Rachel Callahan

The Post that Proves I am an Idiot.

April 21, 2011April 21, 2011 Rachel Callahan A Day in the Life, I embarrass myself just for your amusement., I'm a Glutton for Adventure, Parent of the Year, Weird Strange and True

We went on a walk Tuesday night in our suburban neighborhood. As we were coming down a hill about a block from home, Ali suddenly stopped walking and silently stared at the ground in front of her.

A snake!

(That exclamation point was in excitement, not fear.)

I happen to be completely fascinated by snakes. What other animal can you let wrap around your arm? And who doesn’t like a bracelet that gives you a massage while you walk?

(I once found a much smaller snake at the beach and played with her all weekend. I even named her – Greta. She had this adorable little broken and off-centered jaw that made her look just like Greta Van Susteren’s long-lost-identical-twin-snake.)

But this snake was much bigger than ones I’d picked up in the wild before – about two feet long, and thicker than Noah’s arm. Just because I like snakes doesn’t mean they don’t frighten me a bit also – they’re kinda like the thrill from a scary Roller Coaster.

We praised Ali for what a perfect response she had to the snake – to calmly stop, not panicking and not getting too close to him. Then we talked about his pretty stripes, and how he wiggled when he crawled.

Chris then took Ali and Noah to the far side of the street (he’s not as fond of them as I), and found a ridiculously long stick and offered it to me.

“Do you want to play with him? But this stick isn’t big enough to pick him up with…”

(Apparently he thought I was braver than I actually am – I had NO intentions of picking up that snake – he was too big, had his head cocked up at a threatening-looking angle, and I wasn’t SURE of his non-venomousness.)

But I took that 15 foot long branch and petted him with it to not look like a wuss in front of my husband show Ali how he moved around.

Until he hissed, jumped, and snapped at me.

Then I was done.

We walked on down the street and saw our Neighborhood-Expert-Neighbor. He is the epitome of neighborhood knowledge. He can tell you which former resident had gout in 1985, or he can teach you how to make wine from the indigenous neighborhood muscadines.

We asked him if he wanted a new pet, and told him there was a snake in the road in front of his next door neighbor’s house. He asked me for more details…

“What kind was it?”

(I could see in his eyes that my friend was in danger…)

“I don’t know – but he looked harmless enough.”

“What color was he?”

“Brown. But I really think he was nice!”

“Brown?? Sounds like a Copperhead!! I have grandkids that come here, you know!”

He ran up the hill, and next thing we knew, he was beating the ground fiercely with his walking stick as we saw a tail violently and repeatedly fly into the air.

He yelled back, “It was a Copperhead!!! And a big one all right!!”

What kind of moron AM I?!?!?!

I don’t know what I had expected a venomous snake to look like…

This maybe?

Or perhaps this?

My mind headed into panic mode…

I played with a COPPERHEAD?!?! I am SO stupid. Stupid stupid stupid. I am the stupidest stupid on the face of the planet.

What if Ali hadn’t seen him and had stepped on him and he had bitten her?

What if Chris had run over him with the stroller and he’d jumped in it and bitten Noah?

What if he had crawled up my fifteen foot branch and had bitten me?

How long would I have to not nurse Noah if I’d been bitten by a venomous snake?

Does venom pass through breast milk?

Pumping and throwing away breast milk is the worst atrocity the world has ever known.

Is that neighbor going to put me down in the Neighborhood History Books as “The one who tried to get my grandchildren bitten by a Copperhead”?

Why didn’t that stupid snake warn me?? Oh yeah – he did snap at me.

I told Chris about my panic-stricken thoughts. He shrugged and said, “Eh. It didn’t happen – so why worry? There’s no way Ali wouldn’t have seen it. And if you’d gotten bitten, well, I’m sure that the ERs around here have PLENTY of Alabama Copperhead antidote, and I’ve taken you to the ER several times with one kid in tow, why not with two kids in tow?”

Thanks, babe.

(And he’s supposed to be the paranoid half of our marriage.)

One thing is for sure, though. My innocent and fascinated relationship with the belly-crawlers has been tainted forever. I fear that I might…just possibly…need to completely reconsider my position on snakes.

Everything I Know About Photography.

April 19, 2011April 19, 2011 Rachel Callahan I would NEVER take too many pictures. . ., Kids: The Experience., Newbornities, Utter Silliness

If one desires to learn how to use their camerain a more proper manner, one must first bribe their subjects.

For instance, suggest a fun morning of chalking up the sidewalk, with the slight caveat that the child must, every now and then, look up for a photograph with a marginally happy look on their face.

One must also be ready to snap photos quickly, regardless of the risk of being drowned in drool.

One must be ready to endure looks of confusion,

goofiness,

And indignance,

And even be okay with the fact that those looks may be in their best shots of the day.

And, of course, one has to learn to live with rejection,

and possibly even derision.

Learning photography is a school of hard knocks for sure, but the memories of those contemptuous looks will quickly fade.

Oh yeah – except for the fact that they were photographed.

How Geeks Lose Weight.

April 17, 2011November 3, 2013 Rachel Callahan A Day in the Life, Actually Possibly Informational, Anal Retentivity to a Fault, Lose It Diet, Pop Post, You Make Great Accountability

For the past four months, I’ve been eating whatever I jolly well pleased, under the OBVIOUS assumption that all of the calories were going straight to Noah.

And really, it worked for me.

…for a very short while.

Then I quit losing…and I actually started to gain weight.

Wait. What?? I just had a baby! It’s supposed to be all lose all the time!

Or not.

But still? The exhaustion of a new baby left me no motivation to do anything but continue a diet of large quantities of chocolate (mostly in the form of Cadbury Mini Eggs) and broccoli. I had zero inspiration for any type of healthy alternative… unless you consider crashing comatose on the bed after putting all kids to sleep a “healthy alternative”.

But quite randomly, 2 weeks ago, in a flash of inspiration, I decided I was ready.

I told Chris about my weight loss inspiration, and, of course, being the perfect husband that he is, he quickly said I didn’t need to lose weight.

Then, after an acceptable amount of time had passed so that he could not be blamed for insinuating that I indeed needed to lose weight, he suggested that we work out a contest for the two of us to fuel our ridiculously-motivated-by-competition selves.

And, since we’re also insanely-budgety people, we agreed to monetarily reward ourselves at the end of the contest period.

I wanted to lose 20 pounds, he wanted to lose 30 pounds.

We decided that a per-pound prize would be the most motivating way of going about our reward.

So then it was time to decide what our per-pound rate would be.

Chris said he wanted it to be an odd number so that it sounded like he was for sale in the butcher’s section of the grocery store.

“Prime Chris! This week’s special – $8.99 a pound!!”

He also suggested that I should get a higher per pound price tag since I had less to lose…which, we decided, also went along with his butcher view. Because we all know that leaner meats are more expensive than “marbled” meats.

(His word, not mine. I’d never call my husband marbled…until he did.)

After some geeky heaven of figuring and calculating, we decided on our price tags:

Prime Chris: $10 per pound.

Prime Rachel: $15 per pound.

Payoff Date: October 1st.

(He sacrificed his desire for uneven numbers for ease in figuring.)

Strategies:

Because we are, after all, complete geeks, the main diet plan AND motivational tool for us is a free iPhone app – Lose It.

(This product is one of a family of consumer items marketed to that niche American subgroup known as NLW, or “Nerds Losing Weight”.)

Along with pretty charts and graphs and lots and lots of numbers, it’s basically a calorie counter program, preloaded with every kind of food, brand, and restaurant.

This was a big step for me, as I’ve spent the last 29 years avoiding knowing the calories in any food product, afraid that the knowledge of how much something cost me in fat cells would surely ruin the taste of everything I hold dear in life.

And it kinda does.

But, again, being a geeky budgety person, knowing that I can BUDGET for my Cadbury Mini Eggs, even though I know how much they cost, makes the knowledge of good and evil not quite so painful.

And, since I’m breastfeeding (and pumping), I got to create those as “exercises”, which also helps make sure that I still eat plenty for said feeding of human being.

(Isn’t my pumping icon pure awesomeness? I think they’re actually snow shoes, but it looks pretty accurate to me…)

And for the record, now that I have opened Pandora’s calorie box, I’m appalled at how many calories per day I must have formerly consumed. Shameful.

Other strategies we’re using:

– I’ve started back juicing occasionally – but only vegetables so far.

– I’ve cut down on sugar and (sob) chocolate. I’ve actually (and fairly painlessly) gone two entire weeks with less than 30 ounces of Coke – I didn’t make it through many days with less than that before.

– I am not actually exercising yet, but I hope to start (maybe going back to The Shred?) at some point. Obviously, my exercise plans are still as jell-o-ey as my belly.

– Getting back out the Wii Fit so that I resume my kicking of Chris’ tail at boxing and hula hooping. Chris tried it a a few days ago, and it welcomed him back after some 500-ish days away – although it will consider him at death’s door until his weight is a government-BMI-approved 49 pounds or so.

(And I’m REALLY wishing I’d weighed in a 40 weeks pregnant so that I could see that stupid-trainer-thingy jump up and down with unbridled glee at my miraculous weight loss.)

But the calorie counting alone is already making a huge difference. We started two weeks ago, and we’ve already lost 8 pounds each.

…Which means I was consuming approximately three pounds of chocolate a week. Or something like that.

So bring it on. Anybody else on a weight loss kick? Any good strategies for calorie-cutting or fat-burning? And wanna be our friends on Lose It?

Disclaimer: Neither chocolate nor broccoli, Cadbury Mini Eggs nor marbled beef, juicers nor Lose it nor The Shred nor Wii Fit nor my husband requested to be reviewed in or compensated me for this post. Although this post is, for purposes of full disclosure approved by said husband.

an update on our diet plan can be found here.

Attack of the Greeks.

April 15, 2011April 15, 2011 Rachel Callahan Delicious Greekness, Newbornities, NoahBlogs, Photographical Oddities, Utter Silliness

Noah here.

I’ve got a lot on my mind today, so The Servant Who Calls Herself Mommy said I could use her blog to sort it all out.

You see, Ali warned me about our Greek Heritage, and the resulting follicular fallout that has already attacked her. She said that it would likely ravage my charming good looks as well.

But I had NO IDEA how quickly that would happen.

Yeah. Nice, huh?

I’d heard that my Uncles had to start shaving before they turned 13, but this is RIDICULOUS.

But I’m trying to look at the bright side of this insane attack of my genes – at least it will give me more credibility on my Hollywood Auditions.

For instance, I hear there’s an opera movie that they’re auditioning for…

And my lazy-old-man-snoring-through-the-NASCAR-race character is SO much more believable now.

I’d love to play a grumpy food critic…

And I definitely think I have a better shot at devious villain roles with this nasty growth on my face.

Plus, now that Burt Reynolds is too old to pull off a ‘stache of this voracity, I’m pretty sure I could steal some roles from him.

So really, maybe it’s not so bad after all.

But the role I’m most excited about is the one every boy dreams of…

And as soon as that mushroom reaches me, I’ll look a bit more size-appropriate for my level of facial hair.

Parenting 101: Little Ears have Big Memories.

April 13, 2011April 13, 2011 Rachel Callahan A Day in the Life, Boy Child = Bizarre., I embarrass myself just for your amusement., Kids: The Experience., Newbornities, Parent of the Year

With an innocent, offhanded little voice, she asked…

“Hey, Daddy?”

“Yes Baby?”

“Why does Mommy say that it’s not nice for Noah to stare at women’s chests?”

Chris falls on the floor and dies.

Later that night, after his miraculous recovery,he remembers the cursed conversation with his daughter (although he blocked out his stuttered response to her), and accusingly asks his wife WHY, in fact, he had been subjected to such a painful question.

Um, oops.

You see, dear, it was all your Aunt Kitty’s fault.

A few weeks back, she came up from the coast to visit us for a few days. On the day that she left, she spent a good amount of time with each of the kiddos individually.

And the problem was, she had on this fascinatingly bright, contrasty, newborn-attention-grabbing shirt.

And, although Noah did give her a couple of smiles,

He spent the majority of the morning staring at her extraordinarily patterned chest.

And when I say majority, I mean the kid took up at least an hour obsessively zeroed into what he must have thought was the most colorful dinner presentation he’d ever seen.

He.

Was.

Mesmerized.

So because we’re HUMAN, Kitty and I just had to make some jokes about it, and I said, one time, in passing, very casually, and offhandedly, even quietly, with no emphasis on it whatsoever,

“Noah, it’s not polite to stare at women’s chests.”

And apparently, that was Ali’s one takeaway from the entire day.

Go ahead, crown me Mommy of the Year right now. I know I deserve it.

Insect Identity Crisis.

April 12, 2011April 12, 2011 Rachel Callahan A Day in the Life, Do You Know? Because I Don't., I embarrass myself just for your amusement., Just My Luck

Last week, we went to Aldridge Botanical Gardens with Ashley, AJ, and Tessa. We had a lovely time letting the kids run around the gardens, eating lunch, and feeding the embarrassingly large mound of stale bread I had to thousands of fish, dozens of turtles, and one oddly alone Canadian Goose.

I also embarrassed my fancy new camera with my deplorable outdoor photography skills…

I ALWAYS end up with shadowy eyes. Drives me crazy.

But none of that was the point of this post.

Along with Bachelor Goose, Turtles, and Fish, we saw other forms of wildlife, too:

And, I’m afraid, I brought a piece of the non-savory variety home with me.

That afternoon during the kid’s naptimes, I was taking a quick break – a.k.a. laying in bed in a completely vegetative state. When all of a sudden, I felt a biting on my right arm.

I looked at my arm and didn’t see a culprit – must’ve been an itch.

But then the sensation of being eaten got more intense.

I looked closer. And I saw him: a ridiculously tiny, but scarily strange looking bug, his butt up in the air, boring a hole right through my forearm.

I flicked him off onto the floor in a panic, then stared at my arm. Quite a large portion of it was pink and growing rapidly to have been such a tiny bug’s meal.

I started thinking about how odd he looked…

What if he was some bizarrely rare poisonous bug? What if Chris came home to Noah screaming his head off and Ali saying “CAN I GET UP NOW?!?!?!?!” for the 1,382nd time because I’m passed out on the floor? Then what if this poisonous molecule of a creature somehow managed to find his way to my now motherless children and bit them as well?!?

I must find the bug.

So I got down on my hands and knees on the carpet, expecting quite a search for such a tiny bug.

But alas, luck was with me. I found him right before I passed out.

Okay, I didn’t pass out. But I did find him and locked him away in a ziploc bag, then tweeted Chris to let him know where to find the culprit should he come home to a passed out wife, a screaming baby, and a kid that is begging tirelessly and repeatedly to get up from her nap.

I managed to hold onto my consciousness and actually somewhat forgot about my guest for the whole evening.

But during the night, my arm began to itch and hurt mercilessly, so I had dreams…

….about that bug and thousands of it’s cousins on our bedroom ceiling and dropping down onto me…

…about that bug and it’s girlfriends all up in Noah’s formula canister and bottles (apparently that dream was a mixture of bug + nursing woes puréed together in mushy sleepy mix).

So the next morning, I checked up on my prisoner. Who was miraculously still alive. I photographed him and put him up on Facebook to crowdsource his identity…

…and, in the process of trying to make him HOLD STILL for the camera (he was a very quick little menace), I accidentally smooshed him dead.

(Hopefully I never do that with any other photography subjects.)

I got a few identity suggestions on Facebook, but no sure responses. My Mom, who was the Audubon Field Guide QUEEN when we were kids, didn’t comment, much to my disappointment. So at lunch on Sunday, since I was still itching and therefore thinking about my deceased feaster, I asked her if she looked up my bug.

“Yes, I did. And the closest thing I could find was definitely a poisonous one, but also a rare one – a Mexican Bed Bug.”

I choked on my Arby’s Roast Beef.

BED BUG?!?!?

“You mean maybe he DIDN’T come from Aldridge Gardens and, since I was laying in my bed when I found him, my bed is infested with [double choke] a rare, poisonous, Mexican BED BUG?!?!?!?”

“Well, but he didn’t look JUST like it – it was just the closest thing I could find..his head was the wrong shape.”

But what if I have an even RARER MUTATION OF THE RARE MEXICAN BED BUG???!!!

I’m itching all over as I write this post. Literally.

Obviously, this mystery must be solved. I’m searching the internet as I type (I’m multi-talented like that), but not finding his identity. But I am unbelievably relieved to report from my firsthand observation of Mister Mystery that he was NOT a Mexican Bed Bug:

Mister Mystery: Mexican Bed Bug:

Which means that SURELY he was just a nasty creature whose natural habitat is Aldridge Gardens who hitched a ride in my hair and just happened to get hungry while I was lying in bed.

I do NOT have Mexican Bed Bugs.

But so that I can fully relieve my stressed out mind and eaten off arm (that IS still itching like crazy), all help in figuring out what I was eaten by is greatly appreciated.

And please hurry – before his second cousin comes seeking revenge for Mister Mystery’s death.

itch, itch.

If I Were The President…

April 11, 2011April 11, 2011 Rachel Callahan "Deep" Thoughts by Rachel, Newbornities, Rachel's "Brilliant" Marketing Ideas, Utter Silliness

If I Were The President of Graco, all infant car seats would come with attaching PopeMobile-style glass cubes –

So that if a baby wanted to hear himself cry on every single stinkin’ car ride, he could feel completely free to do so – without subjecting the rest of his family to his lung’s capacities.

If I Were The President of Pampers, I would not be so ashamed at my product’s ability to contain poo that I wouldn’t even show the product on the packaging:

In fact, I’d enhance the product’s poo-catching abilities by adding suspenders:

Not only does it keep the product in place, but it adds a stylish touch that helps boost any (tiny) man’s confidence.

…until a Wardrobe Malfunction occurs, anyway.

If I were the president of Car-Freshner, I’d do away with those awful smelling Pine-Sol Scented Air Fresheners…

And I’d invent a Car-Freshner scented with the only thing that smells better than New Car Smell – that’s right, New Baby Smell:

…and I bet you thought this post had something to do with politics.

Her Gymnastics Career Was Like a Candle in the Wind…

April 8, 2011April 8, 2011 Rachel Callahan A Day in the Life, It's Tough Being a Girl, Kids: The Experience.

We’re nearing the end of our second season of Gymnastics.

Despite a rocky start, she used to love everything about it…

The friends…

The fashion (of course)…

And even swinging on the bar for fascinatingly long periods of time with her freakishly mannish upper body strength.

But something happened one day.

A former coach surprised her into doing a flip over that bar (completely controlled and managed by the coach, of course). But Ali, being the ridiculously cautious child that she is AND being a pro at avoiding injury at all costs, was already staunchly convinced that bar flips were intensely dangerous and to attempt one would be the scariest thing in the world – scarier even than the horror movie Cinderella – you know, the one where Cinderella’s sisters tear up her dress?

Anyway.

So on a weekly basis, Ali spends her entire fifty minute class worrying about whether her new coach will make her do a flip on the bar.

And asking her coach, over and over, if she’s going to have to do a flip on the bar.

And often ending up in tears before they even make it to the bar – all out of fear of bar flippage.

I’ve tried to reason with her…I’ve tried to bribe her…I’ve tried to help her overcome her fear. All for naught.

In a last ditch effort to save her career, Chris and I took her to the NCAA Regional Gymnastics finals, in which Alabama was the host and the favorite.

We left Noah with his Godparents, thereby making the special trip the very first thing the three of us had done without him since his birth – surely it’d be a gleeful experience, thereby increasing her passion for her sport.

It was in Tuscaloosa, so we had an hour drive to get there, which gave us the opportunity to spend a lot of quality time with our oldest child.

And also, a lot time with an insane amount of her toots.

(Apparently, broccoli affects her in the same way it affects Noah.)

Right as we were pulling into the parking lot of Coleman Coliseum, we heard from the back seat the King of them all… and it seemed to last an eternity.

toooooooooooot……SPLAT-a-tat-tat-tat.

Chris slammed on the brakes and he and I gasped simultaneously.

We looked at each other in horror. I began frantically searching my mind for clothing options to make it through the night.

“Hey baby, was that a toot or was it a … “

“It was just a toot! A really loud one!!”

“Are you SURE?”

“Yes! …but I may need to go to the potty when we get there.”

I took her to the ladies room and was relieved to discover that she was correct, it was apparently just the world’s most suspicious flatulence.

(Yes, I am well aware that she will despise me for documenting that trip tidbit one day.)

Back to “Mission: Gymnastics”.

We got into the arena just in time…

The excitement was palatable…

The night’s potential was thrilling.

After all – when we took her last year, she was absolutely mesmerized and in complete heaven, even as we were leaving:

Surely this year’s trip would have the same effect.

Or not.

Boredom.

Complete and Utter Disinterest.

Begging to go home after the first five minutes.

The best part of her trip according to her? Getting Rainbow Sherbet Dippin’ Dots Ice Cream.

Which, granted, is pretty thrilling.

But the trip did serve one purpose: It solidified in our minds that as soon as this season ends (and the sooner the better for me), her illustrious Gymnastics career will also most definitely cease to exist.

I think she’d prefer a less risky sport. Like maybe… a coloring club?

Covert Lactational Medication Operations.

April 7, 2011August 14, 2011 Rachel Callahan I'm a Glutton for Adventure, It's Tough Being a Girl, Just My Luck, Newbornities, Weird Strange and True

Caution: Not for the faint of heart. Or men. Or DEA Officers.

I’ve been in a state of utter nursing panic.

…a panic which I absolutely promised myself that I would not allow myself to experience this time around.

I’d been doing so well… even when, at three months in, I knew I wasn’t making enough milk and started supplementing formula into Noah’s diet while I tried to increase my supply.

I was still fine when I realized that, just like last time, my milk supply was going to stand it’s ground and absolutely refuse to rise above it’s (ridiculously lazy) level, even though Noah was growing and needed more nourishment.

But then last week happened.

For no reason at all, my milk supply very suddenly cut in half. And, since it was already woefully sub-par, that meant it dropped to almost non-existent.

And I completely panicked.

I had coached myself all the way through pregnancy to be okay when nursing came to an end, but a this-is-my-last-child-and-nursing-is-a-special-bond brain cell snapped inside of me.

I began inhaling my Fenugreek Tablets and Mother’s Milk Tea at a rate that decimated Amazon’s inventory and made them wonder if I’d figured out a way to make Crystal Meth from lactation supplements, started pumping obsessively (even trying out The Dreaded Cluster Pumping technique, which is every bit as horrible as it sounds), and began to research every milk increasing substance, i.e. galactagogue*, known to woman.

*By the way, isn’t galactagogue an awesome word? “The Evil Emperor Galactagogue of the planet Thor has sucked all of the Milk out of the human race…”

Ahem. Anyway.

In all of my galactagogue research, one kept showing up everywhere more than the rest: a prescription, Domperidone.

It’s supposed to work better than the Reglan that I took with Ali, but thankfully without the side effect of depression.

The only problem… due to what looks like some political (i.e. bribery) issues, it’s not approved by the FDA to increase lactation – only to treat gastrointestinal problems.

So I called a lactation center to see if there were any other alternatives. She mentioned everything I’d already tried…and so I brought it up.

“What about Domperidone?”

“Well, I’m not allowed to mention it to you…but since you brought it up, it’s definitely the best thing out there.”

“But I can’t get it?”

“I hear there are some out-of-country pharmacies that you can mail-order it from… I would definitely check into that if I were you.”

Setting off into a mission that certainly felt like I was covertly ordering painkillers or knock-off Viagra, I started my research.

I found a breastfeeding site with a list of international pharmacies that would mail Domperidone to the states (which, by the way, IS legal if done correctly), but was a bit scared off when I read phrases like…

“call 866-xxx-xxxx and ask for Oscar or Gabriel”

and…

“Fax orders, writing in block letters, for best results.”

“Best” results? I’d really prefer completely accurate results.

So I emailed a blog reader (whose identity I will keep confidential due to the classified level of this operation) that I knew had used Domperidone and asked her where the best source was.

New Zealand.

“It takes three weeks to arrive, but they come in blister packs of the manufacturer’s packaging, as opposed to another popular pharmacy in Thailand that sends loose pills in an unmarked baggie.”

Um, yeah. I’m pretty sure I don’t want a sandwich bag of Thailandic Loose Pills.

I got on the New Zealand website, did my research, and everything looked quite legit, within the context that I was considering ordering pharmaceuticals from the other side of the WORLD, of course. They were obviously being very careful to only sell their pills to countries who allowed it, and the US was one of them.

I was about to click through my transaction, when the nagging feeling of “Is this something I should ask my husband about before I do it?” came up for about the tenth time that day. And I figured, if I have to ask myself that question, then the answer is probably a yes.

So I called Chris (who was already painfully aware of my panicked lactational state), and in a ridiculous rush of justification, explained.

“So there’s this drug called Domperidone and it’s the best thing for lactation and even the lactation nurse said it was great but I can’t get it in the states but there’s this place in New Zealand that someone recommended to me and it’s legal and all the Mommies are doing it and I think it might really help… is it okay?”

And Chris said –

******* THE REST OF THIS COVERT OPERATION DOCUMENTATION IS SEALED AND REQUIRES A LEVEL THREE SECURITY LEVEL TO ACCESS *******

Oops. Sorry.

…but I promise, I have not, and will not ever, be calling Oscar or Gabriel.

An update on this issue can be found here.

The Continuum of Match.

April 5, 2011April 5, 2011 Rachel Callahan "Deep" Thoughts by Rachel, Don't Listen to my Fashion Advice, Kids: The Experience., Quirky quirky quirkiness

There’s a distinct continuum of parenting philosophies regarding the matching of their offspring. All levels are equally valid, but the decision is intensely personal.

Level 5 Matchers: These parents believe that complete matching is synonymous with holiness. They not only match ALL of their children, both male and female, all the way down to their socks and underwear, but also match their OWN outfits to their children’s.

(I’m pretty sure that Level 5 Matchers only exist in the 80’s and in Hanna Andersson catalogs.)

(Oh – and in families that are so massively large that the only way for them to efficiently know who all belongs to them is to pick a color scheme and go with it.)

Level 4 Matchers: These parents regularly match their children, both male and female. Although they don’t typically also match their own clothing with their children’s, they feel compelled to do so for family portraits and holidays.

(My Mom made she and I an adorable set of red, plaid, pleated, taffeta Christmas skirts one year. Although she didn’t qualify for this status my entire childhood, she was definitely a Level 4 Matcher that year.)

Level 3 Matchers: These parents tend to always match their children of the same gender (especially girls), but don’t subscribe to cross-gender matching or parental matching.

(Typically, the little boys and husbands belonging to these families are very thankful.)

Level 2 Matchers: These parents find occasional pleasure in matching their children, but don’t make it a requirement.

Level 1 Matchers: These parents are Easter-Only, same-gender-only matchers (and maybe just “coordinators”, a whole different continuum unto itself), and refuse to match their kids at any other time.

Level 0 Matchers: These parents scoff at (or secretly scoff at) any parents with a matching level above their own, and absolutely refuse to EVER match their children, sometimes even consciously choosing to make them clash – on principle.

Have you located yourself in the Matching Continuum?

I am a Level 2 matcher, but could have possibly moved up to 2.5 on the continuum had I birthed two children of the same gender.

My friend Ashley, however, is no more than a .5 on the continuum, and I only give her the .5 credit because I haven’t heard her scoff higher levels of matchers. Although she has two girls (the ultimate temptation to increase one’s level of matchyness), I have never seen her girls match.

And for more proof of her low level of match, we went shopping the other day, and she tried to pick out a dress for AJ that I hadn’t bought for Ali (although she found out afterward that I had indeed bought that dress…and, unfortunately for her, AJ also found out.)

And so, although she’s WAY too kind to ever say so, she probably would have never done what I’ve done every time AJ has come to spend the night with Ali.

This:

And this:

(Their eery look-alikeness is surely to blame for some of my matching temptations.)

And this:

Oh – and this.

And furthermore, I am obviously and solely to blame in the brainwashing of her child…which led to a phone call from Ashley Saturday afternoon.

“AJ asked me to call you and ask you to ask Ali if they could wear their matching dresses tomorrow at Church.”

(Although Chris took the call and said that Ashley sounded amused, I worried what matching angst I had caused her.)

Ali obviously agreed to the plan.

And everyone in our somewhat large church was made aware by two giddy little girls that they did, indeed, match.

One day, they’ll realize their supposed to be embarrassed to show up at the same place in the same dress, but for now, our girls definitely qualify for Level 3 Matchers.

And it’s all my fault.