As It Turns Out--Post Edit

I don't know what I was thinking.

Yes, I do know what I was thinking.

I was thinking I didn't look pregnant enough for a headshot.

I was thinking I didn't have pregnant face just yet.

I was thinking I could fool the camera with an angle just above my chest.

(Because, as it turns out, one look at my chest and you know I must be pregnant.)

So I called up Justin Hackworth--the author of my current headshot--and asked him for a more updated photo. One which admitted to my dark hair and longer locks.

(Because, as it turns out, when you are speaking at a conference you need a current headshot.)

Last Saturday Justin arrived at his appointed time and started to point his camera in my direction. He liked the newly golden walls and the red furniture with my black attire. I liked how he kept saying, "oh that is nice" or "yes, do that it looks great." Then he told me a funny joke (which, as it turns out, is only funny to a few of us on this planet) and left.

A couple days later he sent over the proofs.

As in, here we have proof that I am pregnant.

I mean, pregnant.

At first I was a little shocked. I couldn't believe how I looked, there was no way around it. My entire being was overcome with some hormonal aura. Even my eyes were flashing signals in an HCG-code. Chup and I spent time looking over the photos together.

"Is this what I look like?" I said, as if seeing myself in a pregnancy mask for the first time.

"Pregnant. Yes." Replied my husband.

During my last trimester carrying The Chief we were so busy buying, moving and fixing up a new home, there wasn't a lot of time for us to take pictures of my expanding belly. I recall a couple Chup took of me lying in the sun with my exposed lump skyward, but really, that's about it.

Honestly, I didn't know how I felt about seeing myself like this. The photographs were beautiful. Justin had delivered his poetic results--always interesting and timeless. His talent is nearly perfect. I just didn't know how to read me.

Me, looking like that.

Pregnant.

Pregnant me.

Some days later I went back to look at the photos. This time I decided to look at them differently. I stopped searching for a headshot and started examining my body. My pregnant body. My skin. My cheeks. My glow.

(Because, as it turns out, when you are pregnant you sort of glow. I guess.)

And here is this: I carry my pregnancy all over my being. It is in my arms, my legs, my feet. I am pregnant in my hair and in my rapidly growing nails. My state is not defined only in my belly (as it is for many blessed women) but in my chest (oh, in my chest) and on my skin. And there it is, written all over my face.



I see in me a shade of Grandma Marion--a natural waddler who holds no pretenses about being delicate. I see my Nana Aurora who fought four hard pregnancies and still played the organ at church every week. And without getting too crazy, when I look at the photos I am forced to think about the man who loves me.

(Because, as it turns out, he had something to do with me looking this way.)

I wonder about how he loves me like this. Even when it perplexes me, stuns me and makes me wonder if I will ever be . . . less-fleshy . . . again. Or when. But the more I look at these photos, the more I think I love him. For loving me. For encouraging me to appear this way as many times as I can in this lifetime. Even for being the genetic stylist behind this look.

It might take me a few more pregnancies, but I am starting to feel comfortable with this pregnant person.

I also think I see a girl.

But, as it turns out, only time will tell if I am right about that.





Because this blog is really for posterity, here are extras:


And there are more to be seen over on Justin's blog.


Post Edit: I am also pregnant in my fingers, toes, chin(s) and knees. But my wrists and ankles were somehow spared. It must be said.




On dear cjane today:
Crystal B. is a giving soul
& Madame Lucy earrings:



On c jane's Guide to Provo:
Meet my new favorite Provonians!

Banner Day 2010

Well. Here she is a new banner, with a new footer and new links inside the banner.

Did you notice all those links? In one spot? It's so organized.

It was inspired by my life here at Retro House.

My thanks to the overly-talented Jed Wells--as ever--for the banner and footer.

And to MD for all the technical work. (Sorry for the headache.)

And to Mego, my late night layout part (whisper) I love you (end whisper).

And to Ashlee for the seven gallons of hairspray that went into my coiffure.

I know you are itching to play with all of those links in my banner--go ahead.
Or even to scroll down and see the footer.

(I even updated my Links, About and Contact pages! Seriously go ahead! Click!)

I promise you this, if you stay tuned, in a couple months there just might be a little something new on the banner (like Mao! Or Chup!)

Isn't this fun?





Here is my 2010 button:
(I am always so grateful when people take my button, it is a simple offering I know, but thanks.)



<a href="http://blog.cjanerun.com/"><img src="http://i177.photobucket.com/albums/w239/wildmf/cjane10_button.gif" /></a>






p.s. On sending something to Nie
So many of you are wanting to know about where to send Steph mail, please continue to use the p.o. box address (located in the CONTACT LINK on my NEW BANNER! GO AHEAD AND CLICK ON IT!) We will send a shipment down with my mom and Lucy this week. I will be headed out to AZ the week after that, so it will get there safely and happily. We will make sure she gets everything you send. Thanks for being so generous. As always.

p.p.s. It's Nutella on my finger.
(Don't let your mind go there.)



On dear c jane today:
I am giving away a mother lode
of stuff to celebrate January
& a new url!

Me on Good Grief

I wrote a little post for A Good Grief last night, it is called "The Blessing of Grief."

You can read it here.

Nice Just Doesn't Cut It

An email arrived in my inbox from Jodi. For a school project her son is collecting responses to the question, "What is the nicest thing anyone has ever done for you?"

The nicest thing?

First, my mother conceived me, gestated me, bore me and then raised me. And my dad--you know--did his part.

Second, my husband married me. That took a lot of courage for at least twenty reasons.

Third, my son lets me change his pants even when he adamantly does not want me to change his pants which is most of the time I try to change his pants.

I'd say those three to start with, but perhaps this isn't the response Jodi's son had in mind.

So how about this?

How about this weekend when my brother-in-law Ric (alias Andrew) spent three days painting my living room because my dream of gold walls never left my soul. In fact, it would wake me up mid-sleep with electrical messages up and down my spine. GOLD WALLS! GOLD WALLS!

Reminding me of that poem from The Great Gatsby:

Then wear the gold hat, if that will move her;
If you can bounce high, bounce high for her too,
Till she cry "lover, gold-hatted, high-bouncing lover,
I must have you!"

I must have you Gold Walls, indeed.

So Ric--under the guise that we would be paying him instead of a non-family member-- coated our walls with gold and our ceiling with white. He worked around the weekend clock, dug deep into his personal time, and ruined a pair of shoes, until the place was the envy of El Dorado itself. Metallic and shiny, ritzy and retro.

But when it was time to pay, Ric insisted on service instead of payment.

"I need the blessings more than I need your money."

And how do you respond to that? I mean, besides with tears and heart-melting gratitude?

So I tried Lucy instead, a slight whisper in her ear.

"How much do we owe really?"

But she--she who spent every minute at the house with her husband and baby cheering him on--wouldn't take it from me either.

Almost every day someone does something incredibly nice for me. Almost every day I think, "How can I return the kindness?" I am daily recipient of the "nicest thing anyone has ever done for me."

But Ric painting my gold walls so that the nesting crew inside my head will let me sleep? That is goes beyond nice. That is humanitarian aid.

Thanks Ric, Lucy and Betsy.


And as a post script:

Today I went to Ikea to buy lampshades in colors that would compliment my gold walls.

"Oh walls you are so sexy!"

Like that.

And when my cart was sufficiently full of difficult-to-pronounce Ikea goods I checked myself out. Only when I went to do the paying part, my debit card was not in my wallet. I had used it for an online purchase the night before and left it squarely on my desk. This was not good. I live thirty minutes away from Ikea and I had no intention on driving back home, retrieving that piece of plastic and driving all the way back.

So I said to the helpful employee,

"I don't have my debit card."

"Is it in your car?"

He asked.

"Nope."

"Can you run home?"

"Nope."

He looked at me. I looked at him.

I was in shock, really, that this was all happening.

Which is when a tall, bobbed-haired mom with an adorable red-head two-year-old in her cart said to me,

"I will pay for it."

I looked at her. The Ikea guy looked at her.

"You want to pay for her stuff?"

He asked.

"She can pay me back."

She replied.

"Really?"

I said surprised. Not one to take people up on such offers.

"I know who you are. I've read your blog."

she said, whipping out a credit card.

"I will take you up on the offer."

I replied.

Because suddenly we weren't strangers, suddenly I felt like I knew her and she knew me. She'd sat on my couch before--so to speak.

(The couch I bought at Ikea.)

After the purchase, we exchanged information and I promised a check in the mail stat. I was overcome with her generosity and I couldn't help but stutter a million thank yous.

As we left the store with our babies riding backwards in our metal carts, the Ikea guy announced,

"Nicest customer ever!"

Seriously.


Want to answer the question yourself? Head over to my community to answer.

*Look for a full view of our living room transformation coming soon to Fresh Nest Design. You know, if you want to. I mean as soon as we get it completely done. Right.





On dear c jane today:
some cleaning tunes you might enjoy
why not?


On c jane's Guide to Provo:
Vote Art!
And Buy a House on Maple Lane!

The Post Where the Last Line is Tongue in Cheek

Last week my mother and I headed up to south Salt Lake to do an interview with the magazine Wasatch Woman. Although my mother and I are technically Wasatch women ourselves, this interview was on behalf of my sister Stephanie who is being honored with a Perseverance Honoree at the Wasatch Woman of the Year Awards 2010. The magazine wanted to interview Stephanie herself for the awards ceremony, but seeing how she is a little busy right now (expanding her upper back) they asked us to come instead.

I told my mom she could probably handle it on her own. I mean, I've been interviewed so many times that broken records are starting to sound like me. But she insisted so I went, heck, I even drove.

The thing about motherhood I haven't yet figured out is how to manage babysitters in the middle of the day. Right? So my baby is napping at 1:00pm. My husband is at work (in Florida mostly likely), my regular babysitters are at school, my sister and sister-in-laws are tending to their own offspring and my mother--the golden hour baby sitter--is coming with me. How do I get somewhere at 1:00pm and travel thirty minutes north without him? Leave him napping and hope Mao will see to it?

So I brought him with us to the interview. All was going well until the well-intentioned building guard saw fit to hand my supposed-to-be-napping child a month-old candy cane. Sticky sweetness all over his skin.

Then--with sugar fingers-- he pushed the HELP! button in the elevator as we were on our way up. The operator's voice was laced with panic. HELLO?

Someone in the office offered to hang out with The Chief whilst we did our dialogue in closed doors. It was very kind of them, and I was very trusting. Besides what options did I have?

As we were being prepped with questions and head placements (as soon as they say, "Don't look straight at the camera." I get this compulsive urge to stare RIGHT AT THE CAMERA) the cameraman noticed I had white substance all over me.

And it smelled like peppermint.

It was so sticky it had to be scratched off with my bravest fingernail. A wet wipe wilted at the job. My mom sat comfortably in her executive chair laughing at me. Maybe even remembering the many times I was the culprit of her ruined outfits.

It's the Circle of Life!

After we started, we stopped.

The director Michelle asked me not to look at my mother when she was talking because my profile of hair was getting in the way. My profile of hair in its natural, curly state can be a curtain of overwhelming distractions. I know--which why I have Ashlee do it for me every week. Only this week we had a scheduling difficulty. (This is what I get for brag-blogging about her in the first place.) And anyway, I couldn't look in the camera, I couldn't look at my mom, so for most of the interview I had rabid shifty eyes.

But in the end, the interview went exceptionally well. I would say it was my favorite yet. (No offense to Matt Lauer.) Michelle was really pointed with her questions and listened with her eyes--a super power? Mom and I were able to really express our feelings about Steph and how the world responded to her after the accident. We felt really comfortable and honest. I even went so far as to articulate to my mother my fondness for her chartreuse jacket.

When it was a wrap we looked all over the building for my son and his make-shift Au Pair. This is the Media One building which houses almost everything printed in Utah. It is bigger than Delaware. Buzzed-blond-brown-eyed-boy needle in an inky haystack.

But we found them eating crackers by a flight of stairs.

I thanked his nanny and tucked him into my arms. He was wiggly and hungry and wired. When back on the road, I did what every sensible American mother does with a hungry-tired baby and drove us right up to Arby's drive-thru, ordered two large fries and two Cokes (beverages for my mom and me) and shoved a Disney movie in his dvd player.

The Chief doesn't like curly fries. As we found out.

So, with Jungle Book blaring in the background, my mom and I drove home finishing off the fries and taking in sufficient slurps of the dark beverage.

As far as Wasatch women go, it doesn't get any better than us.

*photo of mom and me being interviewed from ninjapic.
** you must see this gorgeous photo of Steph taken for the magazine.

***thanks Wasatch Woman!

On dear c jane today:
Holy Carp!
We have sponsors!
And they are giving away stuff!

To My Sister in the Sunshine

Dear Sister,

I am so happy you are out of the hospital. I bet you are too.

I am writing you this letter because I . . . we . . . me and The Chief, mostly, miss you and the little people. We miss Ollie mornings and Gig wrestles. We miss Claire and Jane's sliding of the sidedoor, sneaking in for an after-school snack on the way home. We miss your texts:
Are the girls there? SEND THEM HOME!

We miss seeing you slouched on the couch at Umi's, relaxed and ready for a visit. We miss pink and white bikes parked in our driveway. We miss small eruptions of little girl's drama echoing throughout our house. And we never thought we miss that.

The Chief misses the cat clock on your wall.
(The one with the waggily tail.)
(He wanted you to know.)
(Did you meet Mao?)

We miss excuses to get an ice cream at the Creamery in late afternoons. We miss the never-mysterious disappearance of our red licorice stash (Ollie!) We miss Rice King nights and Jane's endless devouring of golden tofu.

We miss Claire's drawings decorating our house.

We had a snowstorm this weekend. I bundled The Chief up in ten (or so) layers and sent him outside to explore. It was a perfect snowman-making day. A perfect day for cousins to come down and play. Instead, we ate a couple snowballs and went inside.

And my living room was repainted.
But I want to keep the color a surprise.
(I think you'll like it!)



When are you coming home again?

Love,
Court




On dear c jane today:
Filling you in on all the buzz about cbc'10
AND giving away one conference pass!



On c jane's Guide to Provo:
Just about 7 million things to read about.
That's all:

Photos Courtesy of the Sister Wife--Added Photos!

Because if we were to gather all the jokes, comedians, embarrassing moments, bodily function noises and brilliant use of sarcasm . . .

. . . over-sized glasses on babies would still be the funniest thing ever.



Here are some more babies sent in by readers:

Windy's Fella:

Elle's Bug:

Rocco puts his Avatar glasses to good use:

Better-to-see-you-with Bella:


Weston with Dad's glasses:



On dear c jane today:
Help yourself to service!



On c jane's Guide to Provo today:
How one woman helped the
South Franklin Neighborhood
and how you can too.

I Taught Him Everything He Knows

This is my nephew Jay. Or Jamison.

A week or so ago, Jay emailed the family asking for donations on behalf of his baseball team. Except, this letter he sent was very well-written. It included all sorts of incentives and explanations and business appeal.

Now listen. This Jay, he's rightly advanced. Socially. He is a pre-teen who thinks like a savvy twenty-one-year old, far too competitive and talented at sports for his own good and down right charming. I am entirely convinced God gave him a round freckled-face so he'd at least look his age. All this to say, I wouldn't put it past him to write a sophisticated email of this type. But still. I wanted to investigate.

So I wrote him back:
Jamison, did you really write this email? If you did, I will pledge twenty dollars for your team.

To which he responded:
You know as well as I do that my mom wrote it. I think you should pledge $30 for my honesty.














Jay's mom (my sister-in-law Suze)
has a blog about being a
professional negotiator
(with herself).
A new favorite blog to read:


On dear c jane today:
an old trick you've probably tried
but is new to me
(is that enticing?)



On c jane's Guide to Provo today:
A date so good I am thinking
of having Chup take me on it:

And In His Robotic Way, Mao Loves Me Too

My neighbor Emily has a rule about blogging. It is something like, "one should never blog about blogging" and ever since I read that rule I have concurred. Sometimes I break the rule, but most of the time I intend to keep it.

Today I am going to blog about blogging.

Because you see, yesterday I had this horrible comment show up in my comments section. It was really sick and if you saw it I am sorry. If you didn't see it I am glad for you--you've kept some of the innocence you were born with. I deleted it, because no one should have to read hate. And besides, as already stated, I am not keeping stinky comments. I respect my readers, my family and myself too much.

The truth is, I get hate mail. And hate comments. It just comes with the territory (yes, even Nie herself gets hate mail, bless her heart). It is not something new, in the five years I have had this blog (5 YEARS!) I've been on the other end of someone's anger many times. I don't particularly love it, but what am I going to do? Quit?

I've tried to quit. It is just not time.

But yesterday this horrible comment shows up and I read it first thing in the morning. I thought, yikes! Because the notion that someone could hate you so badly is always shocking. Like, blood drains from your limbs shocking. I mean, so someone doesn't particularly like my flavor of narcissism, why hate me over it?

I will never know, unless we clear it up in some email correspondence (it has happened before). But I just want to write about why this particular nasty comment actually blessed my life today:

1. I gained even greater love for my readers.

2. Chup and I had a self-awareness conversation about why we sometimes feel jealousy, annoyance and/or indifference towards people we don't know personally. And then we patched somethings up in our relationship that were getting leaky.

3. I am sorry to John Mayer for saying he pulls funny faces. I really do think he is musical genius and I am just jealous.

4. Encouraged me to find ways to be a better blog administrator--Chup and I have a plan in motion.

5. Helped Chup relate to a situation at work with more clarity.

6. Gave my social working neighbor Janna a reason to teach me about our eating disorder culture and why we think "fat" is such a tremendous insult when it isn't. It is a descriptive word that has been abused.

7. Made my sister Lucy call me in defense with a really tender, tired voice, "That maaakes me sooo maad." Speech slur.

8. I am on team Conan, but I am sure if I met Leno in real life I would see he has a good heart too. Can people with lisps be all that bad?

9. I don't think anyone should talk about The Chief's mother that way. He's a cool cat with a penchant for watered-down juice in his sippy cup. I mean, come on.

10. Helped me realize that I am in a better place than I was a year ago when I received possibly the most personal, gut-hitting, hate-filled comment I've ever read. I couldn't let it go for days, weeks (and maybe even a year?) I moped around, I threatened to never write again, I let it effect my relationship with my husband and family. It dipped me in a vat of thick self-pity.

But yesterday morning, when I read this comment I was shocked, I broke down for a minute or two, and recovered. It was a fairly easy, I am blessed. I am happy. I know my Heavenly Father loves me. I mean, I really know that in the very fiber-of-my-being sort of way. We're tight.

And I guess I really wrote this post (about blogging) because I hope you know He loves you too. Here is a little reminder (in case you forgot).

You know who you are.





On dear c jane today:
Nie's paint color revealed
sort of . . .



On c jane's Guide to Provo:
It's Wednesday on Ninth East
You know what that means . . .

The Exercise of a Housewife

The other day I found myself completely enchanted with my life.

Not as though I was feet-up on a floating lily pad lounging in a southern sun vacation.

No.

I was housecleaning.

And I was sweating and breathing hard and scrubbing and organizing and dusting and sweating more. My hormones bounced beneath my skin as my heart sang in beats. It was a fulfilling-of-my-creation type moment and I felt like the luckiest (sweaty) woman on this planet. In an apron--no less.

Here I was in my domain (I have a domain!) in my kingdom making it orderly and tidy. Everything in its place (everything has a place!) all clean and accounted for. Books, toys, clothes, dishes and towels. Mirrors wiped, spots soaked, laundry folded.

Brow swept.

Even if the moment of perfection lasts only that one second between my picking up the train pieces and The Chief's dumping them out again, it is worth the brief moment in time. I thought to myself. Cleaning music in the background, dancing in my ears.

This thrill is mine to enjoy, so I enjoyed it.

Then I thought about other women. How some have the same pleasure sitting in a board meeting. How some live to broker deals. How some can't wait to get to their desk job. And it occurred to me, should we all arrive at the same exhilaration, the point should be made: a hard working woman is a happy woman.

And that was my conclusion as I used the hand vac to clean the stairs.

p.s. Lucy found this bottle of Comet in the recesses of Retro House . Vintage Comet (3 cents off!).
ebay that!

On dear c jane today:
You ask me,
What are Halftees?
Then I answer . . .


On c jane's Guide to Provo today:
Bean Museum,
Helping Haiti
and Half Tees
It's a bucket of variety!

Just Going To Take A Day To . . .

. . . celebrate Martin Luther King Jr. Day.

. . . pray for the people of Haiti.
. . . send sweet thoughts to my sister in Arizona.
. . . make some chocolate chip cookies for my dad.
. . . practice kissing my husband for 12 seconds straight.

On c jane's Guide to Provo today:
Episode Three of Fight It Out!
Best Places To Get Your Taxes Did?