Tar-get me out of this apartment before I go insane

Jack, Maddie and I make regular trips to Target during the week. Regular, meaning five times a week on average. I know. Most of the time I have an actual list of things I need, but some days I am just so desperate to get out of the apartment that we just go for something to do. Yes, I just admitted I go walk around Target with a 2 year old and a 4 month old for fun. Anyone want to be my fwend?

Yesterday was one of those days where I actually had something specific to buy, that something being cereal. Justin eats gross kid cereal because it makes him feel young, I’m assuming. He refuses to eat any other breakfast food I buy. Bagels get the stink-eye and remain untouched in the bag on top of the fridge until they grow fur. I don’t even breathe the word oatmeal around him anymore because I just can’t handle watching the dry heaves.

Anyway, I needed to get my wittle husband his milk and ceweal, so I slapped some makeup on my face, packed up the kids and got everyone in the car with the Toy Story soundtrack blaring in 1.5 hours flat. There were zero meltdowns and zero poo-splosions, so naturally I was feeling positive about the day at that point.

Continuing my ride on the crest of happiness, I stopped at Starbucks and bought a latte with my new gold card.

BAM. I’ve been wanting to fit that into a  post somehow for over a week. Isn’t it awesome/pathetic that I go there so often I earned a card with my name on it?

Once at Target, I fell into the usual trap spending $50 on random stuff I didn’t realize I needed until I saw it. Hairspray. Paper towels. A pair of the cute, cheap underwear that make my butt look good. If you’ve been to Target even once in your life then you understand what I”m saying. It adds up quick.

With a cart full of stuff, there was no longer room for Maddie, so I took her out and let her walk next to me. She kept wandering off, tried to hug a bunch of people and honed her klepto skills by sneaking items in the cart when I wasn’t looking. By the time we made it to the checkout line, I fished out a toothbrush, a can of soup and two tubs of frosting (which I honestly considered ‘buying on accident’, but oh yeah, I’m vegan now dang it). The most memorable event was when we took a short cut through the medicine aisle and she made a ridiculous scene while clutching a box of Gas-X. I promise I am not making this up… the kid would not let it go. I started panicking and hoping no one was watching my daughter and I physically fighting over gas medicine while simultaneously trying my hardest to make it obvious they weren’t for me. Because you know, when you have to buy something really personal in a huge store, you think everyone is judging you.

“Mommy doesn’t need those, silly girl!”

Fake smile to other shoppers.

“Put the box back on the shelf and we’ll go look at the toys!”

Beads of sweat. More tug of war.





After all that, I made it home, started unpacking the shopping bags only to realize I forgot the stupid cereal.

Tomato Tomäto Head

I’ve mentioned it a few or 80 times on Twitter that I’ve recently cut out all animal products from my diet. I know, that makes me a vegan. No, I’m not walking around like this:

Nor am I wearing my hair in a long braid and clomping around in Jesus sandals. I’m just eating better and regulating my poo factory. nbd.

I’ll discuss all this in more detail later on, but for now I just had to tell you that I’m actually having fun! Not eating cheese makes me want to curl up in the fetal position and cry a little because it’s my favorite thing in the world, but my body really is thanking me for it. It’s a whole new way of thinking/cooking and it’s sort of forced me to be more creative in the kitchen, which I love.

Like, today I was all, “Justin, I think I’m going to attempt ratatouille at some point this week. Adventurous, yes?” And he goes, “Like with a mouse?”

He’s not exactly on board, but then again, HIS stomach doesn’t go all Hindenburg every time he looks at dairy.

Peace, love, and soy milk.

What happens in Zumba class…

Watch a few seconds of this, then proceed:

Zumba is crazy. I joined a class back in 2009 and almost immediately went down 2 sizes. I seriously don’t think I had been that skinny since I was about four years old. If you haven’t tried it yet, do so immediately, but be warned: white girl dancing skills are really put to the test. It’s a combination of hip hop and Latin with some kick boxing and belly dancing thrown in there, so a healthy amount of booty shaking is definitely involved. You WILL feel stupid at first, but that’s just part of it. Soon enough though, you’ll start feeling legit and like you could be doing the Put a Ring on It dance at weddings and such. The great thing about it is that no matter how little rhythm you have, you still burn calories like a beast.

Now I will be shutting off my infomercial voice so I can tell you about my current class. I joined a new gym and have been taking the Zumba class for the past few weeks with my friend Tara. We sort of hide out in the back of the room so we can shoot looks at each other when that one older lady busts out her jingly belly dancing skirt and have no one judge us for it (she seriously thinks she’s Shakira, it’s hilarious). It’s like our high school physics class all over again, just replace the nice teacher who gave us extra credit and let us eat candy in class with a Ricky Martin/devil hybrid.

Our devil instructor is a guy, which is a new thing for me. I have to be honest… he scares me a mighty bit. I like women teachers because they don’t have wieners. They don’t check out your butt when they’re pretending to ‘evaluate your form’, they don’t make you bounce around too much because they understand how it can be painful in two very specific regions, and if they think your moves could use some work, they are sensitive to your feelings and don’t point out your flaws publicly. This guy on the other hand, makes us bounce constantly. Also, he will stand in front of you and shake his head if you’re not performing to your full potential. He will remain in that spot until you acknowledge him and begin to shimmyshake with more purpose. Basically he shames you in front of the whole class, but with lots of Latino flair and a smile. He’s only done it to me once during my very first class and I was so afraid of making eye contact with him so he stayed there for like 3 days. Ever since then I make sure to really put the effort into those moves so he’ll stay up at the front by Shakira where he belongs.

The other day I was dancing away and I was finally starting to feel a bit of my old skinny, sassy self returning. Remember how I told you that happens? Well Rule #1 to Zumba is DON’T lose yourself in the music. I know Eminem tells you to in 8 Mile, but just don’t. I made this fatal mistake that day when a good song came on and didn’t realize that I had shimmied and bounced my nursing pads right out the top of my bra. They peered out the top of my tank top and said hi to the whole class for who knows how long. Thankfully the devil was busy embarrassing some other poor girl at the time so he didn’t notice and start shaking his head at me. It was his fault they popped out anyway because of all the bouncing!

Didn’t I start this post by telling you the benefits of Zumba? My bad. It really is fun, trust me… just wear a good bra and leave your nursing pads and shame at home.

I want my own TLC show

These “addiction” shows are going to be the end of me, I just know it. It seems like there’s a different one on every night, showcasing the crazy behaviors of seemingly normal people and I just can’t stop watching them! The greatest thing about these laundry soap-eating, coupon-clipping, cat-obsessed people is that they are actually making me feel REALLY normal. This is a positive thing, feeling normal, especially during this incredibly hormonal, unstable, HULK SMASH stage in my life.

If I was to try out for My Strange Addiction, I’m not sure which of my nutty pregnancy-related obsessions would win me a 30 minute spot on the show, but undoubtedly one of them would. The episode might go a little something like this:

Dramatic intro music plays and I appear on your screen, wedged in the comfy corner of my couch where I usually get stuck and need actual assistance getting pulled out. A scraggly mass of hair is gathered in a messy bun on top of my head, dark circles pool beneath my eyes, and a bowl of ice cream sits on my round belly. I’m watching What Not to Wear, which is ironic because I’m wearing sweatpants, mismatched socks and no bra.

The addict speaks up:

My name is Morgan and I’m addicted to…

…lifting up my shirt and checking on the state of my belly button. Is it still an innie? WILL IT MAKE UP IT’S FLIPPING MIND ALREADY?

…Googling “ways to induce labor”, followed by spending the day eating fresh pineapple, walking 48 miles and doing jumping jacks. Then laying awake in bed for 5 hours, convinced “the contractions are getting stronger!” while Justin mumbles “mmhmm, that’s nice, honey” and falls back to sleep. Meanwhile, I contemplate doing something especially active, such as punching him in the back of the head in order to bring on more contractions. But in the end, meh, it’s 2am and I need sleep.

…not shaving my legs. I repeat, NOT shaving them. I can’t reach them without feeling like I’m busting a rib so I just don’t even try. Feel free to call me Sasquatch.

…eating hot cheetos with mustard. I know. I’d like to blame the pregnancy for this one, but a friend in high school told me to try it and I’ve never looked back. I’m healthy.

Okay, so maybe I could give some of these addiction show people a run for their money, but isn’t that to be expected at the end of a pregnancy? Nine months of hormones. Nine months of gaining weight. Nine months of WAITING.

I’m normal. I’m like, totally normal.

Things I accomplished this weekend that I will remember when 2:00pm hits and I feel guilty for wanting to do nothing but lay in bed and watch What Not To Wear reruns

I’m trying this new thing today called Not Going Nuts. It’s all about not going nuts. Quite the concept, right?

No but really, I’m on the brink of a nesting-related meltdown. I am sitting at work right now, unable to concentrate on anything because of the list of things I have to do RIGHTTHISSECOND or I may in fact, die.

(Don’t question me on this… I’ve dropped dead at least 30 times in my life due to an ailment I like to refer to as Dramatics. It’s very real.)

I have accumulated so much makeup/hair/beauty-related junk under my bathroom sinks that I can’t think of doing anything but going through it all, tossing the old stuff and neatly organizing my nail polishes by color in a nice little basket. Or quite possibly lining them all up on a several little shelves on the wall like they do in the nail salon.

Actuallyyyyyy… that’s not that bad of an idea—NO, MORGAN! Focus.

Or how about working on those 4 tutorials I have in mind for this blog? Like the yarn wreath I promised I’d do like, a year ago? Or more like a month ago, but whatever? I’ll get to it, I promise.

This weekend I was super productive and I’m trying to keep that in mind right now. I am only one woman after all. I should be proud I accomplished the following in my beached whale-like state:

  • Washed/folded/put away 4 loads of laundry, including teeny tiny baby boy clothes (eeee!)
  • Went to dinner with friends
  • Organized kids’ room & closet
  • Made flag pennant to hang in kid’s room
  • Decorated kids’ room with new wall art
  • Made a cute blanket for Jack
  • Made some hair clips for a friend’s baby girl
  • Attended a wedding
  • Went grocery shopping
  • Scrubbed down kitchen
  • Dusted/vacuumed entire apartment
  • Painted two thrifted frames, hung them up in our bedroom
  • Organized Maddie’s 5 billion books
  • Organized Maddie’s 5 billion shoes
  • Lost 2lbs (Not kidding. There was no time for nacho consumption this weekend.)

I’m a machine… but an extremely exhausted machine.

I do have a little over a month left until the baby is supposed to arrive. There’s time to organize my nail polishes and you know what? If it doesn’t get done before Jack is born, oh well! OR I’ll just do it the day we come home from the hospital. I’ll need that extra space under the counters to store all my mesh-granny-panty-post-partum-yucky-supplies anyway. Priorities.

(HOLY CRAP. Just realized I need to make a list and pack the hospital bag. I don’t even remember what I’m supposed to bring. Something to do with a coming home outfit and nipple ointment. Haven’t I done this before?)

…This isn’t working.