Just Heather

I have been sitting on something wonderfully exciting—and nerve-wrackingly terrifying—for 4 days now. I was going to wait, let it settle awhile, and share my news once the details were hammered out. I’m just not a patient person. So here it is:

I got a haircut!

And new clothes!

And while both of those are big in my world, not exactly what most would consider news. They were, however, required because of my news. So, are you sitting down? Ready?


I’m being interviewed for CBS News this week! Not my local CBS affiliate. CBS. National. Television. Scared yet?

I run another website. At FeedIndy.com we teach people how to use coupons to save money on their groceries, create a shopping list of great deals each week, and encourage our members to use the savings and extra groceries to donate to local food banks.

A few months ago we got a tiny mention in a local newspaper. Tiny. As in off to the side of an article about someone else, it said “visit FeedIndy.com weekly.” That was it. A CBS producer read the article, checked out the site, and contacted me last week. He wanted to interview me for a story he is working on about internet coupons. I didn’t know what to do. I kind of freaked out. I didn’t respond.

Lucky for me one of my favorite bloggers is starting a media company. I decided to tap into his expertise. He is now officially my personal media consultant. After being coached via IM (is there any other way?), I emailed the producer, using Genuine’s words verbatim. He responded immediately to set up a phone interview for the very next day.

Armed with my notes from Genuine, I paced waiting for 2:00 to hit. The interview/conversation flowed smoothly. I had my message right in front of me and answered every question without hesitation. I didn’t even use “um” once! One of his questions was “What does your husband think of all this?” It was fun to tell him that not only does Spencer appreciate every penny I save on groceries, but he’s my webmaster and tech support. He designed my website and keeps it working for me. At the end of the phone call, he asked if he could bring a news crew to my home for an interview.

He also wants shots of me feeding my girls lunch. In addition to the home interview, he wants to follow me around on a shopping trip. I was pretty terrified the store would run one of their stupid “store brand week” ads, but the sales are plentiful and the savings will be impressive. This was all supposed to happen on Wednesday, but it looks like we’re rescheduling for Friday. The reporter had to leave town and he hasn’t heard back from the grocery store for approval.

I’m actually relieved. I was am being neurotic about the house. It will be on television, so I’m guessing the juice stains on the carpet and crayon on the walls should probably go. Plus my office is an absolute disaster—on a regular basis—and since he asked where I work I was afraid he’d want some goofy shots of me at my computer. Now I have a little more time to get things done.

Twenty bucks I’m still running around like an idiot on Thursday Night. They don’t call me the Procrastination Queen for nothing.

Let’s play a counting game:

Number of Brownies in my Girl Scout troop: 24
Number of days “World Friendship Day” has appeared on our calendar: 171
Number of times I have reminded troop of said event: 5
Number of families who forgot anyway: 5
Number of hours I spent preparing for presentation: 4
Number of hours the girls spent learning about Zimbabwe: 1
Number of girls who remembered anything from our study: 1
Number of countries represented: 18
Number of girls who learned anything from the other 17 countries: 0
Number of hours event was supposed to last: 2.5
Number of hours event actually lasted: 3
Number of times I looked at the clock: 24396234
Number of Tylenol needed to surpress resulting headache: ??? (I’ll let you know when I get there!)

We’re learning to use the potty at Casa de Sokol. And by we, I mean her. What it is about toddlers that makes them have to strip completely to sit on the toilet? I could almost understand it this morning, as she was wearing feety pajamas. That pretty much has to come off altogether. What confused me was her insistence that the bracelet she insisted on donning only minutes before must come off in order for her bottom to attach itself to the potty.

Fast-forward a few minutes. No pee, but we must flush anyway. (By the way, honey, as this is a regular occurrence, you might want to prepare for an increase in our water bill!) Now it’s time to put on our diaper, but she’s a big girl now and big girls don’t lay down to get dressed. This would be much easier if we had moved onto pull-ups, but momma hit a big sale a few months ago and stocked on up size 5s. She’ll make due for another week or so.

As long as she’s already naked, might as well take the opportunity to get dressed:

Mommy: Time to get dressed, baby.
Brenia: No baby. Ben-a.
Mommy: Oh, sorry. Time to get dressed, Brenia.
Brenia: No, I ty.
Mommy: Fine. Here are your clothes.
Brenia: No. Dis one!
points to something else—anything else, just so long as I didn’t choose it.
Mommy: Okay, here.
Brenia: I ty!
Mommy: Yes, you try, baby.
Brenia: No! Ben-a.
Mommy: Okay, Brenia, you try.
Almost too-small shirt gets stuck on almost too-large head.
Brenia: Hope!
Mommy fits shirt over head, and proceeds to help with arms.
Brenia: No! I ty.
Shirt on. Next comes the pants.
Brenia: Hope!
Mommy sliding legs into pants.
Brenia: No! I ty.
Pants are successfully pulled up.
Mommy: Here’s your sweater, Brenia. (I’m a quick study!)
Brenia: I ty!
Mommy: Yes, of course.
Sweater successfully donned.
Brenia: Hope! Butt!
Mommy buttons sweater.

I haven’t tackled shoes and socks just yet, but imagine the scene above with lots of kicking. Lather, rinse, repeat daily until desired independence is reached.

Things I have found in the laundry this week:

  • 3 new kids’ shirts stained beyond repair
  • a Brownie Girl Scout SWAP pin
  • a Daisy Girl Scout patch
  • a whole pizza roll
  • LEI jeans—a brand I have never worn—in a size I haven’t been for 10 years

My birthday is coming up soon! I love birthdays. How else would I get a special holiday all about me? This year, though, I’m feeling a little weird. Not sad, not really even nostalgic, just thoughtful. I will officially turn almost-30. Right now, at 27, I still picture myself close to 25, but next Saturday puts me over the hump and closer to 30.

For some reason 30 is the magic number for women to freak out about where they are in their life. I’m looking back on my life—at the decisions I’ve made—and just thinking. There are so many things that I struggled with at the time and thought I would someday regret. Oddly, I don’t.

I’m no where near where I thought I’d be at this time in my life, but that’s not a bad thing. I love my husband, my children, and the opportunity to care for them as my main occupation. I love my job. I love my life. It’s just not ever what I pictured.

Do I miss the big city condo I thought I’d have? Not really. I like my small-town house. Do I miss the career in architecture I planned and worked towards? Nope. I love being Brownie leader, PTO mom, and toddler-toter for my kids. Do I miss the SUV I always planned to drive and haul my blueprints? Okay, so that one I miss. I’d love to have something larger than my mid-size sedan, only now it would haul soccer equipment, food for school parties and sick friends, totes full of craft supplies for Brownies, and plenty of kids.

And that’s exactly what I want to fill my life.

I would know how old my Brenia is even if I didn’t know her birthday. Today, she  opened the fridge and promptly fed the dog my lunch. Then after I fed her lunch, it was naptime.  She hates naps.

She’s learned how to open doors now, so after I tuck her in, she’ll sneak up and open the door. I’m onto her games, though, so I was standing right there waiting for it.  She just closed the door and cried. Clearly, she still needs those naps because I fell asleep right away.

How can you tell you’ve become part of my family? My dad will order you around like one of his own. I knew hubby was truly accepted a few months ago when my dad accidentally introduced himself to someone as Spencer’s dad. This weekend said it again, loud and clear.

We went to my hometown for a bridal shower. One of the games they played was “Find Your Fiance” and they needed more guy legs. My dad walks into our room, says “Wake up! They need men and I just volunteered you.” He proceeds to walk in every 5 minutes, yelling at him to wake up like he’s one of his children.

Then he does what he did to all of us when we were little. He lifts the blanket at the end of the bed and tickles his feet. Now if you know my husband, you know full well not to talk to him—much less touch him—before noon. He kicks—and misses—my dad, sits up and says “Why the hell do I have to go to this thing?”

Feel the love, baby, feel the love.

The Very Hungry Caterpillar
as read by Brenia Sokol

Hunry, hunry, hunry.
Hunry, hunry, hunry.
Hunry, hunry, hunry.
Hunry, hunry, hunry.
Duh en!