Back to the future

I’ve been seriously slacking in the blogging department lately, and it seems my absence hasn’t gone unnoticed (and I want to thank you all, for checking up on me and making sure I haven’t drowned in the bayou. I appreciate it!). I could say I’ve been busy over the holidays, which would be true, but it wouldn’t be the whole story. The whole story requires a bit of background information.

Let me start by saying that I grew up in a very buttoned up household. We went to church as a family every single Sunday. We prayed before every meal. I was expected to apply myself in school, had a very strict curfew and wasn’t allowed to date in high school. Sex wasn’t something we talked about, and my parents even dragged me out of sex-ed because I wouldn’t have sex before I was married anyway  and wouldn’t have to bother with silly things like birth control on my wedding night. Which, of course, would all happen after I got my law degree from Yale.

Even though I respect their beliefs, I knew early on that I didn’t agree with them. Yet, by the time sex was somewhat of an option for me, my brain was so screwed up about the whole thing that it literary put my body on lockdown. I was ‘blessed’ with vaginismus (the link will take you to a Wikipedia page about it, if you don’t know what it is. I could explain it myself, but that would be a blog post all on its own).

After years of trying to wish it away and trying to ‘power through’ (horrible, horrible plan) I finally started to see a sex therapist. She gave me homework that made me blush and stutter, and encouraged me to start journaling. And I did. I filled page after page with failed attempts, semi-successful attempts and, finally, successful attempts. Even after I was finished with therapy, I kept at it. Always written from the perspective of an outsider looking in, still distancing myself from it, until one day I stopped writing on paper and booted up a blog instead.

For months, I blogged about my relationship, love, struggles, my friends, school and yes – sex. Or, in short, I blogged about my life. ALL aspects of my life. Not only that, but I started talking to other people who blog about somewhat more ‘mature’ subjects, liked them, befriended them. And after years of struggle, I came to terms with being who I am. This girl with all these different aspects of life integrated into one breathing being. And having this blog meant that I could talk about whatever I wanted, when I wanted to.

… And then I got pregnant. Which was this life altering thing that I couldn’t even wrap my head around at the time. Something that caused many panic attacks, tears, laughter. Of course I wanted to write about it. And without thinking, I split of a blog just for that and Catching Rhye was ‘born’.

Now, here’s the problem- I split it off. Like I’m two different people; a 24-year-old who blogs about nothing and everything and all the things in between, and a mother who talks about clothes and kids.

I don’t want to do that anymore, blog like I am split down the middle. And I like to think we live in a world where I don’t have to. I do realize that not everyone can get on board with that, and that’s okay too. I’m willing to lose a few readers if that means I can go back to… non-split-blogging, if you will.

So, if you’re interested, you can hop over to Seven Seas of Rhye. The language might be a bit more crude sometimes, and again, I do talk about sex on occasion or mention it in passing (should I have given you the impression that I write a sex blog, I really, really don’t) but at least I can stand behind it and say ‘Here, this is all of me, and I mean what I say.’

As for this place… I’m leaving it up for now, but I won’t be around. All of you who decide to stay behind – best of luck to you, and thank you for reading. And to all of you who are willing to follow me along…

Catch you on the flip side ❤


So! I grew tired with the theme I had up and asked my lovely husband to craft me something new… Which he did (obviously).

Along with a new header and colors, I’ve made it easier for anyone who wishes to stalk me by linking to nearly all social media sites you can find me on. See those nifty stickers to the left? Yea, go there!

And while you’re all doing that, I’ll finish packing for our weekend away. No need to cry, I have part 3 & 4 of the ‘5000 question meme’ scheduled to go up this weekend so you won’t have to miss me too much… Ha.

Have a lovely weekend, all!



I’d Like To Thank God, Jesus And My Mom.

A big thank you to Bird on a Pencil for nominating me, especially since I’ve been slacking hard when it comes to blogging, lately! As it goes, I now get to share 7 random things about myself, before nominating 15 other blogs (gulp).

7 things you may or may not know about me…

I have a twin brother. His name is Ryan (we’re Ryan and Rhye, which is so cute you could just vomit, I know), and he’s about one minute older than I am. We’re as different as siblings can be, really. He has my mother’s golden locks and my father’s dark eyes, whereas I have my father’s dark hair and my mother’s blue eyes. We rarely vote on the same presidential candidate. We have completely different tastes in music. We don’t watch the same movies. Yet, people still refer to us as ‘the twins’ like we’re conjoined and share a brain. Even now that we’re almost 25 and haven’t lived under the same roof for about 8 years. This bugs me.

I truly believe our cat Luna knocks over glasses just to spite me. She’ll be sitting on a corner of the coffee table all innocent and licking her paws, but as soon as I look away… *bop* there goes the glass. To make matters worse, she never pulls this around Sam, who now believes I’m just incredibly clumsy and try to blame it on the cat.

During my senior year of High School I was head cheerleader, homecoming queen and prom queen. I was also mercilessly bullied by other girls.
Yes, that happens.

I love everything peppermint. I also love everything chocolate. But I can’t stand those two flavors combined.

Taking care of children that a) did not come out of my special area, or b) weren’t gifted to me through court makes me incredibly nervous. I’m always scared I’ll accidentally kill them in some way or another.

Whenever someone crosses the street when they see me and our pit bull Lucy coming their way, I get this sudden urge to chase after them just to see if they would panic or cry. Please note that Lucy is an incredible coward. I mean, she hides under the porch from our neighbor’s Pomeranian, for crying out loud.

The number 7 is the unofficial sponsor for my relationship. Sam was the 7th boy I kissed, which happened on my seventeenth birthday, and after we’d been together for 7 years, I found out I was about 7 weeks pregnant.


And this is where I nominate 15 other blogs. Unfortunately, I have no idea where to even begin, so let me get back to you on that when I have a little more time and brain activity.


I have nothing to say today. So here, have a song I’m currently addicted to.

My Day In Numbers: A Countdown

The amount of CDs that fell into the mud when I opened the door of my husband’s truck. I don’t know how he stores these things but he needs a new system.

Diapers changed so far. I had a blast. Or, more specifically, Claire did. Major poop explosion. I bet you’re so jealous of me right now.

The times I had to reenter my password on ITunes before it finally let me purchase something. Seriously, I’m all for internet security, but eight times?! Seems somewhat excessive, no?

The amount of mugs and plates that broke when Lucy, running at the speed of light, bumped into me while I was trying to put them away. We might need to get her a job as people greeter at Walmart so she can pay us back.

People calling me to check if I had voted yet and if not, when I was planning on going. We take voting very seriously in my family.

Calls ignored after that.
Because, you know, I have things to do.

Little humans demanding my attention.

The amount all of those little buggers needed it at the same time.

Fingers slammed in the car door while trying to do twenty things at once.
Don’t worry, they were my fingers, not my kids’.


Are you enjoying election day as much as I am?


It’s 9.15 on a Sunday, and so far I’ve commented on 25 blogs. This might not be a huge amount to some, but it certainly is to me considering I have to write most of my blog posts in about 15 minutes. Because DING! That’s all the time we have for today. Time to feed Claire and change Jane, help Sadie pry silly putty out of her ears, walk the dog and help Cole with his homework.

But this morning was different. After feeding Claire around 6, the two of us ventured downstairs. I kick started the computer and could actually hear it whirring and purring while I stood in the kitchen brewing myself a cup of coffee the size of my head. In a house that is usually bursting at the seems with all the people and animals that live under its roof, this kind of peaceful quietness is rare, and I took full advantage of it.

For almost two hours straight I hopped from blog to blog while Claire was happy and content in her sling. I commented whatever came to me, writing near-novels on some blogs and just a few words on others. And you know what?

It felt good.

It felt good to somehow let people now that yes, I read there blogs and yes, they made me think. Visitor stats are one thing, but comments can feel like a present in this day and age, where WordPress’ like button seems much more popular. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate all the likes I get. But when someone takes the time to actually write a few words, I feel all sorts of special.

It’s been nice, being able to return the favor.

Now, tell me – Are you a commenter or a ‘liker’? And what do you prefer your readers to do? I’m curious!

Calling All (Mostly) Positive People

You know what I can’t stand? People using twitter as a platform to whine. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t mean the occasional ‘I’m shit out of luck today’ tweet since, well, sometimes your shit out of luck and you want the world to share your pain. Nothing wrong with that.

No, what I’m talking about is the people that do nothing but complain. Round the clock, all day, every day. Either it’s too hot outside or too cold. It’s raining. It’s not raining enough. They missed the bus. Their hair is doing some sort of Lyle Lovett thing…

It’s an endless stream of negativity. And the only reason – apart from spectacular inappropriateness in the form of racial slurs – I will ‘unfollow’ someone.

Which is probably why I currently only follow 26 people. This is a sad number. I need more Twitterlings in my Tweeting directory. Because I do enjoy the occasional stroll along Tweet Street.

So, dear reader, are you a Habitually Happy Holly? Leave your Twitter handle after the beep.

Smiling, Nodding and Drooling


Last Wednesday at my weekly appointment, my OB/GYN asked me if I had made up my mind yet about what I wanted to do about birth control after the twins are born. She knows this pregnancy was unplanned, so it’s been a topic we’ve been revisiting for weeks now. My answer hadn’t changed.

‘I really don’t know.’ I told her.

Because I don’t. I’ve lost my faith in birth control. I lost it the minute I got pregnant straight through the Depo shot, which I was told was The Safest Option. Virtually no chance of getting pregnant, they said. You have a better chance of winning the lottery, they said. They even said that when I did wanted to have children, it could take up to a whole year before I would be able to conceive. I told them I could live with that.

Yet here I am, a very pregnant non-lottery winner. And they ask me what gamble I want to take next? Apart from neutering my husband (oh relax, I wouldn’t do it myself. I’d have the vet do it!) and Abstinence (which to Sam sounded even less appealing than being neutered), I don’t see a way to not get pregnant again. Except maybe using all forms of birth control known to mankind simultaneously… Which, my doc informed me, was not an option.

So she whipped out her chart. ‘Let’s have a look.’

‘Just give me three things I can use on top of one another.’ I pleaded.

‘Two.’ She haggled.

‘Fine. I just don’t want to get pregnant again.’

The moment I heard the words come out of my mouth, I felt bad. ‘Not that any of them are unwanted, though. Just…’

‘Just that four in one year is enough.’

Four in one year is enough.

Right before my 24th birthday last March, Sam and I first started talking about maybe having children in two years. Or three. Maybe four. Would six be pushing it?

We weren’t ready yet, we thought. We lived in a very small split level studio smack in the middle of Amsterdam’s Red Light District, because it was all we could afford at the time. Sam had to travel for work a lot, and his second job involved working nights. I was still in school. We. Weren’t. Ready.

Yes you are, God said, here, have two!

And he was right. We got our shit together, we settled down (which, I’ve learned since then, is not a bad thing), we got excited. And somehow, after all that growing up, relocating and organizing, we ended up being able to give two more beautiful children a home the moment it became clear that they needed one. Today, I have no doubt in my mind that this is how it was always meant to be.

But I also know that this is it. This is my family.

So yes, birth control. I went home with folders and flyers and I Still. Don’t. Know.

If anyone has the answer, do tell.

A Dress To Impress

I accidentally overheard my neighbor crying yesterday, saying how she couldn’t afford a homecoming dress for her daughter. Apparently she didn’t plan on going, but got asked by the boy she’s had a crush on for years. My neighbor was on the phone, and the only reason I overheard her was because I was standing on their porch to return the sander we borrowed. I really hate invading people’s privacy like that, so I raced off as quick and quietly as I could.

Pretending I hadn’t heard her didn’t make me feel less bad about their situation, though. Au contraire to the next door neighbors, the family across the street is lovely as can be. A single mom raising two teenage kids, working impossible hours. I don’t know how she does it, and hearing what I heard nearly broke my already overly emotional heart.

It stayed on my mind the rest of the day until finally, around two in the morning, I had a eureka! moment.

I slapped my husband awake, who was almost out the door with my hospital bag before he realized I wasn’t in labor.

‘Help me, I need to find my green Prada dress!’ I almost shouted in excitement, throwing clothes left and right.

Now, before you think I’m some fancy lady who can afford Prada – I’m not. But I do happen to have a brother who’s in fashion and isn’t opposed to stealing taking souvenirs from work.

A mere two minutes later, we had located the dress. Luckily it was just as beautiful as I remembered. I stuck it in a dress cover and handed it to Sam.

‘You need to hang this on the neighbor’s porch.’

The awesome part? Sam actually did. Like a ninja, he ran across our lawns in pitch black darkness to secretly deliver the dress.

I just really, really hope it fits her.