peek at friends and blogs and Pinterest, and I’m getting excited about finding pieces that make me feel fiercely feminine. It can’t all be about comfort and toddler-chasing and breastmilk drool. It can’t all be about hospital scrubs, either. I think I’ve decided that I like flowy tops and structured bottoms. I’m working on feeling good in a red lip again. I’d love to get my hands on some fun booties this winter, too. These days, the only real chance I have to experiment with my style is on a solo trip, running errands around town. The grocery store aisle has become my catwalk. At 5’2″, that’s about as good as it’ll ever get, anyway.

Tomorrow is the big day! The time has finally drawn near, for sweet Sparrow Song to undergo her final surgery in what has become a lifetime of them. As many of you know, Sparrow was born with a heart defect and has needed several procedures since her birth. She’s also required time to heal and grow in between, and it looks like we’re finally at the end. After this third and final open-heart surgery, Sparrow will be able to lead a  normal life with a beautiful scar and a story to share. We believe that the Lord had just this story in mind when He created Sparrow Song, and we also believe He will be faithful to complete this great work in her family.

Find out more about Sparrow’s story and how you can support her family here.

Check out mama Jessie’s beautifully powerful blog here.

Over the years, I’ve written here and there about our grocery habits. I have this magic number under which I attempt to stay when I shop each week. Sometimes it works; sometimes it doesn’t. People often hear this number and stare at me incredulously. How on earth do we shop for such a large family on such a modest budget? Like I said, it doesn’t always work. I’ve been trying to keep my weekly total under a hundred bucks since before the twins were born, so I figure I should re-evaluate the system at some point. Also, we make it a goal to eat out of the house once per week or so. Nevertheless, there are a few shopping rules that help us keep  costs down.

For example, we buy a lot of the same stuff over and over. We know what works, and we stick with it. My kids rotate between two or three breakfast options and about as many choices for lunches, but nobody complains. Also, produce! We start off the week with around twenty pounds of apples and a dozen bananas. I’m also a huge fan of carrots and grapes – world’s greatest snack, meal addition, even dessert.

And my most recent experiment? Eliminating morning snack for my toddlers. Chris isn’t totally on board yet, but I took Bringing Up Bébé seriously. Apparently, American kids are eating out of boredom?! Imagine that. Lately, I’ve been serving lunch a tad earlier and sticking to just an afternoon snack, after the three little pigs wake from their naps. My granola bars and animal crackers are suddenly lasting a heck of a lot longer!

I can’t commit the time and energy required to coupon, and sale-hopping isn’t ideal since I typically only have a few hours to shop. I stick to our favorite spots, our favorite foods, and I make it work. What are some of your frugal grocery tips?

There’s this really cute couple that owns the nail salon near my hospital. The wife and I have been pregnant together two times now, and they always seem to remember me even though I only visit a few times a year. I’ve found that balance between enjoying my silence and pampering, and chatting with this family about kids and parenting.

My most recent visit happened to be just before I had Hadassah Lee. They were expecting a girl soon, as well. The three of us got to chatting about daughters of the two year-old persuasion. The fun, the cute, the sass. What on earth would it look like for all of these girls to become big sisters? I mentioned my  twins’ affinity for pedicures, especially the ones their daddy gives. I said something like, “You must have fun with your daughter’s nails, huh?”

He stopped scrubbing my feet to look up, a concerned look on his face. No. He does not paint his daughter’s nails. He is afraid she will put her fingers and toes in her mouth and chew on the polish. He does not want those chemicals near her. I squashed the rising mommy guilt and smiled. Of course. I understood. We continued to chat while he finished painting. He then left me to dry while he stepped outside, pulling something from his pocket as he walked. What was that? A lighter? Sure enough. The man who’s  afraid of chemicals near his baby girl, smoking a cigarette. I couldn’t help but laugh.

My husband cinches the car seats so tightly that the kids practically turn blue, but he has no issues with daily screen time. I have an almost-all-consuming fear that one of my children will develop MRSA cellulitis from a bug bite, but I feed them McDonald’s without qualm. Neither of us smoke. Neither of us have a problem painting our toddlers’ toenails, either.

Parents each have their own things. I like the idea of just rolling with it. We all long for a world where moms and dads support each better, right? Let’s stop longing. Let’s make it happen.

Instead of the modest trim I’d been meaning to get for months, I recently decided to embrace my hormonal postpartum mama drama and get a real haircut. I didn’t want anything drastic, by way of style or color. But I’d always wanted to donate, which meant a minimum of ten inches had to go. And go it did.

I’m not great with short hair. I’ve done it once or twice and haven’t really excelled. If I’m being honest, long hair is part of my identity, and it has been for most of my life. But I’m feeling good about this season, and I’m ready to have fun with this “clavicut” as it grows back out. I may not be #wildandfree yet, but I’m on my way.

shirt c/o SheDoesJustice

It was the first thing I noticed as I walked down the steps to the bleachers. Lucas was working out with his team, locks flowing out of his helmet just like he wants, warming up before his football game. Everyone was dressed out in their blue and gold, right down to the socks. Except Lucas. His were black. 

The wrong socks. On game day. I panicked and tried to remember when and where I’d seen the blue socks last. Surely, everything had been washed and packed for today’s game. I immediately sent Chris to shout-whisper to Lucas over the fence and figure it out. Did I need to run back home and search? Could I get to a sporting goods store and back in time? Do you think I’m insane yet? I’m a coach’s daughter. The uniform is sort of a thing for me.

Turns out, he had packed the right socks. They were lying in the top of his gym bag, perfect for the picking. One of his teammates had apparently forgotten his own socks and quickly remedied the situation. Lucas didn’t let it bother him. He just shrugged his shoulders as he explained, and then he rejoined his team. Meanwhile, I sat and stewed for a moment. Should I believe him? Should I canvass the bleachers and find out which family didn’t take inventory of their own gym bag? Should I really be judging other parents and their kids right now? But the socks are school-issued. How would we get a replacement pair? And then I spotted her. The photographer. It was picture day! Wrong socks on picture day?! Surely, I’d never recover.

But then I did. We sat with a sweet family who whooped and hollered the entire time. We snapped photos of the twins enjoying the cheerleaders’ routines. We waited for Lucas to come out of the locker room, bringing up the rear as always. I asked him to mention the socks to his coach, who gave him another pair without incident. We all rode to dinner together and laughed and joked and loved on each other.

Because it’s not about the socks.

Since he shows no signs of ditching the threenager act any time soon, I’ve decided to take some time to focus on my son’s better qualities. When I find myself wanting to throw Ames Emmanuel out of the window, I will choose instead to stare at photos of his dirty, beautiful face. I will choose instead to be grateful for this precious gift.

He introduces himself as AMES… LIKE AMES WIFFOUT DA JAY.

He doesn’t want a haircut until Lucas gets one.

He plays quietly and independently after waking.

He uses cute phrases like I SURE CAN when asked to do something.

He has the world’s smallest nearly-four-year-old feet.

He loves babies, especially his younger sisters.

He has his daddy’s (and big brother Avery’s) legs.

He expresses his thanks for the simplest of things, like groceries.

He has a memory like nobody I’ve ever met.

He can dress himself and enjoys picking out his clothes.

He calls me Momma, and he gives me grace.

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