Training for my babble-thon

After much deliberation, I have decided to take on the challenge of participating in National Blog Posting Month (NaBloPoMo) for the month of January. Yeah! an entire month of doing what I do best. Talking about me! HA! But really, NaBloPoMo will force me to step out of my comfort zone of the twice-a-week post and keep you all entertained daily with the excitement and hilarity that is my life. Yes, that is right. I will be ranting non-stop for 31 days!

This means I am going to have to stay motivated and inspired every day for a month. This should be a very interesting journey. One that I hope my friends will take with me. I am sure I will need to lean on you to inspire me, motivate me, and kick my ass when I am on the brink of quitting, because there are only so many "toddler with the tampon" stories one can take. (By the way, Kane could care less about those little sticks wrapped in pretty paper. They don't make very good drum sticks and you can't really hit a ball with them so what gives?)

The theme for January is "best". So I will be trying my "best" to complete the challenge utilizing the one or two remaining brain cells I have left each day.

Thanks in advance for all the support.

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

Have a great New Year!

I hope everyone had a great Christmas. I did. It was full of friends, family, food, drink, food, food - oh did I mention food?

It never fails, as much as I try not to overdo it around the holidays, with everyone shouting "Come on, just have one more" or "Just eat half of it", its almost impossible not to wake up a few days later and discover that one present Santa left for you that you forgot to unwrap. Yes, I am talking about an extra 5 pounds. That's what I found under my "tree" this morning. I don't know why he left this for me. It certainly was not on any list I may have had laying around. No, as a matter of fact, I still cannot find a use for the 20 extra pounds my son had given me last year.

Yeah, I know. I'm in denial. Is it obvious? I'm blaming the extra small child I am carrying around with me on Santa and my son. I know. I need to snap back to reality and get my ass moving. Well. I am. I started my yoga class again after a long hiatus. And if nothing else, though humiliation alone, its snapping me into reality.

It's incredibly intimidating to walk into this room, throw my mat down like I know what I am doing, and sit cross-legged on the floor while looking around at all the skinny, incredibly toned bitches (I mean that with the utmost love and spirituality) twisting and bending their way to enlightenment. Seriously, is it necessary to wear shorts that could fit my 1 year-old and a bra top to yoga class? Yes, I am jealous.

Did I also mention that the room is mirrored, floor-to-ceiling? Yes. It is. They do this just to remind me of all the angles and positions that I defiantly do NOT look good in.

The class gets going and I feel pretty good that I can maintain a somewhat amateur balance, but then I discover that the "something sticking me" in the side is actually my own fat rolls, making it almost impossible to "relax" into my pose as the only thing on my mind is wondering if the person next to me is using my rolls as their "focal point". All the while, the sun salutations are starting to make my feet sweat and I am hoping that I can maintain my downward facing dog, without falling on my face, as my feet start to slip and slide on the mat.

I also wonder, as I look around the room, why it's just me that seems to be having a hard time keeping my pants up and my shirt down- flashing everyone a big glimpse of my dinner rolls in the process. No one else needs to adjust their clothing after every forward fold or pull their pants out of their ass after each "Warrior 1". Not sure if it has something to do with the tight pants and tiny tops every other yoga chick in the room is sporting, but I guess I'll just have to stick with my slippery sweat pants and T-shirt and leave the toddler clothes as a goal for next month.

All this may not seem like the best way to spend a precious hour of "me time" and you are probably wondering how I can subject myself to this torture every week. Well, the benefits of feeling as if I have accomplished something and I am on my way to a healthier me defiantly out-weigh the intimidation factor.

I'm not planning on making any New Year's resolutions this year because that never works and I feel that it sets you up for failure, but if I was going to, it would be to wear this to yoga class:

Have a great New Year!

Philosophy Skin Care Giveaway

****THIS GIVEAWAY IS NOW CLOSED*******

Bring on the bubbles...Just in time for the new year!

A friend recently gave me a Philosophy Skin Care gift set that I enjoyed so

much, that I thought it would be a great giveaway for all the mommies out there needing a little "Me Time". Even if its only for a few minutes in the shower!

One lucky winner will receive a "Bring on the bubbles" gift set from Philosophy Skin Care.

Info from their website:

Be the life of the party! bring on the bubbles includes pink bubbly high-foaming shampoo, shower gel & bubble bath 8 oz. and pink bubbly very emollient flavored lip shine .5 oz. lather up with our gentle, moisturizing, 3-in-1 formula for a cheerful way to cleanse and condition your skin. pink bubbly flavored lip shine is delicious and provides a sheer pink shine with a bit of shimmer. philosophy's bring on the bubbles set is the perfect gift for the fun, girly girl who loves a good party; it also makes for the perfect party favor for your friends.

How do you win it?

I'm going to try and make this super easy. Do any one or combination of the below tasks for 1 entry each:

- Visit Philosophy and leave a comment letting me know what other products you would like to see as a giveaway. No need to log in, you can use "anonymous" in the select profile if not a member. - 1 entry

- Vote for Tales from the sippy cup on Top Mommy Blogs (simply click on the button on the sidebar) and make sure you leave me a comment to tell me that you voted – 1 entry

- Tweet about the giveaway and leave me a comment to tell me that you tweeted – 1 entry daily

- Follow me through Google Connect (button on left side of the blog) – 1 entry

- Comment on any post on Tales from the sippy cup – 1 entry per post comment (no limit)

- Blog about this giveaway and include

the URL – 5 entries

Of course there are rules:

- Contest will close at 11:59 p.m. PST on Thursday, December 31st, 2009! Any entries after this time will be deleted!

- Contest open to U.S. residents only. The winner will be chosen by using random.org. Winner must have valid email address will have 72 hours to respond to notification with shipping info. If no response, another winner will be chosen.

Good luck!

Congratulations to "Amber" who is our winner! An email has been sent.

Thanks to everyone who participated!

Champagne and Bon Bons

By the end of the day, I feel like what is left of my "mommy brain" has been sucked completely dry. So, quite frankly I am surprised that I have the brain cells to pull together a coherent and, some have even said, entertaining blog post. But here is my best shot at what has been on my mind lately.

It's this consistent, daily drain of every ounce of energy and enthusiasm for even the smallest delight, that compounds the hilarity of the comment that I have been hearing from my "working" friends lately. Are you ready for it? Here it is:

"Yeah, but you are so lucky, you don't have to work."

Oh really?

I hate to be the bearer of this bubble bursting news, but its not all champagne and bon-bons like you must think it is. Come spend a day with me and I will guarantee, you'll be begging to be back in your power suit and a serious pair of three-inch spiked heels within the first two hours. Yeah, I know the Ugg boots, sweat pants and 3-day-old unwashed hair looks glamorous, but seriously ladies, its a tough job.

I know, I just said job. That's because it is.

I used to be that girl. The one that mocked the stay-at-home moms when they complained that they needed "me" time. I would think to myself how much more "me" time could they need? They didn't work. What could they possibly be doing between the bon-bons, fashion mags and afternoons with Oprah?

That's before I realized that becoming a stay-at-home mom meant you give up the privilege to even use the toilet by yourself, much less read a magazine or watch 15 minutes of TV that doesn't have a character named Brobee or Wubzy bouncing around singing the praises of eating your veggies or not biting your friends.

Seriously, I have an entire season of The Real Housewives of Orange County piling up on the DVR that I can't even get to. And I really want to get to it, because if I remember last season correctly, I don't recall any of those women sitting on the toilet as their kids tried to climb into their laps. Or run out of the bathroom with all the toilet paper leaving them stranded there on the pot. No, those women are recently showered, perfectly dressed, fashionistas with a fresh blowout. Being a "real" housewife in Orange County, I clearly need to start paying more attention to these women. Clearly I am doing something wrong.

And then there are those "friends" who find it necessary to tag on phrases like "super important" when talking about their meetings and letting me know, for no apparent reason, what a "very busy work week" they have. Making it abundantly clear that they have discounted the importance of what I have to tackle during the day. Thinking that I have all the time in the world and I couldn't possibly understand what its like to have to be in a meeting or feel overwhelmed. Guess what? Unless you are curing cancer or performing brain surgery, your day is no more busy or "super important" than mine.

My day starts at 6:30 a.m. and doesn't end until 8:30 p.m., weekends included with no vacation and no pay. It's a tough job. But don't get me wrong. I am not complaining. I chose this new role for myself. I voluntarily left my job as a marketing professional, full of meetings and deadlines, to take on this incredibly challenging, sometimes overwhelming, job of caring full-time for another human being.

Spending each day in incredible awe and amazement watching Kane morph from this little helpless being, to this little boy with a personality, a thought process and a definite attitude. You can almost see his little brain growing and expanding everyday as he grasps new concepts and looks up at you with delight as he discovers that its pretty funny to play rodeo with the dogs tails. That infectious laugh can make anyone's day. The rewards are truly great.

But it's not easy. Trying to squeeze in something as trivial as a shower has become an act of incredible time-management skills. Or attempting to make myself breakfast in the morning while trying to maneuver as if playing an advanced level of Frogger, so not to knock over the little man underfoot who is clinging to my pants wanting my undivided attention right now.

Keeping the house clean, and not looking like a horde of wild animals trampled through it, takes all-day attention. I am constantly picking up things that my little guy has decided look better on the floor. Like the contents of my husbands sock drawer. Then there is lunch to make and clean up, diapers to change, play dates to attend (so he doesn't turn into a weirdo), nap schedules, dinner, baths and let's not forget laundry.

Compound all this with losing your identity as a professional, your, sense of accomplishment and that little 8 hour break during the day that working moms have so they can flex and grow their own brains. It's a pretty tough road. One with no map to let you know you are heading in the right direction.

But this is a once in a lifetime opportunity. One that has enabled me to spend the last 128 days with Kane. To see him as he walked for the first time, discovered that bananas make him puke, and that if he pushes the buttons on the skinny black plastic thing, something happens on the TV. I am happy that I am here to re-teach him that no, you can't put your finger into every hole no matter what daddy taught you.

So, as I read back through this post, making sure that I covered all the bases, the only response that I can think of that is truly appropriate when they say to me "You're so lucky that you don't have to work" is:

"Yeah, I am pretty lucky".

The Wii effect

A few weeks ago my husband decided it would be a great idea to show the K man how to play Wii golf. He handed him the thin white controller and showed him how to move it so the character on the screen would swing his club. Now, he thinks that everything can be manipulated by swinging whatever object he happens to have in his hand in the general direction of the said thing that needs to be manipulated.

I can just see the little wheels turning in his one-year-old head as he swings the TV remote in front of the TV. Obviously through the power of a simulated bat stroke, Yo Gabba Gabba will suddenly appear. He has no doubt about this, and becomes very irritated when it doesn't happen, bringing the remote over to me and nudging and grunting as if to say, "hey I think this thing is broken".

I can't help but laugh as I watch him swing my Blackberry through the air, not exactly knowing what will be affected, but positive in his mind that surely something will happen.

But then the other day he pointed the Wii controller at me and began swinging it back and forth. I wondered what was going through his mind as he jabbered on and swinging wildly through the air. What deed would he like me to preform?

I later told my husband of my sons desire to manipulate me to do his bidding through the wonderful power of Wii. My husband just shook his head and said to him in a tone that was completely serious, and now that I think about it, a bit disturbing, "No buddy it won't work, believe me, I've tried."

Oh Plah!™ - Product Review

Unless its something that I can cook up and serve, I really shouldn't be making any type of purchase these days. Since I belong to the unemployed group, frivolous spending should not be part of my vocabulary, but I just couldn't help myself when I stumbled over "The Roundhouse Oh Plah!™ Teething Bracelet". How cool is this?

Since my son has been having some trouble with the massive amount of teeth coming in all at once, I am willing to try just about anything.

If your babe is anything like mine, he doesn't want to chomp on the rings and fish and other things designed for teething. No, he wants what he shouldn't be sinking his teeth into . Like my above mentioned leather cuffs and bracelets and watch bands. So this is great. He will think he is getting away with something!

French for "Here You Go!" Oh Plah!™ is a bracelet for mom that baby or child can safely play with as a toy or teether. Constructed of medical grade thermoplastic- non-toxic, bacteria resistant, and free of lead, latex, PVC, BPA and phthalates. And that's got to be better than a sweaty leather cuff right?

And for all you nursing mommies, the bracelet is also handy as a reminder to help you remember which side to start nursing with. Just switch wrists each time!

If you want to get one of these gems, here is their site: http://www.roundhousedc.com/ohplah_teething_bracelet.html

"Oh, those are cute jeans"

It's been 13 months since the birth of my son and I am still wearing my maternity jeans. Yes, that's right my MATERNITY jeans. I wasn't going to talk about it. I was just going to keep it a big secret and hope no one noticed, but it seems that my jig is up.

It's embarrassing. I have been trying to hide it. Even from my husband. I change in the closet when I decide to wear them. I put on my long tops and then pull on the jeans just so he can't see them. But then the other day he had decided to help out and fold the laundry. And before I could protest or grab them all out of the pile...there they were. All lined up on the couch. My dirty little spandex-clad secret.

Then came the final push over the edge.

My husband and I went out with friends the other night. We had not seen the couple in over a year. I got all decked out in my cutest maternity jeans and long hip hugging top and hoped that no one would notice the extra twenty pounds I was still carrying around with me like a security blanket.

I managed to dodge the inevitable "oh those are cute jeans" comment by refocusing the conversation on the wine list. But then there it was. Someone had pulled out the camera. That horrible contraption that I have been trying to avoid so diligently over the past year. And with a snap, That menace to all insecure, weight-conscious women everywhere captured it. The final straw.

It's bad enough my mother-in-law insisted that we ALL be in the Christmas picture this year, despite my fruitless attempts at protesting and suggesting alternate options. At least I had a bit of control over that with my Photoshop skills and all. But now, there it was. A rouge, random, untouched-up picture of my big fat ass in my maternity jeans, living vivaciously in their iPhoto for all the world to see.

Urgh.

Seriously. I actually don't know who is going to see that picture. Maybe no one. But as I sat there rolling through the pictures and secretly deleting what I could of the beached whale photos, it struck me. I've had it. I can't do this anymore. I want out of the maternity jeans!

I kept telling myself that I wouldn't buy any other jeans. That I would just loose the weight and pop back into my old jeans. But it hasn't happened. It's been a struggle. And it's frustrating to watch my friends pop out twins and second kids only to look better and skinnier only a few months later.

And quite frankly, I feel like I have been lazy. Or just not committed to all the hard work it takes to loose the weight on top of taking care of my son. I have tried a trainer, but couldn't find the time to be in the gym 5 days a week like she insisted and made me feel like a loser every time I saw her and had to answer the question: "how many times did you work out this week?". I am exhausted from running after my son all day, so by the time my husband comes home, the last thing on my mind is working out. What I really want is a half a bottle of wine and some comfort food.

But so here I am. And I want out.

I decided I would break my rule and go buy a pair of jeans. Just so I could get out of the maternity jeans and into something that I wouldn't be embarrassed about if my shirt rode up when I bent over or if my husband wanted to pull the laundry out of the dryer. So, I figure I would go on the cheap and head over to Target. I have seen a few friends in Target jeans and they aren't half bad.

Standing in the dressing room, there I was, face to face with the reality of what size "real" jeans I now wear. 13! Are you f**king kidding me? 13. I tried them all. All the brands they carried. 13 could not be right. My maternity jeans are a 9! But try as I would 13 was my number. Tattoo it on my forehead. I am a size 13. Holy crap. I guess the maternity jean makers don't want to destroy what's left of the fragile pregnant woman's ego and give them a last ditch fantasy with those damn size 9's.

So there it is. I don't know what is worse, my size 9 maternity jeans or my new shiny size 13 "real" jeans. At least the Mossimo brand at Target goes by even numbers so they are only a 12. Ha!

My new goal? Get out of these damn size 13's.