Dear Nan

Dear Nan,
Even though your blog is anonymous, I have a feeling that you're a really stylish and "put together" woman. What's your secret?
Signed,
Washed Out in Wenatchee

Dear Washed Out,

What a dear you are for noticing! Well, it just so happens that I am very put together, all parts intact and beautifully coiffed. It may look effortless (i.e. like I just rolled out of bed), but it in fact takes a lot of time to look like me.

I recommend waking up at least two hours prior to your estimated departure time. This gives you ample time to examine your pores and pop over to Pinterest for a mo. Giggle over a clever E-card. Maybe wake up your husband to show him the hilarious card. He won't mind. He likes it. Take a minute to throw together 17 pounds of crockpot meals for the freezer. Pull out your miter saw, empty thread spools, egg cartons, and IKEA furniture and throw together an upcycled activity table for your toddler. Don't worry, you have plenty of time because you are a stylish, put together machine of efficiency.

Catch up on important current events through your Facebook news feed. Giggle over another clever E-card. How do they come up with this stuff?! Try to wake up your husband again except now he's locked the door. Too bad. Back to Facebook. Cluck your tongue and sigh in sympathy when you learn that one of your former high school classmates is "having a bad morning... can things get any worse?" Consider "liking" but don't because of confusing connotation. Is it bad manners to "like" another person's pain? Ponder the evasiveness of her status update. What in fact makes it a bad morning? Did her dog eat her night guard? Does she have a weird ingrown hair on her eyebrow? Did her DVR only record 6 minutes of last night's 30 Rock? Accept that you may never know.

Look at the clock and realize that you have approximately 7 minutes to do your hair, makeup, and get dressed. No matter. You can totally do it. Strategically arrange your bizarrely shaped and frizzy bedhead to look like sexy beach hair. Or just got out of a convertible hair. Or just rode in a barrel over Niagara Falls hair. Whatever you can manage really. Get out your makeup bag. Apply your powder foundation, which is hilariously named "well rested." Then put blush called "orgasm" on the apples of your cheeks. Blend. Now laugh and laugh. Because really. Talk about false advertising. Damn you Sephora.

Now get dressed. Try to be a medical professional so you can wear scrubs or something. If that doesn't work, dress appropriately for your specific profession. Now I happen to be a teacher so I wear Dansko clogs, high waisted jeans, a turtleneck, seasonal vest, and dangly seasonal earrings. Oh shit, I forgot my jack-o-lantern socks... be right back.

As I was saying, dress for success. Whatever that looks like. Now you're probably right on schedule, so pat yourself on the back and head out the door sister, you're ready for anything!

Best wishes,

Nan

Crockpot meals in the freezer, seasonal socks on the feet, and orgasm on the face...
How did you spend your morning?

A Very Genuine and Possibly Genius Pregnancy Advice Column

Dear Nan,
How do I survive my first trimester of pregnancy when even brushing my teeth feels impossible?
Signed,
Nauseous in Nisqually

Dear Nauseous,

Luckily for you, navigating the first trimester of pregnancy with style and grace is something I happen to do naturally. Lesser women may just want to lie down on the couch, eat applesauce with a wooden spoon, and pass gas. But not me. Time is a gift. I use every moment to maximize my potential and work toward becoming my best self.

How? You are probably wondering. Well, let's try a little "day in the life of..." because elegance is learned, my friend.

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Wake up to toddler sitting on your chest. Nod in agreement when he tells you that "it's a great day, the moon is gone, and it's time to wake up." Fall back asleep.

At some point shuffle to kitchen in sister's ex-boyfriend's sweats. (Thank you Brandon, you can have them back when I'm dead.) Eat yogurt. Make vomit-like noises/gaggy face but don't actually vomit because that would be a sweet release from the pain of never-ending nausea, and you are a Spartan warrior. Pain is what keeps you alive.

Watch online videos of stray dog rescues. Cry. Watch online videos of children with cancer singing uplifting songs. Cry harder. Watch online video of that guy's proposal where everybody dances in unison to a song about love. Lie down on the floor and weep. Become angry that you married the kind of guy that will never participate in song and dance numbers. Imagine leaving him for a man that dances. Stop crying when you realize that you don't want to be married to yourself. If you're both singing and dancing, who's the damn audience? You need an audience.

Get off the floor and get a hold of yourself. You're a mother. Your toddler would like his unborn sibling to revoke his mommy's passport to crazy town. Laugh a little when you imagine a tiny little fetus stamping passports.

Think of games to engage your toddler while you burp up prenatal vitamins.

"Doctor"
-Toddler: Use fine motor skills to manipulate a variety of pretend doctor tools. Use language and social skills to give mommy a pretend check-up. Wear hilarious plastic spectacles that come with doctor kit. Sing "Old MacDonald" while checking patient's temperature because that's what mommy does. Basically, be adorable.
-Mommy: Comatose patient (i.e. lie down on the floor).

"Swim Lessons"
-Toddler: Use gross motor skills to leap off of toddler bed onto mattress on floor. Continue to use large muscle groups while pretending to swim in the "pool" (mattress). Shriek, "I'm swimming like a shark! I'm at swim lessons!" Ask for your life jacket because your mother has convinced you that flotation devices are necessary for all bodies of water, including puddles, or even imaginary pools.
-Mommy: Dead man's float (i.e. lie down on the mattress).

"Dance Party"
-Toddler: Absolutely rock out to favorite jams (Lion King soundtrack, Caspar Babypants, and Michael Franti, which is another story altogether). Use spoons to play percussion on the kitchen floor, play "guitar" with a pillow, kick your feet, and do three-legged dog yoga poses.
-Mommy: Do "The Worm" without moving arms or legs (i.e. lie down on the area rug).

Pat yourself on the back for being a great mother. Now take a nap. You've earned it, sister.

So, Nauseous in Nisqually, as you can see, balancing your home life while a fetus the size of a peanut sucks the very marrow from your bones (metaphorically speaking, of course, I don't think that actually happens, but it might... maybe ask your OB at your next appointment to be sure, you might need marrow supplements or something) is a delicate, but definitely doable dance.

Best wishes,
Nan

How to Increase Web Traffic or Blowing Kathie Lee's Mind

Like my teaching career and pretty much everything I do, this blog is an emotional investment I make purely for myself. I don't want to "sell out" with ads, book deals, or even regular readers. Unh-uh, that's not for me. I'm definitely not the type of person who edits her diary, imagining it to be discovered posthumously and published. Just like Anne Frank, minus the persecution, authenticity, and innocence, of course.

I certainly never daydream (instead of writing) that this ridiculous blog will shoot out of obscurity to one day be featured in a segment with Kathie Lee and Hoda.
 
Hoda: Now, have you heard of this blog, "House of Jars?" It's a blog written by a mom! A mom blogger! Isn't that innovative?! A mom who sits in front of her computer and writes little anecdotes about diapers and homemade baby food! Incredible! Who'd have thought?

Kathie Lee: (Chokes on her wine in amazement.) A mom... blogger!?!? Get out of town, Hoda!!

I like that my mom and my grandma make up the bulk of my readership. I'm fine with it. It's cool. But just for funsies, I googled "how to increase blog traffic." Here's what I learned:

1. "Titles that are short, snappy, on-topic and catchy are imperative"(from The Daily SEO Blog).

Super. Let's take a look at my titles. We have Real Adults Don't Buy Fast Food Breakfast With Dirty Coins and Mommy Cry it Out Sleep Training or How Long Does it Take to Boil an Egg? Or what about my personal favorite The Very Expensive Stomach Flu or I Swear I Don't Have Munchausen Syndrome? Short, snappy, on-topic? Absotootinlutely.

2."Leave comments on other blogs to drive new traffic... It's important to make sure you leave meaningful comments that are likely to invite people to click on your link to read more" (from About.com Blogging).

So I strolled down the information superhighway to find blogs and leave a few comments:

"I like the pictures of all the crap you bought at Walgreens for $9.89. I am however curious about what you will actually do with 76 boxes of scented pantiliners. One time in high school my friend and I wrote a note on a Maxi pad and stuck it to a boy's car. It was so funny. We laughed and laughed. Read my blog."

"IMO it's so nice that your DH and DS and DD were in cahoots with your MIL to make you a nice breakfast in bed and wash all the CDs since your visit from AF made you one irritable SAHM. BTW read my blog."

"I don't actually give a shit about your amateurish attempts at photographing your child's feet in a pile of freshly fallen leaves. Read my blog. Look at my amateurish attempts at photographing a puppet of my father."

3. "Inform search engines and aggregators like Technorati (using the ping functionality) when your blog is updated, this should ensure maximum traffic coming from those sources" (from Blog Project: 30 Traffic Generation Tips).

I. Don't. Understand. These. Words. (Yawn. Sip wine. Shake information from brain.)

4. "Posting new and unique content on a regular basis to your blog is crucial to success" (from Increase Your Blog Traffic). 

Let's see. Since the start of the 2011-2012 school year, I wrote a grand total of 4 new and unique posts. That's an average of 0.6 posts per month. That's dedication. Blood, sweat, and tears on the keyboard my friends.

5. "Finally, and maybe the biggest key to increasing blog traffic is to write interesting and excellent content" (from Increase Your Blog Traffic).

Bwahahahaha! (Wiping away the tears.) Of course. Excellent. Interesting. Who's interested in vomit, runaway Labradors, Popsicle stick puppets of my father, emu oil and bearded lovers? Where's my niche? I'd probably be better off deleting this linguistic hodgepodge and starting a couponing blog. But I can't. Multiple transactions cause me extreme anxiety.  I don't understand what a doubler is. And .14 cents a box doesn't make me hate Hamburger Helper any less. 

Letter For My Two Year Old

Dear Baby JAR,

I'm fairly certain that I just wrote a letter for your first birthday, so I find it baffling that we celebrated your second birthday this month. Nothing speeds the clock like motherhood apparently. It's also baffling that I loved you so much at your first birthday, when of course I now know that I couldn't possibly have loved you as much as I do today, right now.

You are such a remarkable little person. I am completely charmed by your toddler grasp of the English language. I love that you call your diaper rash, "ouchie pokies." I love that you carefully arrange your blocks in a row and screech, "all aboard everybody!" I love that you say "mommy" more than any other word or phrase. I love that you speak in the third person when you feel very strongly about the topic. I love how you announce your actions with joyful pride, "I run, I run! I laugh, I laugh! I jump, I jump!"

Your feet are still sweet little sausages without arches or ankles, retaining that baby look that I adore. How amazing that you can tell me what you want for lunch, but you still would rather nurse before naptime. That you can put on your own rain boots, but still wear footie pajamas to bed. Or that you can pedal a tricycle with feverish abandon, but still nestle your downy head into the crook of my neck when you've had enough.

You are such a happy child. I treasure your smile and I feel so lucky that you share it with me and the world so frequently. Keep giving that smile away, whether or not it is reciprocated. You have a limitless supply that only increases its strength and power with use.

When the house becomes suspiciously quiet, I know that you are either engaged in toddler hijinks (putting plastic hot dogs in the fish tank, coloring the cat with markers, riding Mabel, or carefully applying eye cream to your bellybutton) or you are sitting on the floor with a book in your lap. I love to watch your brow furrow in concentration as you pore over the pictures, quietly muttering to yourself. I hope you remain a reader. The escape provided by words cannot be duplicated with electronics. And readers have interesting opinions.

I'm your mom, so I love to give you advice, count your vegetable intake, and imagine you reading these letters as a well-adjusted adult. You will probably wipe away a little tear, pick up the phone, and thank me for my love, guidance, wisdom, and... control issues? Maybe I should thank you too.

Thank you for teaching me to ignore the steaming dirty diaper hamper and sit on the floor to build, play, or read. Thank you for reminding me to dance at least twice a day. Your slightly demanding, "mommy dance!" never fails to bring a smile to my face and a shuffle to my feet. Thank you for helping me stop, slow down, and take the time to find the perfect leaf in the giant pile of nearly identical leaves.

You're amazing. I love you every inch of you. Forever, for always, no matter what.

Happy 2nd birthday.

Mommy

                                                 

Today I Did Not Win $350,000

Cheap wine in a Mickey Mouse mug. Torn flannel pajama pants. Heavy heart. Check, check, checkity-check!

It is time to review a few of my life's disappointments thus far.

1. The moment I realized that my first love had a second date waiting in the wings on his senior prom night. (May 1997)

2. The moment I realized that my date wasn't ever going to pick me up on my senior prom night. (May 1999)

3. Losing the eighth grade student council election. I made an Acrostic poem with the letters of my name and everything. I'm still baffled by the loss. (October 1994)

4. Realizing that I would have to return to work, leaving my son in the care of someone other than myself. That one really hurt. (August 2010)

5. The day I found myself on a local television talk show as one of thirteen finalists in a contest to pay off your mortgage up to 350k. The man sitting next to me won. I sat in his residual confetti and wept silently with a television camera in my face. That was today. Today I did not win a contest to pay off my mortgage. Today I did not find a way to magically eradicate my debt, fix my oven, fence, or hole above window that lets in the rain. Today I did not receive the miraculous gift of financial freedom, thereby allowing me to spend more time doing the thing I love the most--being baby JAR's mom. Today I did not get to sit on the couch and describe my feelings to the television viewers of our region. I did however win tickets to a "lusty ghost tour." (October 10, 2011)

So... let's review.

I was never meant to partake in the joys of high school prom. Politics are clearly not my thing (though Acrostic poems definitely are). Leaving my child in the care of someone else will never be easy for me. I should only spend one evening drinking and mourning the loss of a yellow pages sweepstakes. And of course, I'm pretty damn lucky to have such a short list.

A Calling Beyond Money

Hello computer. Long time no type. What have I been up to? Oh, you know... this and that...

(cue music...)

Keeping my nose to the grindstone, shaping precious young minds, working my fingers to the bone, burning the candle at both ends, believing that the children are our future, firing on all cylinders, working against the clock, imparting a lifelong love of learning in our future generations, and quite often, working hard for the money.

Just kidding. It's not about the money. I am intrinsically motivated by a calling that transcends paychecks and health benefits. See below.

Me: Howdy! I was just calling to ask about this red collections notice I got for a past due electric bill?

Local energy company:  Yes ma'am. You haven't paid your electric bill in three months. If you do not pay it within 7 days we will be forced to shut off your power.

Me: (Chuckling with relief.) Well now, I knew it had to be some sort of misunderstanding! You see, I pay for my electricity with my daily investments in the future members of our society. You know, the children?

Local energy company: (Pause.) Ma'am. We require an actual monetary payment.

Me: Okay, but that's what I mean. I'm a teacher, so it's not about the monetary payments. Let me try again. You know that light in a child's eyes when she unlocks the magic of the written word through reading? That's how I would like to pay my bill! With the light from a child's eyes!!!

Local energy company: (Complete silence.)

Me: I want to pay you with the smiles of 24 small children when they earn an ice-cream party for their hard work and perseverance at following recess rules!! I want to pay you with the feeling of small sticky fingers reaching up for yours while walking in the hallway!!! I want to pay you with the smell of 40 freshly sharpened pencils!!!! I want to pay you with the unsullied inquisitiveness and curiosity of a young learner!!!!! (Begins to quietly sob.)

Local energy company: (Dial tone.)

So as you can see, mine is a profession beyond money.

My next project is to harvest the energy from manual pencil sharpeners and use it as an alternative power source in my home. The power company can suck it.

Budgets, Cheese Sculptures, and Assorted Childhood Memories.

I decided to make a budget for the upcoming school year. I opened Excel and got to work. I began this task with a pleasant sense of accomplishment. Look at me. I'm 366 months old and I can organize and plan ahead. I can add and subtract. Who cares that I'm eating Cheerios out of a plastic baby bowl? I'm an ADULT. But somewhere between credit card payment number 1 and credit card payment number 43,678, I realized that there is no freakin' way to make the numbers positive. I seemed to remember some trick about adding/subtracting negative numbers to make a positive number or some other nonsense from middle school. I believe the following poem explains it quite clearly:

Good things happening to good people: a good thing
Good things happening to bad people: a bad thing
Bad things happening to good people: a bad thing
Bad things happening to bad people: a good thing

I am good people. Bad debt things are happening to me. That's a bad thing. Bad is negative. Why are my numbers always negative?! But... wait a minute, bad things happening to bad people is good? Are you saying if I am a bad person, that's a good thing? What the hell kind of sorcery is this new math? What kind of lessons are we teaching our children? (Disregard the fact that I am a teacher and allow me my righteous indignation please.)

So now I'm furiously stuffing Cheerios into my face, crumbs and saliva flying, jabbing at keys with concentrated rage, cursing at my computer... -2,459.00 - 312.01 -112.14 - 77.63 = Doooooom!

Deep breaths. Put down the Cheerios. There is only one thing that can make me feel better.

My husband? Exercise? Meditation? A financial planner? Slot machines?

No silly...

Cheese sculptures.

Allow me to blow your mind.

Hello beautiful seahorse. You are a loyal species, making music, and sweet, monogamous seahorse love only during a full moon.You could be in a Nicholas Spark's novel if only you were real. But you're not. You're made of Wisconsin cheddar. Sad.

Violin. I played the violin for 8 years. Our orchestra teacher desperately wanted to steal a bit of glory from the marching band. He was the mastermind behind "Strolling Strings." A group of sullen adolescent string players, roaming the hallways of our high school, playing zippy favorites like Ode to Joy and Ashokan Farewell. I was very seriously ill during every scheduled performance, so I could not tell you much more about it.

Abe. Good guy. Nice beard. No painful adolescent memories here.

My mom listened to the oldies station throughout my childhood. I liked most of the jams (excluding Classical Gas, which is garbage), but I really took a liking to a religious ballad they sometimes played. It went a little something like this: "One toke over the line, sweet Jesus, one toke over the line. Sitting downtown in a railway station, one toke over the line." Cheesus makes me think of that song. 

This cheese sculpture is a genuine piece of art. I think the artist really captured the rage and helplessness that one might possibly feel while creating a budget. Brilliant.

This cheese sculpture is supposed to be the former CEO of Apple. I think it looks a bit like my dad.

Brilliant.