My neck coiled and my eyebrows shot up. As we were (slowly) walking past, I turned around to look at them. He had his daughter -- she was maybe three years old -- pinned to the ground, in a sort of headlock, while he hovered over her and screamed at her about cars driving down the road. (This was on a walking path in our neighborhood park, bordered on one side by a residential street and on the other side by a creek.) The child's mother stood there, cross-armed, observing. The little girl's face was red and marked with tears. And this father - this father was so oblivious to anything around him, and screaming at her so forcefully, that it seemed abusive to me. He was frightening. The situation was so disturbing that *I* started crying. You guys! I started crying.

Now, full disclosure: I didn't understand the context of the discipline. Had she gotten too near the street (about six feet away) when a car was driving by? Had she been disobedient the first couple times her father asked her to move away from the street? I don't know. But I do know that this man was scary. And angry. He was belittling and intimidating his daughter. I have no patience for that. I wanted to rescue that little girl!

Roger and I quietly discussed whether we should do anything. We stopped and (covertly) watched, waiting to see if he would harm his daughter. We wondered at what point it would be appropriate to step in. In the end, we only watched them. I dried my eyes. The father eventually stopped, they marched past us on their way home, the little girl clinging to her mother's side, as far from her father as she could get. I turned to Roger and said, "I never want to treat our children like that." He had her pinned to the ground in a headlock. She was THREE.

And now I can't get that scene out of my mind - the dad hunkered down, trumpeting his temper; the mom passively standing by; the little girl, back arched, bawling, twisting her wet face from her father's.

I get that every parent has different discipline styles. I understand that I don't know the full story. But I also know that something isn't sitting right in my heart, and even though that family is long-gone, I'm curious: At what point do you step in? Or do you? How do you know when? And what should that look like?

I couldn't have said it better. The past few days it has been 70 degrees in Dallas, and I've been chomping at the bit to get outside. Rayah and I try to take walks every day. We love watching the ducks swim in the creek by our house, watching the little baby muskrats leap into the water when we come near. The daffodils are blooming in Dallas, also, and last week Rayah and I watched a toddler squeal with delight as he ran through them toward his Daddy. The birds are chirping, and blue jays are fluttering around our neighborhood. The Bradford Pear trees are thick with white blooms - I love watching Rayah's face as she stares up at tree branches - and I'm looking forward to seeing my favorite shade of green as trees begin to bud.

I've always thought that spring is my favorite season - I love the life that begins to emerge. I love that sunlight is beginning to stretch the day. I love the bright, bold colors. I love the warm days and deep blue skies. For me, it's the promise of something more to come, the promise of life and growth and beauty. And I guess that's not surprising, coming out of a dark and cold winter.

Out on a weekend walk with my two favorite people!

Whether you're shopping for fill-and-spill toys, boppy pillows, summer frocks, sweet purses, cargo shorts and graphic shirts, an extra stroller, books, more crib sheets, exersaucers, kid-sized activity tables (or nearly anything else), these consignment sales are THE place to go for gently used, inexpensive items.

And I've got all the info for you...

*faints*

Six months! And as a little birthday present, Rayah taught herself how to roll from her tummy to her back.

Today we also had an appointment with her pediatrician, and it seems Rayah had a bit of a growth spurt! In the past two months, she's grown TWO inches! Here's her stats:

Weight: 16 pounds, 5 ounces (55%)
Height: 26 1/4" (75%)
Head: 16 1/2" (30%)

My little baby is growing up!

It was a winning success!

I am trying to make all of my own baby food, using the Cooking for Baby cookbook. The recipes are really simple and the book has tons of info on storing, freezing, reheating, cooking ahead, etc.

Well, that's not fair. I read one-half of a book tonight, and it was more than I needed to read. Halfway into the second chapter, I skipped ahead to the end. I read the last chapter. And satisfied by that, I skipped to the middle and read a few chapters.

Typically, I don't skip around in books. I read them straight-through, the way we're taught to do it, the order in which society expect us to to do it.

But this book...this book was different.

* * * * *

There are lots of things I don't really talk about on this blog, and sexual abuse is one of them. I have a lot of thoughts about sexual abuse, a lot of experience helping women grow through their own hurts. For the past several years I have led self-help support groups for women in the Dallas metroplex.

* * * * *

Last week, I received a press release about a controversial book, asking if I was interested in reviewing it. Typically, those press releases find their way into my trash can before I can get past the greeting -- but this one, for whatever reason -- I read. Then I responded. And today the book arrived in the mail.

* * * * *

In all fairness, I knew what this book was about before I started reading it. I knew that it was about sexual abuse. I also knew that the author was victimized as a young girl. And though this story is represented as fictional, I can tell you that it's not. This is a woman's story. It may not be the author's story, but that doesn't mean that it's any less real.

To Meg Tilly, the author: Gemma made me want to vomit. It is too graphic, the detail too accurate, the emotions too spot-on. That is a compliment to you as an author, to your ability to portray the way so many sexual abuse victims shut down, process emotions, trust false beliefs that are fed to them by their abusers.

The first time I ever saw a woman Price Matching was during a Back-to-School sale in 2008. I don’t remember why I had gone to Wal-Mart – I didn’t shop there often – and somehow I found myself in line behind a woman whose shopping cart was brimming with paper and pencils and rulers and backpacks and crayons. And more. Oooooohhhhh, was there more. She pulled out circulars from local stores and began going through them with the cashier. Suddenly, she turned to me.

Now, let’s stop for a second and discuss Wal-Mart. Admittedly, I used to be a little prejudiced. I really disliked shopping at the store. I don’t know why that is, because they carry just about everything under the sun, and if there’s one thing I like (especially as a working Mom), it’s convenience. If I could go through a drive-thru to purchase sunblock, I would. [Note to Wal-Mart: You know what would be awesome? Having the ability to order 20 items or less online, and then swing through a drive-thru to pick up my order. Please consider beta-testing that in Plano, Texas.] [Second note to Wal-Mart: The entrance to your store in Denton, Texas carries the overwhelming stench of vomit. Please send help.]

Anyway, so this woman just turned to me and said: “I’m sorry – this is going to take a while for me to check out. Price matching is something I do to help our family afford for me to be a stay at home mom.”

I just smiled and dismissed the issue, telling her I was fascinated by what she was doing. And really, I was. For the next five minutes, I stood there watching her flip through circulars and compare prices. I watched the cashier ring up the purchase. I watched as this Mom surrendered coupons. And I was stunned. I never knew that you could take an advertisement with lower prices from Tom Thumb or Sprouts or CVS or the dollar store and get that same price at Wal-Mart.

My obsession with quinoa all started last summer in Chicago. BlogHer '09 had just come to a close, and I went out to lunch with ElisaC, who is vegan.

We headed to The Chicago Diner. (Meat Free since '83, hey ya!) Looking over the menu, I was beginning to feel a little clueless. I quizzed Elisa on ingredients: What is acai? What is seitan? What is quinoa? What is seitan, again? And pronouncing those ingredients! It was embarrassingly obvious that I had no idea what I was talking about. I finally settled on the Southwestern Tostadas, spread thick with mashed black beans and topped with quinoa and avocado. WOW, were they good. They were so good -- I liked the quinoa so much -- that I decided right then I had to make it again when I got back to Dallas. (You might notice that very dish - the Southwestern Tostadas - is on my menu for this month!)

And that's how we get to today's recipe from Fat Free Vegan: International Quinoa Salad. I took Susan's recipe and developed it into the Lazy Woman's Recipe, because that is what I am: a lazy cook. I like foods that taste good without too much fuss, not that Susan's recipe really looks like much work, but mine is even less. I cut out the chickpeas, and because I usually don't have them on hand I cut out the jalapeno and scallions. I've had lactation consultants warn me that parsley and mint reduce milk production (sage stops it entirely, FYI, though that's not in this recipe), so since I'm nursing right now I've removed those from the recipe. And I've also added back in the olive oil. I tripled the avocado. And I use chicken broth instead of vegetable broth, because that is what I usually have on hand.

This salad is ultra-flavorful and tangy (and a new favorite). I think you'll like it, too. (I would like to include a photo of the salad here instead of just the ingredients, but I took these pictures with my phone, and can we all agree that the iPhone was not made for food photography? So if you want to see what this salad looks like (believe me: you do), check out the images on Fat Free Vegan. They're drool-worthy.)

And then I forgot.

But when a reader commented that she recently cleaned out her freezer and fed her family of four for the next month, plus spent only $100 at the grocery store on items like dairy and fresh produce, I knew I had to do it, too. And this time I didn’t forget.

So this weekend I emptied out my freezer, took an inventory of every item, and re-organized it all. It was a little embarrassing to discover I had more than 15 pounds of pork, turkey, chicken and beef – that is: the meat in our freezer weighs as much as our daughter – plus bag upon bag of frozen veggies, fruits, cheeses and puff pastry dough, as well as three pounds of butter. Seriously, who am I? Paula Deen?

It's kind of like - and bear with me, because I haven't eaten anything yet - when you go to a Chinese buffet, and that Pineapple Fried Rice tastes awesome, but you think you might also sample the Sesame Chicken. And the Spring Rolls. And the Mongolian Beef. And maybe some Dan Dan Noodles. And whoa - those Garlic Snap Peas - I bet those are good. And then you just can't resist the Mango soft-serve ice cream. With sprinkles. And maybe a cherry. That's what renovating your house is like. Or, that's what renovating our house has been like. Like an over-indulgent Chinese buffet.

Nothing we've done has felt indulgent, of course. But in retrospect, maybe we should have tackled it differently. We scraped the ceilings. We re-textured the walls. We painted. We ripped out the floors. We tore off the baseboards and the trim. We removed a wall here, we built a laundry room there. We installed tile in the kitchen. We're scheduled to install hardwood floors this month. And even though we've tried to do as much as possible ourselves (read: I never knew what a handyman Roger was until we bought this house - he's worked so hard on it!), we've paid an unreal amount to contractors to do the hard parts. And now I'm left looking at our checkbook, thinking: How did we get here? How can we get back to where we were? What changes can I make to our budget?

Which, yes. Yes I do. She's a total doll, and I love dressing her up in sweet clothes with accessories to match. Baby clothes are just too much fun! One of the bloggers I met at the conference, Lindsey of The Pleated Poppy, gave Rayah the precious headband pictured above. Isn't it cute on her? Rayah only has a couple other headbands, and somehow neither are pink (one of the colors she wears most often, besides blues, purples and reds), so we're particularly thrilled with this newest addition to her hair accessories wardrobe.

Doll, indeed.

Most of the the first day, I wore Rayah in my Moby sling - an 18-foot long piece of fabric that wraps Rayah securely against me. And until now, it's been my favorite sling. But this is the problem: since giving birth, my internal thermostat has heated up. I've changed from a woman who curls up in a blanket mid-summer (in Texas!) to someone who wears t-shirts in 60-degree weather. So having an 18-foot piece of fabric wrapped around (and around, and around) me gets kind of...hot.

That, and Rayah really dislikes being in a sling of any kind if I'm sitting down. (Does anyone else have this issue? Is it just Rayah?) When I was sitting during one of the sessions, Rayah was usually sitting on my lap playing or lying on a blanket, playing (I mean, as much as five-month-olds play. This mostly involved dropping her toy and looking around her). If she got fussy, we'd step out into the hallway for a minute until she calmed down. The third time I stepped out into the hallway, a MomBlogger I'd been talking to earlier in the day followed me out. I was Having Issues, and she was there to help.

See, Jessie also works for DittanyBaby.com, a company that makes and sells the Mei Tai sling. She followed me into the hallway, sling in hand. While I held Rayah, Jessie showed me how to wear the sling. And then? Then she told me to that I could HAVE the sling. You guys! This sling is magical!

First: it is not hot, because it has simple straps that hold it in place, not 18 feet of fabric.

Second: Two minutes later, Rayah was asleep. And she STAYED asleep for the rest of her naptime. And then everyone commented on the magicalness of a baby who slept. EVEN AFTER I SAT DOWN. (!)

I wore the sling the rest of the conference, and have been wearing it again since I've been home. Jessie, you're an angel, and I'm an official Mei Tai convert. Thank you so, so much for all your help throughout the weekend!

As for all of the other amazing women I met over the weekend, I'll be linking them here soon. I love having new additions in my feed reader!

When we had Rayah, I was concerned I would struggle with baby blues. I expected it. I prepared for it. And I feel so, so blessed that so far, it has not been a part of my story as a mother. Roger and I wholeheartedly agree that our daughter is the best thing that has ever happened to us. She's so fun, so lively, so curious. She's beautiful, and she's smart. It's been so fun watching her grow, watching her learn to bat at toys, and then grab at them, and now she's putting them in her mouth. EVERYTHING goes in Rayah's mouth: toys, stuffed animals, burp cloths, anything within her reach. I love it when she locks her eyes on me and smiles, that wide-open, toothless, dimpled smile.

I realize that every parent feels this way, or I hope that every parent feels this way. Because becoming a mom has been the greatest privilege of my life. Any doubts that I might have once had about whether I wanted to become a mother have been erased, and now I'm realizing that this is the role I was created for. And that just makes it that much sweeter.

Rayah and I are attending BlissDom10 this weekend!

When I learned Santa Claus wasn't real, I was crushed. It was December. I was in third grade. That was the only year I rode the bus home from school, and I mostly didn't mind, except there was one girl on that bus, Brittany, whose sole mission seemed to be focused on making my life miserable.

I lived in the country, which meant that the bus ride was a long one for me, full of stops in town before we headed out my farm-to-market road. But she also lived out in the country, farther out than I lived, and so I had to endure her the entire ride. She was a year or two older, and the only thing I remember about her was her dirty blonde hair and how she mocked me and taunted me.

Now, listen - I realize this really isn't all that bad. But in my eight-year-old world, it pretty much was the worst thing ever. And to top it off, on that December afternoon, she was insisting that Santa wasn't real.

I had asked before, and my parents had always encouraged me to believe in Santa Claus. But this day - this day was different - my mom gave in and broke the news to me as gently as she could. It devastated me. Devastated. Oh!, how I cried. And cried. And cried.

Before having a child, I didn't think much about what I would teach my own children concerning Santa. Now that we have Rayah, I can't stop thinking about it. Granted, she's only three months old - I've got a couple years before I need to navigate that conversation. But it's already keeping me awake at night.

Roger and I intend to teach Rayah that Santa Claus is not real, but that he is a fun tradition we participate in every year. The part that stumps me is this: How do we teach Rayah not to be someone else's Brittany? I want my daughter to be an honest child, but I don't want her to crush someone else in her pursuit of the truth. How do we do that? Is it even possible?

What did your parents teach you about Santa Claus? Or, if you have kids, what have you taught them?

I just sucked on my daughter's pacifier, to see what the appeal was. I still haven't figured it out.