Strong Rhetoric

Merry Chrismukkah

2011-12-26T09:32:00.000-06:00

Where Babies Come From

2011-12-23T00:39:00.000-06:00

It is 12:17 A.M. Officially December 23rd.

For most people, it's Christmas Eve-Eve. The night before the night before the big man comes down the chimney.

For me, this day is much more than that. For me, it's December 23rd: THE DAY YOU GET A BABY.

On this day last year, I woke up with an IUD appointment and went home with an ultrasound photo. (That would be Dash.)

On this day two years ago, I brought a baby home from the hospital. (That would be Max.)

Needless to say, around here, no one needs to ask where babies come from. Clearly, they come FROM SANTA.

(The gig is up, dude. Well all know what's REALLY in that huge belly.)

And so on these first, early moments of December 23rd, I find myself wide awake. Wondering...

How the hell do you seal up a chimney?

A Nook of One's Own

2011-12-13T13:53:00.002-06:00

When I was a kid, we moved a lot. A LOT.

One of my favorite homes (notwithstanding the fact that it was in some hick town in West Virginia) featured a cozy breakfast nook, complete with built-in booth. And while I can't say I remember much about the second grad (besides desperately wishing to break my arm so my classmates could sign my cast), I DO have fond memories of that breakfast nook.

Sitting side-by-side with my brother, writing carefully as he dictated a letter to Santa. Throwing blankets over the table to make a fort underneath. Noshing after-school bowls of Schwan man ice cream (is that still a thing?) while mom started dinner.

That house was just one of nearly a dozen childhood homes. But it was the only one with a breakfast nook. And as an adult, the kid in me has always yearned for a nook of my own.

And now, at the tender age of 36, I may finally get one.

I knew I had to have this house the minute I peeled my eyes away from that glorious gas range and spied a small, light-filled "bonus room" just off the kitchen.

The current owners use it as a media room, with a couch on one wall, opposite a TV.

I have other plans. Plans that look a lot like this:

Perhaps with more comfortable seating, since this area will still need to function as a TV/game room.

But with less STAINABLE fabric, since my children are boys/filthy animals who never met a sofa they couldn't ruin in under five seconds. Maybe vinyl or leather with a more vintage vibe. Like this:

Or this:

A tucked-away breakfast nook for so much more than breakfast. For cheerios, cartoons, high chairs and homework. For fingerpaint, laptops and Cake Boss reruns. For informal family gatherings and not-so-quiet cups of coffee. For early, early mornings and late, late nights.

Our messes. Our memories. Our butt-prints on vinyl.

Is it weird to be this excited?Pin It

December in St. Louis

2011-12-09T09:36:00.001-06:00

So yeah. I went and bought a house. In a hurry. In a bad economy. In December.

A house that closely resembles my CURRENT home. See?

Current House

New House

So why all the bother? Well, in three words: "Location. Location. Location." Or three more words: "Bathrooms. Bathrooms. Bathrooms."

Ok, gimme three more: "Gas Wolf Range." So...NINE words.

Now, I swore to my husband that I'd stop oogling real estate online when we decided he would leave his job to stay home with the boys. We agreed that the most sensible thing to do would be to hunker down in our outgrown but affordable home for a few more years, even though its cramped spaces, underwhelming kitchen and underperforming school district were starting to trouble us.

(I'm pretty sure he didn't believe me, though I was quite earnest at the time. And to my credit, I lasted three entire weeks.)

Then last Tuesday morning, as I was taking a groggy early morning shower, two things happened. First, the sounds of rushing water woke up Max, whose crib shares a wall with the one bathroom in our home. (Or maybe it was just the sound of my hand touching the faucet knob. Crazy-good hearing is that kid's super power). And then Jack, awakened by his brother's an-hour-too-early rooster calls, stumbled into the bathroom, yanked down his pants and plopped down on the toilet to take care of business. WHILE I WAS TRAPPED AND NEKKID IN THE SEE-THROUGH SHOWER.

I can't say that this was a particularly startling or unusual occurance. It happens almost every weekday morning, wherein we shrug and chalk it up to "family togetherness." But I guess on Tuesday it got to me, because sometime around noon, while noshing lunch at my desk, I did a quick search for 3+ bedroom, 2+ bathroom listings in the coveted, top-ranked school district less than two miles away (and where my parents happen to live). A district where there are NEVER any listings in our price range (and if ever one DOES come up, it's a dive and still gone in like, 90 seconds.)

I wasn't expecting much, because who puts a house on the market three weeks before Christmas?

And then this popped up:

Hurry, as you have heard, this area is hot! Lovely, well-maintained 3 bedroom 2.5 bath home in popular neighborhood. The main floor has a generous open feel with beautiful wood floors and lots of windows. The Living Room has a wood-burning fireplace with lovely stained-glass windows on each side. Recently remodeled kitchen with stainless steel countertops, wooden cabinets, stainless steel appliances, including a gourmet gas Wolf range/oven. 2nd floor includes a large MBR and an attached full bath. 2 more bedrooms, another full bath and a bonus room complete the 2nd floor. Many updates include new electrical wiring, plumbing, roof, landscaping and much more. Large deck. 2 car detached garage is great addition to the property. Walking distance to restaurants, coffee house, theater, bars and Forest Park! This home will go quickly!

As I clicked through the pictures, I got a little nauseous because THIS WAS IT. THE ONE WE'VE BEEN WAITING FOR. And I guess it was a lot like that really bad movie, Autumn in New York, where a philandering Richard Gere finds himself attracted to a 20-something Winona Ryder even though she's waaay too young for him, and proceeds to fall desperately in love with her. Only to learn she has cancer and a few short months to live.

Yeah! It was like THAT! I was Richard! Because even though I wasn't supposed to be looking, the house was a bit out-of-my-league and the timing was ALL wrong, I had to pounce, and pounce fast. Because I wanted to take it in my arms and awkwardly tongue-kiss it, knowing all too well it would soon be gone.

(Though I prefer to picture myself as Winona in this analogy. Not the post-shoplifting, mascara-stained Black Swan version, but the pale and ironical version from Heathers or Reality Bites. But I digress.)

Which is why, four days later, I found myself submitting an offer on a house my husband had not even been inside (But with his blessing. This house had him at "school district") and scouting the open house with my mom, trying to ward off competing offers with loud remarks like "THE BEDROOMS ARE TOO SMALL, DON'T YOU THINK?) and "I BET IT HAS TERMITES.") Which didn't exactly work because a glossy-eyed couple with their parents and realtor in tow were walking around all "We are totally buying this house." And mom and I were all "THEY DO NOT KNOW WHO THEY ARE DEALING WITH."

Oh no they did not.

And that, friends, is the story of how it came to pass that I accidentally-on-purpose bought a house last weekend. And now need to sell MY house. And move. Very soon.

And when it's all over, perhaps I'll pen an original screenplay where forbidden love prevails against all odds. I've already got a great working title: December in St. Louis.

Starring me, as myself. And Ryan Gosling as the house. All decorated for Christmas. Because why not? (All my other fantasies are somehow coming true.)

Why Just DECK the Halls When You Can Get ALL NEW Ones?

2011-12-06T12:43:00.001-06:00

It's December, and you know what that means...

'Tis the season to be jolly! To break out sparkly decorations and toasty Ugg boots! To cyber-mob the Toys R' Us website until it cries uncle! To sip warm, high-calorie beverages out of overpriced red paper cups!

And, apparently, to upend your entire life in one weekend.

Or maybe that's just me?

That's right. Last weekend, in the middle of shuttling the kids to our favorite pop-up tree lot to select the perfect stately-yet-not-so-big-the-kids-will-knock-it-over Douglas Fir and supervising the hanging of glass (yes GLASS! WHAT WAS I THINKING?) ornaments while minimizing casualties, I managed to coordinate a complete and sort of spur-of-the-moment life change (you know, on top of that OTHER life change from a couple weeks ago, wherein my husband quit his job to become a stay-home dad).

Specifically, I bought a house. (And sold my car, though that's sort of secondary so let's not even worry about that at the moment.)

BECAUSE I BOUGHT A HOUSE. IN DECEMBER. THREE WEEKS BEFORE CHRISTMAS.

That was MY weekend. What did you do? Anything fun?

This Week

2011-11-17T14:35:00.001-06:00

This week I went back to work after three months of maternity leave.

This week ournearly-new car went into the shop. And stayed. Jack’s school closed fortwo days. Max came down with a fever. Dash tried out a new sleeping schedule(or should I say NOT sleepingschedule). We juggled parent-teacher conferences, a school fundraiser, soccerand boy scouts. We ran out of milk, eggs, shampoo and clean underwear.

Next week isThanksgiving. And BOY am I thankful.

Thankful for cooing babies,skipping toddlers and earnest first-graders. Friends who knew me back when andstill love me now. Parents who help, help, and then help some more. Good health, a good job, and the low-interest roof over our heads.

Thankful for a husbandwho has done something extraordinary for me, our boys and the collective mental health of us all. Something few fathers would DARE (or care) to do: Quit his job tostay home with the kids.

No small feat.

This week could havebeen a catastrophe. But because Ben was home to manage it all?

This weekwas just fine.

Teaser

2011-10-18T23:20:00.005-05:00

I should probably apologize my for recent absence here. But I have an excuse!

See, I've been KIDNAPPED.

Or, more precisely...I have three kids who haven't napped in like, two months. I'm pretty sure THAT'S a felony.

They look guilty, don't they?

But mark my words*...I'll be back. Bigger than ever (literally...you should see my pants). And I'll have big news! Big life changes! Maybe even a new haircut!

But that will have to wait for another day.

All this talk of napping has made me suddenly very sleepy and I Must. Lie. Down.

*Okay, those are actually Arnold's words, not mine. But you knew what I meant.

The Incredible Dash

2011-08-20T11:06:00.006-05:00

look what i made!

dash william
born august 17th at 7:45 p.m.
8 lbs, 1 oz. and 20 inches of pure handsome

First Look

2011-08-11T22:55:00.005-05:00

My OB doesn't do those fancy 3D and 4D ultrasounds, and I've never minded. Don't get me wrong, they're amazing. But they also sort of creep me out.

Admit it, they creep you out too.

I've been having plain old 2D ultrasounds pretty regularly throughout this pregnancy; lately, twice a week. But the really boring diagnostic kind, where they do things like analyze amniotic fluid, count fetal movements and measure femurs. If I'm lucky I get a glimpse of what might be an ear or what I'm told is a scrotum (lovely). But I've never seen my baby's face.

Until today.
Sure, it's 2D, it's dark and it's grainy. But it's also COMPLETELY ADORABLE. I spy my husband's forehead and eye shape. Loads of dark hair (that will probably turn blond as the other boys did). And are those my lips?

I can't stop looking.

Today I also learned that good things come in large packages (right now my husband cannot resist saying THAT'S WHAT SHE SAID!). Eight pound, eight ounce packages, with five more days of growing to do.

I blame those damn prenatal vitamins. As opposed to the cheeseburger I ate as soon as I got home from my appointment.

WHAT? I'm pregnant.

I've Got A Date

2011-08-10T22:56:00.004-05:00

That's right. Saturday came. And went. Along with Sunday, Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday.

Chalk it up to bedrest and meds and monitoring, but at 37 weeks and 4 days both baby and I appear to be doing just fine (physically, that is. I'm not sure I can say the same for my mental state, which can be pretty much summed up as FOR THE LOVE OF GOD GET THIS THING OUT YOU'RE KILLING ME SERIOUSLY KILLING ME).

My kindly doctor (have I mentioned I LOVE her?) has generously offered to induce labor on August 17th, a week from today, at 38 1/2 weeks. Assuming baby doesn't decide to come early on his own, or flunk out of either of the two monitoring sessions we'll have between now and then. And I have a feeling he won't, seeing as he's still hell bent on perfecting his in-utero kickboxing routine.

Full term with change to spare!

And while of course I wish my water would break right now and END THIS (because omigod I am bursting out of my skin, there's no more room, NO MORE ROOM!), I am cautiously optimistic about the possibility of a "take home baby." A baby they hand right over, allowing me to stare at him and cuddle him and nurse him, instead of just holding him in front of my face for a moment before rushing him off to NICU to be stuffed with tubes. A baby that can room with me and wear the little outfits I brought and pose for an overpriced in-room photography session. That sounds so nice.

So let's officially reset the countdown clock, and hope that this time next week the whole agonizing pain part will be behind me, and I'll be resting comfortably while getting to know my newborn baby boy. And, of course, showing him off to YOU.

(TEASER: I can't wait to share his name! We're having a bit of unconventional fun with this one. I'm not sure the grandparents approve, so do me a solid and tell me you love it.)

Saturday!

2011-08-01T21:20:00.006-05:00

It is August. I HAVE MADE IT TO AUGUST. The month of my due date.

Today is Monday, and my doctor has told me I can let this puppy rip any time after Saturday. Why Saturday, you ask? Because that gives us both (me and my doc) a chance to go out Friday night, get crunked, recover from our hangovers and get down to the business of birthin' by Saturday afternoon.

Okay, no. Though that sounds fun, because 1) I could really use a drink, and 2) I actually adore my doctor and think under different circumstances we could be great friends. Even suspect I might have unconsciously willed my birth control to fail just for the opportunity to hang out with her for nine more months.

In fact, Saturday is the day this baby graduates from a premature, 36-week old infant likely to require NICU (a la Max) to a 37-week, full-term baby unlikely to experience any serious complications. And the date after which, as my wise doctor remarked, "pregnancy becomes over-rated."

See why I love her?

Now, I am not trying to rush things, despite the fact that I am no longer enjoying the miracle of life within. As I mentioned above, it is August, and if you are alive in the world then your Facebook feed is filled with competitive status updates about the weather and the humidity and OMG THE HEAT! THE GODDAMN HEAT!

A glorious time to be nine months pregnant!

And if the heat doesn't get you, know what will? PUPPP!

What's PUPPP, you ask? Google it. Actually, the images might gross you out, so let me just tell you. It stands for "Pruritic Urticarial Papules and Plagues of Pregnancy." Doesn't that sound nice? It affects a whopping one percent of pregnancies, so it stands to reason that I'd get it. In essence, it's a heinous case of pregnancy-induced hives that start on your belly and spread, akin I suppose to a naked, pregnant role in a patch of poison ivy. No one knows the cause (though some suspect an allergy to male fetal DNA. STOP LAUGHING), and the only cure is to give birth.

Still going? Ok...know what ELSE might get you? Giving yourself twice-daily injections into your swollen, itchy, hive-covered pregnant belly. You know, because you have that blood disorder that affects two percent of the human population. Isn't it nice to be so special and unique? And who knew you could get bruises on TOP of rashes? Double Rainbow!

So yeah, like I said, it's not that I'm in any HURRY to deliver. I want a healthy, full-term, take-home baby boy. I really, really do.

But OH MY GOD SATURDAY CANNOT COME SOON ENOUGH.

Regression

2011-06-29T17:15:00.000-05:00

I've moved back in with my parents.

Don't be alarmed. It's just for this week.

Ben's been away on a business trip. It's the first one he's had in a while, or at least since I've had a seven year-old with the social calendar of a Southern debutante, a couch-diving, suicidal toddler, a dog that requires a PUH in order to pee in the rain, and a third-trimester high-risk pregnancy on my hands. Oh, and also a job to get to each day.

Which is why, last Sunday night, I packed up my bags and my brood and presented myself on my parents' doorstep.

And why, by Monday afternoon, my mother had started drinking. And insisting I "put down" the dog (who, in the absence of a PUH, had relieved herself on the living room rug). And suggesting I might want to think about a live-in nanny.

They've plastered on a pretty good game face, but it's clear my parents aren't quite used to this level of around-the-clock chaos. Sure, they've babysat the kids, and even the dog, before. But never ALL OF US, ALL AT ONCE, FOR DAYS ON END.

Me and the kids, however, are having a GREAT time. French toast for breakfast and home-cooked dinners! Laundry and chauffeur service! Evening swims in the backyard pool! Extended cable! And HAVE YOU SEEN the jacuzzi tub??? Jets! Waves! Ahhhh....

Despite Jack's declarations that he's never going home, tonight we'll be back under our own leaky roof, bathing in our plain old bath tub and sleeping upon our own unlaundered sheets. And I'm pretty sure that the minute I back out of the driveway, a certain pair of benevolent grandparents will be exchanging relieved glances and clinking glasses.

And I'm also sure a certain little boy will forget all about the five-star amenities he's missing out on at home as soon as DADDY! walks in the door.

(At least, I THINK daddy's coming back.)

(You ARE coming back, RIGHT?)

Watershed

2011-06-27T17:46:00.000-05:00

The other day, all of the sudden, it occurred to me.

I can't wait to meet this baby.

I know...DUH. But it felt like a bit of breakthrough.

I have been so caught up in the drama of a surprise, back-to-back pregnancy. The intimidation of raising three children...three BOYS...with two under two. The strains of a full-time work schedule, a too-small house, an ill-equipped body and a never-enough bank account. The determination to make it work, to ready the house, to get things in order.

I've been thinking of this baby as "it." And later, as "boy number three."

But as I sit here feeling his shoulder shift against my abdomen, I am reminded. That's my baby in there. MY baby. As far as he knows or cares, the only baby that ever was and ever will be. Unique and special and wondrous.

I am going to have a baby!

And there it is. That anxious feeling I've been calling fear melts away, replaced by kid-at-Christmas excitement. I'm unboxing tiny onesies and rompers. Writing his name on paper. Imagining his face, his hair, and the way it will feel to hold him in a dark, quiet room at 2 a.m.

I'm ready. Impatient, even. So let's get this show on the road.

I. Can't. Wait.

Thirty Six

2011-06-15T18:00:00.002-05:00

I just had a birthday. I'm 36. Older and, in theory, wiser.

So, want some advice from an old, wise lady? Because here it is, free of charge:

36 Things I Have Learned Over 36 Years

Never say never. Specifically, never say "I'll never move down the street from my parents" or "I'll never drive a minivan." (The latter hasn't happened yet, but it's only a matter of time.)

Invest in your friendships. Don't miss a wedding, a funeral, a girl's weekend or a baby shower because you're too busy or dangerously low on funds. Go be there for the people who will be there for you.

Happiness is a conscience and a spouse you can live with.

You would never believe it at 16, but you will BARELY REMEMBER high school.

You really shouldn't eat raw cookie dough. BAD things happen.

There is never a "good time" to have a baby.

Having a baby anyway? Hire yourself a doula. Husbands, mothers and nurses are pretty useless in the face of that kind of pain. Plus, you'll feel better about screaming at someone you're paying.

Buy a bigger house than you think you'll need.

Don't wear uncomfortable shoes to a wedding, no matter how cute they are.

Tell people what you need from them.

Spend a season in Italy, if only for the art and the food.

If you don't like your boss and your bosses' boss, move on.

Rumors are usually true.

Don't take good weather or good health for granted.

Every pregnancy is different. Except for the fact that they all wreck your boobs.

You CAN have it all, all at one time. But you might not enjoy it.

Make friends with 1) someone who has a boat, and 2) someone who has a pool.

Give yourself the experience of living in one big, big city and one small, small town.

It's okay not to be what you thought you'd be (or what your parents thought you'd be) when you grow up.

Turns out, you don't have to like kids to love being a mom.

Don't accept less than you know you're worth.

Marry someone who 1) thinks you're funny, and 2) swears he prefers you without makeup.

Splurge on the good seats.

There is no good reason to shoot jagermeister.

Know what you're good at. Delegate the rest.

Slow down.

Your mother was right. You WILL regret that tattoo.

You can't talk a friend out of marrying the wrong man. You CAN be there for her when it ends.

Don't compare yourself to other people. Compare yourself to you.

Ask the locals where to eat.

If your stomach flu lasts more than a week, you should probably take a pregnancy test.

Re-read your favorite book every year (I've had my copy of Pride and Prejudice since i was 16).

The nerdiest things about you are probably the coolest things about you.

No matter how old you get, in your mind, you are always somewhere between 22 and 26.

Teach your children how to laugh at themselves. And not to get out of bed until the little hand is on the seven.

Whatever it is? You CAN handle it.

Doing Time

2011-06-11T20:16:00.006-05:00

I am 29 weeks pregnant, which officially puts me in my third trimester.

And I have just hit a BRICK WALL.

This pregnancy has required more endurance than the last one, both mentally and physically. For one thing, last time I wasn't waking multiple times in the night to tend to fevers brought on by the third ear infection of the season. Or lugging a 22-pound toddler on TOP of the 20-ish pregnancy pounds I'm carrying to date. (Not to mention the 10-12 el bees I saved from my pregnancy with Max. You know, as a KEEPSAKE). And as someone who just happens to be entering the back half of her thirties about this time next week, let me tell you: I feel every MINUTE of that missed sleep. Every OUNCE of extra weight.

Max must sense the usurpation afoot, because lately he has turned into a big, hungry ball of need (or, into a 17-month old. Which is kinda the same thing). Specifically, the need to be picked up and carried. By mama. ALL. THE. TIME. Even Jack, usually a pretty independent guy, has been a little more hands-on as of late. And is it my imagination, or does "Ace" dial up the punching and thrusting whenever one of the other boys comes near?

Let's just say that if John Mayer were to write a song about me, he'd call it "Your body is a BLOODY TURF WAR."

People, I'm exhausted.

I injest medication every eight hours to keep the blinding migraines at bay and my blood pressure a notch below the red zone. I plunge needles into my bruised beach ball of a belly every day. I can't climb a flight of stairs without catching my breath and I burst into tears when we're out of milk. It's been nearly 100 degrees here for a week and I'm certain I'm 10 degrees hotter than ANYONE else. My back hurts, my skin aches, and did I mention I'm waddling?

UGH. I'm SO done.

Except I'm not.

Even if I deliver this kiddo a full month early, like Max, I still have 50 days to go.
FIFTY DAYS.

And I don't see how I'll do it.

On Gestation

2011-06-03T12:44:00.010-05:00

A fetus isn't the ONLY thing you can grow in nine months.

Behold, the transformation of my wee, sweet-faced kindergartener...

Into a lanky, smart-mouthed, full-fledged first grader to-be:

Complete with "Geez ma, can you hurry up and take your dumb picture already? YOU'RE EMBARRASSING ME!" face.

And a whole new skill set that includes reading, writing, toddler-minding, programming the DVR, picking up the dog poop in exchange for an allowance, swimming unassisted, making toast, and informing us when we're wrong.

My biggest boy. Who, regardless of what faces he makes, will ALWAYS be my baby.

Mother of Another

2011-05-15T21:31:00.012-05:00

So, remember that bit about how I wasn't going to find out the sex of the baby?

Here's the thing.

I found out the sex of the baby.

I went to my 20-week ultrasound with firm resolve. And true to my word, I told the technician NOT to tell me if the baby was a boy or a girl. And she didn't. But here's what she DID do. She said things like "this is her spine" and "she's got the hiccups" and "You have two boys? Are you SURE you don't want to know the sex of the baby?" And I have to admit, I peeked at the screen and scanned for signs of the telltale hamburger or hotdog. And while I can't say I saw anything definitive, I was pretty sure of what I HADN'T seen.

And I'll be damned if I didn't stumble out of that darkened room thinking I might need to do some extremely decadent shopping.

When I recounted this story to my family, friends and colleagues, they all said something along the lines of, "Oh my God, now you HAVE to find out." (Except for my husband, who insisted we should stick to our guns and be surprised). Which left me horribly curious, but morally conflicted. Which is how, three weeks later at my regular checkup, I found myself persuading my bemused OB to wheel in her handy ultrasound machine, sneak a peek, and send me home with a sealed envelope.

You know, a COMPROMISE. Just in case we decided to open it. At some MUCH LATER DATE.

I'm proud to say that I did not tear it open and read it right there in my doctor's parking garage. I mean, where's the dignity in that? No, I wanted to do something special. Maybe take the envelope to a bakery, have them make a cake that's either pink or blue inside, and then surprise my family with a particularly informative dessert.

So I tucked it in my purse and calmly drove home.

Where I breezed past my husband, locked myself in the bathroom, tore it open and read this:

You read that right. MY DAUGHTER HAS A PENIS. (How'd I miss THAT?)

So there you have it. I'm the mother of ANOTHER brother.

In lieu of baby gifts, please send whiskey, spa certificates and industrial ear plugs.

The Nursery

2011-04-25T12:35:00.056-05:00

There are lots of reasons to be excited about having another baby. Late night snuggles. First smiles. Impossibly tiny diapers. Stretch marks on top of stretch marks....

But the thing I get MOST excited about is decorating the nursery. Or, to be more precise...REdecorating the nursery.

See, we live in a sweet, but notsobig, three-bedroom house. When we first moved in with a much younger Jack, we put him in the smaller, quieter back bedroom and used the larger front bedroom as a play room/guest room/pile of unfolded laundry. We had space to spare!

A few years later we were expecting Max, so we moved Jack into that larger front room (rechristened the BIG BOY ROOM) and lovingly prepared the little back bedroom for our new arrival. Remember the space nursery? I loved creating that room. But alas, its days were numbered.

With baby three scheduled to arrive this summer, and with a mid-pregnancy move pondered but simply OUT OF THE QUESTION, we needed to get creative with our space. Which meant moving Jack OUT of the BIG BOY ROOM and back into his original, smaller bedroom (rechristened the BIGGER BOY ROOM). And using the larger bedroom (formerly the BIG BOY ROOM) to bunk the babies.

Phew! You still with me?

Since fitting our bigger boy into a smaller room meant asking him to give up his double bed and other amenities, we knew we were going to have to 1) go vertical and 2) make it REALLY cool.

And while the room isn't quite complete, he's all moved in and seems to really dig it. Especially his space-saving new lofted sleep pod.

And yes, this is the back bedroom's THIRD iteration as a space-themed room. But it took my husband six sweaty hours to MacGyver that 1950's sputnik pendant into our turn-of-the-century house using modern-day parts from Home Depot, and asking him to change it to suit my design whims would risk being left to single-parent three children.

It's easier to just work with the light fixture.

With that move out of the way, we were able to tackle the NEW nursery, which the huge dork in me has titled the "Modern Woodland Unisex Nursery for Two."

This room is still under construction, but we had to pull it together enough for Max to sleep in while I decorate around him.

Here's a sneak peek:

Max brought over his Olivia crib and "Uh Oh Orange" carpet tiles from Flor, which I've accented with Boodalee's "Forest" wall decals and Dwell Studio's "Owls" crib bedding, which looks like this close up:

And here's a sampling of a few other pieces going into the room:

Yep, I'm still vibing on orange. It's the perfect base color for a unisex room. Especially when tempered with soothing cream-colored walls, fresh blues and greens, and earthy grays and browns. This room has four huge, sunny windows and a treetop view, so I'm bringing in nature with two tones of wood (cherry and birch), forest-dwelling creatures (LOVING owls right now) and graphic trees. To keep it from getting TOO woodsy in there (after all, my idea of camping is a three-star hotel), I've kept the furniture an accessories simple and mod.

And because I'll soon have three mouths to feed (four if you count my overweight dog), I've tackled both projects on a budget. Capitalizing on the sad news that Boodalee was going out of business, I was able to get both sets of wall decals and Jack's bedding 50% off (and you can't beat IKEA for that Kura bed, just $199). I'm reusing Max's nursery furniture, with the addition of a half-price Cariboo bassinet from Mamabargains and a second dresser from Walmart's affordable BabyMod line. I've spent less than $80 on handmade accessories (that cute owl mobile and wood-printed art) from Etsy and the light fixture is a $40 IKEA number.

The only real splurge has been on full price Dwell Studio bedding, but I saved over $200 by going with just the crib sheets and stroller blankets instead of a full set with quilt and bumpers (which, let's face it, no one actually needs). And I purchased a couple coordinating dotted changing table covers from Amazon with a 1/2 price coupon from LivingSocial.

What's NOT in my budget are these gorgeous grassweave, child-safe blackout shades to replace the cheap white vinyl death traps currently gracing all four windows:

But THAT is what generous grandparents are for. That, and free babysitting. (Just kidding Mom and Dad! Except about needing the shades. Totally serious about that.)

Because I have to save my pennies for OTHER things.

Like a million tiny pink dresses.

You know. Just in case.

Celebrating Seven

2011-04-19T07:00:00.005-05:00

Jack's seventh birthday is right around the corner...just a month away.

How can this be? Didn't he just turn six?

I asked Jack on multiple occasions how he might like to commemorate his special day. He couldn't have seemed less interested, but after much prodding I extracted some muttered suggestions about a bounce house or a special breakfast.

Um. I DON'T THINK SO.

Maybe it's all the time I've been spending on Pinterest, or the estrogen frenzy that is my second trimester, but my brain is absolutely exploding with ideas for parties and favors and themes, oh MY!

And, okay, maybe there's also a little misplaced guilt around throwing two siblings at an only child in the span of 19 months.

Either way, he's getting PARTY.

And because my husband spent two backbreaking months of last year on a backyard patio and fire pit project that was the brick-moving equivalent of the Egyptian pyramids, I've decided to base the whole party theme around 1) a blazing camp fire and 2) the nonstop craving for s'mores that overtakes me once the temperature outside hits 70.

Which means that next month, for one day only, I'll be transforming our backyard into...CAMP JACK!

Details are still in the works and, of course, HIGHLY confidential, but I've enlisted my friend Erin over at Zoey's Attic to make some custom "I Survived CAMP JACK" t-shirts, and created this inspiration board to capture my favorite ideas for everything from decorations to desserts.

Let's just hope I survive Camp Jack.

Because Maybe I Peeked, and Did Not See A Hot Dog

2011-04-18T14:32:00.017-05:00

This is funny whether you 1) HAVE a daughter, 2) suspect you may be ABOUT to have a daughter, or 3) ARE a daughter.

It's ESPECIALLY funny if you just happen to 1) be a daughter who 2) suspects she is about to have a daughter and 3) has a Chinese symbol tattoo forever imprinted on her tender haunches and 4) has cleaned feces off a baby's neck within the last 24 hours (okay TECHNICALLY it was an arm, not a neck, but I think Tina Fey would agree that ALL errant feces should count).

Ahem.

A Prayer For My Daughter
By Tina Fey

First, Lord: No tattoos. May neither Chinese symbol for truth nor Winnie-the-Pooh holding the FSU logo stain her tender haunches.

May she be Beautiful but not Damaged, for it’s the Damage that draws the creepy soccer coach’s eye, not the Beauty.

When the Crystal Meth is offered, May she remember the parents who cut her grapes in half And stick with Beer.

Guide her, protect her, When crossing the street, stepping onto boats, swimming in the ocean, swimming in pools, walking near pools, standing on the subway platform, crossing 86th Street, stepping off of boats, using mall restrooms, getting on and off escalators, driving on country roads while arguing, leaning on large windows, walking in parking lots, riding Ferris wheels, roller-coasters, log flumes, or anything called “Hell Drop,” “Tower of Torture,” or “The Death Spiral Rock ‘N Zero G Roll featuring Aerosmith,” and standing on any kind of balcony ever, anywhere, at any age.

Lead her away from Acting but not all the way to Finance. Something where she can make her own hours but still feel intellectually fulfilled and get outside sometimes. And not have to wear high heels. What would that be, Lord? Architecture? Midwifery? Golf course design? I’m asking You, because if I knew, I’d be doing it, Youdammit.

May she play the Drums to the fiery rhythm of her Own Heart with the sinewy strength of her Own Arms, so she need Not Lie With Drummers.

Grant her a Rough Patch from twelve to seventeen. Let her draw horses and be interested in Barbies for much too long, For childhood is short – a Tiger Flower blooming Magenta for one day – And adulthood is long and dry-humping in cars will wait.

O Lord, break the Internet forever, That she may be spared the misspelled invective of her peers And the online marketing campaign for Rape Hostel V: Girls Just Wanna Get Stabbed.

And when she one day turns on me and calls me a Bitch in front of Hollister, Give me the strength, Lord, to yank her directly into a cab in front of her friends, For I will not have that Shit. I will not have it.

And should she choose to be a Mother one day, be my eyes, Lord, that I may see her, lying on a blanket on the floor at 4:50 A.M., all-at-once exhausted, bored, and in love with the little creature whose poop is leaking up its back.

“My mother did this for me once,” she will realize as she cleans feces off her baby’s neck. “My mother did this for me.” And the delayed gratitude will wash over her as it does each generation and she will make a Mental Note to call me. And she will forget.

But I’ll know, because I peeped it with Your God eyes. Amen.

Grounded

2011-04-06T17:30:00.013-05:00

I don’t normally travel on business that much, but then again, nothing about my year so far has been normal, predictable, or according to plan.

In the past six months, I’ve been on the road. Or rather, up in the air. A LOT. Like, enough to earn three free frequent flyer tickets. It’s been important to my work, but hard on my family, hard on my sanity, and lately, hard on my health.

I’m crap at being pregnant. My blood clotting condition creates risks for me and baby, requiring daily belly injections. My blood pressure gets on an express elevator to the penthouse, necessitating regular monitoring and medication with yucky side effects. I get blinding, Percocet-grade migraines and swollen everything. I always end up hospitalized somewhere between my second and third trimester (remember this?), and then on bed rest for the duration of the pregnancy (8 weeks of it with Jack, 11 with Max).

That’s how it’s always played out in the past, and this time around, it’s playing out pretty much the same way…only my complications started even earlier, and are escalating much faster. So take that track record, and add 150,000 sky miles, a series of 50 to 60-hour work weeks, two small children (who have been passing sore throats, fevers and vomit fests back and forth for months) and all of life’s other little stressors, and you get a 20-weeks pregnant lady of “advanced maternal age” (their term, not mine) whose goose is thoroughly cooked. AND ONLY HALFWAY THERE.

To STOP THE INSANITY, my doctor has imposed her first restriction as of this week: No more travel. And while I’ve never been a fan of being grounded, this time I accept my “punishment” with gratitude and relief. I'm stressed, I'm tired, and I’ve got a very important person to grow.

Getting off the road won’t solve everything, but it will solve a lot. And Lord knows, there’s plenty to do at home. Like spend time with my husband and my kids. Catch up with work and my seldom-seen colleagues. Get going on the nursery. Sleep in my own bed.

And plan how I’ll blow those three frequent flyer tickets, the minute I get my wings back.

Yep. Still Pregnant.

2011-03-24T11:12:00.010-05:00

I meant to write a post summing up the experiences of my first trimester, but kids got sick, I got on and off a bunch of airplanes, and next thing you know...BAM...it's week 18. Which, for me, typically means about halfway to the big finish line.

Can it be that's it's really been more than four months since I stood blinking at those two solid blue lines?

If it wasn't for the fact that 1) there's a basketball in my pants and 2) I regularly nod off with my head buried in a bag of Doritos, I would not believe this is really happening. Sure, I physically look pregnant and experience its discomforts in all their glory. I've even started making ambitious preparations to accommodate a fifth family member in our seemingly shrinking house (more on those projects later). But mentally, I think I'm still in a state of disbelief.

I'm pregnant??? S-E-R-I-O-U-S-L-Y?

Are you sure?

And yet, ultrasound after ultrasound, there he (or she) is. A real, live, growing baby. Thrashing. Hiccuping. Sucking a tiny, perfect thumb. Getting ready to meet us. It takes me by surprise every time.

When I was pregnant with Max, I walked around with a dopey perma-grin on my face and wrote hormone-induced posts like this one. I was a great big euphoric sacred vessel, even as I heaved into trash cans and stuck needles in my belly. I felt magnificent and special and just so connected to my baby-to-be.

This time I feel, well...not much at all. Not ridiculously giddy, not sad, not even particularly scared (though perhaps I should be). Just like a regular ol' person who's really tired, really busy, and just happens to be getting really fat.

I'm sure Dr. Phil would tell me the difference is that this time I already have a baby. A sweet, happy 15-month old guy who still takes a warm bottle and likes to be rocked to sleep. Who smells of Shea butter and clutches a pacifier in each fist and wants to be carried EVERYWHERE.

A baby I can no longer pick up from his crib, because my belly gets in the way.

I've always rolled my eyes at women who lament over whether they could possibly love another child as much as they love their darling little firstborn pumpkin. Of course a mother has enough love for two, three, even 19 children (and counting). YOU JUST DO.

But I have to admit, bonding with the baby inside you is a little difficult when you're busy tending to the one on your hip (not to mention the one who's running ahead when he should be holding your hand).

I know I'm going to love this baby so much. In fact, I'm sure I already do. I guess I'm just a little too distracted to properly acknowledge this pregnancy, much less celebrate it the way I did last time.

And so I suppose the biggest surprise for me on delivery day won't be the answer to "boy or girl?" It will be the sheer realization that there was actually a real baby in there ALL ALONG.

And not a big, Dorito-covered basketball.

Ace

2011-02-22T21:20:00.012-06:00

It seems the only thing more shocking than the news that I'm pregnant (yes, again) is the fact that I don't want to know the answer to what my friend Anne delicately refers to as the "hamburger or hotdog?" question.

For those of you scratching your heads and suddenly craving ketchup, allow me to translate: It means I'm not going to find out the sex of my baby. (At least not until it's born.)

This would not be earth-shattering news for most people, but to those who know me best (or even a little), it's like announcing I'm going to visit the Ben & Jerry's test kitchen but REFRAIN from sampling their latest, top-secret flavor. It's just so...UNLIKE me.

I'm admit it. I'm Type A. ENTJ. Maybe even a little OCD. All scientific acronyms for CONTROL FREAK. I make plans for my plans' plans.

But everything about this baby has been a surprise. I figure, what's one more?

People say, "Maybe this is your girl!" That would be fantastic. But so would another boy (especially if he's anything like the ones I've already got). It's the ultimate Win-Win situation.

Of COURSE I'm dying to know what exactly is in there (aren't you?) But I don't NEED to know. Not just yet.

Which means if I can just willpower my way through 24 more weeks and another dozen ultrasounds without peeking or giving in, I'll get my answer in one glorious moment in the delivery room. It's an experience I've never had, and I can't wait for that moment.

I mean, just because the universe deals you a wild card doesn't mean you have to look at it right away. I think I'd rather keep this one up my sleeve.

So until we can settle on a REAL name, we're calling our little wild card "Ace."

Spilling the Beans

2011-02-15T17:41:00.007-06:00

Why is it that the first question people ask you after you have a baby is always this: “Are you going to have another baby?”

Yeah, it’s obnoxious, though I can assure you I’ve been guilty of inflicting this very question on my own friends and acquaintances. And right around the time Max hit six months, it was a question I was very much inflicting on myself. I mean, as I’ve said before, we’ve always considered ourselves a two-kid maximum kind of family. So much so that we bought a Mini Cooper last year. Yet holding that perfect, much-wished-for baby in my arms, I couldn’t help but wonder if maybe we weren’t done. Whether maybe, just maybe, we had it in us to make room for one more. Which also led me, my husband and my nearest relations to wonder if I was really serious, or whether it was just those souped-up-on-estrogen nursing hormones talking.

Apparently it was, in fact, the hormones, because in October, two things happened. 1) Max went from crawling and cooing to walking and screeching. And 2) I made an urgent appointment with my OB/GYN for an IUD.

Life felt full (so did the house). Our family felt complete. And I was absolutely, positively at peace with that decision.

Which is why I nearly fell over when, at that IUD appointment in late December, I found out that I was, wait for it... pregnant.

Yep, you heard that right. I went to the doctor for an IUD and WALKED OUT WITH A FRIGGIN BABY.

We're due in August.

Happy Barfday

2011-01-03T16:55:00.011-06:00

I’m a sucky excuse for a mommy. And a blogger. And a mommyblogger.

My crime? I failed to turn out a celebratory blog post marking the occasion of Max’s first birthday, which occurred EIGHTEEN DAYS AGO. I’m ridden with guilt, especially after the heart-rending tribute I churned out when Jack turned six. Made worse by the memory of how we re-landscaped our back yard in order to throw Jack a 20-person first birthday bash with a custom-designed cake (Whereas Max got a weeknight family dinner followed by store-bought birthday cake). Not to mention the fact that a year in, Jack’s baby book was as thick as a bible (and Max’s resembles a thin comic book).

The thing is, Max’s first birthday was a total fail. In the early morning hours of his 366th day on this earth, the kid started barfing. In his crib. In my bed. Down my bra. He spent his special day feverish and clingy and sad. And I spent it exhausted, worried, and occasionally vomit-soaked. Max rallied a bit in the afternoon, so we decided to move forward with our plan to have my parents over for a quick dinner. I gave Max a bit of cake and ice cream, and he immediately started bawling, and had to be cuddled and put to bed.

At which point I started puking. Like, so bad I had to sleep with, and use, a bucket. And then Ben started puking. Both of us. All night long.

Until about 3 a.m. when, you guessed it…Jack woke up puking. In his bed. On the stairs. And once, thankfully, in the actual toilet.

That was, did I mention? EIGHTEEN DAYS AGO. And this awful bug has yet to leave us. My mother started puking at Christmas Eve dinner (Merry Christmas, Mom!) and yesterday, Ben was back on his knees, praying to the porcelain God for the better half of the morning. I can only imagine the symphony of spew I'll awake to tonight.

Just so you know, it’s not that I don’t adore my sweet, happy, smoochable little guy. Or that his turning one did not flood my heart with memories of his magical, life-altering birth and joy-filled first year.

One Day

One Year

It did, and I really wanted to write about it. It’s just that I’ve been busy barfing. And cleaning up barf.

Send help. Or Lysol.

Coming to a Mailbox Near You...

2010-12-20T12:29:00.000-06:00

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Things I'm Thankful For

2010-11-24T09:02:00.014-06:00

My dad, who raised me as his own from age 3 and literally forgets I am not his biological daughter 90% of the time.
Baby cheeks. Face and butt.
Mad Men, a show that pays tribute to my favorite things: Agency life, mid-century modern furniture, whiskey and Jon Hamm. Not necessarily in that order.
Air conditioning. You don't even notice it's there until it breaks. In August.
My mom, who always has my back, and often has my kids. Do we EVER stop needing our moms?
The iPhone. It's my little friend.
My health. Except for that weird mole on my back that I really do need to get checked.
Microwaves. The Internet. And pretty much everything else that makes boring things happen faster.
Hot showers, ice, and freedom. Also known as things you won't find in third world countries. God bless America.
The Girls from Ames. And Marshalltown. And Iowa City. And Chicago. And Denver. And St. Louis. And all the stops in between. I carry your friendship with me every day, and I'd be someone else if it weren't for you.
Owning a house with a working, wood-burning fireplace. Late at night with a glass of red wine, there is no greater pleasure than unfurling in front of that blaze.
Kindergarten teachers. My baby can read.
The love of a good man.
The sure-footedness that comes, at last, in your thirties. (Not so much the side effects, like forehead creases and droopy boobs.)
Tomorrows. I thrive on the possibilites.
London. The Tate. Wagamamas. Tea and jam. I should really get back. But for now, I just love knowing it's there. (Prince William doesn't hurt either.)
Blogs, Facebook and Twitter. Shallow on the surface, but the people inside them teach me so much.
Salted caramel. It's in everything this season, ergo, everything just got yummier.
My sister-in-law, who will make sure no one gets a fart book for Christmas.
The absence of calamity. I knock on wood and never, ever take it for granted.

Happy Thanksgiving, friends. I'm also thankful that you visited this little blog today, and every day that you come back. So tell me, what are YOU thankful for?

(And yes, the English major in me is ITCHING over ending that sentence with a preposition, but I'm letting it go. See how NOT Type A I can be when I'm on vacation?)

Six and a Half Years and Eleven Weeks

2010-11-18T18:00:00.001-06:00

This week marks two happy milestones in my household.

Jack celebrates his "half-birthday," and boy does he let you know it. Six? He's not SIX, you imbecile. He's six and a half.

And Max is now eleven months, meaning I've started receiving those glossy party catalogs for one-year old birthday supplies. Have you seen these? Seriously. A whole cottage-industry formed for the explicit purpose of hosting a Winnie-the-Pooh-themed bash that makes the other mothers in your playgroup feel inadequate.

I blame Tori Spelling.

You may question the categorization of these events as true "milestones." My own husband rolls his eyes at me, pointing out that there is no such thing as a half-birthday. Or an 11-month birthday.

I respectfully disagree.

As the recipient of an inconvenient summer birthday myself, I know the pain of a childhood marked with birthdays that occur when school's out and all your friends are in Florida. No class cupcakes for you! I mean, the least I can do to minimize the trauma for Jack is mark that special day (half day?) in November with 24 lovingly purchased baked goods delivered to his classroom.

And Max? Poor, POOR Max. A birthday the week before Christmas? That's NEVER going to turn out well. So doesn't the kid AT LEAST deserve an 11-month celebration? Maybe just some cake and ice cream to let him know how happy we are that he was born on that special date 334 days ago?

Okay, maybe I'm overdoing it a TAD. It's just that...I really love birthdays. And I really love my kids.

And fine, I admit it. I just...really love cake.

Let's party.

Jon Hamm, Superman

2010-11-11T17:30:00.002-06:00

I usually find those "supposedly" targeted ads on Facebook so annoying...and sometimes even INSULTING.

I mean, who is FACEBOOK to suggest that I need liposuction? Or a lawyer? Or a Kappa Kappa Gamma University of Iowa Latte Lovers With Shoe Fetishes t-shirt?

Stop it, Facebook. YOU DON'T KNOW ME.

Except...Facebook finally got to me with an ad for last night's airing of Conan. Now, I don't watch much TV, especially not late night TV, and Facebook should KNOW that about me. But I DO love Mad Men, and while out of respect for my (equally handsome) husband I will refrain from expressing the nature of my feelings toward Jon Hamm, you should go ahead and assume the are strong.

And inappropriate.

So when I my eyeballs zeroed in on that handsome mug (Jon's, not Conan's), well, they had me. I clicked. I watched. And I'm glad that I did, because I learned three things:

Jon Hamm can be brought to his knees. All you have to do is squeeze his hand really hard. I hope to try this someday.
Jon Hamm can make "What?" look sexy in at least a dozen ways. (Maybe not when he's barfing. Though if anyone COULD make it work, it would be Jon.)
Jon Hamm may very well play the next Superman. In a tight blue lycra uniform. Oh. My. CASTING GENIUS.

Oh, and I guess I did learn one more thing: Facebook really DOES know me. Perhaps better than I know myself.

Actually, I wouldn't mind having one of those t-shirts.

Thing I Don't Do

2010-11-09T13:17:00.023-06:00

I have been accused of not having many new blog posts lately, but that's absolutely untrue. I come up with new blog posts ALL THE TIME. I come up with them in the shower. In the car. In bed at night. It's just that lately, they haven't been making it out of my head and onto the old keyboard.

In my defense, I have a baby.

What, that's not enough? Okay...I also have a whole OTHER kid. And a job that requires me to do work and fly on airplines and stuff. And a kitchen that has been "partially painted" for three months now. And a living room that, as of Sunday night, is now ALSO "partially painted."

Lately, I am having trouble finishing the things I start.

This isn't just a pitiful rant (yes it is). I'm going somewhere with this...

Today I read a post from my friend Jill, who was writing about an essay written by one of HER "friends" Shauna (you WISH, Jill). The crux of her "Ten Things I Don't Do" post was this: “It’s not hard to decide what you want out of life. What’s hard is figuring out which things you WON'T do in order to do the things you care most about."

I don't know...it sort of spoke to me in my current over-committed, over-tired, priority-juggling state of mind.

So...since I spent so much time on that preamble, I don't have time to list ten whole things, but here it is: My stake in the ground of, er, EIGHT things I don't do, won't do, or have just plain given up trying to do.

Clip Coupons: I want to be a smart, frugal consumer. I DESPISE paying full price for a winter coat for the baby that I know damn well will be 40% off, with a coupon (still at home in the mail pile, DAMMIT) for an extra 25% off, tomorrow. I'm not going to BE at the store tomorrow. I'm at the store RIGHT NOW. I'm lucky I even GOT to the store, and if I don't buy this full price coat now, I won't get back to this store for weeks and it will be TOO LATE and my baby will DIE OF FROSTBITE. I ask you, is a baby's LIFE not worth full price?
Volunteer for PTA: I love my son, and I love his school. And lawd knows, they could use the help (especially in editing the 19 daily fliers they send home...don't get me started). But the thing is...I love my son. And I only have a few hours per day to spend with him. And I want to spend those hours with HIM. Not with that sanctimonious neighbor lady who LOVES to send crazy, judgemental emails full of helpful "suggestions" that cause steam to pour from my ears. So much healthier to hit DELETE and go back to making a couch fort.
Give Up Sugar. Or Caffeine. I'm sorry, I have tried. But I need them. And trust me, you don't want to know the version of me that can't have them.
Eat Asparagus. There is no way you can prepare it that will make me like it. Sorry. It smells like pee.
Return Things That Don't Fit/Are Broken/Just Suck. See #1. It is so much faster and easier to just stack up those unused, unloved items in my basement. Eventually I (usually) manage to donate them. It's God's work.
My Own Nails. This is another one of those "frugal" items that I just can't get behind. When I try to do my own nails, two things happen. 1) I spend MORE than the cost of a pedicure on drug store polishes and supplies that ultimately dry up, corrode, and clutter my bathroom cabinets. And 2) I wait until midnight to start, and then get under the covers before I'm fully dry, thus making an ugly mess of both my toes and my lovely bedsheets. There are some things that are just better left to the professionals.
Whiten My Teeth. I've paid big bucks to have my dentist do it, and I've also purchased the at-home strips a few times. Verdict? It doesn't last very long (See #3...I drink coffee) and it makes my teeth hurt (especially when I...drink coffee. Ahem.) The only solution, I suppose, is to drink my coffee out of a big green straw, and to me, having Hollywood-grade choppers just isn't worth looking like an asshole at Starbucks.
Leave My Children with Babysitters. I always said I would not be one of those lame-o parents who won't go out on a Saturday night because they don't want to leave their kids. But here's the thing...it's not that I don't want to leave me kids (I do! I do!). It's that I don't want to leave my kids with a pedophile, a child abuser, or a negligent fool. See the difference? If I have learned anything about people in these 35 years it's that you never. can. tell. So if I can't get grandma or my trusty neighbor girl...well, it's gonna be a Netflix night (with martinis. I've gotta have SOME fun).

Okay, that's eight, and I could go on, except that I can't...right now. I'm sure I'll think of a few more in the car. Or the shower. Or in bed tonight. Or maybe I'll just lie awake wondering what is that YOU don't do.

Care to tell?

One Giant Leap

2010-11-03T11:21:00.005-05:00

Hoo boy. Max just took his first steps.

We knew he was on the verge. He's been cruising around the furniture, toddling behind his walker and standing independently on those chunky, wobbly Bambi legs for a few weeks now.

Anxious to capture this milestone, we've been egging him on, sitting just a few inches out of his reach with arms wide open and video cameras rolling, urging "Walk to Mama! Walk to Dada!" And each time has stood triumphantly for a full minute before dropping to his puffy, diapered bottom and crawling to us. We've tried dangling toys, treats, and even big brother as carrots. No dice.

Then I got the kid a new pair of shoes. I slid them on his tiny feet and BAM...he was off.

Turns out he just needed to be PROPERLY motivated.

He may look more like his father, but CLEARY the kid takes after me.

And we're going to need a bigger closet.

Pumpkins

2010-10-18T09:51:00.003-05:00

Hard to believe that this time last year, Max was just a pumpkin-shaped abdomen.

It flies.

Well Traveled, Well Read

2010-10-05T22:49:00.007-05:00

I've been traveling a lot lately. Mostly business. A little pleasure. A LOT of airports (I even held down Foursquare mayorship at my local Southwest Terminal for a six-week stretch).

Know what that means? It means a WHOLE HELLAVA LOTTA $9 water bottles and last-minute magazines. In the last few months, I've read print much every magazine in print (except for the ones wrapped in black plastic...YUCK.) Some, I've accidentally bought twice. Turns out I'm single-handedly keeping the New York publishing houses in business another day (take THAT, Twitter).

Spending all those hours seated and securely fastened has been a great opportunity to catch up on current events, and I feel it's my duty to share all I've learned with the Intranets, and maybe even impart a bit of wisdom to the Editors in Chief at People, Us Weekly, OK!, Real Simple, Glamour, Marie Claire, Redbook and Cosmopolitan.

In fact, let's borrow a page from "O" and call it...

WHAT I KNOW FOR SURE
(or, All I Really Need to Know, I Learned in Hudson News)

The best way to lose the weight and keep it off? Cigarettes and cocaine. Shhhh...I mean SALMON.

Hot, rich, famous men cheat on their wives with hookers.
And with waitresses who look like hookers.

Everyone gets cancer, eventually.

OF COURSE a 49 year-old woman can conceive boy-girl twins naturally. It happens ALL THE TIME.

Those five simple moves for a firmer butt would be more effective
if not placed opposite an ad for microwaveable molten cake.

Katie and Tom have a normal marriage. No, seriously.

Celebrities: They're just like US (Except they get $12,000 handbags for free and community service for manslaughter).

Ten sure-fire ways to turn on your man in the bedroom:
1) Take off your clothes. 2) Repeat nine times.

Shiloh is a tiny, cross-dressing future blood drinker and Jennifer Aniston is impregnable. WE GET IT. Now let's get over it.

If you really want to "Get Gorgeous Fast!" you can probably skip the $18 lipstick and just get drunk (it really works!)

Not a Stick

2010-09-15T13:48:00.023-05:00

What is it with boys and their sticks?

For as long as he's been able to walk, Jack has been picking up and carrying sticks EVERYWHERE he goes. Going for a stroll? Expect to come home with a substantial pile of kindling. Going for a drive? Save some space in the back seat floor well for the branches you'll be bringing along (not to mention the new ones you'll be bringing home with you). In fact, keeping the sticks on the floor of the car is a new rule, created after a two year-old Jack used one such stick to puncture and tear the upper lining of daddy's car while strapped innocently in his car seat.

Lately, though, the stick obsession has reached a new level of, well, WEIRD.

Last year we, I mean Santa, got Jack this kid's archery set for Christmas (in an attempt to redirect his obsession with guns toward a more recreational form of artillery).

I think it cost us, I mean Santa, around $50. And BOY have we gotten our money's worth. Even though Jack has never slung a single arrow.

What he did was swiftly dismantle the entire set, pulling off a the rubber tips and strings until what remained was a small collection of long, red plastic sticks. And these sticks? They are preferred above ALL OTHER TOYS. He can play with one simple red stick for hours at a time. HOURS. And when I've asked him what exactly he's doing with his stick, he simply replies, "Oh, just using my 'magination."

One thing I can tell you about the sticks is that they are NOT sticks. They are guns (of course). Magic wands. Lasers. Tasers. Weapons of every kind (except, you know...bow and arrows). From what I can tell, they are employed to battle bad guys. Monsters. Robots. Cowboys. Aliens. Wiener dogs and baby brothers.

Except for that ONE red stick. The one that's chewed on both ends and broken in the middle (and oh so carefully taped back together by yours truly). The one he calls his "thinking stick" and asks for the minute he rolls in the front door from kindergarten. That one, it appears, serves the singular purpose of clearing his head so he can focus on the big issues. You know, like global warming, world hunger, and animals that start with a SSSSSSS sound.

I asked him why that one, particular stick was his thinking stick. His reply? "BECAUSE IT'S AWESOME."

Oh-kaaaaay.

Know what the thinking stick has me thinking? That this Christmas, Santa can probably SKIP the toy store, and do his holiday shopping in the firewood pile.

And, alright, maybe he could stop at the book store too:

WALNUTS!

2010-09-07T12:31:00.013-05:00

I've been getting a lot of flack from my (seven) faithful readers for not doing much blogging here lately. And all I can say is I know...I KNOW!

I suck. I feel guilty. I care about this blog. And I'll try to do better.

The fact of the matter is, things have been nuts around here. MORE than nuts...WALNUTS! And I know it's nuts for everyone, excuses, excuses, but seriously, hear me out for a second:

Right now the sky is darkening and it's beginning to thunder. That is bad. Know why it's bad? Because there is a hole in my roof. And when it rains, water comes dripping through the can light in my bathroom. Kind of like one of those fancy waterfall showerheads people pay big money for. Only it's not a fancy showerhead. It's a hole in the roof. And the roof guy has been called, but it's been over a week and he hasn't been able to get up there to fix it. Because it's been TOO RAINY. Does anyone else find that ironic?
The dryer broke more than a week ago. Luckily, when it happened on a Sunday night, I had just finished a load of the kids' clothes and (THANKFULLY) a few pairs of my skivvies. Unfortunately, I had failed to wash any of my own work clothes (especially the three pairs of pants...one black, one brown, one tan...that I bought six months ago to rotate until I got back in my pre-baby wardrobe, which is taking, ahem, longer than desired). Which means that the past week has been a parade of weird, too-tight dresses (over even tighter Spanx), slightly crumpled "preworn" pieces retrieved from the hamper, and frumpy, out of season tops from the depths of my closet.
The central air conditioning downstairs gave out on the same day as the dryer. Luckily, we have a home warranty that covers it. Unluckily, the home warranty company has turned out to be a big fat scamming den of liars and theives. They've sent two repairman out to evaluate the A/C, both repairmen have declared it ancient and in need of replacement, and...surprise, surprise, the warranty coming is demanding a third "second opinion" (See? MORE IRONY!) and suggesting it may not be covered after all because it's less than 18 inches from the house, and therefore not compliant with some archaic code, which to them spells LOOPHOLE! GOTCHA!. Meanwhile, it remains 80s and swamplike in St. Louis and the mood in the house is murderous. People are GRUMPY when they're hot (and wearing too-tight Spanx).
I went into the dentist to get my teeth cleaned, and walked out with an appointment for a $900 crown and root canal. (My teeth, it appears, are catching up with my body in the aging department.) So, THAT should be fun.
My car went into the shop for a little maintenance, and six days later IT'S STILL THERE. Something about an elusive backordered missing part being FedEx'd from space, I don't know, but I'm sure it's gonna cost me. Anyway, they offered me a loaner vehicle, which was great, except that being a holiday, there was only ONE vehicle remaining on the lot. And people...it's a minivan. Not even a COOL minivan, but an enormous "Grand Caravan" that looks like an elephant and drives like a cement block on wheels. Which I can deal with, except that when combined with the broken dryer and A/C, overnight I've been transformed into a sweating, frizzy-haired, Spanx-wearin' minivan mom with crumbling teeth. There is not even A LITTLE swagger in my wagon.
Ready for the clincher? On Friday, the nanny quit. "To pursue her art." And probably to pursue a job where they provide air conditioning. I will spare you (and her) my comments on THAT subject, except to say that I spent the whole weekend freaking out about what we're going to do for childcare (and not being able to do anything BUT freak, because it was a long holiday weekend and everything was closed). Which means this morning I had no choice but to hit the ground running in search of the HOLY GRAIL that is affordable, reliable, loving infant care...you know, with AN IMMEDIATE OPENING. Later I went outside to try and find a four-leaf clover, which was much more productive.

So there. That's my excuse for not blogging. Or rather, excuses.

What can I say? When it rains, it pours. THROUGH THE HOLE IN MY ROOF.

Say it with me...walnuts. Walnuts. WALNUUUUUUUTS!

Bye Bye Lovey

2010-08-06T12:58:00.014-05:00

It started off as a normal bed-time tuck-in.

I read Jack two silly stories we had written and illustrated together (An Evil Tale and its sequel, The Evil Tale Goes On...both of which end badly for the princess). We laid side-by-side in the dark, and I tickled his back and talked to him about his day. He asked me how girls get earrings in their ears, and I told him about my blood-shedding trip to Claire's in third grade. His interest was piqued by talk of "piercing guns" and he asked if boys ever pierce their ears. I replied that yes, some do, but that it's generally ill-advised. I told him a "secret" involving daddy and a certain gold hoop earring back in college. Tee Hee.

He yawned, so I pulled the covers to his chin, kissed him goodnight, turned on his favorite soothing ocean sounds and left the door open just a crack.

Somewhere in the hallway it hit me.

Waaaaaait a minute. WHERE IS BLANKET?

Pretty much every night of his life, Jack has slept with a particular Target-brand baby blue blanket that we got when he was about three-months old. You know the type: silky on one side, fuzzy on the other, thin and cheaply made. And inexplicably favored above ALL other blankets (like the expensive ones new moms purchase for the express purpose of being their baby's special lovey).

Somewhere around the time of his second birthday, the presence of Blanket became an absolute prerequisite to falling asleep. I can't tell you how many times we've completed the entire, drawn-out bedtime ritual only to hear "WAIT! Where's Blanket?" just as we were tip-toeing out of the room. Which would then lead to twenty minutes of total upheaval as we scoured the house trying to find the damn thing. Or how many times I've jumped in the car in my pajamas at 9 p.m. Sunday night to retrieve Blanket from grandma's after it was accidentally left following a Saturday night sleepover. Or how many times I've returned to Target to buy duplicate Blankets (SHHHHHHH).

I was prepared for the long-haul with this Blanket thing. I mean, I've SEEN the stained and crumbling state of my husband's childhood Blanket—a.k.a. "NeeNee"—which his parents saved all these years, and which he apparently slept with until around the time he starting getting facial hair. And I was willing to indulge it for as long as he needed, even if I didn't really "get" it. I myself never formed any such childhood attachment (and yes, I do believe that makes me a superior human being. Or maybe one who needs lots and lots of therapy).

I was also prepared for the fact that Jack would sleep with Blanket until HE decided it was time give it up. Be it talking or walking or potty-training, Jack has always been one of those kids who reaches a developmental milestone on his own terms, OVERNIGHT. As in, he needs that Pull-Up or pacifier. NEEDS it! Until one day, Boom! DEAD TO HIM.

And now he is six. Starting KINDERGARTEN in a week. Which is what I was thinking when, there in that hallway, it suddenly occurred to me that I haven't seen Blanket in awhile. And Jack hasn't asked for Blanket it awhile. And I'm not sure any of us noticed it was gone.

Where is Blanket? Probably crumpled in the bottom of one of those low-priority laundry bins that have stacked up in our basement this summer. Like all those times before, I'll turn the house upside-down until I find it. And when I do, I'll wash it and fold it and tuck it away with all those other long-forsaken childhood momentos I'm carefully saving for him.

You know, so his wife can drag them out and blog about them in 30 years.

Old Testament

2010-07-24T00:01:00.008-05:00

Today marks the eleventh anniversary of the date Mr. Strong Rhetoric and I hitched our wagons together and forged West, for better or for worse.
It also marks another major milestone in our union: We have now been married longer WITH kids than without. BOOM.

We aren't just a couple. We buy dog food and diapers and band-aids and school supplies. We are a bonafied FAMILY.

These days, our life is ALL CAPS FULL. Hard. Joyful. Tiring. Messy. And at the end of a particularly chaotic day of pick ups and drop offs, deadlines and immunizations, grocery shopping and pest control calling (don't ask), we'll often lay in bed and wonder aloud what the hell we used to do with all that free time we had before kids.

And then it all starts coming back to us...the staying up late and the sleeping in. The hour-long waits for a trendy new brunch place. The leisurely workouts. The coffee shops. The restaurants after 8 p.m. The independent movies and browsing of book stores. The spontaneous weekend getaways and...you get the picture.

Back then, we did EVERYTHING together. And we didn't even know enough to ENJOY the fact that we were able to do it...alone.

Much as we adore our little entourage, all parents know how difficult it can be to fan the flames of romance in the midst of barking dogs, crying babies, blaring cartoons, pinging cell phones and dirty dishes.

Which is why, on this odd-numbered but still momentous anniversary, my gift to this exceptional man who has put up with me for more than a decade is to give him a glimpse of our former life together, BC (BEFORE CHILDREN). You know, back when all he had to do every day was simply ADORE me.

For the first time since Max was born, he and his brother will be staying overnight with grandpa and grandma while mommy and daddy CHECK OUT. And check in here:

And proceed to dine slowly enough to taste their food at a low-lit table for two someplace that won't have to hoover under the table after they leave, like this:

And get their first eight consecutive hours of sleep (in as many months) in one of these:

And, upon waking up to a clock that reads double (NOT single) digits, visit a foreign place such as one of these:

And then spend an hour or two reading magazines and NOT preventing anyone from drowning around one of these:

They'll talk. They'll flirt. They'll sleep. They'll laugh. They'll breathe. They'll hold hands.

And then, predictably, they'll start to miss the kids.

So they'll leave this free and shiny place and hurry back to that big, happy, home-shaped mess that holds it all: A marriage, a family, a life entwined.

And friggin' outnumbered.

A Letter to My 24 Year-Old Self on the Eve of Our 35th Birthday

2010-06-16T22:16:00.011-05:00

Dear Lisa,

It's the eve of your 25th birthday, and I've been meaning to drop you a line from the FUTURE. (Don't worry...I'm not going to make you get into a DeLorean.)

It's me—er, you—ten years later. That's right, a whole friggin' decade later. Older, softer, and hey, maybe even a wee bit wiser. Or so I'd like to think.

Anyhoo, as I sit here counting down the minutes until we turn 35, I thought I'd pop in and give you a sneak preview of how things turned out. Maybe even hand out a little advice.

I meant to write you a proper letter, really I did. But here's the thing. In the future, you're TIRED. Not "cabbed back from the bars and stayed up 'til four a.m. waiting for the pizza guy again" tired. No, no. More like "got back from a business trip at midnight and was up at 4 a.m. with a teething baby and then went ahead and cracked my laptop until it was time to make breakfast for the other one" tired.

So forgive me for cutting to the chase, but this letter is about to turn into a list. A top ten list, if you will, of a few things you might as well know now.

Here goes.

You know how you torment your mother with remarks about how you just don't ever see yourself having kids? SEE ABOVE. (Don't worry, you can apologize later. Like when you move down the street from her and beg on your knees for her help. BWAH HA HA.)
Listen to your damn dentist and STOP grinding your teeth. Our future enjoyment of ice cream and steaming hot lattes depends on it.
Speaking of coffee, you know how you don't touch the stuff? Um...YOU WILL. You will touch it LOTS. And don't even ask how much you're going to pay for a cup of it. Speaking of which...
SAVE YOUR MONEY. All that crap you're about to buy? I already sold it on Craig's List. (And no, Craig is no one we know. It's...nevermind.) The only thing you should be spending your money on is travel. Do that now, while you can still manage a weekend getaway without a U-Haul.
"Google." I know it sounds funny and made-up, but just BUY THE STOCK.
A few months from now, don't be annoyed when your boss cancels your September 10th trip to New York City at the last minute. Be very, very grateful.
You can stop worrying about your wayward little brother. He turns out just fine. Actually, he turns out a lot like...DAD. (It's kind of weird.)
Your best friends are STILL going to be your best friends ten years from now. ALL of them. How cool is that? And you haven't even MET Leslie and the Colorado gang yet...you're gonna LOVE them! (Oh, yeah...and you move to Colorado.)
Listen to Amy when she tells you to take a picture of yourself naked right now, before you have kids. In fact...take a few. And put them somewhere safe for me.
Okay, yeah, in retrospect you probably DID marry a little too young. But it's cool, because somehow, you got lucky and married the right guy. Bonus: In the future, his abs are still flat, he hasn't lost ANY hair, and he mades CUTE babies (even if they ARE all boys). So thanks for that.

There's more. Much more. But I think I'll let you figure a few things out for yourself. Besides, it's probably time for you to hop in the shower and get ready to go out. And me? YAWN. I've got to get to bed.

Happy birthday, squirt. Here's lookin' at us.

Meet you back here again in ten?

~ Me

Alliteration

2010-06-08T13:16:00.002-05:00

Happy half-birthday, handsome!

Full To The Top

2010-06-04T13:15:00.010-05:00

You know that Thanksgiving feeling? When you've eaten so much...so VERY much...that the word "full" is not big enough to hold what you feel? Which is that you're about to VOMIT GRAVY OUT YOUR EYEBALLS?

In my house, we call it "full to the top."

We started using the phrase to describe the visceral sensation of quite literally biting off more than you can chew. And then taking six MORE bites. Because they just looked so DELICIOUS.

"Full to the top" has recently taken on new meaning in my house, or at least, in my head. It's no longer a passing feeling...it's become a sense of BEING.

It's the teething baby, the needy preschooler, the exhausted husband. It's the unwalked dog, the untamed lawn, the broke-down air conditioner. It's the untended emails, the unsent Thank You's and the OH MY GOD HAVE YOU RESET YOUR FACEBOOK PRIVACY SETTINGS YET? Then add the stitched-together childcare, the traveling, the endless nursing and pumping, the ever-demanding (often competing) careers. The complete lack of self care, from basics like workouts and groceries and sex and SLEEP to treats like new shoes and movies and timely haircuts. It's those things. And other things. And so much more.

Clearly my eyes were much bigger than my plate. Because that plate is full. FULL TO THE TOP. And I've no choice but to choke down every. last. bite.

So do yourself a favor and stand back. WAY back.

Because I think I'm gonna hurl.

Now You Are Six

2010-05-24T13:45:00.012-05:00

Now you are six.

One foot still rooted to that last patch of toddlerhood, the other skipping ahead, knobby-kneed, toward the acres and acres of sunny boyhood before you.

Not little anymore. Not yet big.

You tell me of things that happened "yesternight," and when it storms, you build elaborate hideouts to protect us from "tomados."

You beat me at chess. Legitimately.

I give you pennies to make a wish in the fountain, and you always wish (loudly, pointedly) for the same thing. Candy.

You are no longer afraid of the dark. In fact, you're not afraid of much at all. You tell me monsters aren't real.

But Santa and the Tooth Fairy most definitely are.

You beg to play video games. You fall apart when you lose. EVERY. TIME. But soon you're ready to try again (even when we're not).

You think little girls are bossy. Your opinion of big girls, like teachers and mommies, is pretty much the same.

You are a sillyheart. A magician. A practical joker. You can play with a stick for an hour. And you often do.

You've stopped believing everything I say, though I can see in your eyes you still very much want to.

You're a big brother. You surprise me with your tenderness, your helpfulness. One day you'll understand he is my greatest gift to you, to be your family when we're gone. I just know you'll be best friends.

You worship your father, and want nothing more than to be JUST. LIKE. HIM.

I want that for you too.

Just one of so many things I want for you.

Happy birthday, my little big man. Keep growing up.

Just...not SO fast.

Time Machine

2010-04-22T22:45:00.011-05:00

Last weekend, I boarded a time machine to 1993.

Okay, it was actually a Delta flight to Minneapolis. But just beyond the baggage carousel I was greeted by my three high school besties. Girls...I mean WOMEN... I've know since sixth grade. The kind of friends who have seen me through, God, ALL of it. And decided to keep me anyway.

Blue eyeshadow. Perms. Really BIG bangs. Doc Martins. Pom poms. A penchant for hats. Keggers. Groundings. ~~Stolen~~ Borrowed cars. Minimum wage. Prom night. Impulsive tattoos.

Dorm rooms. Rush week. The walk of shame. Boyfriends. Finals. The invention of e-mail. Weddings. Chicago. Road trips to Denver. Pregnancy. Adoption. One rather raucous high school reunion.

These days, we can never get together quite often enough. Sometimes years pass.

And yet every time we're together, it's like we've boarded one great big time-bending Hot Tub to our past.

We're still us. Exactly the same.

Only with fewer Cosby sweaters.

And MUCH better hair.

Other Mothers Know Best

2010-04-08T00:38:00.011-05:00

Ever since this study came out with the attention-grabbing headline that breastfeeding SAVES LIVES, the mommy-blogo-twitter-sphere has been lighting up with the righteous fervor. So much so that it temporarily crashed this blog.

Fueling the fire is this tweet from an L.A. Paul Frank employee earlier today, complaining about a woman whipping out "whole boob" to nurse her baby and stating that breastfeeding in their store was "NOT OKAY" (He SO had to be gay. What man complains about too much boob? See also: Works in Paul Frank store).

So let me get this straight (pun intended, Paul Frank guy): The arguments are basically that 1) breast is best, and those selfish mothers who choose not to breastfeed are KILLING THEIR BABIES and should therefore be shackled and pitched into the sea. And also 2) Breastfeeding is DISGUSTING and VULGAR and downright RUDE! Can't we just stick all those nursing mothers in some windowless backwoods compound where they can drain their filthy lady-lumps UNSEEN?

The irony certainly is not lost on me.

Today marks Max's 16th week of life, and also the point at which I gave up nursing with my first son, Jack. I was back at work full time, and between the pumping and the mastitis and the dwindling milk supply, I decided it was time to throw in the towel and switch him to formula. I have no doubt that the 16 weeks of exclusive breastfeeding he received benefited him tremendously. I also have iron-clad evidence that switching to formula did not kill him.

This time I'm trying to stick with nursing for at least six months... I came up with that number on my own, though it happens to coincide with the recommendation of the World Heath Organization. And it's no easy feat.

Once again, I'm back at work, dealing with bouts of mastitis and a dwindling milk supply, and this time I also have a second child and a dog who require occasional release from their cages (just kidding...I would NEVER put a dog in a cage). Which means I have very little free time, and the little I do have is consumed with nursing, pumping and sterlizing little plastic parts. Twice I've forgotten the pump at home and my husband has had to bring it me at work (ALMOST as embarrassing as the time in seventh grade when I forgot to wear a bra under my white shirt, and mom rushed to school with my unmentionables in a brown paper bag). Last week I had to slip out of a client meeting to pump in a bathroom stall, straddling a lid-less toilet (I should have been SO LUCKY as to have been in a Paul Frank store). And at least once a day I end up changing my shirt due because I've sprung a leak. Whoops, THERE GOES ONE NOW. I always smell weird, like slightly spoiled milk. (Ok, the Paul Frank store guy may have been on to something...breastfeeding CAN be kinda gross.)

But nursing my son is also one of the best parts of my day. As someone who Never. Stops. Moving. there's something almost religious about sitting down, propping my feet up and snuggling that sweet bundle of baby love for a solid 30 minutes (GODDAMN is he cute). And based on the squeals he emits whenever I lift my shirt, I'm gonna go ahead and guess that Max enjoys it too (take that, Paul Frank guy...SOMEONE wants to see my boobs!)

Some days I'm just TIRED and the whole thing seems too hard, too much of a strain. On those days, I question whether continuing to nurse is the right choice for me. But it's clearly the right choice for HIM, and the right choice for US, at least for right now. And so, I persevere. Day by day. In three-hour increments.

So if my hungry, wailing baby requires me to whip it out and discreetly nurse him in public, then SO BE IT. And when I DO decide to wean my child, whether it's two months from now, six months from now or tomorrow, I'll be damned if I'll allow someone else to judge me for that.

Because hating on a mother for her very personal nursing choice? SUCKS.

See that? ANOTHER PUN.

I Did Not Win the HGTV Dream House

2010-03-19T11:17:00.017-05:00

I have never purchased a Lotto ticket. I don't gamble or bother trying to guess how many jelly beans are in the jar. Overall I guess I'm just a pretty practical gal, under no illusions of winning BIG one day.

Except.

For as long as I can remember, or at least since I moved into my first of several unpaintable post-grad apartments and became addicted to House Hunters, I have been trying to win the HGTV dream house.

It started in 2002 that first one in Oregon, and nine years later I still enter every year. And not just enter, like once, but enter DAILY. Sometimes I also register as my husband or my mom. Just to optimize my chances.

Every year, during the late winter weeks when the sweepstakes is on, I spend my free time very seriously pondering what I will do if--I mean WHEN--I win. Should I sell my house and assets and relocate to the dream home permanently? Or should I sell the dream home and use the proceeds to pay off my existing mortgage and just live free and clear right here in my hometown? Or maybe sell it all and move to some third, as of yet undecided but surely fabulous location? Like France. Will I continue to work, and if not, what will I do about health insurance? And what about the tax implications?

I mean, there's so much to think about!

And I really DO think about it.

Every year I mark my calendar to watch when the winner is finally announced, which lately has involved a crew arriving in town and surprising one lucky him or her on live TV. I don't know if I want to admit to cleaning my house and putting on lipstick beforehand, JUST IN CASE, so let's just say that were there to be a knock on my door, I'd be prepared. And why shouldn't I be? I entered EVERY DAY. And this year? This year is has got to be MY year.

Every year I'm gobsmacked and deflated when I don't win, and can't help but resent the person who did. Like that selfish old lady who won last week.

You know, the ex-teacher and New Orleans native whose home was destroyed by Katrina?

DAMN YOU MYRA! Why YOU, and not someone more deserving? Like ME?

SIGH. The world is so unfair.

So that's that. Another year, another loss. It was exciting to think about what I might do with a free luxury house, free car, and $500,00 in cash, but once again those dreams have been dashed. And now I've no choice but to turn my thoughts back to the here-and-now and all the blessing I already have.

That is, until next year.

SURELY next year is my year.

Things I Love Thursday: Kideos

2010-03-11T19:25:00.017-06:00

This post is brought to you by Kideos.

I don't mean that Kideos is prompting me or compensating me in ANY way. I just mean that I only grabbed the five minutes to write this post because my five year-old is sitting quietly beside me, totally immersed in watching how gum is made. And NOT asking me to act out a light sabor fight from Star Wars.

What are Kideos, you ask? They are pre-screened, age appropriate YouTube videos just for kids. We're talking everything from classic Scooby-Doo episodes to user-generated gems featuring cats flushing the potty. All the hilariousness of YouTube WITHOUT the surprise R-rated content. Available both online and in app form.

Which is FAN-FREAKING-TASTIC when you find yourself stuck on a desert island with a bored preschooler on the brink of a grand mal tantrum, with nothing to defend yourself but an armful of coconuts and your iPhone. Or not-so-patiently waiting for a table at what appears to be EVERYONE IN TOWN'S favorite restaurant at 7 p.m. on a Friday night. Or just trying to buy yourself five more minutes of aisle-cruising at Target.

Check it out and see for yourself. Just visit kideos.com or download the Kideos app from your iTunes store. Whether you're dying to introduce your wee one to that beloved rendition of "C is for Cookies" from your own childhood, or you're just looking for the digital equivalent of a balled up sock to stuff in your kid's screamholewhile you get a few seconds of peace, IT DELIVERS.

And IT WILL CHANGE YOUR LIFE.

You're welcome.

So now it's YOUR turn to give up the goods. Tell me, which apps do you (or your kids) just love?

Love Bites

2010-02-14T19:21:00.016-06:00

It all happened so fast.

It was about 1:30 this morning, and I was doing what I'm usually doing at about 1:30 in the morning these days: Nursing baby Max. I was sitting up cross-legged in bed with him cradled across my lap on his Boppy when I saw it.

A dark form racing across the white nursing pillow, recognized instantly for what it was: A brown recluse spider. INCHES away from my eight-week old baby, beelining toward his exposed and vulnerable little legs.

OhMyFreakinEEK!!!!!!

I know these spiders well because they are PROLIFIC in my area. I've found them crouching in my kitchen pantry, bolting across my hardwood floors, climbing my bathroom walls, and even hiding (dead, but STILL) in a box of my son's wooden blocks. Um, "recluse" MY ASS. There is nothing shy about this particular fleet of arachnids. Which is why shortly after we moved here, we hired one of those pest control outfits (you know, the ones with those trucks adorned with skulls and crossbones?) to come monthly and spray the hell out of the place.

Why all the fuss? Because brown recluse spiders are like the ugly, hairy little brother of the dreaded black widow. Their venomous bite is infamous for the horrific, flesh-eating lesions it can cause. Like this one:

Um, YEAH. So back to how one of these suckers was IN MY BED, in the MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT, headed STRAIGHT FOR MY BABY.

Screeching, I yanked Max off the Boppy and hoisted him in the air with one hand while pushing the pillow off my lap and onto the floor with the other. Ben, who had been dozing beside me, bolted awake, startled and confused, and started screaming because I was screaming, though he didn't yet know what I was screaming ABOUT. I imagine he wasn't sure what to make of me jumping around on the bed, waving Max in the air and pointing hysterically at the Boppy on the floor, but when I managed to utter BROWN RECLUSE! he ran around the side of the bed and heroically smooshed it.

As we pulled our hearts out of our throats, I began checking over Max's entire body to assure myself that he hadn't been bitten. He was fine, placid and smiling in spite of his interrupted meal and my hollering, bed-dancing shenanigans.

At that point I calmed down enough to notice a stinging sensation at the base of my big toe. And, upon closer inspection, what looked like two tiny fang marks and a spreading red rash. And realized that, in the act knocking the Boppy off my lap and onto my feet, I'd gotten myself bitten by a goddamn brown recluse. In the middle of the night. On Valentine's day.

Much wee-hour panicking and googling ensued. The good news is that, despite their bad reputation, most brown recluse bites really just hurt, itch and swell for a few days, then go away. Only a handful produce the gruesome, zombie-looking lesions that proliferate on the Internet.

The bad news is that it can take up to a week for those sores to appear, which means you won't immediately know whether you're out of the woods.

So now I watch and wait to see if this bite gets better, or gets worse.

Oh, and if having a newborn weren't guarantee enough, I'm pretty sure I'll NEVER get a good night's sleep in this house again.

This Valentine's Day? BITES.

Stubborn

2010-01-21T23:00:00.004-06:00

Celebrities are liars.

I don't care what kind of fiction the Heidi Klums and Nicole Richies of the world are trying to pass off as fact, but I'm here to tell you that you do NOT get your post-baby body back in less than eight weeks JUST BY BREASTFEEDING.

Since I rocked (or, er, waddled) a whopping 50 extra pounds on a 5'3" frame during my first pregnancy, I took care to keep this one under the doctor-recommended 35-pound umbrella. And dammit, I came in with change to spare at a respectable 32 lbs. Which is good, since I was (am) still carrying about 12 pounds of extra baggage from the aforementioned first pregnancy. Twelve pounds I was unable to lose JUST BY BREASTFEEDING.

Sure enough, in the first two weeks after Max's delivery, I lost 20 pounds EASY . Now, almost eight of that was baby, and when you add in fluids and placenta and all that other yucky what-not, you're really only getting credit for a couple pounds of absconded body fat, but still, twenty pounds is twenty pounds. It felt good. It felt like momentum.

Except.

Except three weeks ago, it stopped, and it hasn't budged since. And once again, I find myself in the company of those same last 12 pounds. Well, not the SAME 12 pounds, exactly. Twelve NEW pounds, on TOP of the other 12, which if you're keeping track is 24. TWENTY FOUR pounds of baby weight resting comfortably on my midsection, willfully oblivious to the fact that I AM BREASTFEEDING, and that breastfeeding is supposed to burn post-baby fat faster than I burned through that entire apple crisp after dinner tonight. Ahem.

All I am saying is "Metabolism--DO YOUR JOB." Because it ought to be ENOUGH that I am breastfeeding around the clock. US Weekly TOLD me that was all it would take. And US Weekly does. not. lie.

I mean, what do I have to do here? Start limiting those well-earned desserts? (Hello? I GAVE BIRTH.)

Or...God forbid...start EXERCISING?

Perhaps it would be easier to just borrow ANOTHER baby. You know, up the demands of the milk supply and re-fire the caloric incinerator that is supposedly wired directly to my boobs.

WHO CAN LOAN ME A HUNGRY BABY???

Things I Love Thursday: Mommy's Little Helpers

2010-01-14T00:01:00.003-06:00

It's been 5 1/2 years since I last played mom to a newborn, and I have to say, I am SO much better at it this time around. This is in part because I'm tougher, having given up eight hours of sleep YEARS ago (and replaced it with two daily lattes). And also because I'm calmer, armed with the confidence of having already raised one child to successfully pour his own cereal and wipe his own butt without major calamity.

But it's not just me. It's also the products that haven gotten a lot better. That, combined with the whole social-mommybloggger-word of mouth movement that's got mom's rating and sharing all the best stuff.

I've certainly benefited from some great tips from fellow moms, both online and IRL (that's In Real Life if you are over 50. Hi Mom.) So as Max approaches his one-month birthday, I thought I'd pay it forward by sharing a list of a few things that have gotten me through those first four weeks with my newborn.

Aden and Anais Muslin Swaddle Blankets
New moms buy and receive many baby blankets, but these are hands down THE BEST. They are the perfect weight...gauzy yet substantial. They're sumptuously soft. They're a great size not just for swaddling, but for draping over a stroller or carrier to shield baby from the elements. And they come in ADORABLE patterns...I'm favoring the orange (ORANGE!) and army green camo versions for my little hipster. Bonus: They just started carrying them at Target.
Majamas

I found the world's greatest nursing bra on Facebook, where a friend with a newborn of her own at home tipped me off about Majamas. This comfy organic cotton nursing tank totally solves the problem of what to wear around the house during those first brutal few weeks of round-the-clock nursing. It's designed so you can wear it alone--without a heinous nursing bra--and even has insets to hold nursing pads in place. I bought a few shawl sweaters to wear over it for winter and paired it with yoga pants and BAM!...instantly presentable outfit that you don't have to be embarrassed to answer the door in (though I suggest you detach the baby from your boob before you greet the UPS man). Best of all, Whole Foods carries it, so you can just throw it in your cart when you're shopping for nine dollar imported organic wheat-free crackers. Easy!

The Hotsling
When Jack was born, we registered for and received a Baby Bjorn carrier and couldn't wait to try it out. We'd put stuffed animals in it, adjust the straps just so and and parade around the house, imagining how we'd soon be smugly "babywearing" all over town. Then Jack arrived and, well, he hated it. Screamed every time we put him in it. FAIL!

When preparing for Max, I was eyeing a few of the new-age looking slings that are all over the market these days, but given the experience with Jack and the Bjorn, I hesitated to invest in one. Luckily, out of nowhere a friend loaned me her hotsling...basically a big hoop of fabric that, when draped over your shoulder, forms a cozy pouch for toting your infant. And wouldn't you know...he LOVES it. And I love the freedom it gives me to snuggle my little guy while keeping my hands free for important tasks like tweeting and making very buttery grilled cheese sandwiches. GOLD!
JJ Cole Bundle Me
There is nothing worse than trying to transport a baby in cold weather. For one thing, it's always a wardrobe conundrum...dress him in the warm snow suit and blankets he needs to face the icy temps outdoors, and he's sure to swelter and squirm once the car heater kicks in. Which is what I'm sure drove some mother somewhere like Canada to invent the Bundle Me. Essentially a warm little sleeping bag that zips into your car seat, it allows you to dress your baby in normal indoor clothing, zip him into some cozy fleece bunting and GO. And if he gets warm in transit..just unzip him and air him out a bit. It's been a Godsend for my winter baby, even if it does sound disturbingly similar to a Snuggie.

Old Navy "Flirt" fit denim
At a certain point in the weeks following delivery, you get sick of wearing old maternity clothes and stretchy yoga pants and you long to button up a pair of jeans. So you get a pair of your pre-baby jeans out and you try them on. And then you have two choices before you: 1) Get depressed, or 2) Get new jeans. You won't want to spend much, because SURELY you'll be back in those pre-baby jeans next week, but in the meantime, may I suggest a trip to Old Navy? For $30, I picked up a pair of their "Flirt" fit jeans in my current, NON-PERMANENT size, which feature a forgiving mid-rise waist, a camouflaging dark wash and a boot-cut leg. Because skinny jeans? ARE YOU KIDDING ME???

The Shutterfly App for iPhone
When Jack was a baby, digital photos were the BANE OF MY EXISTENCE. I would take about 300 of them a week, and then I'd have to spend HOURS uploading them...slowly...so slowly...to Shutterfly so I could either 1) order prints or 2) spam my friends and relatives with baby faces.

These days I take a lot fewer photos, and I'm much more likely to take them with my iPhone. Which is why I was so thrilled to discover the Shutterfly app, which allows me to instantly upload my mobile photos directly to my Shutterfly account. No USB cables, no device to PC file transfers, no wait for uploads. Just tap tap...DONE. Ain't technology GRAND?
My library card
This last one is the exact opposite of high tech, but sometimes it's the simple things. I spend a good 6-8 hours of my day nursing, with about half of that time taking place in the wee hours of the night. It's amazing how a good book can transform those hours from excruciating sleep interruptions to blissfully indulgent ME time (Well, me and the kid attached to my boob). I haven't had the time to devour books like this since those pre-kid years when I commuted to work on Chicago's el train and took one-hour lunches. I just finished "The Help," and now I'm reading "Her Fearful Symmetry" by Audrey Nieffenegger (because I LOVED her first book, "The Time Traveler's Wife"). And I have two more where that came from, lined up on my bedside table and challenging me to finish them before their due date two weeks from now. It's a challenge that saved me from watching WAY too much bad, middle-of-the-night television. And from new-mother brain rot.

I could go on, but it's nearly midnight and I have a book, and a baby, to get back to.

What about you? What makes YOUR list?

250 Shots and One Shoot

2010-01-07T15:01:00.020-06:00

I have two newsworthy bits to report: A first, and a last.

First, let's cover the LAST. (Confused? Sorry. Keep reading.)

Remember those shots? The stinging, awful ones I've been injecting in my belly every day (sometimes TWICE a day) for the last 33 weeks? Yeah, those. Well, I finally get to STOP. My doctor asked me to continue them for four weeks after Max's delivery as a safety precaution for keeping those nasty blood clots away. And now there's just three left in the box, which means that Sunday is my LAST shot. And that Monday morning will be the first in nine months that will not kick off with a heinous gut puncture. YAY! By my estimation, I've done more than 250 of them.

Second, let's cover the FIRST. You following now?

Yesterday was Jack and Max's FIRST joint photo shoot together. With Max's birthday falling the week before Christmas, we decided to wait and send out a birth announcement/holiday card in January when we could include a photo of both boys. And as a added incentive, my way-talented friend Erin made me the most adorable Big Brother/Baby Brother t-shirts, and I wanted to get some pictures of the boys in them sooner rather than later (Max is eating like Paul Bunyan at I fear the end of his 0-3 month wear is already drawing near.

What can I say? I make pretty cute babies!

And Erin makes pretty cute T-shirts, no? If you'd like to outfit your brood or give 'em as gifts (the shirts, not the kids), head on over to Erin's Etsy Shop, Zoey's Attic.

"The Twins"

2010-01-07T13:10:00.019-06:00

Don't get excited. "The twins" is NOT a cheeky colloquialism for my boobs. This post is about my boys. Although right now, I certainly have a lot of material I COULD post about my boobs. They are getting more action than a Die Hard sequel. In fact, instead of just a blog post, they probably deserve their own screen play. BUT I DIGRESS.

When you're pregnant, aside from finding out whether or not you're having a boy or a girl, the next thing you're dying to know is what your baby will look like. Or, more specifically, WHO your baby will look like. (This is why those back-alley 4D ultrasound shops make such a killing bilking the preggers ladies of our fine nation. Inquiring minds want to know!)

I've had the pleasure of watching many of friends reproduce over the past several years. Okay, I didn't actually watch them reproduce, because that would be weird and sick, but I did get a pretty good look at their spawn. And it's always funny to see whether they come out looking just like their mama, just like their pop, or like some sort of funky hybrid mix of the two.

When we had Jack, to be honest, he did not look remotely familiar to either of us. Family members scrutinized his photos and made sympathetic declarations like, "okay, in THAT expression his chin looks a little bit like yours!" or "He sort of has Ben's coloring." But in the end, we all concurred that Jack simply looked like...Jack. (And also a little bit like our nephew, and my first cousin's son.)

When we first laid eyes on Max, however, there was no question. We knew instantly who we were looking at: Jack's fraternal twin brother...five years removed.

As I told Ben, these boys may have opposite personalities, but when we look back at baby photos years from now, I think we're going to have to rely on what's in the background to tell them apart.

I suppose it doesn't help that Max is also wearing all Jack's old baby clothes!

What do you think? Can you tell who's who?

Baby A

Baby B

Night and Day

2009-12-29T17:35:00.007-06:00

Today is day 13 of Max's life, and the sixth day we've had him home. Even under this brief period of observation, it's already very clear that our sons (Sons! Plural!! I have CHILDREN!) have two completely different personalities.

I think the best way to explain it is through a few analogies:

Jack is to Metallica as Max is to...Cat Stevens.

Jack is to Red Bull as Max is to...Folder's Decaf.

Jack is to Marlboro Reds as Max is to...bubblegum cigars.

You get the point. This baby is CHILL.

Whereas, during Jack's infancy, we sold our house and MOVED ACROSS TOWN to put an end to the 45-minute scream session that was our daily commute, Max has already managed an excursion to a distant suburban TJ Maxx AND Nordstrom's with nary a peep (or a poop).

Whereas Jack did not sleep through the night once for EIGHT FULL MONTHS and nursed in two-hour increments, Max needs to been awakened at 6 a.m. for a nosh (I'm sure he could go longer, but my boobs most certainly cannot).

Whereas Jack, from day one, required (and continues to require) non-stop eye contact, interaction and play, Max is a quiet observer who prefers to hang out in his Boppy (or mama's arms) and perform what looks to my untrained eye like some sort of fixed-object meditation.

Dare I say it? It seems that, against all odds, I have managed to give birth to one of those mythological objects akin to leprochans or unicorns: The "Easy Baby."

That or I'm just A LOT better at this the second time around.

Graduation Day

2009-12-22T10:54:00.002-06:00

Max turned a corner on Sunday and slowed his breathing down enough to take his first oral feeding...mama's milk from a tiny bottle.

I know for sure this kid has inherited my genetic material, because as soon as he got his first taste of real food there was no turning back. He was apparently ready to do whatever it took to get more! Even it that meant finally getting it in gear and figuring out how to breathe.

By Monday Max was breathing well enough to go off oxygen, and eating well enough to have his feeding tube removed. His bilirubin count also dropped in half, and as of this morning he's been taken off the jaundice lights (and rid of those ridiculous sunglasses!) AND has had his IV removed (which is such a relief, because they had recently moved it from his arm to his head).

The doctor says he can be discharged on Wednesday. WEDNESDAY!

There's just a few more things little Max has to do to graduate from the NICU tomorrow. First, he has to sit in his car seat with his monitors on for 30 minutes to demonstrate that he can tolerate the ride home. Pretty sure he can pass that one with flying colors.

Second, he has to get through his circumcision.

That's right kid. That's your reward for all your suffering and hard work. To have someone peel the skin off your ding-a-ling.

Happy graduation day, Max. And Merry Christmas.

We're beyond thrilled that you'll be home in time to celebrate it with us.

Yellow

2009-12-19T21:32:00.008-06:00

Word to the wise: If your baby is ever in the NICU, don't ever say something aloud like "at least he's not jaundiced." Not without knocking some serious wood.

In the six hours between my two hospital visits today, my bright-eyed boy doubled his bilirubin count and turned into a lethargic little pumpkin.

Earning him a one-way ticket to the tanning bed. And a few EXTRA days tacked on to his NICU stay.

(Max, three days old)

What can I say? Max, it appears, wants to be JUST LIKE his big brother.

(Jack, four days old)

Arrival

2009-12-19T16:37:00.016-06:00

Introducing my gorgeous new son, Max Wolfgang Weser.

Max arrived one day (and really only about three hours) shy of the 37 week mark at 7 lbs. 11 oz. and 20 1/2 in., earning him the distinction of surely being one of the world's largest "preemies."

After Max had another nonreactive nonstress test on Monday, my OB decided it was "time to go in." I checked in for induction a little after 6 p.m. Tuesday night, and Max was born at 9:30 p.m. on Wednesday, December 16. Since my water wasn't broken until about 10:30 a.m. that day, I'll go ahead and call it an 11 hour labor, because 27 1/2 hours just doesn't sound as nice, especially for a second baby.

I'll go into my labor and delivery story another time, because I know you're DYING to hear EVERY SINGLE detail, but for now, suffice to say that it was pretty close to what I wanted (or, ahem, THOUGHT I wanted) considering my desire to combine a high-risk, medically supervised hospital delivery with a natural, doula-assisted approach.

Max was born absolutely PERFECT, except for one little issue I later learned the hospital staff refers to as "wimpy white boy syndrome." Basically, his little lungs are premature and just not ready for prime time yet. And this is apparently common for little white boys, who tend not to thrive as well as their stronger, clearly superior female counterparts of the same age.

So off to the NICU he went, and there he remains, crammed with tubes and wires as he whimpers and labors to breathe. It absolutely breaks my heart.

I want to bring him home so badly.

Yesterday was a particularly heavy day. The hope was that his breathing would improve enough overnight that he could receive his first feeding through a bottle, but it didn't improve and even got a little worse. And because he can't slow his breathing down enough to eat, we had to consent to a feeding tube and watch as my pumped colostrum was served up from a syringe and trickled slowly down his nose to his tummy. The doctors who originally assured us he'd be out in a day or two started saying..."maybe this time next week?" Immediately dashing any happy visions I'd harbored of my babies opening presents together in red and white striped pajamas on Christmas morning.

Later, I was discharged from the hospital and wheeled out the front door...without a baby. To ride home with an empty car seat in the back seat, and walk into a silent house and past a darkened, undisturbed nursery. To fall asleep with the baby who's been dwelling just under my skin these past months now 20 miles away, instead of at arms-length. That just broke me up.

Today has been a better day for Max, and therefore a better day for me. Whereas last night I was told he was too sick to be held, this morning I was allowed to change his diaper and hold him for a half hour. He was perkier, pinker and a lot more alert, opening his eyes when he heard my voice. My milk is slowly coming in, and I've been able to deliver him nearly a dozen "home-cooked" 3 oz. meals (a revision to my original breast-exclusive feeding plan, but at least it's coming from me).

We are trying to keep our eyes on the prize...not to get him home in a set amount of days, but to get him home in the best possible condition, healthily and safe, however long that takes. And it's really up to him and his "wimpy white boy" lungs to decide when it's time. Until then, we'll continue to trek his way twice a day, making milk drops and letting him know he is loved.

Quietly hoping we are lucky enough to get what we most want for Christmas this year.

In the Window

2009-12-13T10:00:00.009-06:00

About two weeks ago, around 34 1/2 weeks, my doctor declared me to be "in the window" of delivery. This meant two things: Upping from one to two weekly monitoring and ultrasound sessions, and upping my anticoagulation meds from one to two daily belly injections.

Thereby redefining the meaning of the term "Terrible Twos," at least in my mind. Because the every third-day appointments are LONG (really three appointments in one...perinatal center monitoring, then ultrasound room, then up to my OB...with lots of waiting in between). And the shots. The goddamn shots. They are now not only more plentiful, but also more painful. Especially because preparing to stick a needle into a taut, overstretched, almost nine-month belly is not unlike the apprehensive, cringing feeling you get right before you purposely pop a helium balloon with a butcher knife.

Still, it's been an encouraging few weeks. Stable blood pressure, normal labs and uneventful monitoring sessions showing a healthy and perfectly content little boy in there, rubbing his face and grasping his toes.

I knew the game was changing on Thursday when the normally chatty nurse started hovering over my nonstress monitor output sheet with those silent, tense nonverbals you never want to see and then paged my OB. And then my OB called in another white coat consult. For the first time, Rerun had met a nonstress test he couldn't pass (although maybe he has just inherited my phobia of standardized testing...doesn't bode well for the ACT).

My OB started talking about delivering right away (and I'm ashamed to say that my first reaction to that was "but I haven't had my pre-delivery pedicure yet!"), but first wanted to run a more thorough biophysical profile ultrasound to see exactly what the little guy was up to in there. That test went better....Rerun was definitely more lethargic than usual, but made enough movements in the allotted time period to earn a stay of eviction, at least for a few more days.

So assuming we pass tomorrow's final monitoring session, we're on for a Wednesday afternoon induction. Which mean I'll probably be emitting screaming and swearing sounds from the fifth floor of St. John's Mercy some time around, oh, let's say "mid-morning" on Thursday, December 17th. That day, incidentally, has been marked on my calendar for months as the day Rerun, at 37 weeks, would be full term.

In other words, the goal. The FINISH LINE.

It is finally in sight. And it looks like we've made it.

There WILL be a medal for me at the end, right?

Eyes on the Prize

2009-12-02T15:37:00.023-06:00

During this season of traditions passed on through the generations, let's pause to reflect on one of the most time-honored and, frankly, justified traditions of them of all.

I am, of course, talking about the Pushin' Prize.

Expectant fathers will pretend to not know what this is, but Vicki Iovine does a pretty good job of laying it out for them in her bestselling pregnancy tome, which reads:

The Girlfriends' Guide heartily recommends that you show up with a gift of some sort shortly after the baby is born. You will almost never go wrong with jewelry....It indicates an appreciation of the value of the chore she has just performed. If people get generous rewards simply for finding lost dogs, your wife is now entitled to the Hope Diamond for the service she has just rendered.

And then some. Am I right, ladies?

When I had my first son, I made sure my husband knew, well in advance, ALL ABOUT the pushin' prize tradition, and he eventually coughed up a very lovely diamond bracelet to commemorate the occasion.

This time around, I'm being a bit more practical. Or maybe just wanting to see him work a little bit harder. Because this time I know exactly what it is I'll be expected to do in that Labor and Delivery room. And there ain't no diamond large enough.

I am a light fixture person, meaning that when I move into a house, I set my sights on replacing every single crap light fixture in said house with something FABULOUS. This little habit has caused my husband (now on house number three and light fixture number infinity) to harbor an EXTREME LOATHING of 1) pendant lights and 2) my requests that he hang them. Made worse by the fact that these requests typically require him to McGuyver a mid-century light fixture into a turn-of-the-century house using only a few modern-day parts from Home Depot and a tampon string.

Difficult, yes, but it CAN be done, with about seven excruciating hours of effort and a WHOLE lot of sweating and swearing.

Sounds a little like childbirth, doesn't it?

Do you see where I'm going here?

For baby two, I declared that I didn't expect jewelry. And the man was visibly relieved until I said that INSTEAD, I would like him to pretty pretty please replace this hideous and extremely vexing spotlight fixture in our master bedroom...

...with this soft, lovely, enormous PENDANT LIGHT. BWAH HA HA!!!!

(I'm not sure if I did the evil laugh out loud, but I definitely THOUGHT it.)

Good husband that he is, he caved, spending one of the last warm and sunny afternoons of the long Thanksgiving weekend on a ladder (muttering something about a "stupid upside-down wedding cake.") And I'm rather pleased with the result:

Though I must admit, I'm a little disappointed that this time it only took him two hours to get 'er done, start to finish. I was expecting it to be more drawn out and painful, but I guess these things get a little faster, and a little easier, every time you try.

And if that's the case for the prize, can one not extrapolate that the same will hold true for the pushin'?

Here's hoping.

Just...Wow.

2009-11-30T22:20:00.006-06:00

How do you know the pregnancy hormones have TAKEN OVER YOUR BODY?

When listening to this cheesy Mariah Carey Christmas song makes you cry. Really hard. AND leak breast milk.

That's how.

(Though you have to admit, the lyrics do seem REALLY relevant if you happen to have a December due date).

I don't want a lot for Christmas
There's just one thing I need
I don't care about the presents underneath the Christmas tree
I just want you for my own
More than you could ever know
Make my wish come true
All I want for Christmas is you, baby

Things That Are Bugging Me: Pop Culture Edition

2009-11-24T18:51:00.012-06:00

Little People. Or, more specifically, TV shows about Little People. Little People having babies, Little People standing on stools to cook things, Little People driving tractors. ENOUGH with the Little People. They're not even that little.
Ditto the TV shows about competitive cake-making. EVEN CAKES NEED A PLOT.
Party in the USA by Miley Cyrus. You know you feel the same way.
Heidi Klum. Her post-baby-four catwalk body is just further proof that she is, indeed, a robot.
Red Bull. Unless you are 1) a fourteen year-old boy or 2) a declining pop star, there's just no call for it.
Al Roker. So smug with his weather, his barbecue, his stomach staples and that dumb murder mystery he's hawking. Plus something about that guy just reads CHILD MOLESTER to me.
Nickelback. Because no one should sound like they're straining over a bowel movement while simultaneously inhaling a liter of bong smoke when they're recording a song. Even if that is EXACTLY what they are doing.
Snuggies. I just don't get it.
All those Levi Johnston interviews. Mostly because that d-bag made it impossible for me to name my baby Levi. And I really liked that name.
Howie Mandel (self explanatory).

Things I Love Thursday: Discount Knoll Textiles

2009-11-19T13:25:00.012-06:00

Under the influence of my friend Jill over at Diaper Diaries, I've decided to give this whole "Things I Love Thursday" blog assignment a try. It feels good to have a purpose. Sort of like the smug satisfaction you get from wearing Days of the Week underpants on all the right days.

Also, I thought you might want a break from reading about things growing in my uterus, to be followed soon enough by things coming out of my boobs.

Last month I scored two pretty sweet Danish lounge chairs off eBay, affordable mainly because they are currently upholstered in the most heinous grandma fabric ever. Actually, that is an insult to grandmas everywere. (Sorry mom.) Let's just call this fabric what it is: FUGLY.

In keeping with the the chairs' mid-century pedigree, I've been searching for the perfect retro fabric for reupholstering them. And because in a blind taste test I ALWAYS seem to choose the most expensive option, of course I fell in love with the gorgeous, modern textiles collection by Knoll. These babies run 50 to 70 bucks per yard, and my project will require a good six to eight yards. Compute compute...Yikes! NOT FEASIBLE.

Except....

Here's where being on bed rest pays off. I took the time to relentlessly scour the Internet for Knoll fabric remnants...yardage left over from big corporate fat cat projects that would otherwise land in the scrap yard, rescued by nice textile fanatics like the ones over at Modern Fabrics. And that's how I managed to score 10 YARDS of this fun Knoll "Star Struck" pattern for about 100 bucks. Now, I'm not mathy, but that's 10 bucks per yard...an 80 percent discount!

This fun, chocolate covered fabric features fun little orange (ORANGE!) and cream-colored starbursts and a Nano-Tex spill resistant finish, which means it's fancy, but not TOO fancy for my dirty little spill-happy family. And ten yards gives me enough fabric to recover not just the two lounge chairs, but also the seats of six dining chairs in the adjacent room. And if those projects go well, I'm considering ordering more yardage for matching curtains!

Holy hell. I'm spending WAY too much time indoors.

Labor and Delivery

2009-11-16T00:01:00.005-06:00

People, I've been in labor for MONTHS. But to my great relief, it's over, and at long last the world is ready to meet my... nursery.

Back when we first learned we were having another baby, we set about playing a little game of "musical bedrooms." To make way for the new resident en route, we tackled the multi-weekend task of moving Jack out of the smallest, quietest bedroom in the back of the house and into the former playroom, heretofore known as the BIG BOY room.

And when we learned we were having another baby boy, we decided to go easy on ourselves (we'd need to save our energy, after all) and stick with Jack's just-vacated "outer space" theme for our new nursery, working with the planets mural (from Wallies) and mid-century sputnik light fixture (an eBay find) already in the room.

From there, choosing a color scheme was pretty easy. We wanted to keep the cream walls (too lazy to repaint) and use a couple white pieces we already had from Jack's baby days. My recent obsession with ORANGE quickly came to anchor the room, in the form of a tiled (and spit-up impervious) "poodle" rug from Flor (to warm up the hardwoods after we pulled up the carpet). To keep things interesting, we mixed in a few pops of red, yellow and aqua blue (inspired by the planets in the mural). I hope the result is a space that's both soothing AND stimulating for my wee guy.

Up next was crib bedding. I wanted something space-themed with a vintage vibe, but nothing overly precious that screamed BABY. I couldn't find what I wanted in stores, but I DID come across it in the form of David Walker's Robots and Rockets fabric line. Twelve excruciating weeks later this custom bedding set adorned with tiny planets, rockets and stripes arrived at my doorstep, compliments of Etsy (and my parents, who generously footed the bill).

After searching high and low for a modern crib and changing table without a four-figure price tag, we settled on the Baby Mod line from Walmart (yes...Walmart), thanks to a tip-off from the savvy parents on the nursery design blog Ohdeedoh.

Ben's parents sent the perfect planetary mobile, purchased from a shop in the funky little hippie town of Yellow Springs, OH. Hung from the ceiling over the crib, its gently spinning orbit will hopefully catch baby's eye (when he can see that far).

To offset those strong modern lines, I softened things up with a fuzzy lambskin rug and an equally nubby ecru changing pad. And from a simple shelf above the changing table hangs an "Ugly Doll" monster mobile of my own making. Created from deconstructed key chains, it should keep the little guy's handles occupied and OUT of his dirty diaper while we change him. Additional objects of distraction (toys and soft books) are tucked away in a Riesenthel magazine rack hung from the closet door, courtesy of my beloved mecca, The Container Store (a.k.a. The Mother Ship).

When Ben's parents offered to gift us a nursery glider, I entertained a few options from NurseryWorks before opting to scour eBay for the perfect Danish modern find. This mid-century rocker and ottoman were right-sized for both my 5'3" stature AND my narrow staircase from hell, and came reupholstered in a cream-colored damask fabric. A stylish and incredibly comfortable score!

To cozy things up for those around-the-clock feedings, I added a modern tray table from West Elm, a futuristic, lust-worthy lamp from Noguchi, and a couple orange and red vintage robot prints found on Etsy (in Target frames). A roomy Riesenthel bin is the perfect place for storing all my nursing essentials...a Boppy, burp clothes and a few trashy magazines.

So that's that. I'm out of wall space, out of floor space, out of money and ALMOST out of time. Meanwhile, the monitors are charging, the butt-wipes are warming and the receiving blankets are laundered and ready to, well, RECEIVE.

The fruits of my labor, delivered.

All for the fruits of my loins.

Follicular Independence Day

2009-11-15T14:09:00.013-06:00

Me: Tomorrow you're getting your haircut.

Jack: I wanna get a MOHAWK!

Me: What?? You want a...mohawk?

Jack: YES!

Me: Why?

Jack: Just...because I DO!

Me: I don't think so.

Jack: But I WANT one.

Me: Listen honey, the holidays are coming, plus we're going to be taking a lot of pictures when the baby gets here. You don't want to have a mohawk for our Christmas card photo, do you?

Jack: Yes! I DO!

Me: Maybe you can get one this summer.

Jack: Noooooo! I want a mohawk NOW!

Me: I don't know....

Jack: It's NOT FAIR! Kids don't get ANYTHING they want. Grown ups get to decide EVERYTHING!

Me (thinking): The kid's got a point.

Final Score? Jack: 1 Mommy: 0

BEFORE

DURING

AFTER

Happy Independence Day, kiddo.

Pimp My Baby's Ride

2009-11-10T13:47:00.018-06:00

The second-time mother-to-be has a few advantages over her 1.0, oh so naïve counterpart. When it comes to getting ready for baby, she's savvy. She knows her stuff—what's worth spending her money on, and what's not.

Unfortunately, she's probably already given most of the "good stuff" away.

When I was expecting Jack six years ago, I researched zillions of car seats before settling on a navy blue gingham Graco Snugride infant carrier, complete with extra bases for the vehicles of my nearest and dearest relatives and strangers. All told, I laid out about $300 for the seat and accessories, but it was well worth it. Jack rode comfortably in that seat for a year, and when combined with a handy Snap N' Go it converted into a convenient stroller. I found it so indepensible that I happily passed it along to a friend when Jack outgrew it, knowing full well that by the time I had another baby car seats would be a thing of the past, replaced by flying space pods or something.

Flash forward five years. I'm expecting again, and now living in Missouri, where they inexplicably call these contraptions "pumpkin seats." And I need one.

Luckily for me, the sisterhood of traveling maternity pants is also in the business of loaning out baby gear. The nice lady from Deadlines and Naptimes came to my rescue AGAIN, loaning me her recently-vacated Snugride and a slew of extra bases. The seat was in great condition, with a perfectly nice, gender-neutral tan plaid design.

The only issue? It didn't match my car, or my diaper bag. And yes, I am just the sort of shallow, ridiculous woman who obsesses about these things. And I just bet you are the sort that obsesses about these things too.

A little social media research helped me uncover Graco's little-known secret: For under $50, you can order a brand new pad set and matching canopy for your older-model Snugride. Which means that if your newborn son is not yet man enough to rock his sister's hot pink hand-me-down, you don't necessarily have to pony up the cash for a whole new seat. Or if, like me, your seat is perfectly fine as it is but you just need EVERYTHING TO MATCH, you can simply order up a wardrobe change.

Check out my Snugride's before an after:

It all matches!

Wanna try it yourself? Here's all you need to do: Grab the model and serial number off your old Snugride and head over to Graco's Contact Us page. Submit an inquiry, and within a few days a nice lady like "Christina R." will get back to you with a list of fabric packages that match your model. From there, you just call Graco at 1-800-345-4109 and place your order. Hand over $48.95, and a few days later your spankin' new pad kit will arrive at your door.

Leaving you plenty of leftover cash to splurge on all those other baby essentials. You know, like custom-made crib bumpers, butt-wipe warmers and Noguchi nightlights.

10 Things to Do on Bedrest

2009-11-06T13:23:00.008-06:00

Unlike the "strict" bedrest I was subjected to while pregnant with Jack, which had me lying on my side for nearly six weeks (excepting bathroom breaks and showers), my doctor currently has me on "modified" bedrest.

What does that mean? I wondered too, so at this week's appointment I asked for a little more clarification.

This week, she said, it will be defined as "one light errand permitted every other day." An "errand" might be a short trip to the grocery store, or an outing to dinner or a movie.

This I can work with.

Since my weekly appointment with her counts as an "errand," which by the way is SO not fair, that leaves me with up to THREE additional outings per week. Precious, precious outings.

It also leaves me with three to four days of resting at home. Avoiding unnecessary movement. Something this Type A, OCD Gemini has never been very good at. And yet, I must GET good at it, because the underlying threat of my doctor's orders is that next week? These three to four precious, precious outings could ALL BE TAKEN AWAY. And if you met her, you would know that she is not someone you mess with.

So with two full weeks of "rest" already under my belt, I'm proud to say I've discovered a number of ways to keep myself entertained within my confines. And that, my friends, is a lead-in to...A LIST!

10 THINGS TO DO ON BEDREST

Research and plan for those precious, precious outings every other day.
Delegate all tasks not worthy of a precious, precious outing to your husband or mother. E.g., "We need stamps" or "I need Starbucks."
Observe things around the house that need to be added to your husband's "honey-do" list. When in hearing distance, mutter things like, "Hmmm....our ceiling sure could use a fresh coat of paint" and "Wow, those leaves really need raking" and "SOMEONE needs to let the dog out."
Catch up on your blog reading, only to become convinced that you urgently need to make pelmet boxes like Cara's for the nursery. Attempt to explain to husband what a pelmet box is and watch him look at you like he doesn't know you.
Bake and frost and entire Devil's Food cake. Then sit down and methodically EAT IT ALL.
Watch dust collect on the bedside lamp. Wonder where it comes from.
Record episodes of Oprah. Discover with disappointment that Oprah is really boring. Delete Delete Delete.
Add adorable baby items to your online baby registry, even though you don't have any showers coming up. Then buy them for yourself, shipped individually, so that you'll have visits from the UPS man to look forward to. Assure yourself that's not pathetic.
Teach Jack how to diaper a teddy bear. This will come in handy later.
Stare at the empty crib and wonder how long it will be until there is a baby in it.

Mummy's Mommy

2009-11-05T13:49:00.015-06:00

I don't know why, but my sweet little boy has developed quite a flair for the macabre.

Gone are the days of fuzzy puppies and brave super heroes. This year, he wanted to be an axe-wielding, bloodied psycho killer.

With some parental guidance ("No, you may NOT wear a prosthetic neck wound, and that's final"), he eventually settled on something equally scary, but a lot less disturbing.

Meet Mommy's Little Mummy:

(I have to say, should this whole communications/social media gig fall through, I think I may have a future as a Hollywood makeup artist.)

And now, a lazy mother's belated Halloween recap, in pictures:

As is our tradition, Jack helped Ben carve this year's mommy-designed pumpkin.

Even little Frankie got in the spirit, wearing her costume for all of three minutes before attempting to gnaw it off. (She has a lot in common with the squirrels).

This year Jack was a lot more interested in going out to GET candy than he was in staying home to hand it out. See how skillfully he puts his hand out?

However, after reviewing his loot, I've realized that next year I need to coach him to shy away from the suckers and skittles and GO STRAIGHT FOR THE CHOCOLATE. I mean, seriously, the kid did not score a SINGLE Reece's Peanut Butter Cup. COME ON!

All in all, a very happy Halloween had by all.

But seriously...please send chocolate.

They’re Baaa-aack

2009-10-28T14:37:00.009-05:00

Last October, I blogged about the steroid-fueled squirrels infesting my neighborhood and gang-raping our pumpkins in the streets, leaving scores of young preschoolers devastated and confused.

They’re baaa-aack.

Because I managed to purchase a car two inches too long to allow me to close my garage door (IDIOT), I am in the habit of leaving my stroller out on the front porch. Risky, I suppose, given that St. Louis is said to be one of the country’s most crime-ridden cities, but mine is a pretty sleepy, Norman Rockwell sort of neighborhood. Plus, there are Bugaboos and Bobs on other porches that are surely more tempting loot than my little Maclaren.

Unless, apparently, you’re a squirrel. A deviant, mutant squirrel.

This morning I awoke to find this-crime scene on my doorstep.

Exhibit A

Exhibit B

(I swear, I even heard them LAUGHING at me.)

THIS. MEANS. WAR.

Can anyone tell me where I can get a hold of some grade-A squirrel poison?

Or at least recommend a good replacement stroller?

Sidelined

2009-10-26T14:19:00.017-05:00

Well, crap.

Everything was going just fine until Friday. After a LOOONG work week, I was taking a well-deserved day off to run a few errands (Container Store...WHEE!) and straighten up the house (a.k.a. apply OCD organizational structures to all closets in the house) when something very strange happened.

Something that landed me in the hospital.

Caution: Objects may appear jollier about being in a hospital gown
than they actually are.

I still don't know for sure what it was, but it was...BIZARRE. Basically, I was standing in my bedroom, folding some clothes when suddenly the room started to go dark and shadowy and I noticed blind spots in my vision (as in, I looked down at my bare foot and couldn't see any toes. And I HAVE all my toes!) I sat down and took my blood pressure, and though the vision issues made it hard to read, I was pretty sure that bottom number read 98. I decided I'd better call my doctor.

Then things got REALLY weird. I was sitting there poised to dial my trusty iPhone, but I felt so confused. Who was my doctor? What was the name of her practice? My brain couldn't quite work out it. So I started sort of dumbly scrolling through my contacts again and again, looking for something but unable to stay focused on what it was. Oh yeah! My doctor! Who's my doctor? I must've done that for five minutes before I decided I'd be easier to just go find my doctor's card in my purse and get the number the old-fashioned way.

That's when I noticed I was having trouble walking. And when I suddenly thought, with a bit of alarm, "um...am I having a stroke?"

One hospital stay, many lab tests and a few days later, my doctor says it was more likely a "TIA," or transient ischemic attack. Apparently that's a non-damaging stroke-like episode, and a warning sign that a real stroke may be imminent, especially if you happen to have a blood clotting disorder like moi.

(Sorry, you shouldn't have to go to med school to read this blog. But don't you feel SMARTER? More informed?)

As of this morning, my doctor has ordered that I cease working immediately and spend the next eight weeks until my induction date lying about my house on a cocktail of blood thinners, baby aspirin and zen-like thoughts. And because I am a skilled negotiator, I have talked her into a compromise that involves me continuing to work part-time, but FROM HOME, with promises to take my meds, not do anything STRESSFUL and dutifully report for weekly nonstress tests (where it sounds like they'll be testing my zen levels, but they'll actually just be monitoring the baby's movement. If there was a nonstress test for me I'd need it to be multiple choice).

Why campaign to keep working when I could sit on my butt at home? Because 1) I have been on extended bedrest before, and 2) it made me sad and CRAZY, and 3) I enjoy receiving paychecks and 4) I suppose I inherited my father's Rambo-like work ethic.

So that's that. I made it 29 weeks before hospitalization. That's five weeks less than last time, which is a little disappointing. I believed I could do better.

And as for Rerun (who we're now calling Max), he's blissfully unaware, last seen curled up in a ball and sucking his toes.

Making me wish I was a better hostess.

Occasion

2009-10-16T15:05:00.003-05:00

Me, to my husband: So.....Did you forget something?

Husband: Um....I don't know. Did I?

Me: Isn't there something you want to say to me?

Husband: Ummmm....

Me: Don't you know what day it is?

Husband: ?????

Me: I think you forgot to wish me "Happy Boss's Day."

Husband: Silence.

Me: There's still time to get me flowers.

Husband: More silence

Well, at least I thought it was funny.

(And true.)

Since You Asked

2009-10-12T11:58:00.015-05:00

Somewhere around the end of the second trimester of pregnancy, there is one question that you get asked, oh, about eight to ten times each day.

Believe it or not, it's not "Who DID that to you?" or "Are you SURE it's not twins?"

It's this: "How are you feeling?"

The answer, FYI, is usually "HUNGRY," although it may also be a combination of any one of the following:

"Big."

"Exhausted."

"Swollen."

"Uncomfortable."

"Constipated."

"I'm sorry, were you talking to me? I can't actually see you past these enormous, colostrom-seeping breasts."

Despite all of the above, on most days I can answer quite honestly that I'm feeling pretty great. Rerun is now "viable" and, from what I can tell, appears to be preparing for his big audition with Cirque du Soleil. And though I'm only four weeks away from the point when I was hospitalized with preeclampsia last time, right now my blood pressure, while on the rise, still remains safely below the "red zone." Last week I passed the glucose test for gestational diabetes with flying colors and my CBC and thyroid numbers were solid. My OB proclaimed my 20-pound weight gain "just fine," a welcome change from the "tsk tsk's" I got the last time around. And as for the Lovenox, these days I'm self-injecting with the expertise of a hardcore trainspotter.

Meanwhile, the weather is turning colder. I'm planting mums and Jack is trying on his Halloween costume. Thanksgiving and Christmas decorations are already in stores, and the seasonal gift catalogs are crowding my mailbox. All signs are pointing to the fact that the holidays are upon us at last.

After what felt like an endless summer, my December due date is finally, FINALLY showing signs of drawing near.

How am I feeling?

I'm feeling...READY.

A Womb With a View (Now in 3-D, for the Kids!)

2009-09-28T21:57:00.004-05:00

26 Weeks

(If you don't see distinct baby faces in these pictures,

perhaps try some of those 3-D glasses that are all the rage)

Not to be obnoxious, but....

2009-09-21T13:03:00.013-05:00

I love being pregnant.

And that, my friends, is a long, LONG way from whence I came.

I don't think it would be an exaggeration to say that my first pregnancy was the most miserable pregnancy on earth.

First, there were the domestic issues: I had just moved into a new house (as in, a few weeks before we learned we were pregnant). A fixer-upper that Ben and I remodeled, ceiling to basement to lawn, during the nine months of my pregnancy. OURSELVES. Go ahead an picture me three months pregnant, laying sod. It happened.

Then there were the usual, and not so usual, prenatal discomforts: I was nauseous. I was exhausted. I could not tolerate smells. ANY smells. Or most people. I got sciatica. I got stretch marks. I got Pruritic Urticarial Papules and Plaques of Pregnancy (its friends call it PUPPP). And, oh yeah, I got HUGE (like, 50 extra pounds on a 5'3'' frame huge).

Then came the more serious medical stuff: I became grotesquely swollen, then hypertensive, then preeclamptic. I was hospitalized at 32 weeks, then medicated, then sent home on strict bedrest. Bedrest unassisted by DVR (do you KNOW how bad summer daytime programming can be? DO you???) Somewhere along there I also developed severe hypothyroidism with a side order of depression.

I'll spare you the horror story that was my Labor and Delivery.

It's no coincidence that I waited five years to try for another pregnancy. I was, quite simply, afraid.

Which is why I am so shocked....and so delighted...to catch myself actually enjoying my pregnancy this second time around.

I can't explain it. There's been nausea. There's been exhaustion. There's been weight gain (though not nearly so much this time). There are daily injections and medications and blood pressure cuffs. Monthly bloodwork and testing and ultrasounds. Things I expected would take me back to that dark place I've spent five years running away from. And instead, I find myself in a totally different place. A place so...light.

My poor, baffled husband. It's as if the paradigms upon which our relationship is built have just shifted on tectonic plates. He keeps eyeing my skeptically, a stranger in a strange land, and declaring, "You're just so damn CONTENT."

And probably thinking..."Who ARE you? And WHERE IS MY PAIN IN THE ASS WIFE?"

I mean, here I am six months pregnant, and I'm walking around grinning. I'm barefoot in the kitchen, slicing apples from the farmer's market and baking aromatic breads. Most evenings, instead of finding me glued to a laptop, you'll spot me rocking quietly in the fading light of my nursery-in-waiting, or folding tiny gowns and onesies and tucking them into lavender-scented drawers. Oh, and the really weird thing? I'm DRIVING THE SPEED LIMIT.

It's hard to describe what I feel, but I guess it's just...peace? Serenity?

I don't know, but it's almost as if I'm getting a do-over. My shot at that special brand of maternal bliss that all those other mothers always talk about (you know, the ones I usually want to throat punch).

And I can't help but feel I deserve it.

Equation

2009-09-17T10:55:00.002-05:00

THIS:

PLUS THIS:

EQUALS THIS:

Me and my guy, sixth months in.

WE'RE HUNGRY.

Sisterhood of the Traveling Maternity Pants

2009-09-09T16:29:00.009-05:00

Yesterday I wore the following to work: My neighbor's sister's pants. My coworker's top (borrowed from our boss). My mom's brassiere.

People...it takes a village to dress a pregnant woman.

Last weekend, as I asked him to carry yet another bin of loaner maternity wear upstairs, Ben remarked that the world sure would be a better place if women shared their clothes like this ALL THE TIME.

(I think what he meant was that his savings account would be a better place.)

Like the tween jeans of yore, maternity clothes have a certain magical quality, transforming as they change hands (and hips) to meld to the form of the wearer. Which is asking a LOT from a low-grade synthetic poly-blend, don't you think? I mean, I'm borrowing from size 2's and size 14's, from 5'2''s and 5'8''s, and somehow it all manages to fit.

I guess when it comes to getting dressed, pregnancy truly IS the great equalizer. Apples or pears, petites or pluses, we ALL eventually settle comfortably into one of three sizes: Small, Medium or Large.

Sometimes we're even all three sizes at once. Take yesterday's ensemble. The pants were a size Large. The top was a size Small. And while I'll spare you the size of the bra, I will concede that the underwear were a size Medium. And mine. Because there's some things you JUST DON'T BORROW.

Perhaps the greatest pregnancy equalizer of all? This one, simple fact:

Eventually? We ALL end up the exact same size: Extra, EXTRA Large.

What the....?

2009-09-01T22:33:00.019-05:00

Okay, I admit it. I sometimes BORROW (erm...steal) magazines from my doctor's office.

I rationalize these these little thefts by thinking of them more as a gift with purchase. You know, buy one $1500 ultrasound and get a free magazine. Makes perfect sense.

So yesterday, when I had TWO doctor's appointments, I went ahead and treated myself to TWO magazines. And because they were both OB/Perinatal appointments, I was stuck with a limited selection of rags featuring grinning, toothless babies on the cover. I chose two different copies of Pregnancy & Newborn magazine and tucked them discreetly into my bag.

And now I'm being punished.

I suggest you stop reading now, because the ads in these magazines will hurt your brain and BURN YOUR INNOCENT EYES. Unless you're pervy. If so...these may actually turn you on.

Ready? Here goes:

A lot of expectant moms need the support of an extra pillow when they begin side-sleeping. But what about a pillow...FOR YOUR PILLOWS? Give your girls the beauty rest they deserve with our patented Kush Support (and maybe even give your husband some REALLY dirty, frustrated dreams!) Order yours today!

New moms! Don't let that pesky task of pumping your breast milk put a damper on your social life! Just strap on the hands-free PumpEase "Tuxedo" (in seven fabulous prints...presumably at least one in zebra) and get thee to your nearest gala! Tiara and gloves not included.

Now that you've brought your newborn home, are you looking for a way to sleep EVEN LESS? Try the new "Angel Care" infant motion detector. Slip this simple sensor under baby's mattress to detect every move baby makes. And SOUND AN ALARM every time the baby STOPS moving for more than 20 seconds.
(Yes, we're serious.)

And let's not forget our postpartum moms! Baby blues got you down? Need a comfortable, convenient way to drown--Er, we mean BATHE--your baby? Look no further than the Tummy Tub! It's JUST THAT WRONG!

Well, I'm off to have a nightmare. Happy shopping!

(Note: Babies and boobs sold separately.)

Mini Me

2009-08-26T09:47:00.013-05:00

This week marked the end of the government's remarkably popular "Cash for Clunkers" program, awarding Americans up to $4500 to trade their gas-guzzling clunkers for a shiny new (highly efficient) automobile.

It also marked the end of an era in my household. Or rather, my garage.

About four years ago my husband bought a classic Saab 900 off eBay, sight unseen. It shipped from North Carolina to Denver (where we lived at the time), and arrived smelling a little (okay, a LOT) funky and in need of some serious TLC.

It got most of the the TLC it needed, and ran great, despite being almost 15 years old. But the funky smell (that apparently ONLY I could detect) never really went away, the A/C was temperamental and the interior was in a pretty shabby state. Needless to say, I did not like to ride in it, and drove it only when forced (about once per year when my car was in the shop).

Whenever I suggested he consider a new car, Ben shot me down. He insisted he would drive the Saab until Jack was old enough to take the wheel.

Jack is five.

This pregnancy, combined with a once-in-a-lifetime government subsidy, turned out to be the divine intervention I'd been waiting for. I mean, with a new baby on the way, we needed six airbags! Reliability! A working A/C! And then there were the sheer economics. I mean, how often do you get $4500 worth in instant equity? We'd be FOOLS not to take advantage. WOULDN'T WE???

Ben was reluctant. When you've been driving a Saab, even an old one, you're used to a certain amount of get-up-and-go. Practical, two-cylinder options like a Honda Civic or Toyota Prius weren't going to cut it. Which is when I suggested we test drive a Mini Cooper. The Mini is efficient, powerful, unique and fun...plus I'd seen the way he'd longingly gazed at the one our neighbor zips around in.

The look on his face when he test drove that car told me everything I needed to know. I'd won.

Or maybe it's Jack who's won. After all, he's the one who'll be inheriting a much nicer, much newer car. Plus he LOVES the dual sunroof, and demands that we "open his crack" every time he climbs in.

As for me, let's just say that my hyper-sensitive, pregnant olfactory system is grateful. And it's such fun to drive, I'm now clamoring to borrow the Mini for all my weekend errands.

So what became of the Saab? We're told it will receive a fatal dose of engine-halting serum before it heads to that big trash heap in the sky. I comforted Ben by explaining that sometimes "euthanasia" is really the most humane way to go.

R.I.P., little clunker. You smelled, but you served us well.

And when you get to where you're going? Tell the Audi I said "hello."

"Getting Real" (As Phil Would Say)

2009-08-19T14:52:00.018-05:00

I am setting my DVR to record Dr. Phil.

This is a first.

I'm not a Dr. Phil fan. Mostly because I don't like his mustache. Or have the patience to decipher those drawling, cornpone anagrams of his, like "Never trust an aardvark to guard a whorehouse in Wyoming."

What does that even MEAN, Phil? Do YOU even know?

But this one's gonna be good. The topic? Mommy Wars. You know...women telling each other exactly why, and how, they're raising their kids ALL WRONG. The guests? Heather Armstrong, a.k.a Dooce, the grandmother of mommyblogging (If you can be 34 and a grandmother. Though she IS from Tennessee. I can say that because I am too). And in the other corner? Blogger Jessica Gottlieb, who tweeted afterwards that during the taping, a working mother actually bared her teeth at her and called her Ann Coulter.

People, this is going to be GOOD. (Your husband will probably even watch it with you, if you mutter under your breath, "Chick fight. Chick fight.")

I have always been a working mother, and it's something for which I make no apologies. When I first went back to work after having Jack, other women would pat my arm sympathetically and make puppy dog eyes as they asked how I was doing. And instead of the breakdown they were expecting, I would chirp "I'm doing GREAT!" I'd tell them how happy I was to be back at work. How nice it was to have a reason to shower and put on fabulous shoes every morning. How I just wasn't the sort of person who could stay home with kids all day.

But let's back up.

My maternity leave with Jack was, in a word....MISERABLE. The first four weeks of said leave were eaten up before he was even born, as I lay writhing on bedrest, stultified with bad summer daytime television. When we brought him home from his frought-ridden stay in the Nicu, we had a couple hours of "normal" before we learned we had to drive him BACK to the hospital for re-admission. The week after THAT included visiting nurses, tear-jearking "foot sticks" and a day-glo "bili bed" that restricted us from holding him outside of feedings.

Then came a dark time. A time after Jack got better, when I got worse. The days, turned weeks, after my mom went home and Ben went back to work, when I sat in the house alone, shades drawn, hiding from the neighbors and ignoring the ringing phone (except to fight with the insurance company, or the Bangalore-based HR rep attempting to administer my maternity leave in broken English). A time when I felt shackled to the breast pump and overwhelmed by the mere thought of changing out of my milk-soiled clothes, showering and leaving the house.

I suppose in retrospect, there may have been something sort of clinical going on there, but let's leave it it this: It was not the sunny, idyllic maternity leave I had in mind when I oh-so-hopefully purchased a HAMMOCK for the backyard.

Um, NO WONDER I was so happy to go back to work. I think the thing I wasn't able, or willing, to articulate at the time was that I was relieved. Relieved to be back to doing something I was good at. Because my maternity leave felt like one big failure.

This time is going to be different.

This time I really AM going to enjoy my maternity leave. Take care of my baby, and my family and myself. Absolutely REVEL in this rare and short opportunity to be nothing other than somebody's mother, every minute of every day, for twelve whole weeks. See how the "other half," lives, so to speak. Really let myself experience it and value it and savor it for the moment in time — the GIFT — that it is.

Because this time will in all likelihood be the last time (birth control failure notwithstanding).

The reason the Mommy Wars will never be won is that neither side ever really has the advantage. I have never been a stay-home mom, but I know plenty of them, and they are busy, they are challenged and are fighting an uphill battle to maintain their sanity, their sense of selves and their pedicures. Working moms like me are just as harried, always trying to be too many things...too many BEST things...to too many people, always falling short somewhere (usually in that peksy pedicure department). Regardless of which camp we're standing in, most of us stop from time to time and wonder if the grass is a wee bit greener on the other side. But generally, we're at peace with our choices, and have found a degree of equilibrium for keeping our families, and ourselves, together and on track. We're happy. Except when others judge us. Or — worse yet — when we judge ourselves.

Which, you know, is an exercise as fruitless as trusting an aardvark to guard a whorehouse in Wyoming.

And where's the sense in THAT?

Oh, it is ON!

2009-08-13T11:17:00.006-05:00

Just because he's the second boy does NOT mean he will be forced to suffer hand-me-downs! Behold my first foray into the Baby Boy section at Macy's.

Not a tutu in the bunch.

YET.

Son of a Bitch

2009-08-11T22:27:00.020-05:00

So, I spent the last several days reluctantly trashing the desktop folders I'd created over the past few months to house my over-the-top, pink-hued nursery fantasies: dainty, fabric-swathed light fixtures, girlish, vintage-inspired crib bedding and graphic floral wallpapers.

I may have also skulked my way through the children's department at Nordstrom's, stroking the tiny, flamboyant pinafores and perhaps even fondling the pink tutus a bit longer than was appropriate.

It's not that I'm not excited about having another son. It's just that before I COULD get excited about it, I first had to come to terms with the fact that I will never have a daughter.

A daughter to dress up. Shop with. Take with me to the spa for mani/pedis in those side-by-side vibrating chairs, maybe with cucumber slices over our eyes (all set in my head to the soundtrack of Girls Just Wanna Have Fun.)

Can you lose something you never had? It kind of FELT like I had. But then I remembered something. Something crucial.

Daughters are bitches. ESPECIALLY toward their moms. At least I was. (Am?)

WHEW! Dodged that bullet!

So that's that. Bring on those Y chromosomes. I can't wait to meet my son.

I'm ready now.

(And if I happen to dress him in the occasional pink tutu...please just look the other way.)

Dangling Participles

2009-08-04T13:09:00.012-05:00

Last night I had a rather graphic sex dream.

Not THAT kind of sex dream. A dream about the sex of my baby. One of those really vivid, SO REAL kind of dreams.

I woke up with an image stuck in my head of an ultrasound photo. A photo clearly depicting a pair of sweet baby legs with one rather conspicuous MALE MEMBER dangling out from between them.

Actually, it looked a lot like this:

What do you know? Sex dreams DO come true.

Which gives me high hopes for that OTHER one I had recently. About Jon Hamm....

The End of "It"

2009-08-03T11:25:00.009-05:00

Tomorrow is THE BIG DAY.

The day I find out who, exactly, is occupying my lower abdomen. And whether "it" shall heretofore be referred to as "he" or "she."

This is going to be my second, and last, baby. So tomorrow is important. Because tomorrow will define whether I am destined to play matriarchal referee to a clan of sweaty, wrestling boys, or whether I will be the beneficiary of a strident, strong-willed daughter who blames me for everything. ESPECIALLY her hair.

I can tell you which one my mother thinks I deserve.

Oh Brother

2009-07-31T08:57:00.020-05:00

Summer in St. Louis is a bit of a mirage.

Out your back window, the grass is green, the flowers are blooming, the birds are singing and the sun is shining. It beckons you to grab your kid and your dog and come out to play.

Thirty seconds later, you're swatting super-sized mosquitoes off your child's forehead and shouting "RUN FOR COVER!" as a frenzied, buzzing cloud of bloodsuckers drives you back indoors.

We've tried toxic yard treatments, citronella candles and stinky body sprays, and have even entertained the idea of enclosing the perimeter inside some sort of biospheric globe. So far, nothing works against the muggy, swamp-like insect breeding ground that is our yard from June to August.

So I've gotten really good at making "inside entertainment."

Last night, we simulated one of those "summer lawn movies" that are so popular in more hospitable climates by cranking our A/C, laying out sleeping bags and blankets in our living room and screening Hotel For Dogs. This is one of those movies that, as a parent, you KNOW you will be forced to watch at some point. And, while it's nothing you'd chose to watch on your own time, it is preferable BY FAR to the usual fare, in that there are no talking donkeys and flatulent 3D guinea pigs.

Well, okay, there ARE pooping dogs. I mean, you've gotta get the preschool crowd laughing somehow.

The plot of this movie centers around an orphaned brother and sister living in an unhappy foster home lorded over by a WRETCHED Lisa Kudrow (seriously? Who came up with the idea to cast "Phoebe" as a meanie? NOT believable). The kids start rescuing stray dogs and putting them up in a vacant hotel, outfitted with all sorts of inventive contraptions to keep the mutts entertained. (The unsung stars of this movie, by the way, are the dog trainers who taught five dogs to crap in a toilet on cue. GENIOUS).

Anyway, the plot comes to climax when the scheme is discovered by heartless grown-ups, the hotel is shut down by the cops, the mutts are headed for the gas chamber and the siblings have been ousted from their foster home to be split up into separate group homes. The music swells as the big sister apologizes to her little brother for letting him down, and the siblings say their tearful goodbyes as they're torn apart...FOREVER.

And that's when I feel a nudge from Ben, who is silently pointing at Jack. Jack, who is bravely trying to swipe away the TEARS streaming down his face.

And in my delicate emotional state, that sprung a well of tears in MY eyes, and I sniffled back, "Awwww...isn't he going to be SUCH a good big brother?"

Cue the eye-rolling from Ben.

Lest you think this is turning out to be the WORST KID'S MOVIE EVER, let me assure you that a kindly Don Cheadle (the kids' caseworker) saves the day, delivering a heartfelt speech that convinces a crowd of cold-souled New Yorkers to keep the hotel doors open for our four-legged friends. Followed by a hilarious montage of pampered pups getting massages and pedicures. And then the heartwarming moment when Don tells the kids he's going to adopt them both himself. No more tears.

That's when I felt a second nudge from Ben. He whispers, "Didn't Don Cheadle win and Oscar for Hotel for Dogs? Oh wait...that was HOTEL RWANDA."

Cue the eye-rolling again. This time by ME.

We've still got the whole month of August ahead, and those bugs aren't going anywhere, so I'm tempted to make these indoor "sleeping bag screenings" a regular thing. Especially now that I know Jack's such a cute little move crier.

Next up...Bambi.

Decade

2009-07-27T16:34:00.014-05:00

Ten years ago, I married my best friend in a small Ohio town on the hottest day of the year. In a chapel without air conditioning, wearing a white dress festooned with 30 pounds of sequins and lace.

Ben proposed to me more than 11 years ago on the Ponte Vecchio, a famously picturesque bridge in Florence, Italy. Afterwards, a little bit love-drunk and more than a little bit wine-drunk, we strolled the cobblestone streets and swore we'd come back to Italy for our five-year anniversary. And our tenth.

We actually did made it back for our fifth, due in large part to some obliging friends who happened to plan their own nuptials there, it the picturesque Tuscan village of Cortona.

I was optimistic about going back again for this year's milestone, even going so far as to plan where we'd stay. But with a flagging economy and a high-risk baby in utero, we had to sort of "downgrade" our plans from "go to Italy" to something more along the lines of "go to an Italian restaurant." But hey, these days, a couple child-free hours with my husband and a nice meal I didn't have to cook are enough to move the needle on my romance-a-meter.

During our anniversary meal, I amused Ben by recounting what I'd consider to be the "highlights reel" of our ten-year marriage. You know, the three-minute montage set to corny, upbeat music that plays in my head when I imagine the made-for-TV version of our life together. That first Christmas in Chicago when we cheerfully lugged a burly fir tree five city blocks in the freezing cold and wedged it into a corner of our overpriced shoebox of an apartment. Segueing to the two of us perched side-by-side in a dilapidated U-haul truck packed with our earthly belongings, full of optimism and bound for Denver. Flashing forward to us up on ladders at midnight, sweating in the summer heat as we painted over the hideous Pepto-pink walls of our first home. Fading to us lying in bed, Ben's hands on my stomach, feeling for our baby's mysterious thumps and kicks.

It's a heartwarming little scene, though the highlights reel misses some of the best parts. And by that I mean the WORST parts. Like the time the toilet broke and we both had the flu so bad we had to take turns puking in a bucket. Or the day we rushed Jack to the emergency room to stem the tide of blood gushing from his forehead after a playground altercation. Or that frightening night when we were very nearly stranded in our car during a sudden blizzard on a desolate, winding mountain road outside Taos.

That's marriage. Highlights and lowlights. Joy and fear. Laughter and tears. For better, for worse.

And, if you're lucky, no regrets.

Except, you know...maybe that 30-pound dress.

The Fear

2009-07-16T12:13:00.008-05:00

I've always made it pretty clear to anyone who will listen that I have a serious phobia related to veins. I know they're there. I know they're necessary. But I don't want to think about them. Or look at them. Or, God forbid...puncture them. EVER.

I can't watch bloody slasher films. I practically have to take a sick day when there's a blood drive at the office. In fact, I can barely even take my own pulse without getting woozy.

So I was not a happy camper, to say the least, to learn prior to this pregnancy that I have a blood clotting
disorder that, should I be so brazen as to conceive a child, would require me to inject myself with blood thinners. IN THE STOMACH. EVERY DAY. FOR A YEAR.

That sounded pretty scary. But not quite as scary as the words that jumped off the page when I read about what could happen if I didn't submit to the needle: Miscarriage. Stillborn. Preeclampsia. Pulmonary Embolism. Maternal Death.

Um...I guess I'll pick...the shots?

After some initial hyperventilation following those two pink lines (not "OMG, I'm pregnant!" but "OMG, now I'm going to have to start those "f$@King shots!"), I sucked it up and realized that this was something I was just going to have to get over and get through. And after a kindly nurse let me practice on an obliging kitchen sponge, I was ready to give it a try. ON MYSELF. With the goal of not passing out.

That was two months and 62 injections ago.

These days, I'm a stone-cold self-injecting MACHINE. Basically, each morning I just unwrap one of these:

Then I grab myself some baby belly, swab on some alcohol, clench my teeth and plunge that sucker into one of these:

(Disclosure...this is not my belly.
This is the belly of some other unfortunate pregnant lady who was foolish enough to post it on the Internet. I can't post a photo of my OWN belly because the stretch marks would BURN YOUR EYES.)

The medication stings like hell for about 20 seconds, during which I mutter a few choice swear words and hop around the bathroom. Later, I show my husband the bruises and guilt him into running out to get me a pint of Ben & Jerry's (You really MUST try their new Cake Batter flavor).

Between this and the monthly nine-vial blood draws, I think it's fair to say that I've very nearly conquered my phobia related to veins, needles and blood. Or at least downgraded it from a phobia to more of a strong aversion.

It makes me feel sort of powerful. Like maybe I ought to go out and rent the bloodiest slasher film I can find. Or get REALLY crazy and walk into a craft store to stare at some peg boards without feeling the urge to tear out my eyes.

Geez...I wish I had a therapist I could fire.

I'm Flor'd

2009-07-02T12:34:00.021-05:00

With about 18 months in the "new" house under our belt, Ben and I recently set out to redecorate (or, in fact, decorate for the first time) our living room.

The first step, as some of you will recall, was to liquidate some surplus inventory (Thank you, Craig's List!). Once that task was out of the way, it was time to survey they remains and begin to ACCESSORIZE.

In keeping with our mid-century Danish aesthetic and my desire for surroundings that are a fun and a little funky, we've been mixing nicer pieces from the likes of Room & Board (I keep their catalog under my mattress like porn) with modern accessories from favorite online shops and treasures from a few local flea markets. It's beginning to come together, into a look I think one might call "intentionally eclectic." A few of my favorite finds so far:

Cross-stitched "Bargello" pillows by Jonathan Adler

Vintage hand-shaped child's chair by Pedro Friedeberg

"Sun" Mask Fabric by Room & Board

The only decor issue we've had trouble agreeing on is the matter of a rug. I picked the last one, a black and white faux zebra number that was the bane of Ben's manly existence. Having unloaded that on an acquiescing co-worker a few weeks ago, we've been living with a bare floor in the living room. Which has caused two problems: 1) I can't kick Ben off the couch and force him to lie on the floor while I stretch out, and 2) Frankie can't get enough traction to jump up unto her favorite napping spot, which has forced her to suffer the HUMILIATION of sleeping on a dog bed.

How are such things to be borne?

Picking out a new rug we both can live with isn't as easy as it sounds. I promised Ben that this time we could do something without any kind of pattern. Something simple and neutral. (Fair enough...I have my garishly fabulous pillows). But he also insisted that it couldn't be too scratchy, too sheddy OR too shaggy. And then there was the issue of size. Given our long, narrow room, we needed something about 11 by 7 feet, which isn't exactly standard. And, with an anxiety-ridden dog, a scabby-kneed preschooler and a baby on the way, I pointed out that it needed to be completely cleanable AND impervious to urine, vomit, breast milk and pepperoni pizza. Tall order. We were stymied.

The solution came to me one day, quite miraculously, in the form of an unsolicited catalog. Flor!

Flor's modular carpet squares give you the freedom to custom-build an area rug in any color, texture or size by simply ordering and assembling a series of square-shaped tiles. And if the baby pukes on a square? Gross! But not a major problem. Just detach that square, clean it, and put it back. And if it's not cleanable? For less than $20, you can replace the single, ruined tile without needing a whole new rug.

After perusing about 19 different samples, Ben and I actually settled on the SAME one (Lamb Cord in "Suffolk White"...a soft, all-natural woolen number with kicky corduroy ribbing for her pleasure). Proving that we will, in fact, make it to our 10-year anniversary later this month.

And, like Ben, the new rug is just what I needed....rugged, snuggly, durable AND it doesn't look half bad in my living room, either.

People...I'm flor'd.

The Darndest Things

2009-06-25T09:43:00.007-05:00

The other day, I picked Jack up from preschool and told him I had something exciting to show him: Pictures of the new baby!

Jack's teacher offered her congratulations and we stood there chatting about the pregnancy for a few minutes, which was a little uncomfortable because I was now holding Jack, equating almost 40 pounds of dead weight balanced on one hip.

Then things got a lot MORE uncomfortable.

The teacher asked Jack a question about the baby, and he told her that he could feel it growing inside my tummy.

And then he reached over and began to lovingly pat and caress MY LEFT BOOB.

Um, a little lower, kid.

Bless that woman...she TRIED to keep a straight face for my sake, but this was too great a test for her professionalism and she dissolved into embarrassed giggles. All I could do is shrug, red-faced, and say "Kids! Don't they say the DARNDEST things?" And then get the hell out of there.

(In Jack's defense...ok, yes, my boobs ARE getting bigger. But STILL.)

Ah, the daily little indignities of pregnancy. Care to come along for the ride?

Say Hello To My Little Friend

2009-06-23T11:39:00.016-05:00

Not to be outdone by Jon & Kate and their "very special announcement," I have some news of my own.

Let's go ahead and take some of your questions.

Internet:

Holy crap! That's a baby! In YOU!

Lisa:

Dude, I KNOW.

Internet:

Huh. Well, that explains those unsightly baggy clothes. Here we thought it was all that cake.

Lisa: Oh, suck it.

Internet:

So, when are you due?

Lisa:
Christmas...JESUS H. CHRIST!

(To clarify...I'm not insinuating that the baby is, in fact, the second coming of Jesus Christ. I just can't believe I may end up eating a hospital's version of Christmas ham. Wrong on so many levels).

Internet: And how are you feeling?

Lisa: Oh, you know, the usual: Sick. Tired. Hungry. Ugly. Weepy. Happy.

Internet:

Are you going to find out the baby's sex?

Lisa:

Absolutely. You know I can't keep a secret, not even from myself, much less from YOU, Internet. Besides, we have about 29 tubs in our basement containing five years of little boys clothes. If this one's a girl, it's CLEARANCE TIME.

Internet:

Wait...what IS that? Has your belly button already popped?

Lisa:

No, no. That protrusion you see would be the rubber band holding my pants together. Careful...it may fly off and poke your eye out.

Internet: Is Jack excited to be a big brother?

Lisa:

He is. But only because we told him he gets to be the boss of this baby. What he doesn't know is by "boss" I mean 'diaper changer."

Internet:

So you have one well out of diapers, you have your life back, and now you're going to start ALL OVER again with another tiny, helpless baby? ARE YOU CRAZY?

Lisa:

Yes. Yes I am.

If You Seek Lisa

2009-06-22T13:14:00.019-05:00

I am not SO self-absorbed as to assume you've all been personally impacted by how infrequently I've been updating this blog lately. In fact, the only person who probably noticed was my friend Leslie, who gently prodded me via email last week to let me know I'd been missed (I think her exact words were "UPDATE YOUR FREAKIN' BLOG SO I CAN GET THAT "PART TIME LOVER" SONG OUT OF MY DAMN HEAD.")

Okay, so...BUSTED. I've been a little "out of pocket" as of late (don't you hate it when people say "out of pocket?" What does that even mean?)

Let's catch you up on what you missed:

We celebrated my dad's 61st birthday by breaking
out the leftover pirate piñata from Jack's party
last month. Jack beat that thing to a bloody pulp while yelling "THIS IS HARD CORE! HARD CORE!" Then he tore off its head, speared it with the piñata stick and paraded it around the village, followed by cake.
My brother and sister-in-law came to visit. And bought a house. Not here...in Minneapolis (BOO). My SIL was also accepted into her MBA program of choice (YAY). Brains, beauty AND great hair. May he endeavor to deserve her.
I spent two weeks working around-the-clock (literally, some days) doing Website/social media stuff for the launch of a certain little-known mobile device. Let's call it..."MyPhone." During this time I neglected my usual eight-hour sleep requirement and standards of personal hygiene in order to field 2 a.m. tweets threatening to rape me and/or wishing death upon my children.
I turned 34. A whole year older. But still younger than most of you bitches. So there.

Oh yeah...I had some cake.
Ben and I travelled to Chicago for the wedding of my fabulous friend Kim. As a bonus, we got to stalk our old apartment AND throw it down with my college besties and their better halves. And by "it" I mean cake.
While in Chicago, Ben got the greatest possible Father's Day gift...and that would be a weekend without fathering. But lest you think us callous, selfish parents, let me assure you that we made it home in time for a celebratory Father's Day dinner with our wee one. Complete with cake.

I think that pretty much brings us up to speed. What about you? What have YOU been eating?

I mean...doing?

Part Time Lover

2009-06-03T21:37:00.014-05:00

In my five-plus years as a working mom, I've run in to her from time to time. And even when I like her, I always sort of hate her. You know... THAT woman. The one that has managed to score the most elusive, highly-coveted position in corporate America: The flexible work arrangement. The part time job.

You've met her, haven't you? The one who's managed to keep one hand firmly planted on the upper rungs of the corporate ladder while wrangling a kid (or two, or three) with the other? The one who canoodles with clients over lunch on Thursdays and consorts with farmer's market vendors on Fridays? The one who's figured out a way to stomach a pay cut without resorting to pleather shoes or giving up organic nonfat lattes? The one who makes it look OH-SO-EASY?

(It probably doesn't help that she is usually also unnaturally thin with extraordinarily cooperative hair. WHAT GIVES, ROBOT LADY?)

For a long time, I have assumed she had something I didn't. Some boring but exceedingly rich Wall Street-type husband. A trust fund. An Internet porn side gig. Or maybe just an extra maternal chromosome that made being away from her child ALL DAY unbearable.

Then on one solitary, soul-searching six-hour car drive, it occurred to me that maybe she DID, in fact, have something I didn't have: The gumption to figure out how to make it work, create a plan and then just ASK for it.

HUH.

Well, what do you know? That actually worked.

A few months later, I AM her. I still have the job I love, but on a slightly reduced schedule. I still have great benefits and a salary we can live on, with a few budgetary tweaks (like cutting back on childcare costs, as opposed to say, great shoes or lattes.) But now I can ALSO pick my son up from school...make dinner (really!) and consume it at an actual table with the rest of my family...take the dog for a long evening walk so she'll wear out and stop that damn barking...maybe even catch a few excessively bad reality TV shows without felling th eneed to manically fast forward through every commerical. All in a day's "work."

Three days into my new schedule, I can tell it won't be as easy as SHE made it look. Already, I'm mourning that purchase I probably won't be able to make. Already, I'm bending those boundaries and agreeing to work a little later, a little longer, than I probably should.

But then I think about the sleeping boy upstairs who ran to greet me at the end of his school day. And then I scan the three dirty lasagna dishes scattered across the dining room table and smile at how I tricked Jack into eating his green beans tonight. Then I reach down to pet Frankie, wiped after our turn around the block and snoring away at my side. And then I look at Ben's face and read the relief written all over it. That's when I know for sure. It was the right thing to do, and the right time to do it. And heck, it seems to be WORKING.

I feel like I've won the lottery. I AM THAT WOMAN.

Except for the part about being unnaturally thing with extraordinarily cooperative hair.

Hmmm...maybe I should ask for THAT next!

30-Day Challenged

2009-05-26T22:19:00.009-05:00

Okay, so last month I BOLDLY issued myself a 30-Day Challenge. That would be to work out, every day, for thirty days.

I want you to know that I DID work out, every day. For 12 days. And then I had to go out of town for a few days. And then I spilled gasoline on my gym shoes. And then I went on vacation. And I think you know where I'm going with this.

Techically, the challenge was not a total failure. My goal was to get back in the habit of dragging my jiggles to the gym every morning before work. And, in fact, I HAVE gone to the gym nearly every work day for the past month. It's those non-work days that tripped me up, and by God, there were a lot more of those than usual.

But I'm a woman of my word. I told you the price of failure would be to post a photo of myself in my new bathing suit. And so, without further adieu, here it is:

WHAT? I never said HOW MUCH of it I had to show, did I?

Oh, shut up.

You Know Your Kid is Five When...

2009-05-26T21:47:00.009-05:00

He starts locking the stall in public bathrooms and insists you wait outside.
You spend the entire car ride home from grandma's explaining how, and why, airbags work. IN DETAIL (you will have to make some parts up).
He calls you out for eating his candy. And tells dad.
He starts sentences with the phrase, "When I was a baby..."
He watches the "Sex and the City" movie with you, and asks incredibly astute questions ("But WHY doesn't that man want to marry her?)

Mother of Invention

2009-05-06T13:16:00.022-05:00

As I contemplate the approach of yet another Mother's Day, I can't help but think...Jack sure is LUCKY to have me as a mom.

I mean, mom's are always saying how they'd "do anything" for their kids. But me? I've put my money where my mouth is.

Well, technically there was no money involved. Which, when you think about it, actually makes what I've done for my child all the more heroic.

You see, Jack is about to turn five (FIVE! My BABY is turning FIVE!), and as such he is coming of that age when a boy realizes he needs his own space..."a room of one's own," if you will. And, being a boy, that realization can ONLY manifest as a tree-top fort filled with bugs, slugs and pirate bloodlust.

From the start, I was amenable to the idea. A backyard fort where he'll want to spend every waking hour? Out of the house? Out of my hair? In lieu of watching SpongeBob Squarepants at ear-splitting volume until our brains bleed? What's not to like?

Well, it turns out there was ONE thing not to like. The price tag. I checked out a few catalogs, and most of these "play systems" cost more than I spent on my first car. And my second car. COMBINED.

But you know what? My kid wanted one. NEEDED one. And I was going to get it for him.

I started out looking to my old standby, Craig's List, the rationale being that people are always putting these behemoths in their backyards, only to find that their kids outgrow them milliseconds later and permanently retreat to their bedrooms to commence listening to heavy metal. Surely, these desperate parents would want to sell me their slightly used "play haven" on the cheap so they could put up that gazebo they always dreamed of.

As it turns out, not many of them did. And the few deals I DID find were a little too "Kountry Kabin" for my refined architectural tastes (plus one "dad" tried to lure me to a hotel for a massage and complimentary strangulation...SO glad the feds finally caught that guy!)

I was not going to be so easily dissuaded. I was just going to have to get a little more inventive.

Ever heard that saying, "look no further than your own backyard?" Well, my backyard was empty, but I observed that my neighbor's backyard was NOT. In fact, he had a MOST EXCELLENT play system. And I noticed that his going-on-tween daughter wasn't touching it with a ten-foot pole.

If 15+ years of shoe sale shopping have taught me anything, it's how to spot an opportunity.

Master negotiator that I am...I crossed the street and made my pitch. And by the end of that conversation, he'd agreed to GIVE it to me. FOR FREE. That is, IF I could find a way to dismantle the beast and get it the hell out of his yard.

Of COURSE I could find a way..."Ben? Honey? Could you come here a minute???"

Three weeks of hauling, sanding, staining, staking and masterful engineering later...Jack has his fort.

And I have the satisfaction of knowing that I am, as suspected, the best damn mom on the block.

Not to mention the added benefit of a blissfully quiet house! Hear that silence? Ahhhhh....

Happy Mother's day, indeed.