Tattoos: The Real Kind

I guess it's time to talk about my tats. So, okay.

If you know anything about me, you know I have a lot to say about eyebrows. And also that I am obsessed (I use that term loosely, because. Just read on) with eyebrow watching. Some people like to people watch, I check out all the eyebrows. Don't get all self conscious, my goodness. It's not something I'm critical about, but it does pique my interest. And not in the I-can't-stop-staring-at-your-eyebrows creepy kind of way, just a quick glance and I'm good. K? K. Well now this sounds like a fetish. I just notice eyebrows. That's it. End of story.

Next!

So anyway. Awhile ago I started filling my brows using lots of different brushes, pencils, colors, techniques, etc. I perfected my personal preference for brow filling, and it became a staple in my makeup routine. But it was never really perfect. Some days I had to take off complete eye makeup to redo my brow, the color always showed brassy in pictures, it took time to fill, I could sweat or rub or itch them off (how embarrassing), a million first-world problems, right? I finally decided to try permanent makeup.

Well, it sounded fun. But then it was actually really scary. If you're wondering why, it's because suddenly your eyebrows are permanently darker. I did a lot of research and found a gal that I was, like .001% less scared to have tattooing my face.

She started by talking shape, and measuring every angle and the length my brow should be. I was particularly nervous about the inside starting point of my brow. I didn't want a harsh line screaming "Hi! I'm a tattoo, and therefore fake and also permanent!" She helped calm my line anxiety by starting lighter on the beginning edge and filling darker under the natural hair of the brow. I approve of that technique. But because it was something I was so nervous about, she actually ended up taking me out on the floor to one of her past clients (one of the hairdressers) and showing me specifically what it would look like. Clap, Clap for Erin Kump. You are a star!

She also lined my brow first to show me the shape and look I could expect. Once I gave the okay she went to work. The numbing gel is applied with the tattoo, so the first little bit I may have had tears a'streamin'. About the time she finished up I wanted claw my eyeballs out from all the poking, but otherwise it was pretty painless.

Over the next week I had to apply gel and keep my brows all schlicked up. I couldn't get them wet at all and the itching by day three was enough to drive even Mahatma Gandhi completely insane. All in the name of beauty! After about a week the scabs started to come off and the color seemed fairly faint. It darkened over the next six weeks, and then it was time for a touch up! Annnnnnd...repeat.

I seriously love having darker brows without putting them there every morning. It saves me time and I feel more comfortable having great color and consistency.

JR loves them too, but the tats gave us a good laugh the other day. I was talking to him about our YW, and how I thought it would be fun to get one of my cosmetology gal pals to come give us a few tips on hair and make up. (The girls have Prom coming up and it's kind of a big deal these days) JR said I better not try to teach anything on makeup because I'll just tell them to get everything tattooed. Full disclosure, I probably would.

Healed

All schlicked up

24 Day Challenge: Report

Well this is awkward. I just realized I never gave a final report of my 24 Day Challenge. What the?! Well geesh. Sorry.

So here it is. On day 25 I was down 10 lbs, 11 total inches. At first I was tempted to be disappointed with my results. Like, why didn't I loose 20 lbs and end up a size 2 already? Um, check yourself, Sister Sandoval. First of all, you have never in your life been a size two, ever. I'm pretty sure I skipped that size completely. And every size in between. Pretty sure, as in I swear I went straight from a girl's size 14 to a women's size 14. Probably at age 11. Second, give yourself some credit, girl! You lost 10 lbs and 11 inches...IN 24 DAYS!

I also have a long list of non-scale victories. Long and important, and notable. On my list are things like; better sleep, more energy, punching fear in the face, squatting on the Smith (what?! because that used to terrify me), better control of PP depression, maybe I don't have cankles or they are much smaller at least, pretty major, right?! Also, JR and his workout buddy commented on my killer form while lifting the other day. Can we talk about non-scale victories fo'minnnit? Yass!

I'm trying hard everyday to remember that:

1. I made a promise to myself. 30 is going to be my healthiest year yet.
2. I am not defined by a number. My success is not determined by a number. I am not doing this for a number.

Maintaining consistency after the challenge and those two things, repeated over and over...and over have really helped me stick to my goals. I'm telling you it's not easy. Remember that number that doesn't define me? You better believe it didn't budge for almost exactly one solid month following the challenge. I focused on clean eating, exercising at least 4 times a week, and staying positive. I also added a BCAA supplement and a thermogenic to my day and started counting macros (and you thought counting calories was hard...because how does anyone consume this much protein?!).

Just last week, and not a day sooner, that stubborn number started to move. Goodbye to 6 more lbs. I know, I know, the number doesn't matter. But I'll tell you something, it sure is validating to see that confounded thing drop! (insert red-faced emoji with smoke boiling out the ears/nose)

So, unfortunately there's no magic pill. The process is long, it's tough and the number doesn't reward you nearly as often as it would take to make it motivating. I used to think I had enough excuses to exempt me from everything but minimal self improvement. "Keep walking, I'm just doing the minimum to exist here." The truth is, even with a full time job, a baby, church callings, a husband in school and all the feels of postpartum depression, my excuses were no bigger than excuses anyone else could come up with. Including people who are putting in work.

So find your why. It's gotta be a big one. You have to trust yourself. Most importantly, get out of your own way and do some work.

Failed. Again.

Don't ever think that there will be a shortage of stories about how I failed as a mother. Okay? Okay. This week it started in the bathtub...

Michael gets trapped in the bathtub whenever I'm getting ready. Throw in a fluffy blanket and all the stuffed animals. Ta-dah. Captured baby in what he thinks is a really big bowl full of toys. Mom win.

Recently he's become a lot more mobile. He's squirrel-y and monkey-ish in zoo terms. He. Is. Busy. Busy in this case meant grabbing mom's razor off the side of the tub (duh, mom!) and cutting all his baby fingers. None of the cuts were deep enough for him to even cry, but one in particular wouldn't stop bleeding. Like, do we have arteries in our fingers? Cause I'm pretty sure he nicked one of those. 

I put a tiny little band-aid on his tiny little finger. Sucked it right off. Again, bleeding artery. Everywhere. So I got the medical tape and distracted him with the container of wipes while I wrapped his tiny little phalange no less than 7 times. Literally. Well, if we're actually being literal it was probably more like 12. It totally worked.

Later that night at dinner he sat *quietly* (it wasn't really all that quiet, but he was a good boy despite all the activity) beside me in his highchair as I fed him pieces of sweet potato. We were having a great time until the medical tape was suddenly missing. I couldn't find it anywhere. It was gone.

Well, I found it exactly 24 hours later. All 12 wraps worth. And if you want the honest to goodness truth, I bet it was more like 19 wraps. Or however much it takes to fill up a diaper with 18 inches of medical tape...

Immeasurable Happiness

I had a moment of content, complete and perfect happiness the other night. I've been keeping it tucked away to myself for a few weeks, but I want to read about it someday when I'm old and failing so you all get to look in on my moment too.

We were driving home on a Friday night, Michael in the back seat. The weather was getting warmer, it wasn't too late. The Jeep was parked in the driveway, so we pulled JR's car all the way into the garage diagonally and somehow created our own dance party. It wasn't one of those crazy wild dance parties where you want to stomp through the floor and express yourself to the bass that feels like it's making your heart beat. It was more of a dance party your grandma would enjoy. You dance with your partner as an expression of love, and you sing along to all the words.

JR and I danced, Michael thought he was singing along, and then JR took Michael swirling around trashcans and barbecues and scattered shoes. As my boys swayed and sang, I snapped a few pictures. And in that moment, I knew this was the best kind of night. The most perfect kind of love and our own flawless piece of heaven.