31 for 31

Happy Monday!

I turned 31 on Friday. Please don't sing "Happy Birthday." The only reason I don't post my birthday on Facebook is because I avoid that song like the plague. I hate it. HATE IT. Have you ever noticed the more people involved in singing it, the more out of tune everyone is? What is that about?

Anyway, as much as I would have loved to do a second year of good deeds to match my age, I was working (saving days off for my honeymoon) and really did not have the budget. However, I did come up with an idea to celebrate my 31 years of age and, um, wisdom.

So, here you go. Thirty-one of my personal tips and tricks I've collected throughout the years.

Let It Go ...

Sorry there aren't more
photos in the post.
I was busy doing mom
things at Target.

No, I am not referring to the newest song terrorizing parents and Facebook feeds. I'm using that title to refer to the feeling a parent must get when they can't say exactly what's on their mind when others are observing either them or their children. But, for anyone who just wants a glimpse into the mind of a parent whose child is currently doing her thing and being 3, this is what we're really thinking. And how we wish to respond, but can't because we're trying to set an example.

To the woman who is "helping" me locate my child who is currently running through the store because she didn't want to sit in the cart.

Believe it or not, I recognize my daughter's footsteps. They haunt me. I hear them at ungodly hours on weekends, creeping slowly to my bed to wake me up. I hear them chasing the cat around the house. I can hear them running in an opposite direction or coming toward me. I know as soon as I unwrap any sort of food for myself, those footsteps will soon follow. I can hear them stop and know, after about two minutes of silence, to see what she's up to.

She's not a light stepper. And I'm OK with that.

Less is more: Cleaning out my closet

I'm currently reading The Happiness Project by Gretchen Rubin. One of her tasks was a major wardrobe downsizing. Between her and (the love of my life) Tsh of SimpleMom, I had heard the phrase "You only wear 20 percent of your clothes 80 percent of the time."

Considering how my laundry was piling up, I could have probably just gotten rid of anything that wasn't in the laundry basket, since I seem to always look in my closet and have "nothing to wear." But I still decided to take L.'s nap time to reorganize the disaster closet. 

The "nothing to wear" closet.

Simple Mom, take me away!

About a month ago, I was in a rut. Not even a rut of boredom. It was a hectic rut. My anxiety levels were through the roof. Sleep, which is when the sub-conscious is supposed to file all those thoughts and memories into neat little folders for me, wasn't as efficient as it usually was. I kept just feeling like I was barely hanging onto sanity.

The only time I was able to focus on anything was when I gave my 110% to L. And then, I realized that meant I wasn't giving anything to myself. I was in a mental place where I felt like I didn't deserve it. I had let any idea of a diet fly out the window because I couldn't afford to eat well. My bills were paid exactly on their due date because of an e-mail reminder, and the ones with automatic withdrawl usually weren't accounted for in my head so I would overdraw my account. (Luckily, thanks to "Friends," I put 10% of my paycheck into a savings account, but by the end of the two weeks after getting paid, I usually have transfered most, if not all of that, over to my checking account.)

My only form on entertainment for myself were podcasts I began listening to in the car to and from work. I had gotten sick of the radio. And I don't just mean the Top 40 stations since those don't even have a preset in my car. But I mean my alternative station wasn't any good anymore. My oldies station just wasn't playing music that I felt fit my mood, even NPR was just too much, especially after working at a newspaper for eight hours and the last thing I wanted was to hear about the news I just had to read about.

It all comes down to yoga pants

* Warning, I drop the F-bomb when I finally realize I have to do laundry.

I also should note that I will do laundry when L. needs a load done. But, usually that just means I throw my yoga pants in with her stuff.