Two pregnancies, one baby

Today is April 29, 2013. This date doesn't have any significance to most people, but to me it will always be the day that my second child was supposed to be due.

Supposed to be. If things had gone according to plan. But of course, things don't always go according to plan. In this pregnancy story, hardly anything went the way it was supposed to.

This story actually begins before the beginning, long before the birth of my son, Evan, who is now 2-and-a-half years old. Aaron and I were trying for a baby the last few months of 2009, but we decided to put things on hold when I was offered a new job. I always joke that Evan must have heard us talking and didn't want to wait, because just a few months later, to our great surprise, I wound up pregnant anyway. Little did I know just how lucky we were.

The pregnancy went better than expected at first. I was hardly nauseous and only threw up once, and other than the occasional migraine, I felt great. So great, in fact, that I felt confident staying off my bipolar medications and have been without a serious episode ever since. Toward the end of the pregnancy, however, I developed pre-eclampsia. At 37 weeks labor was induced, and there I stayed for 36 hours —12 of which were unmedicated as I went through an entire day not realizing that awful cramping pain was from contractions, and the last 6 hours were of back labor that the epidural didn't touch, as the baby became posterior. The midwives were finally able to turn him after my water broke, but he was still breach, so after a few hours of pushing it became clear that a C-section was necessary. Still, off I went to the operating room with a smile, excited to have it all over with and get this baby here, safe and sound. But then the shakes started, so violently I had to be held to the table. I didn't dare open my eyes, using every ounce of concentration to calm myself so that I didn't bite off my tongue or sink into a panic attack.

And then Evan was born.

He was healthy and thriving, 7 lbs. 1 oz. 20 inches long, with little wisps of dark blonde hair and eyes so brown they were almost black.

I don't remember much about the rest of that night, only that I was too scared that I would drop him because of the shaking, so I wouldn't let the doctor give him to me yet. When I finally did hold him, I was so exhausted I could barely open my eyes. But he opened his, and I was shocked to find out that his eyes were exactly like mine, that this tiny little boy actually looked like me.

After that experience, well, I kind of wished there was some medal to be had for enduring a ridiculous labor, because I was sure I had earned it. But then, there's no pretty way to deliver a baby. You do what you gotta do, and then you thank heaven for a healthy baby if you're blessed to get that far. And we were.

The months (and years) that followed weren't easy, either. Evan is as strong-willed as they come, and he's made it known since day one. More often than not, he was doing this...

And this...

And this...

Don't get me wrong; it has also been a truly wonderful journey, and Evan learned how to be happy at last...

But between that and the memory of my marathon of labor, neither Aaron or I have been brave enough to take on the task again. So we waited for the day we would feel ready for baby #2.

We never felt ready, but that didn't stop Mother Nature. Again to our great surprise, I ended up pregnant last August.

This time, everything was different.

When I saw that little pink plus show up on that home pregnancy test, I burst into tears. I was terrified. Could I really do it all over again? And how could I with an angry toddler at my heels? But the scariest question was, how would we pay for any of it?

Aaron was only slightly less afraid than I, but we did our best to be excited, teasing each other once more about the horrid names we could give this child. But try as we might — and believe me, we tried — we could not truly get excited. For me, beyond the financial anxiety, the hardest part was trying to find some sort of emotional connection to the pregnancy. My belly grew and the nausea was ever-present, so I knew it wasn't a hallucination. But I just could not get my head around it and my heart into it.

Around week 8 I had resigned myself to the situation, and then all-out forced myself to be happy about it. And by week 9, I kind of was. I was excited for the possibility of having a girl, and I started pinning nurseries to Pinterest with reckless abandon. Aaron and I agreed on a name for a boy and continued the good-natured trash talking of each other's choice of girl names. Evan was getting easier by the day, and it seemed like things were starting to fall into place. Like I could do this, we could do this, and it would be great.

But then, one Thursday afternoon in late September, I started spotting. And again, I burst into tears. I called Aaron in an absolute panic, and in between the sobs, I told him what happened and said, as calmly as I could, "I don't think there will be a baby." For all my weeks of wrestling with ambivalence, suddenly the thought of it all being over shook me to my core. I was devastated.

When I regained my composure I called the midwife. She told me not to jump to conclusions, that this happens to many women and I could still go on to have a healthy pregnancy. I tried to hold onto hope, but somehow I knew it would not happen.

The midwife also told me that if it was to be a miscarriage, there was nothing to be done. You cannot prevent it, you cannot stop it once the process has begun, and most importantly, it was not my fault.

I went into my first prenatal appointment the next day, a Friday, trying to keep an open mind. The midwife said it wasn't clear that a miscarriage was imminent, and although I could have had an ultrasound to find out for sure if the baby was alive and growing, I declined. The $600 bill was a huge factor, but beyond that, despite all the encouragement, I still just knew that a baby was not coming.

For two more days I waited, swallowing the panic and trying to get lost in everyday activities. Besides Aaron, only two other people knew that I was even pregnant, so to call someone up to say, "I'm pregnant, but probably not for long," was unthinkable. Even with Aaron there wasn't much to be said. It was a cross I had to bear alone.

And then on Monday it happened. The bleeding had steadily increased over the weekend, but on October 1st, when I was 10 weeks pregnant, my fears were finally confirmed. I called my parents and had to say what I had dreaded: "I was pregnant, but I'm having a miscarriage." They were so caring and sympathetic, and took Evan for the morning. In what was another tender mercy, Evan took a three-hour nap, and in the afternoon I called our babysitter and again told her the news. Without question she came and picked up Evan, and again Aaron took him out in the evening. I was alone, but it's just what I needed. I was in such physical pain — a parallel to labor, but less intense — but by that point, the emotional anguish was gone. Worse than the final knowledge that we would not be having the baby was the four days of agony of not knowing one way or the other. The question was finally answered, and at long last I could put it all to rest.

And somehow, the next day, I was all right. I knew there was nothing that could have been done, that it wasn't my fault, that it was not meant to be. I was calm, and even at peace. In a lot of ways I think I knew it all along — perhaps why we could never get emotionally attached: There was never meant to be a baby. Perhaps it never even was a baby, no spirit to go with the flesh. Just an experience we had to go through, but for what reason I do not know.

I'd like to say that it made me stronger, but I don't think that's true. I think the truth is even better. This experience confirmed the strength I had built over years of trials and tribulations, confirmed the faith I had that my Heavenly Father is in charge and everything will be all right if I follow His will.

There have been constant reminders over the months, however. Like the friend who announced her due date just a week after mine, and the call from the lab at the hospital asking if I wanted to take part in a pregnancy study two months later, and the box of maternity clothes we had brought up from the basement but never bothered to put away, and the occasional thought that "I would be finding out the gender this week," or "I would be eight months pregnant by now," and of course, "Today is the day my baby was due."

But then again, I would be lying if I said I didn't also have feelings of relief. Not in the days that followed, but in the months. At first I held to those thoughts of, "Well, now we don't have to worry about how we're going to make it all work," to look for the bright side. Now I have thoughts of, "I am so glad I don't have a screaming newborn keeping me up at night right now." But then those thoughts are also tempered by guilt — guilt that I could be so ungrateful for the opportunity, that I would put my selfish comforts above the commandment to raise a family. It's a mental battle I can't win.

It's been a strange journey. But it's given me many fresh perspectives. For one, I realize how blessed I am not to have been destroyed by this. I know this experience has utterly devastated many other women, and my heart aches for them.

Most importantly, it's made me realize how truly, astoundingly blessed I am to have a healthy son, here with me now. It is an unspeakable gift to be given a child of our own, and I am so grateful for him — even all the trials and angst we've been through from birth until this very day, when he spent half of it whining and wailing for reasons I just could not decode. And that childbirth medal? I'm grateful just to have been able to make it that far.

I truly understand now that life is a gift — all of it, every bit of it — even the life that only grew for a few short weeks.

I do not know what is in store for us. Supposedly I am at no greater risk for additional miscarriages, and chances are that any subsequent pregnancies will go according to plan. I am not even sure I can get pregnant again or that we'll ever have another child ... but I still have that unshakable faith that what is meant to be will come to be, and I will survive every storm. No matter what happens or what does not happen, I am not in charge, but that's OK. We will be all right.

Recipe: Mexican Lasagna

I'm in a dinner rut. I love cooking from scratch, but I don't have a lot of time or money, so I usually end up making the same things over and over again. I used to turn to Pinterest in times as these, but I've struck out far more times than I've scored, so I've become leery.

But instead of taking someone's word on a recipe for "The Best Mexican Lasagna EVER!!!!" I checked out several, and then came up with something on my own.

Before I go any further, let me assure you that the irony is not lost on me. Here I am bemoaning the poor quality of recipes found on Pinterest while writing up a recipe so that I can share it on Pinterest. I get it. It's either hypocritical, egotistical, or both. Be that as it may, I came up with something we loved, and this is my blog and I'll write what I want. So there.

OK, without further ado:

Another Mormon Mommy's Mexican Lasagna

Ingredients:
1 lb. ground beef or ground turkey
1 package taco seasoning (or about 2 Tbs homemade seasoning)
1 can or small jar of red enchilada sauce (or about 1.5-2 cups homemade red sauce)
4 oz. diced green chiles
1 cup salsa
8 oz. diced olives
2 small Roma tomatoes, chopped
About 10 corn tortillas (one small package)
1/2 cup shredded cheese
1/2 cup fresh cilantro
Taco fixings (shredded lettuce, tomatoes, avocado, olives, sour cream, etc.)

Brown the meat; cook with taco seasoning. Drain the grease. Return to the stove on low heat and add green chiles and half of the salsa, olives, and enchilada sauce. Simmer until heated through.

Line the bottom of a greased casserole or baking dish with one layer of corn tortillas. Pour half the meat mixture on top and spread evenly. Top with a layer of cheese. Repeat with another layer of tortillas, meat, and cheese.

Top with one last layer of tortillas, then pour the rest of the enchilada sauce over the entire thing. Top with cheese, then bake in a 350-degree oven for about 20 minutes or until heated through. Remove from oven and garnish with olives and fresh cilantro for added flavor and texture.

Slice and serve with taco fixings to your liking.

Enjoy!

Makeover #1: Reclaimed wood wall

It has taken me almost a year, but I've actually completed three major(ish) DIY projects that I am stoked about! And when I say "I completed," I mean I coerced my husband into hours of manual labor ... and I love him for it.

I'll post these projects one at a time, beginning with the biggest: a reclaimed wood wall for the master bedroom. The inspiration began with a look at the Gramercy Park Hotel in NYC...

Everything about it is drama and contrast and texture and feeling. I love everything about it, absolutely every last moody, color-saturated inch.

And yet, this was my master bedroom:

Cue the sad trombone, folks; it was, indeed, sad. No drama. No spice. No excitement. 

But alas, I am a poor writer, a work-from-home mama with no budget and no time for the drama of Gramercy Park. 

Until I saw this little gem, from the blog Mom and Her Drill via Pinterest: 

She did it all out of pallets. Pallets! The same material that lies piled outside my husband's work. And so the coaxing began. 

Somehow or other I actually convinced my husband that this was what our bedroom wall needed. And so he dug through the pile of pallet wood, clear to the bottom to find the oldest and most weathered boards, some of which have been there for 12 years. He hauled it all home, pulled out the nails one by one, and set to work.

I give full and complete credit to Aaron for a job well done. He figured out not only how to mount the boards so that they could be easily removed without having to re-sheetrock the whole thing, but he mounted two lights and wired the electrical for these new bedside lamps.

Here's a peek at the work in progress:

And at the end of a long Saturday afternoon, the work was complete:

Yes, my husband is amazing. And so is this wall! I love both so, so much.

The room is nowhere near the splendor of the Gramercy Park Hotel, but I'm working on it. I'm trying out some new pillows...

And I'm working on a little gallery wall going on nearby, not to mention drooling over this fine specimen from White Faux Taxidermy to mount above the bed:

But really, it's hard to get anything done around here when I have this adorable little guy literally getting in the middle of it all:

The frustrations are worth it, though. He's awesome.

UPDATE!!

Fast forward to late 2013, and I finally finished the bedding, and now I have an "after" to be proud of:

(More details on the bed in THIS other post!)

UPDATE #2!!

I've been pining over tufted headboards for ages, and I finally convinced Aaron to help me make one. Now I know why those things cost so much. It was a beast to make! If you buy one, just know that your money is well spent. 

I stopped taking pictures at this point, because the upholstery is where it got hard. It wouldn't have been so difficult, but I just had to have this curvy, corner-y silhouette. It took both of us working together through a lot of trial and error, but we finally got a finished product that we love. 

I was going to do a full post on it, or at least on what not to do to save others from my mistakes, but ain't nobody got time for that. (Seriously, after spending a whole week working on this thing I DON'T have time for that.)

It's up now and I absolutely love it! It was worth all the struggle, and actually, it was a fun project in the end because it really stretched my skills (or lack thereof) and I loved working on it with Aaron. The guy can do anything! 

Here it is in the bedroom. We just need to tweak the placement a bit (you know, once we're not so sore from hauling this gigantic thing upstairs and hoisting it into place) and we are in business!

The only problem now is, the bed is so cozy I just want to lie in it all day. At least it makes for a comfy spot to hang with the kiddles :)  I call that a win-win.

Why we judge

I'm going to be brutally honest: I judge other mothers.

I do. I try not to, but despite my best efforts I still find myself comparing myself to others, and not in an approving way. It's usually in the can-you-believe-she-would-do-that kind of way that, despite never being uttered aloud, still has the power to injure and scar — both of us.

I don't want to think less of other mothers, especially because I know firsthand just how hard motherhood is. I also know that I have my own share of less-than-perfect moments, and I'm sure I've been judged in those times myself. Perhaps more contradictory, whenever I find myself mentally criticizing another mother, I am usually also silently giving her props for doing the best that she can and hanging in there. I am truly as conflicted as my thoughts.

I've been thinking a lot about why I do this, because I really want to understand how this keeps happening. Last year I made it my New Year's resolution to give other people the benefit of the doubt. Put simply, it was hard. I am nowhere near close to accomplishing this goal with any measure of perfection, but the pure fact that I worked on it the entire year round and made marked progress qualifies it as successful. I feel differently about other people, and I find myself being more kind than impatient, which is huge. However, this whole mommy-judgment thing I've got going on puts a serious kink in the works — but I think I may have it figured out.

We put others down in an effort to make ourselves seem greater. This is no secret; every armchair psychiatrist knows this. But looking further, I've found the reasoning behind it: We do not know how to properly appreciate ourselves, and we do not live in a society that looks kindly on this kind of behavior.

"Pride" is a dirty word in our culture. When someone is self-congratulatory, we have a slew of words for them, none of them positive. We call them stuck up, self-absorbed, vain, cocky, full of themselves, high and mighty, arrogant, and more. 

Somehow we have gotten it into our heads that the socially-acceptable way of speaking about ourselves is to be self-deprecating to the point of being self-defeating. We have been conditioned to be humble to the point of rejecting the slightest bit of praise and denying that we did anything special. 

And somewhere along the way, we believed it.

It seems so clear, then, why we judge others: It's the only socially-acceptable way of giving ourselves any credit. In fact, it's probably the only way we know how of saying anything good about ourselves — only we're not actually saying anything good at all. Instead of saying, "I love that I still make it a priority to get dressed and do my makeup," we find ourselves saying, "How can she go out in public looking like that?"

Think about it. When was the last time you said, "I was an awesome mom today"? Or maybe thought, "I worked really hard on this, and I want everyone to know how proud I am." 

But what about the last time you said or thought, "If she posts one more Facebook status about all the awesome-mom things she did today, she is getting un-friended." Or what about, "Who does she think she is, bragging about that? What, like she deserves a medal or something?"

More than likely, if you had any of the first set of thoughts, they were immediately followed by some version of the second, wherein you vowed not to be "that girl." So instead, your accomplishments went unnoticed, you went on believing that you don't contribute anything meaningful, and the next day you silently condemned another mother for her supposedly shameful actions in the grocery store while mentally patting yourself on the back for being so good at this motherhood thing — despite your own children whining in the shopping cart next to her.

It's a problem, all of it, and I want to make it stop. I'm not going to allow myself to be self-defeating anymore. I am going to be proud of my accomplishments, and I'm going to accept compliments — and I'm going to offer them. I am going to believe that I am a good mother/wife/friend/writer/all of the above and I am going to believe that others have that same capacity, despite whatever unfortunate moment I happen to catch them in.

Because it's not enough just to be proud of myself, though that's a really big start. I have to root for others, too. Only this time, I'm not going to be silent about any of it.

If another mother brags about something amazing she did, don't mentally roll your eyes; give her props. Then go tell someone else they did something great today. Then proudly proclaim something awesome you did yourself. Do the same the next day, and the next. Keep it going. It's the only way to silence the negative voices — the ones out in the world and the one in your head.

An end to mealtime agony

I'm feeling like Queen of the World right now: I made a discovery that just may change mealtime as we know it.

You see, I have a picky toddler. You know, the kind of kid who only eats about 10 different things and refuses anything else, with varying degrees of vehemence. It's not technically a serious issue, because he's growing just fine and most of the things he does eat are extremely healthy (he lives off of fruit, green smoothies, applesauce, Greek yogurt, and peas & carrots). But any mom of a picky eater knows the emotional agony mealtime can bring. It's a power struggle each and every day, no matter how hard you try to avoid it.

We've tried just about everything — having him help prepare the food, allowing him to choose from a selection, ignoring his actions completely, forcing him to try new foods (I'm talking literally forcing him), weeping, wailing, gnashing of teeth, bribing, offering incentives, etc. etc. etc. Nothing has worked.

Lately we've had mild success with offering a more enticing food if he eats what's on his plate, but that quickly wore off. But today a lightbulb went on.

Evan and I were sitting down to lunch right before his nap. Actually, I was sitting down, he was climbing on and off the bar stool, occasionally swirling his applesauce and asking for crackers. Things were on an even keel for the day and I was not about to send them spiraling with a battle over a few bites of applesauce. Suddenly, I knew what to do.

I turned on the timer on my phone.

I said to Evan, "I'm setting this timer for 5 minutes. When the alarm goes off, lunch time is over and we're going upstairs. If you finish your applesauce before it goes off, you can have some crackers."

And it clicked.

For whatever reason, this did the trick. He happily ate it all, and still had time for a few Wheat Thins before trotting up to bed.

Later that night at dinner, I was reminded of this trick when Evan again refused to eat the carrots he had chosen. I told the hubby about how well it worked at lunch, so we gave it a whirl. Aaron was dubious, but the minute I told Evan I was starting the timer, a miracle occurred: He looked at us and said, "Oh, I'd better eat these carrots!"

VICTORY!!

It took more than 5 minutes, but he was steadily eating the entire time so I secretly pushed pause every now and then to keep the illusion going. When he'd start to lose interest again, I'd hold the phone up to show him the timer. He'd say, "Yep, it's clicking away!" and get back to business. Adorable.

I think this method works because it jibes with Evan's primary motivations: competition and the desire to be independent. It also has something very powerful going for it: the ability to make the phone, not the parent, the enforcer, eliminating any chance of negotiations and power struggles. And, it's finite. Once it goes off it's over, and there's no going back. Sorry, Charlie. Better luck next time.

I hope I'm not prematurely waving the victory banner, because with toddlers I realize things flip on their head in an instant. But for now it feels like a glorious, miraculous end to an increasingly desperate situation. Please take me seriously when I say that this may be an answer to our prayers, because I truly believe it is. Either way, I'm grateful for today, and I hope it can help some of you parents out there with picky eaters of your own.

Now, go forth and conquer!!

Two naps to one: Surviving the transition and getting things done

A friend's Facebook post reminded me of a dark and woeful time when Evan stopped taking two naps a day. Suddenly I was forced to do the things I had barely been able to accomplish during two naps in the space of about an hour. On top of taking care of the house, making important phone calls uninterrupted, showering and getting ready, and catching up on my freelance work, nap time is the only time to find a moment to relax during the crazy toddler day. When more than half of that time is suddenly gone, it turns even the most orderly mom into a depressed, anxious shell of a woman.

At least that's what it did to me. But after a week or two of moping, I had to face the reality that the second nap was never going to come back — and some day soon, naps will be a thing of the past altogether. I realized I had to adapt and change the way I do things in order to keep up with the new world order.

Keep in mind that the first few months of this transition will not be easy. Few if any children will magically switch to taking one long nap consistently. Finding the right nap time takes a lot of trial and error, and even then, it's still a bit different for us every day. It took several months for Evan to become a solid one-a-day, two-hour sleeper — and still we have some days where his nap is three hours and others one. The point is, just know that this period sucks no matter what, and that flexibility is the key to surviving this whole thing.

Here are some tips for making a the transition from two naps to one a smooth one.

Watch for your child's sleep cues. The signs may be different, but every child has them. Some kids start to space out, others get hyper, but most start to yawn and rub their eyes and get a little cranky. It's important to watch for this at all times, because there may be a point where your child will suddenly need an early-morning nap or late-afternoon nap to compensate for the fewer hours of sleep. This may happen consistently (my son, for example, went back to taking two naps after a few months of one, but it only lasted a few blissful weeks) or it may be every once in a while when the previous day's sleep just didn't cut it. Be sure to get right to sleep when you see these cues, however. If you go too far past the sleep window, your child may be too revved to sleep at all.

Substitute quiet time for nap #2. Until you can push the start time of the first nap later in the day, you may still need that second nap. As mentioned above, some days your child will fall asleep, but resistance is a more typical response. For children who are content to play in their crib or bedroom, this won't be as much of an issue. For children who need help being settled, use this time frame for quiet, soothing activities. Turn the lights down, close the curtains, and read a few books, sing songs, or listen to quiet music. Having this down-time will help your child feel rejuvenated and help you both relax.

Put some structure in your child's day. If you don't already have a schedule or routine, now might be a good time to implement one. It can be as rigid or flexible as suits you both, but the important thing is to let your child know what's going to happen before it's going to happen. This will not only help him or her transition from one activity to the next, but if they know when to expect nap time and quiet time, it lessens the chance of resistance when the time comes.

Put some structure in your day. Finding ways to streamline your life now that your alone time is so drastically shortened is crucial. Planning ahead and dividing up your important tasks will go a long way to ensuring that they actually happen in a timely manner. If housework is a priority, set up a cleaning schedule to spread the chores out throughout the week. Do the same with errands so you're not trying to cram too much into a tired toddler's day. Get up early to shower and get ready before your child wakes, or take a relaxing bath at the end of the day. The point is to spread your to-do list items and your me-time wants so that they no longer depend on those nap time windows.

Get help. It's true that there just aren't enough hours in the day to do all that you need to do. Luckily, you don't have to go it alone. Enlist your husband's help and do chores together at night, or have him take your child for an outing while you tackle a big project on a Saturday afternoon. Send your child to the babysitter a few hours a week or organize a kid swap with a friend to be able to relax and cross some things off your to-do list. Chances are, if you have people in your life who care about you and your child, they'll be willing to help if you just ask.

Do more with your child. When you only have an hour or two alone during the day, you're going to have to decide which of those things you normally accomplished during nap time can be done with your child around. For some tasks, you'll have to get clever to figure out how to do this with a toddler underfoot. As they say, cleaning the house with a toddler in it is as useless as brushing your teeth while eating Oreos. Look for an engaging activity (not just plunking her in front of the TV) to keep your child entertained while you pay the bills, give her her own pretend "makeup" to put on while you do yours, let him play on an old computer keyboard while you catch up on e-mails, and find ways for your child to do household chores with you (much more on this to come!). At this age they love doing whatever you're doing, so capitalize on this to get everything you can finished during awake time — without compromising your connection with your child — to save the really important alone-time tasks for naps.

Compromise. This transition is seldom a smooth one, for your child or you. While you may have the perfect plan in place, understand that chances are it's not going to happen, at least at one time or another. But remember, this isn't just about making your day easier — it's about doing what's best for your child's physical and emotional health. Keeping this in mind will help you keep some perspective when things don't go so well. You will also have to compromise some of your needs in order to smooth this transition along. Some of these sacrifices may be permanent, others just temporary. It may be tough to accept this, but that's what motherhood is all about: sacrificing for the greater good of your child and your family. In the long run, paying attention to your child's cues and addressing his needs are crucial to fostering trust and love and, ultimately, ensuring cooperation. And that makes everyone happy.

DIY Christmas ornament wreath

About four years ago I saw this little beauty online:

A stunning ornament wreath from Eddie Ross that I drooled over for years. I was lucky to come across such a find — mind you, I wasn't in the habit of trolling craft sites, and these were the days before Pinterest and before the explosion of Mommy Blogs, the days where if you didn't already have creativity flowing you had a much harder time finding simple yet beautiful DIY projects such as this.

Anyway.

This wreath has been in my mind every Christmas since then, and I FINALLY got my act together and made my very own:

Ta da!!!

And, because everything looks better on Instagram:

The instructions from Mr. Ross are simple and few, but I have some "been there, done that" lessons from the field I'd like to add. So, below I will give the instructions in bold with my advice to follow...

1. Start with a wire hanger, then untwist it and bend it into a circle. If you have puny muscles, like mine, this is harder than it sounds. Nevertheless, it can be done in a snap.

2. Gather ornaments for your wreath. This requires a LOT. I have about 35-40 on here, but it still didn't fill the length of the entire wire hanger. That's because, as you can see, they all have to fit together like a puzzle to make it look filled out.

3. Glue the metal caps to each ornament. I didn't do this step, but I sure wish I had. Two ornaments popped off and one broke because I was lazy. So please, glue the metal caps to each ornament. Also: If you have ornaments that are precious or sentimental, may I recommend you save those for other purposes. You wouldn't want them to be casualties of crafting gone wrong.

4. Slide the ornaments onto the wire. I started putting mine on willy-nilly, figuring the random configuration would add to the charm. I think it does, but because I used ornaments of different sizes, some of the proportions are a bit off. So, my advice is to plan ahead or at least have a good idea of which order the ornaments should be strung so that everything comes out consistently and evenly.

5. Twist the ends of the wire together to form a wreath. Again, easier said than done. It took a bit of muscle (or maybe I just used ridiculously a strong hanger — yeah, let's go with that) and, since I didn't have enough ornaments, I had to pull the wire closer together than it wanted to go. This was the part of the project where three of the ornaments popped off, so use your muscles but be careful.

6. Hang with a ribbon and enjoy. No advice here. This is one step I could handle with ease.

Merry Christmas!