Write Softly

Check out my new digs!

2010-08-16T19:13:00.001-07:00

Ok, everyone ... I'm both sad and excited to let you know that I'll be posting new entries on writesoftly over at a new address ...

writesoftly.tumblr.com

The new design has me excited to post again, and I feel like I'm ready for a new challenge. The lovely Michele at screamymimi.com (formerly of thetomatobear.blogspot.com) has kindly offered to help me get set up, so while it's ready for you to poke around, know that it will continue to grow and change. For instance, I want to try to put together a way for you to leave comments there -- tumblr doesn't automatically allow them.

Thank you for reading my posts here! This site will continue to live here as an archive of former posts, so you can always come back to find something you want to revisit, but the new stuff will be at the NEW writesoftly.

Bookmark it, favorite it, write it on your palm, make it an icon on your iPhone -- husband tells me that when you do that with the new site, the icon on your phone is MY FACE. Which is kind of cool and really intimidating. I hope I picked a decent profile pic.

Hope to see you there soon!

Just because.

2010-08-06T20:49:00.000-07:00

Baby blue

2010-08-06T18:16:00.000-07:00

That bow on the top of her head makes her look like a Christmas present.

Best. Present. Ever.

And when remembering makes me sad ...

2010-08-06T18:07:00.000-07:00

... I can always count on my husband, boy and girl to know just how to make it all right again.

I remember. I always will.

2010-08-03T10:33:00.000-07:00

Dear baby,

It's been a year. A year since I realized I wouldn't get to meet you.

A year in which I've moved into a new home, welcomed your baby sister, and gotten to know your big brother even better.

A year during which I've missed you constantly.

You're not here with me, but I know you can hear me, and I know you know that I love you. I think about you all the time. I wonder whether you would have been a girl or a boy (regardless, you have a brother AND a sister! Isn't that wonderful?), what you would have looked like, what your personality would have been like, whether you would have been a good sleeper, what you would have been when you grew up. When I'm out with the baby now, and people say, "Is this your first?" I always cringe inwardly. Because the logical answer, the expected one, would be to say, "No, this is my second baby," since the baby is one of two children who live at home with me and your dad, which is of course what the questioner wants to know. But I always answer very carefully with, "No, my son is two-and-a-half," because that's true. But it's also true that your sister is my THIRD.

You were here. And then you went away. But you were, all the same. You were my second. I never, ever forget that.

For a while I spent a lot of time looking at jewelry that's designed to help a mother remember a lost child. There were rings, pendants, bracelets, charms. I thought about ordering something, and wearing it every day, to have something to look at and touch when I missed you, to have something to carry with me. But I couldn't find anything that seemed perfect, and now I know that's because I have everything I need to remember you. You're in my heart, just as you always were, just as you were even before last year. The difference is, now I know you're there. So I'll leave the necklaces and such to other moms -- I've got you with me all the time, always.

I asked your dad once whether he thinks we'll get to meet you someday. I believe we will. I don't know what you will look like, or how old you'll be in heaven (what a limited concept, isn't it, for heaven? I know there is no age or appearance there, and yet I can't help but wonder), but I do know that I'll know it's you right away. I'll know it's you, and I'll get to open my arms to you and hold you close.

I know right now you have everything you need, that you don't need me. But your brother and sister do. So when you see me taking care of them, know that you're with me too, and that I'll be loving you with every act of mothering I show to the boy and girl who are here with me now.

And put in a good word for me and your dad and brother and sister, ok?

I love you. I'll see you someday.

Always,

mommy

Why I wake up laughing most days

2010-07-30T13:21:00.000-07:00

Because this kind of conversation, first thing in the morning, is pretty hard to NOT find hilarious. And when I say first thing, I MEAN first thing. The boy sat upright in the master bed, surveyed the room, and launched into this line of questioning in a still-sleepy, gravelly voice.

"Mom. Mom. MOM. What you doing?"

"I'm changing the baby's diaper."

"Why, mom?"

"Because she pooped."

"Oh. [pause] Yellow poop?"

[struggling to answer as gravely as the question was asked, you know, out of courtesy] "Yes, son. Yellow poop."

"Not brown poop?"

[starting to lose the battle] "Um, no. Not brown poop."

"Oh. [another pause] I have brown poop, mom?"

"[AHEM] Yes. Yes, son, your poop is brown."

[And I should have seen it coming.] "Why, mom?"

"Just ... just because."

Things I have said to myself or others since my daughter was born

2010-07-03T20:56:00.000-07:00

"What do you mean, training bras are PADDED now?"

"Oh, geez, I'm going to have to tell her about periods."

"My God, she's beautiful."

"I just posted a picture of her on facebook wearing only a diaper. That will be the LAST time her nipples are on the Internet, as long as I have anything to do with it."

"Guess I better read up on this Gardasil vaccine."

"What if she wants to have her belly button/nose/cartilage/eyebrow pierced?"

"I mean it. She really is gorgeous."

"When will I start letting her wear makeup?"

"When will I let her start dating?"

"Oh, Lord -- DATING."

"I wonder if she'll let me help her pick her wedding dress."

"I wonder if she'll breastfeed her kids."

"I know I'm biased, but she's SO BEAUTIFUL."

"I LOVE HER SO MUCH."

I thought it would have been louder.

2010-06-23T21:22:00.000-07:00

Now I know how it sounds when your heart brims so full of quiet, perfect love and joy that it breaks.

It's a tiny, liquid popping sound.

I hear it every time I look at these pictures of the first time my boy met my girl.

I will never, ever forget how, the first time he ever saw and held her, when he would have had every right to be standoff-ish, threatened, squirrely or even outright mad ...

Instead, he smiled. And kissed her head. And handled her as if she were made of glass and he wanted to protect her.

I am blessed beyond measure in my children.

A Clorox kind of day

2010-06-08T11:34:00.000-07:00

Some nights, when my husband goes up to our two-year-old (who will awaken once a night and need someone to come and soothe him), the poor man falls asleep with our son and wakes up only in time to go to work. Monday morning, however, it wasn't husband's trusty iPhone alarm that awakened him, but the sound of a two-year-old getting sick in bed.

Happy Monday! Here's some of last night's dinner, dad.

The master bedroom is right underneath boy's room, so I knew that something was amiss, because suddenly I heard a lot of adult footsteps, some toddler wailing, and the sound of water running. I had been feeding girl when it all started up, and I imagined that boy's diaper had probably leaked, and that husband was changing it and cleaning up wet sheets. When husband appeared at my door a few minutes later, though, he greeted me with a phrase no one wants to hear at 4 a.m.: "He threw up."

My capable husband handled the carnage, and brought the boy downstairs for a sip of watered-down Gatorade. As our son took his first taste of "juice," husband and I discussed the event, and when I learned that boy's retching bore a striking resemblance to the last time he'd had a stomach virus, I snatched the poor kid's sippy cup away from him so fast that he looked baffled. Because I knew whatever he was drinking now would come back up in about ten minutes. It took twenty, but it did.

And so we did what parents do -- called the doctor, dug out the crackers, doled out sips of water at half-hour intervals, and mopped up the vomit that occurred at intermittent times over the next few hours. As well as the diarrhea. Because vomit, apparently, wasn't exciting enough for us.

To be fair, my husband handled the lion's share of the mess. Since we both were terrified of our newborn catching the bug, I tried to keep my distance from what I imagined to be the seething nest of germs that was my son. So husband held bowls, wiped tears, gave hugs, changed diapers and did all the things that I wanted to do for our poor boy but didn't dare.

As we all know, though, there IS justice in the world. My turn was coming.

Later in the day, RIGHT after boy's diaper had leaked ON THE COUCH -- yay -- and while husband was doggedly scrubbing the cushions with a rag soaked in Resolve, I was changing our daughter's diaper in the master bedroom. Her changing table is right next to our windows which overlook a lovely golf course view. On quiet days like yesterday, we sometimes see deer grazing along the far side of the course. Their graceful forms never fail to arrest us, and it happens often enough that we keep an eye open for the sight when we pass any back window. I'd spotted a doe earlier in the day, and had turned my head to see if it was still there, or if it had been joined by a fawn or two. Unwisely, I chose to do this while my daughter's diaper was off.

Suddenly, I heard a quick squirting noise, and felt a suspicious and startling warmth on my shirt and jeans. I looked down to discover what I already knew -- that I was covered in yellow breast-milk-poo. As any of you know who have had babies, a parent gets really used to dealing with newborn baby poop, because you're faced with it SO MANY TIMES a day, so I wasn't terribly grossed out. Still, it was human feces. And no one wants to wear that as an accessory, no matter how cute the person is who produced it.

What was so impressive was the fact that she'd really just hit me. Her changing table pad was spotless. Basically, I'd been spray-tanned in poop. When my husband heard my exclamation, he had a feeling he knew what had happened, and started yelling, "Did she get you? DID SHE GET YOU?!" He came running in to see the source of my surprise, and when he got a look at me, he laughed so hard he had to sit down.

So I stripped and added my clothes to the overworked washing machine, set it to "hot" and thanked God for running water and soap. And vowed to keep my eyes on the task at hand next time, and to work more quickly.

Daughter

2010-06-03T12:16:00.001-07:00

Dear tiny, breathtakingly beautiful little girl who is mine,

You're here. You're really here.

I have a daughter.

I knew it would be you, sweet girl. For the last four weeks of my pregnancy, I kept thinking things like, "Wow, she's getting big," or "I wonder when she'll get here?" I knew it would be you.

And then, on May 7 at 8:07 in the morning, you arrived. The doctor delivered you, and you let out a yell, and your daddy said, "That ... sounds like a girl." And when the doctor told us he was right, we both started to cry. Because we were so happy that it was you, daughter. I lay there on the operating table, and I laughed with delight, and my tears of joy ran unchecked into my ears.

There is so much I want to tell you. I want to tell you that my first thought, strangely and unexpectedly when I heard you were a girl, was that you would attend Rice University someday. I actually thought, instantly, "She's going to Rice." But of course I want you to go wherever you want to go to school, provided that it's a school that will challenge you academically and socially and emotionally to be a better, more interesting, more well-rounded person. I want to tell you that though you weighed a scant ounce less than your brother did when he was born, you seemed ever so much tinier when I held you. I want to tell you that your daddy and I looked at your face, and knew instantly what we should name you -- the two girl names we'd walked into the operating room with never had a chance -- you just didn't LOOK like an Emma or a Claire. I want to tell you that from the second you were born, you were never away from me for an instant while we were in the hospital -- you wheeled with me into the recovery room, held snug in my arms, and then came up to our room with me, and slept beside me in your bassinet or in my arms the whole time we were in the hospital. For the next four weeks at home, I was never further from you than in the next room, my love. I was always there to watch over you and listen for you and be there when you needed me. Even when I finally ran out to the grocery store and left you in your Nana's capable hands, I must have called home to check on you three times in that hour I was away.

I want to tell you that you are gorgeous. Your hair is so incredibly soft, so shiny and dark. Your eyes are like glimmering black jewels, they shine so brightly. You smell how an angel must smell, lovey -- sweet and fresh and new and pure. Everything about you is round and perfect and smooth, and I can hardly keep myself from consuming you, because you're so deliciously yummy.

Most of all, I want to tell you that since I first saw your face, first KNEW of you when I heard you cry, I have been happier than I ever could have dreamed possible. My heart feels like a water balloon, filled almost to the point of breaking -- I have to hold it quivering in two hands, and at any second, I feel as if it might burst, drenching me in liquid joy. Being near you, getting to know you, having the care of you, having the gift of loving you -- getting to be your mommy -- all of it is a privilege I can barely acknowledge because it's so precious that I'm in constant awe of its perfection.

Just like you. Perfect.

I love you, honey. I am so very, deeply, incredibly glad you're here.

Love,

mommy.

Tomorrow morning, you will be here.

2010-05-06T21:42:00.000-07:00

Dearest little one,

It's late at night and I should be getting some rest for tomorrow, but I am bound and determined to write to you first. I've known you now for almost 39 weeks, and we've been through a lot together. So before we officially meet, face-to face-tomorrow morning, I thought I'd tell you what's in my heart tonight.

It's been a rough ride, hasn't it? Early on, I was so sick, and I know it felt like it would never end. Once I felt better around week 19 or 20, we both got really swept up into keeping up with your older brother. As you'll soon see for yourself, he's a bundle of energy, and between his music classes and playing outside and train table time and having fun with your cousin and our neighborhood and family friends and general running around, there's plenty to do when we're with him.

That's the thing, though. We've been busy with him, certainly. But there was never a moment that I wasn't aware of you, that my thoughts were far from you or how you were growing, that I wasn't looking forward to meeting you and learning about who you are. Your dad and I are so very, deeply, truly excited to hold you tomorrow, to touch your little face and tiny hands, to marvel at you and start to get to know you. And so is your brother. When he woke up today, he leaned over toward me and said, "Mom, did you come from doctor?" I said no, that I wouldn't go until tomorrow, and he finished my thought for me. "Baby's coming out! Gonna sleep right there!" And he pointed happily to your bassinet beside our bed.

Sweet baby, of course we wonder if you're a boy or a girl. It's been the subject of much debate among your family. Sometimes dad and I get a girl vibe, sometimes a boy vibe. My own dad thinks you're a girl, and your Papa (dad's dad) just KNOWS you're a boy. Your brother has pretty much insisted that he's getting a sister. Regardless of the fact of your gender, though, we are so anxious to hold you in our arms and have the chance to love you in person.

And that's what I want you to know -- that we have loved you and wanted you and been excited about your arrival since the very beginning. Going from a family of three to a family of four was something we've always wanted to experience, and we know that God has sent exactly you to us to help us do that. YOU. No other baby. No other child. No other person. As the song goes, it had to be you, and that's among the trillion things that makes you special to us already.

So tonight -- rest. Sleep. Snuggle down where you are and relax. Tomorrow will be a big day. It'll most likely be confusing a bit, with all the bright lights and loud noises, but just listen, listen for my voice, and for your dad's, and for your brother's. You've been hearing us all along, and you'll know us tomorrow by the love and joy in our voices as we greet and talk to you.

You'll never be alone, sweet one. We will always be with you, to take care of you, to keep you company, to learn about who you are, to love you.

Listen for my voice. I'll be calling your name tomorrow.

Love,

mommy.

Just in case you wonder, son ...

2010-04-27T21:30:00.000-07:00

My kind, sweet, brilliant son,

(Sigh.)

The last letter I wrote to commemorate your monthly birthday was when you turned 19 months old. Since then, you've experienced a million tiny milestones I should have captured immediately, like turning two, peeing in the potty for the first time (not that it meant anything like actual potty training, as it turned out), graduating to a "big-boy bed," starting your first formal instruction of any kind (your once-a-week music class, which you adore), sleeping through the night, feeding yourself reliably with a teeny toddler fork or spoon, choosing the restaurant where we had dinner as a family ("French toast restaurant, dad! Want french toast restaurant! No barbecue!" And so of course we went to Denny's), and so much more.

As important as all of them were, as big as they felt and as much as we hooted and hollered and celebrated you and your amazing development, we're about to find ourselves in the midst of an even bigger one, son -- your baby brother or sister is scheduled to arrive on May 14, just a couple weeks away, and may actually show up even earlier. As it is, I find myself wondering whether each shampoo will be my last before the baby comes, or whether I'll have time to finish ALL the laundry before my water breaks. It seems so very close now. Once the baby arrives to join us, I have the feeling that I won't have a chance to tell you what I want to say, so I wanted to get it down tonight.

We've talked a great deal about your sibling's impending arrival, son. We've talked about how the baby won't be able to say what he or she needs, how there'll be crying, how we'll handle it, how you can help get us diapers for the baby or share your toys. We've talked about how it's ok that the baby will be noisy sometimes, and that mommy will have to hold the baby a lot because he or she can't sit up or crawl or walk like you can. There is so much you seem to understand about what will be changing, and yet I know for a fact that I can't expect you to grasp it all, of course. I know there will be rocky days, and times when you just want me and I can't scoop you up right away that very second, and that there will be days when we all wonder what, exactly, we've gotten ourselves into.

That's ok, son. I'm telling you now, and I'm telling myself the same thing. It's ok when it gets hard. It won't be hard forever. We'll figure out how to get through it, and then how to make it work, and then eventually we'll wonder what we ever did without the baby around.

You've told me a few things in the last weeks that I know are a sign of your two-minds-about-this-baby-thing. When you saw me swaddle your little friend Z, who was 11 weeks old when he came to visit us, you said, "Mommy wrap ME up. I wanna be baby too." When we talked about the baby in my tummy, and how it would soon emerge the way Z had from HIS mommy's tummy, you demanded to be the baby in mom's tummy, too. So we pretended. I swaddled you, I cradled you, I rocked you on my lap and buried my nose in your hair and hugged you tight to me, just as if you were a baby again.

And here's the truth of it. I told you this the other day, have been saying it silently since you were born, as a matter of fact. You will always be my baby, son. Always. It doesn't matter whether you're learning to ride a tricycle or starting preschool or rolling your eyes at me or driving off to college. You will always be my first, my beautiful boy, my heart. There's going to be a lot of attention on the new baby soon, I know, but never for a second do I want you to think that it means you are any less to me than you ever have been. It will always be you who taught me that yes, indeed, I was able to be a mother (something I always doubted about myself while I was growing up), and that as a matter of fact, I was naturally inclined to adore the job. It will always be you who helped me learn how to give myself completely to you, my son, but still be enough of me for your dad and myself. It will always be you who turned my parents and your dad's into grandparents for the very first time, and our brothers into uncles. And now -- now we get to watch you learn how to be a big brother, and it's a transformation we are eager to witness, because we're so sure you'll do it so well, just as you've handled the changes in your life to this point.

You mean so much to me, to your dad, to all of us. There is no me without you anymore, child. So know this -- you have made me who I am. The new baby will help me do it all over again too, and I'm excited for it now, because you helped me see that it was a beautiful metamorphosis to become a mother, not a scary thing (well, it WAS scary, but you made it so much easier).

I love you. I have loved you since I first learned you were coming to me. I will always love you, more and more all the time. You make my heart grow in so many ways, my life better for so many reasons. No matter how crazy it gets around here, remember that.

Always,

mommy.

I'm having a "glass is half-empty" moment. Bear with me.

2010-04-15T21:25:00.000-07:00

Being pregnant is a special time.

It's a time when you can feel amazingly confident in your body's ability to adapt and change in ways as old as humanity. It's a time when you can revel in your inherent ability to bring about new life, to nurture a brand new person. You can rejoice in your strength and unique gifts as a woman. You can enjoy the glow of happiness and serenity that all of that knowledge gives you, and finally understand your true inner beauty.

That is, if you're someone else.

Before I proceed, let me assure you that I am fully touched by the blessing that pregnancy is, I really am. I have dear friends who struggle with fertility issues, who would give their right arms to be in the kind of temporary discomfort in which I find myself right now. I have never been happier or more fulfilled in my life than I am right now as a mother, and the knowledge that I'm getting to experience the journey again is heartbreakingly, profoundly beautiful to me.

But as all of us know, blessings are rarely brilliant gems of purely gorgeous beauty. They can sometimes be cloaked in some pretty off-putting stuff, as a matter of fact.

I have never been one of those lucky women who loves to be pregnant, who adores her fertile body in its new rounded shapes, who sees lushness and life in her added weight and contours. I've never been one of the women who feels empowered by the experience of pregnancy, or who finds her mind at its sharpest or her strength at its peak while she's carrying her child within. That's probably because I've never been one of those women who never had morning sickness, either. In my snarkier moods, I could probably call those women some imaginative names.

Who am I? I'm one of the women who loves motherhood but finds pregnancy 10% amazing, 10% "interesting," and 80% distinctly uncomfortable. I'm one of the women who spent the first 19 weeks of her pregnancy either having just thrown up or preparing to do it again. No exaggeration. I'm one of the women who was almost crippled by bone-deep fatigue in the first and third trimesters, one of the women who, just weeks away from delivery now, finds her child's movements more painful than pleasant. (Seriously. What are those elbows and knees freaking made of, anyway?) I'm one of the unlucky women who has and continues to battle postpartum depression or anxiety, who now understands the full meaning of the compound word "heartburn," who (though previously a huge fan of food and eating) has to make herself consume some food-related item several times a day since absolutely nothing sounds appealing, who hates the fact that she's resigned to frequent mild incontinence, who cannot imagine ever being in control of her bladder again, who lays awake in bed for up to two hours in the middle of almost every night for no good reason except for the fact that her hormones tell her she should be awake and worrying about something, who regularly sweats through her pajamas and awakens hot, damp and annoyed, who can fall asleep at 10:15 p.m. and be up to pee at least four times by midnight.

I am that woman.

In other words, I'm a mom-to-be.

And when I think about it, when I really reflect on it, the only truly important word in that last sentence is "mom." That's why this isn't my first time down this path. That's why I'm not at all sure it will be my last.

Because moms? They do what they have to. Not because they're martyrs, and not because they're heros, or superhuman, or different than anyone else.

It's because there is NEVER, EVER a question of whether or not it's worth it.

AH. NOW I get it.

2010-04-15T20:59:00.000-07:00

What people say to pregnant women:

"You look gorgeous!"

What pregnant women think they really mean:

"I'm supposed to say this to be nice to fat women who are going to have babies."

What people say to pregnant women:

"You have a glow."

What pregnant women think they mean:

"Your skin is actually shining. A blotting paper wouldn't hurt you."

What people say to pregnant women:

"It's such a special time in your life, isn't it?"

What pregnant women think they mean:

"How could you not love losing total control of your body in every way imaginable, for three quarters of a year, and then losing total control of your *life* for the next two years at least?"

Shifting boundaries

2010-03-29T18:00:00.000-07:00

It was one of the things I never thought would change when we had kids. But it did.

Before boy came along, husband and I were dedicated snugglers. I really wish there'd been an Olympic category for the sport. We would have been the uncontested champs. Every night when we climbed into bed, we'd both maneuver to the middle of the delightfully massive king-size bed and wrap arms around each other to chat until we were both too sleepy to keep talking. It was always a "thing" of mine that I hated to say or hear "good night," because that meant that we were done talking. So we just talked until one of us drifted off, usually with my head nestled against his chest and his arm around me. The sense of peace I got from those few minutes each night was unobtainable in any other area of my life, and it was important to both of us to reconnect every evening through touch and whispered giggles and conversation.

And then boy was born.

My anxiety when the baby arrived was at an all-time high, due to lots of factors (like the fact that the baby was a truly sporadic and high-need sleeper, requiring lots of holding and rocking to fall and stay asleep, not to mention my OWN sleep deprivation and then, of course, the post-partum depression). As a result, I trained myself to sleep lightly, perched quite literally on the edge of the bed. Not only was I acres away from the snuggle zone in the middle of the bed, I was also turned away from it (and my husband) so that I could face the baby monitor, its green glow casting strange flickering lights on my closed eyelids as I tried to snooze and still remain on alert. Anything I said to my husband during those nights had to be tossed over my shoulder at him for him to hear it, and usually repeated once or twice to clarify what sounded like mumbling.

A great deal of time has passed since those early rough days of boy's fragmented sleep, and thankfully, over the last three months, he's turned into a great little sleeper. He goes to sleep more easily, goes BACK to sleep during the night without assistance, and generally gives us no reason to complain. It was a long time coming, and yet it couldn't have come at a better time, now that we're less than seven weeks away from our next baby's scheduled C-section. Now it's my husband who keeps the monitor on his side of the bed, since it's he who arises the one time in the night that boy awakens and needs help falling asleep. Husband sneaks upstairs, scoops our delicious child into his arms, and carries the heavy bundle of him downstairs to finish the night with us. It's wonderful and much easier on me, and now I finally have a brief respite of what should be great nights of sleep to enjoy before the next baby arrives.

You'd think I would have migrated back to the middle of the bed. That I would have learned to sleep once again facing my husband, would have reestablished our snuggle time now that our nights are so much more conducive to it. But no. I still perch on the edge of my side of the bed, facing out into the room and toward the bedroom door.

I actually caught myself doing it the other night, and spent a restless hour or so pondering the reasons why. Why do I still do that? Why am I so closed off to what used to be the most peaceful and contented moments of my day? And truly -- what am I communicating to my husband when I do this?

In an amazing conversation with him, I was able to articulate to him what happens to me in the evenings. After a day of constant stimulation and intimacy with our son, I am simply touched out. I have no space that's my own, with a two-year-old as my shadow. He comes into the bathroom when I'm using it. He wanders around me while I get dressed for the day, clinging to my bare legs and laughing while I try to step into maternity jeans. He watches me blow my nose. He comments on my toothbrushing, my hairbrushing and my choice of underwear. I catch in my hand the food he spits out of his mouth. I change diapers several times a day, along with the wrestling matches that that entails. I snuggle, I kiss, I hug, I carry, I lift, I play, I clean. And it's all the most fulfilling way I could imagine spending my energy, and I wouldn't change a thing about it.

But it's also true that I DO spend that energy. I felt so validated to see the following excerpt in Parenting Magazine this month (the article was about sex drive, but it makes sense in the context I'm using it, too):

Stella Resnick, Ph.D., author of The Pleasure Zone: Why We Resist Good Feelings [notes that g]iving your kids all the cuddling they require (even grade-schoolers need plenty) increases your levels of oxytocin, a bonding hormone. This makes you feel totally close to them -- but it also decreases testosterone, which plays a huge part in revving up your sex drive. Since women tend to spend more time with kids than men do, and have less testosterone in the first place, their levels of this horny hormone tend to drop even more after children come along. The result: By bedtime, the last thing you may feel like is even more physical contact.

When boy goes to bed for the night, I finally have a moment or two to reestablish my boundaries for myself. And unfortunately that translates into some pretty clear line-drawing down the center of the master bed. As I told my husband, I feel like the center of the bed is reserved for the boy, like it's waiting for the time of night he'll need it. And since it's boy's space, I don't want to be in it even when he's not there, because I know once he arrives, he'll be reaching out from that space to lay a hand on his mommy to reassure himself that she's there.

Thank God for understanding husbands. He said that the explanation made total sense to him, and he completely got where I was coming from. For me, though, I can see that in a few short weeks, the demands on my energy are going to increase exponentially, and that I need to (finally) take my family and friends up on their offers of help when possible. If I get some space to myself during the day, maybe there'll be less of a need for me to retreat from other people (like the man I love more than anyone else in the world) in the evening.

It's back. I guess it never really left.

2010-03-14T21:11:00.000-07:00

The weird thing about the way I do postpartum depression is that it's so inconsistent. For months, I'll be great. Awesome. On top of things. Getting errands ticked off the to-do list, doing laundry, keeping up with the boy. And then all of a sudden I'm just ... not.

Even now, some days I'm drunk on nothing but air and laughter and gazing at my giving and supportive and freaking good-looking husband, and the sheer heartbreaking perfection of my son's long eyelashes and spiky hair. I'm happy. I feel good, like myself. And then some days, I just cry. And I can never tell why. My husband and my mom both inquire gently, lovingly -- "What's wrong? Talk to me." But there's never an answer.

I have to make myself eat. Nothing seems appealing enough to drag out of the pantry or fridge, let alone prepare and consume. I find myself eating a Luna bar as a meal, choking down some water when I think of it, making myself have a piece of toast when boy does, just to keep the pregnancy I'm-too-hungry nausea at bay.

If I think to myself, "I should take a shower," it seems like too much work. If I muster up the energy to actually get into the shower, I never want to get out. The inertia of this depression is incredibly powerful.

I want to tell someone I feel horrible. But I don't know how. Because I know they'd say, "Why?" And there's no reason. My life is amazing. I live in a home I love, with the only man I ever felt safe with and truly loved by, one I love more than I know how to express. I have a healthy, delightful, intelligent, sweet two-year-old who tells me, "Bless you, mom!" when I sneeze, who says "Please" and "Thank you" and "Excuse me" when appropriate. I have a loving family who would do anything for me that I asked. There is absolutely no reason to feel so crappy.

With the help of my doctors, I upped my meds a bit two weeks ago. It didn't help much, so now I've nudged them upward again. I'm giving it another week to really kick in. I've been very vocal with my doctors about not wanting to go too far above what's considered the lowest possible dose of meds for my particular case, and so far I'm still hovering near the "we don't give prescriptions for any lower than this" threshold. For the baby's sake, I feel good about that. If I have to up the ante a little more, though, I guess I'll deal. Because my two-year-old deserves a better mother than the one he's getting, and so does the new one who will arrive in less than 10 weeks. My husband deserves a wife who can smile at him, who doesn't just gaze out of the car window on errand runs on the weekends. My mom deserves a daughter who can answer her phone calls with a modicum of courtesy and interest.

And I deserve to feel like myself.

I'm tired of having this problem. As much as it helps to post about it, I hate doing it, because I wonder who out there is thinking, "Again? Broken record, SHEESH."

I'm sorry, you guys. I'll get better. There's too much that's good in my life for me NOT to. I don't want to miss this time with my kids. (!!) I don't want to miss this time with my husband and family.

Just please -- bear with me. If you think of it, prayers would be awesome.

I am worthy. ... Whew, that was tough.

2010-03-09T20:35:00.001-08:00

I am an avid reader of thebloggess.com, and so should you be, if a little vulgar language doesn't bother you. Her name is Jenny Lawson, and she writes for the Houston Chronicle under the "Good Mom, Bad Mom" column, but her personal blog is my favorite. She's real and wacky and honest and true, and I dig her style.

Jenny wrote an entry on her Chronicle blog (entitled "I am worthy") inspired by the amazing work of Dr. Brene Brown, who is a researcher, writer and professor in the area of social work. Specifically, Brown encourages her readers and followers this month to focus on why they are each worthy of love, acceptance and respect.

As Jenny the Bloggess points out, that's a tall order. It's easy to knock ourselves down, especially (I believe) as women. We're quick to take note of our bad habits, our flaws, our countless imperfections. But we rarely reflect on what makes us amazingly, uniquely, truly ourselves, and worthy of love for that reason.

Here's my attempt.

Ahem.

...

(Still here. Just thinking. Hard.)

(Holy crap, I had no idea this would be that tough.)

Like Jenny, I feel like I'm a "good mom and a nice person," but lots of people could say that about themselves, and it doesn't really feel like a big deal. Who DOESN'T love their child, right? So that's not really enough.

Geez.

All I can think of is that I have always loved people without reservations.

If I love someone, I do it with my entire heart. I hang it out there. Does it sometimes get banged around? Absolutely. Has it been stomped on more times than I care to admit? You bet. Is it worth it? Without a doubt. I couldn't be any other way if I tried. I was in a relationship in grad school where I tried to hold back parts of myself because the guy I was dating seemed closed off, and I wanted to "protect myself from getting hurt." That was a fruitless exercise, and if I learned nothing else from that relationship, it was that it's impossible for me to love someone only halfway.

Most recently, of course, I can see this essential truth of mine at work in my relationship with my son. He's only two, but when I think about how my love for him has changed and affected me, I'm completely knocked off balance by it. Sometimes the people close to me have worried that I am too much into motherhood, that I neglect myself and my personal development, that I ignore opportunities for my own relaxation and peaceful recharging, and I have to admit that they make some excellent points. But here's the thing -- I don't get a do-over for this period of his life. I don't get to try it again if I fail him in some way. So if he's needed me to be his primary source of comfort and security, or if his growth and development have required me to attend to him when I might have been pursuing other interests to date, I can't regret my choices. If the only one I might be selling short is myself, then I'm ok with that for now.

As I read over this entry, I have no idea if I've found what makes me worthy of love or not. I think what I've described instead is the attribute of myself in which I take the most pride right now. And even though I said it wasn't enough to be "a good mom," I guess that's what I feel like I have going for me. I'm tremendously lucky to be surrounded by people who understand that sacrifice and who allow me to adapt my relationships with THEM according to what I want to give my boy. My husband, my mother, my brothers, my family, my girlfriends, my friends -- all of them have graciously allowed me to focus on being a mom, and helped me in sustaining our respective relationships in new and sometimes more fragmented ways.

So I guess what I'm saying is -- to me, what makes me worthy is in part due to what the people I love are willing to let me explore -- the life-changing, axis-redefining experience that is motherhood.

And like Jenny, I can end my entry with the following words:

"I am worthy because of you."

Is this the definition of irony? I can never remember.

2010-03-03T20:31:00.000-08:00

Ways in which the third trimester of pregnancy makes a woman a great deal like the newborn she is about to have:

She shouldn't sleep on her stomach.
She has to eat 8-12 times a day, in tiny amounts, or risk throwing up.
She cries a lot. No one can figure out why, least of all herself.
She can't hold her pee.
People tell her she looks gorgeous when everyone involved knows they're just being nice.
Her weight gain is all anyone cares about.
Either that, or her quality of sleep. Because sleeping through the night? A total thing of the past, now.

An open letter to my pregnant body

2010-02-23T18:49:00.000-08:00

Dear body,

Hm. Let's just jump into it, shall we?

Upper arms: You know, this pregnancy thing doesn't really concern you. So stop trying to grab all the attention. There's no need to get all puffed up. No one wants to look at you. Least of all me. So send the wiggly-jiggles to the baby, where extra fat is cute, and BACK THE HECK DOWN, ALREADY.

Junk-in-the-trunk: I get that a woman needs a little extra padding to support the new life she's creating. But I think you're taking it too far. In case you didn't read the baby books along with me, the baby's growing in my ABDOMEN, not the back of my jeans. On the big day, no one's going to be checking my back pockets, 'kay? So you can take it easy too.

Skin: I don't know if you even deserve to be CALLED skin. "Skin" is elastic, responsive to the environment, adaptable to the surrounding situation. YOU are parched, dry, more like papyrus than anything that should cover a human being. Even when I bathe you in delicious lotions like those made by Aveeno and Jergens, you make me look to the outside world like an 89-year-old. A pregnant one. (This is NOT a good look. I was never interested in getting into the Guinness Book of World Records. At least not THAT way.)

Hair: You are the only part of me I'm happy with right now. THANK YOU for being all full and shiny and not-oily. I love my new ability to go two full days between shampoos. This fits in MUCH better with my life than the nightly hair-care routine I was forced to adopt before pregnancy. I reserve the right to detest you again once the hormone change that is sure to occur after delivery takes you back to the way you were, though. You've been warned.

Love,

me.

I knew there was a reason I focused on marketing in grad school.

2010-02-11T08:11:00.000-08:00

I have the BEST idea for a spa package. Why it's never been done before, I have no idea. I cannot even contain my own excitement for SOME spa to put this together. I would definitely fork over hard-earned cash to get this service.

Imagine this. You walk into your favorite spa, and you say, "I have four hours. I need my brows waxed, a facial, a mani/pedi, and a massage." You pick your nail colors, go over any specifics, and pay. They lead you to a room, get you settled under cool white sheets on a heated table, cover your eyes with a soothing cucumber mask, and hand you ear buds for your favorite mellow tunes. Then, they proceed to just do what you asked, with no small talk, no questions, no chatting, no awkward pauses while you wonder whether you're supposed to say something or whether they're just letting you relax. For four hours, you recline in the same quiet room, left alone, chilling to your music, behind the light green filter of the mask. And when they're done, they gently alert you and leave. You get up at your leisure, get dressed, and realize you're de-haired, smoothed, relaxed, buffed, polished, and glowing. You tip who you want, and go on with your day.

The name of the spa package? "Don't effing talk to me."

If I move fast, maybe I can trademark this idea.

I'll make millions.

I wonder if "CSI" needs a new staff writer.

2010-02-06T00:23:00.000-08:00

It's 2:30 a.m. and I'm too terrified to go back to sleep. I didn't realize my brain was capable of making up such elaborate and detailed nightmares.

** ** ** ** **

My husband and I were in the market for a new car. We were discussing the needs we had over a meal at a local restaurant -- I couldn't tell what kind of place it was in my dream, but it seemed like a family-owned joint, just skirting the boundary between "legitimate eating place" and "sketchy dive." As we were talking, someone at a nearby table leaned over and mentioned that they had overheard us, and were looking to sell their used Nissan Altima. (Is that even a real make and model combination?) It was dark blue with faded sunspots in the paint over the hood, but it ran well and that's all we cared about. Somehow, a deal was reached, and we signed paperwork to pay them some amount down and some amount over the next two months. I think it was something like $2,000 now, $2,000 later, though it's not important in the dream. The point was that we'd signed paperwork, including a bunch of our personal information on it.

Later that night, I drove the "new" car to a small local mall to do some shopping. It must have been late, because the stores were about to close. I remember thinking in the dream that I needed to get home because boy might wake up soon and need me -- I was even pregnant in the dream. I parked the car and went into the mall to shop, stopping at several stores to look for womens' clothing, maybe maternity gear. I can remember that I smelled that department store smell -- that I touched and flipped through clothes on racks -- that I walked past a small concert near the food court where a local band was playing. They sounded vaguely bluegrass-y. As the stores were announcing closing times on their intercoms, the people around me were starting to buzz with excitement. One of the larger stores in the mall was on fire, and people were making their way with haste to the exits, as smoke was beginning to fill the stores, and water was seeping down through the walls from either broken pipes or firefighters' efforts outside. (Why there was no general alarm and evacuation is beyond me -- but the mall was definitely going downhill, and I assumed that the systems weren't working properly.) I was forced to exit the mall through a different set of doors than I'd come in, and in the relative dark of the parking lot, I was disoriented and couldn't remember where I'd parked the car, which was in any case relatively unrecognizable to me, since it was so new a purchase itself. A nice older man, about 50 or 60, offered to walk with me through the parking lot until I found it, and we strolled together, staying near the mall building itself, staying in the lights as much as possible, passing the JC Penney on fire several times as I searched.

As we walked, we talked. I remember that he had come to the mall that night specifically to see the local band, one he had been a fan of for decades. His t-shirt even proclaimed their name and logo -- something about "Monkeys" but I can't recall their actual name now. He was dressed in that t-shirt, knee-length walking shorts and the kind of moccasin shoes that older men wear with shorts -- the ones they SHOULD wear with long pants. He was so kind, and we finally came across the car in a distant corner of the lot, under a tree. I didn't remember parking there, but as we approached it, the headlights flashed as if I had pushed a button for remote entry on a key fob. I looked around, confused, since I wasn't holding a key fob, and saw one of the men from the restaurant where we'd originally met the car sellers. He smiled, waved, and started to walk off. Something about the whole scenario started to feel very, very wrong, so instead of getting into the car, I started to back away, saying "No" very loudly in the hopes of drawing attention. As the older man and the "restaurant" man (a blond, fit guy who might have had a Swedish accent -- this sounds so stupid when I recount it but was so effing REAL in my head) started toward me, and my suspicions were confirmed. I switched to screaming to attract more attention, and backed away even faster, not taking my eyes off the two men in front of me.

I'd succeeded in getting quite a few people around me when I stumbled over a median in the parking lot, and sat down hard. The group of onlookers were roughly divided into a small, disorganized crowd at my back and a larger crowd of men in front of me, and I suddenly realized that the guys in front of me were all in on whatever mess was going on. As I sat there in the parking lot, it occurred to me that my husband didn't know I was in trouble, and I had no way of contacting him (I had rushed out of the house on this "quick" errand and was uncharacteristically without my phone). The people behind me felt threatened by the size of the group of men in front of me, and started to break up. As if that wasn't bad enough, the older guy -- my walking companion -- mentioned something about dogs, and then released, one by one, a group of a dozen or so German shepherd-type dogs to rush me where I sat. I got my feet under me, somehow clutching a pillow that had appeared out of nowhere in the manner of dreams, and started to back slowly away. Remembering some article I'd read about eye contact being threatening or challenging to an angered dog, I dropped my eyes to the ground in front of them as I backed away, simultaneously wrapping the pillow around my right forearm so that if one of them rushed me, I could use it to block his powerful jaws and maybe gain some time to fight. I managed to back all the way up to the mall building again, so at least I had the building at my back, and I'd closed off that avenue of attack from the dogs, who were miraculously responding well to my no-eye-contact strategy.

As I reached the building and the dogs went from snarling to simple roaming around and even sitting down, the older man gave a growl of frustration himself. He said, quite clearly, "Well, there aren't just dogs here -- the thing is, you never know what any of us will do." And he indicated the gang of men behind him. As one of them moseyed up to one of the few innocent bystanders who remained, and then viciously kicked him in the stomach, I realized several things at once:

He was right. I had no idea of what those men were capable.
I was likely to respond much more to their liking if they attacked and tormented young, innocent bystanders than myself, and they knew it. My earlier shows of bravado and resistance would quickly become exposed for the hollow farces they were.
My husband really had no clue where I was, specifically, and I still had no hope of contacting him.
I had no idea what they wanted from me besides vague realizations of money, since I'd heard them say something about knowing where we lived due to the paperwork we'd filled out. I likewise had no idea what behavior they wanted me to display in the moment, but it wasn't the resistance I'd been showing, apparently.

As one of them said, "This could go on forever," I knew he was right. And that, more than anything, was what terrified me so much. With no one who knew where I was, and so many of them, with so many tools against me, I knew without a doubt that whatever torment they had in mind could indeed go on for the foreseeable future. There was, literally, no end in sight. And I looked around, and realized that all my worst fears about being attacked while out alone, all the fears that EVERY woman has and deals with EVERY day on EVERY outing, were coming true. As a woman, you always wonder if maybe this time will be the time that personal safety statistics catch up with you, and it was the bone-rattling realization that THIS was my turn at terror and pain that finally woke me from the hell of that dream, both shaking and shaken.

** ** ** ** **

It's been over half an hour now since I woke up, and I've used all the tools at my disposal to dispel the dream's hold on me. I've poured out the tale in disjointed fashion to my very groggy but sympathetic husband, sobbed uncontrollably, gotten out of bed to break the cycle of crying and reliving the dream, gotten a glass of water and gone to the bathroom (never a bad idea when you wake up in the middle of the night, anyway, especially if you're pregnant). I've done everything I can to think of ways to diffuse the terror of it, and although I KNOW it sounds ludicrous when I type it all out, I don't think I'll ever forget the feel of that gravel in the parking lot under my jeans as I sat there, or the shade of darkness of that mall parking lot, in that sketchy neighborhood with so many of its lights burned out or broken. There were just so many details, ones that made it seem as if it was really happening, ones that STILL make me feel like, if I go back to sleep, I'll be there again in the dark night with a pillow wrapped around my arm, cold bricks at my back, and knowing that this, THIS, could go on for hours and hours.

If I go back to sleep and I end up right there in that hell again, you can count on another post tonight.

Wish me luck.

This was not in the manual.

2010-01-31T21:15:00.000-08:00

I had a friend go into labor at my house today.

She's not due for another two weeks, but today while playing with our two boys, she mentioned that she'd been having a lot of Braxton-Hicks contractions. I had remembered reading that if you have more than four in an hour, you should probably call your doc, or start timing them, as they may not be warm-ups at all, but The Real Deal. She and her husband decided to go home, get some things in order, then come back to spend the night with us. That way, if she DID have to go to the hospital, her 19-month-old son could just spend the night here with us.

When they came back, she'd been having brief contractions regularly, about every 10 minutes. They hadn't been lasting long, but they'd been coming almost like clockwork. As I watched her over the next hour, her contractions went from slightly uncomfortable to I-don't-want-to-talk-while-this-is-happening. And they were coming more quickly.

As I watched her breathe through each contraction, every rough thing about my own labor two years ago came rushing back to me. I remembered the pain, the tightness, the breathtaking sharpness of it. I remembered the way my body instinctively lifted up around the pain to tense against it, and how hard it was to fight to stay loose, to let the muscles work the way they should. I remembered the totally awful way every organ in my lower body was involved in the orchestra of misery, the way my bladder and intestines and colon suddenly acted like eighth-grade girls who hadn't been invited to the party, and started trying to steal the spotlight with their attention-grabbing antics, namely making me pee every 15 minutes and have terrible (and productive) diarrhetic cramps even more often. (NO ONE prepared me for that, by the way. Hollywood could do us all a favor and show us what labor is really like, in all those sitcoms and romantic comedies.) I remembered being in so much pain that I would throw up several times an hour, for the six hours I lasted before I asked for pain relief. I remembered not wanting to be touched, and simultaneously wanting desperately for someone to put their hands on me to take the pain away, and keep me anchored, because I felt like I would literally wash away with the surges of it.

And I got a little bit, just a teensy bit, jealous.

I know. DUMB. Can't help it.

Here's the thing. My own labor with boy ended in a surgical birth, one made necessary by the fact that I developed a fever that might have endangered our baby. For that reason alone, I don't regret a thing about the C-section. However, in the months leading up to that day, I'd done a LOT of reading, research and preparation to avoid having to resort to one. I'd read books on surgical birth, the rising rates of sections in the U.S., the fact that some may be unnecessary. I'd learned about the potential health effects of pain relief in labor on the unborn baby. And I'd decided that I'd do everything in my power to have our child naturally -- without unnecessary medical intervention. I got fired up about "taking back the birth experience." I walked. I breathed. I studied and practiced relaxation techniques. I interviewed candidates, selected and hired a doula to help us through labor. I got pregnancy massages intended to ease my body's transition into labor and delivery. I listened to soothing and empowering messages about my innate ability to deliver a healthy child.

And in the end, it didn't even matter. The circumstances surrounding the labor I had made all that preparation almost insignificant. I was sick with a cold when my water broke three weeks early, and that illness translated into the fever that made it necessary to operate to have our baby, despite twelve hours of light labor, six hours of augmented labor (read: Pitocin) with no pain meds, and a final six hours of augmented labor with a merciful and welcome epidural. I did everything I could to avoid it, and when it was clear it was inevitable, I accepted it and I don't have a single regret.

It's just that now, the doctor I know and trust has a policy -- once a C-section, always a C-section. He used to perform VBACs (or vaginal births after Caesarean), but not any more. So I already know that though I'm due May 17, my child will eventually have a scheduled delivery date sometime the week before that day. So it's entirely possible that I will feel nothing but the usual run-of-the-mill late pregnancy discomfort, go into the hospital for an appointment one day, and an hour later, be handed a baby.

Which is mine.

Holy smokes.

No last few hours of preparation, no transition to the idea of being a mother of TWO children through the test of labor, no story to tell about how or when my water broke, no gateway to the new phase of parenthood through the traditional and meaningful trial of suffering.

It's not that I want the pain -- it's just that I want the fullness of the experience. I want the few hours or so of wondering whether I'm truly in labor. I want the moment when we realize that it's The Real Deal. I want the nervous excitement of getting the previously-packed bag into the car and going off to the hospital, maybe in the middle of the night. I want the extra few hours of having to wait to meet a baby I am so ready to love and embrace and hold and nurture and cherish. The prize is so amazing, how could I want to rush the process? EVEN THAT stage, the breathing and moaning and suffering, is one you never get back again. And as I'm realizing now that my son is TWO YEARS OLD, those little phases are fluid -- tiny moments of quicksilver that slip away no matter how tightly you try to grasp at them.

It's been about seven hours since my girlfriend first had her light contractions here at our house. She's at the hospital now with her husband, and her toddler is sleeping upstairs. Through text messages, they're keeping me in the loop about how she's doing, and I know that her water broke in the room where she was admitted, and she's at 5 centimeters now, and she's getting an epidural. And as I reflect on all of that, I'm able to yank my head out of my ass where it's been firmly lodged, and focus on the fact that two of my dearest friends are having a BABY in the next few hours. That little bitty taste of jealousy? Gone in the knowledge of the power of what's happening in their lives -- the arrival of an already-beloved child.

In the end, no matter what day it happens, and in what way, my husband and son and I will get the same thing. So I'll shut up now, and do what I should have been doing this whole time -- sit back, take a deep breath, and open my heart up to God in gratitude for His generosity and His love. I'll ask for His protection over this coming child -- my girlfriend's tonight, mine in a few more months -- and for His forgiveness for my own short-sightedness.

Namesake

2010-01-22T19:42:00.000-08:00

Dear Grampa,

It's been four years, today. Four years since you went away. You never got to meet my husband, Grampa, and I'm sure you would have liked him. You and he, though worlds apart, are cut from the same cloth. "Good men in a storm," we could call you -- the kind of man you want around when something goes wrong with your car or your water heater, or if someone gives you really bad news, or if you feel like you've lost your way in the world. You're both good in times like that, and in just about any other.

Maybe even more importantly, you never got to meet the little guy we named after you. You do know that's why we picked that name for him, don't you, Grampa? How could we pick any other? My entire life, I never knew a more gentle, kinder man than you. You never once raised your voice to me or my brothers (or my mom, she tells me now), though we all must have provoked you at some point. You never said a thing about anyone that was anything short of thoughtful and polite. You always gave people the benefit of the doubt, always. You let us mess up your workshop when we were kids, mixing paint samples and dumping out all your carefully sorted nails and bolts and screws, and you never once complained or made us clean anything up -- you just laughed silently at our antics. You were always the essence of patience and tolerance.

And so when it came time to consider a boy's name for our baby-on-the-way, there was never any doubt. And lo and behold, now that he's arrived, I am astounded, relieved, blessed, grateful to see that at least so far, he bears all of the signs of being a great deal like the man who inspired his choice of name.

I hope you see, Grampa, how patient he is with other children. He demonstrates a patience and kindness so far beyond his age that at times it takes my breath away. I only have to ask him once to share with other children, and he walks right over to them to hand them what he's holding, without hesitation or a single shred of protest. I hope you see how he delights in making people smile, like you did -- and how sensitive he is to the moods of others. When he senses that I'm down, he comes up to me to peer into my face, a concerned look on his own little countenance, and says, "Mom okay?" When children cry in the store or at the library, he frowns quietly in their direction, and then turns to me with worry written across his brow, as if to ask me, "What's wrong with that baby, mom? What should we do?" He's sweet to animals, just like you. He is fascinated with things that are mechanical, especially if they need fixing, just like you. I can only hope and pray that, as he grows to be a man, he takes after his daddy and you -- that he becomes a good man in a storm, too.

I know you're there, and that you can see us. I hope that you get to do it often, and that you take pride in the little boy who bears your name. I hope that you see him and smile, and know that when I speak his name, there is an echo in my heart of all the times I heard yours spoken -- that when I hug him goodnight, I remember all the times I hugged you when we would see each other on summer vacations.

You left the world a better place in so many ways -- through the way your gentle spirit was remembered by those who love you, most of all. And now you've touched the world in one more way -- through the name and smile and sweetness of one small boy who will turn two years old in a few days.

I love you. I miss you. I hope you keep watching us from up where you are. If you can, please put in a good word for us. I think of you as someone who looks out for our little guy -- if that's the case, thank you, thank you. He'll need his guardian angel in the years ahead of him especially, as he starts school and learns to drive and all those other terrifying rites of passage that boys must face.

I can't think of a better angel for him than you.

Oh, no, he didn't.

2010-01-20T15:44:00.000-08:00

The other day, boy and I were happily playing together in his playroom (meaning, he was decimating his train table and I was messing around on my iPhone. I assure you, both of us were well-pleased with this arrangement.). He tried to get my attention in his usual way ("Mom! Mom! Mommy! Mommy? Mom? Mom!") and I'll admit that maybe, this time, I wasn't as timely as usual with my response. And so he switched tactics, mid-stream.

"Mom! Mom! Mom? Lady! Lady! LADY!!"

Except he didn't say "lady." What he said in its place was MY FIRST NAME.

Now, we make it no secret around our home that mom and dad have different names. We decided early on that in addition to being "mom" and "dad" around the boy, we'd call each other by our first names, too. It was an attempt to hang on, in front of our son, to the fact that before he had shown up, we'd been there first. And we were more than parents, but spouses and independent adults, as well.

An ATTEMPT, I said.

Reason dictates that I should have calmly looked at the boy when he called me by my first name and asked him to whom he was referring. As if I were a receptionist or something. What ACTUALLY happened was that my head whipped around so fast that my ears rang, and I said, "WHAT did you just call me?" He looked at me for a second, blinked, and said it AGAIN. My first name.

Oh, geez.

I pulled it together and said, "Yes, that's mommy's name. But what do YOU call her?" And he smiled angelically. "Mom!" I gave him a shaky smile and said, "That's right. Just remember that. You know mommy's name, but when you talk to her, you call her 'mom', ok?" He nodded and toddled off.

Probably to pat himself on the back for getting my attention. Which is what the little toot wanted in the first place.

An open letter to the makers of Fiber One bars

2010-01-17T19:53:00.000-08:00

Dear Fiber One bars,

First of all, I need to apologize. I would normally address this letter to the company that manufactures you. However, since experiencing The Force That Is You, I'm afraid to handle the box long enough to see who makes you. So I'll just have to send this to you directly.

You may be a little uneasy, since when I post open letters like this one, I tend to share some constructive criticism, as I did in my letter to Pepperidge Farm concerning their Double Chocolate Milano cookies. Or, I simply demand restitution for what I deem criminal injustice, as I did in my letter to the universe concerning the Taco Cabana taco so-called "salad." But this time, I assure you, I have a different agenda for writing. This time, I'd like to recognize a job well done. Perhaps done TOO well, one might argue. FROM THE BATHROOM.

You see, pregnancy has a not-uncommon effect on me: Some bodily processes tend to ... slow down. Way down. To the point of discomfort. In the past, I've tried upping my water consumption, adding more vegetable- and fruit-based fiber to my diet, and even the use of daily stool softeners. Any effect was short-lived, though. For a while, I despaired of ever finding relief from my new, pregnant, and backed-up state of being. Then I tried a Fiber One bar.

To say that the effect was powerful is an understatement. I was at the grocery store with my then-22-month-old son the day after consuming my first Fiber One bar when I was aware of what the "Seinfeld" writers have referred to as a major "intestinal requirement." Standing in the aisle contemplating (appropriately) my toilet paper choices, I broke out in a cold sweat. I looked at my son and realized that he was going to slow down my progress to the ladies' room considerably, and for a split second I tried to convince myself that my issue wasn't as urgent as I had originally thought it to be. Then my guts reached forward, grabbed my belly button and tried to lasso my appendix with it. That's when I ran for it.

Thank God for family restrooms at grocery stores. No one else had to be a party to the scene that resulted, except for boy. I'm fairly sure he's already blocked it from his memory. I wish I could do the same. It wasn't pretty.

I left that family restroom a wiser woman. Note to self, I thought. Don't plan to be away from home the day after eating a Fiber One bar. The effect you achieved, you see, could be best described by the phrase "a brick through Jello."

I approach you with much more caution and respect, now, Fiber One bars. I've learned that I will be most comfortable if I consume you as a bedtime snack, and allow you to work your digestive machinations while I sleep. I then plan to be at home through my son's nap the next day, and by then, you have usually finished your dramatic work, and I can sally forth with the reasonable expectation that no public restroom will cringe to see me approaching, white-faced and desperate. I've learned my lesson.

And so I salute you, Fiber One bars. You do what your name implies -- you give One a dose of Fiber. Or perhaps, you suggest that you give someone all the Fiber they will ever need, in One bar. Either way, nice work. I don't know how you achieve it -- your ingredient list includes "chicory root extract," but I'm more inclined to believe that it's angry microscopic gnomes with hammers, chisels and steel-toed boots -- but you know what you're doing.

Good job.

Good things.

2010-01-14T12:26:00.000-08:00

(As inspired by married yoshimi.)

Whatchamacallit bars.

The smell of my boy's hair when he's just been towel-dried from his bath. Yay, Mustela products!

Avocados, sliced on crackers, with salt and pepper.

Not throwing up.

Holidays that FEEL like holidays because it's actually cold outside. Frozen pipes = real deal, y'all.

Healthy pregnancies.

A spic-and-span house.

Husbands who recognize when you are. Just. Done. Already. And then they do all the dishes and clean up the entire kitchen at night AGAIN.

Enjoying a Coca-Cola because you're done breastfeeding, and by all that is good and holy, you're going to reclaim SOME of your culinary rights before the next baby's born. (Sniff. Sushi, I really miss you. Do you ever think about me?)

Vacuum lines on carpet.

Toddlers who, when you ask them what they want on their two-year birthday cake, say, "Elmo, and Cookie, and Trash Can [Oscar], and Abby, and Bert, and Ernie, and Slimey, and Rubber Duckie, and Big Bird, and Count, and Telly, and Baby Bear ..." (Guess there won't be any trouble picking out a theme for this year's party.)

Getting a 23-month-old to pee in the potty twice in four hours, on the FIRST real day of potty training. Hooray for pretzels and water!

Good aunts and uncles for your toddler. Boy loves ALL of his.

Good grandparents. Boy's a really blessed kid. His all dote on him.

Reese's Peanut Butter Cups. Regular size or mini, dark chocolate or milk, just keep 'em coming. If they could find a way to fortify THOSE with the stuff that's in pre-natal vitamins, I would have no problem getting my 100% every day. If not 400%.

Cold, rainy days when you don't have any commitments outside the house.

Clear, sunny days when you do.

Sandra Boynton books, or at least the way they make little boys chuckle.

"LOST."

Feeling the baby kick and knowing everything's ok in there.

Having discretionary income.

"Everyday Italian" and "Barefoot Contessa" on the Food Network.

I am so screwed.

2010-01-06T16:15:00.000-08:00

Just now, I had to read boy the riot act about acting up. He'd taken a small toy animal and was pounding on the coffee table repeatedly, despite my "No"s. (He does these things when I'm on the phone because he knows my attention is divided. Little schemer.)

I pulled him onto my lap for a stern talk. After a lengthy discussion, he finally showed some remorse, then managed a "Sorry, mom." Immediately after that, he patted my Old Navy t-shirt and said, "Nice shirt, mom." And followed THAT up with "Hair pretty."

Good Lord.

An open letter to my bladder

2010-01-04T19:31:00.000-08:00

Dear bladder,

Hm.

We need to talk.

I never had much of a problem with you before -- we were always good. You did your job, and I'll admit, I probably took you for granted a little. I feel badly about that, and I'd apologize if I thought you'd listen. You've taken your revenge a little too far, though.

The first indication that something was wrong was early on in my pregnancy with boy. You started to let me down. It wasn't all the time, and it wasn't by much, but those small betrayals didn't go unnoticed. The doctors tell me that pressure from the growing baby means that there's a strain on a body's bladder. I get that. But even on days I was drinking less water than usual, you were hyperactive. One day I actually logged every time I ran to the bathroom. In one day, I visited the powder room 23 times. TWENTY-THREE. And that was while I was AWAKE. I know they say it's good for a pregnant woman to walk for exercise, but come ON.

If that was your only transgression, I might have let it go. But we both know it wasn't.

(Sigh.) Bladder, you've got to start holding it together. Or should I say, holding it IN. Seriously. I thought it was bad enough the first pregnancy -- but with this one, I've had a cold for three weeks, and when I cough or sneeze, there's more being expelled than germs from my face, if you get my drift. It's never been bad enough that I caused a public scene or anything, but it is uncomfortable. As it is, I'm considering buying stock in Kimberly-Clark, the makers of Always pantiliners.

It's not just you. You're one of a dozen or so organs that have thrown me for a loop since I became a mother. But your betrayals are definitely among the more embarrassing I've experienced. I don't want to hear about Kegels -- they've never seemed to help, and besides, that's just shoving the accountability back to me, when this is your screw-up. And I don't want to hear you start talking about urologists, either. You think a pregnant woman hasn't already lost enough dignity, what with the knees in the air and the thin paper sheets and the constant lights being shined on parts of her body that only her husband should see?

So please -- get it together, bladder. I've got enough to worry about.

If you want to talk, I'll be in the powder room.

Sincerely,

me.

Cross your fingers.

2009-12-29T21:10:00.000-08:00

I haven't thrown up in four days.

Every minute of not-throwing-up has been precious. I've already forgotten what a toilet looks like from only 8 inches away.

Please, PLEASE, you guys, knock on wood that this lasts.

If it walks like a duck, and quacks like a duck ...

2009-12-19T18:17:00.000-08:00

True story:

The other day I was getting dressed, and I opened my lingerie drawer and realized that all my clean underwear was in the dryer. Where it was CLEARLY not of much use to my naked self. Now that we live on a golf course, and there is a steady stream of golfers lollygagging their way past our back yard and getting fairly close to our iron fence (depending on how bad they are), the naked dryer-dash is a thing of the past. So I did what any sensible naked pregnant woman would do: I turned to my husband.

"Honey, would you go out to the dryer and get me a pair of underwear? I need a maternity pair."

Good-natured and ever-willing as always, he answered, "Sure. How will I know which are the maternity pair?"

"Just grab the biggest pair of panties you've ever seen."

He chuckled and trotted out. When he returned, he sported a half-sheepish, half-amused look that made me go, "What?"

"Well, let's just say you weren't kidding."

"Yeah. So?"

"Well, you know what else you weren't? WRONG."

Seriously. Maternity underwear are not LINGERIE. I should stop calling my skivvies drawer by that name, and just call it what it is: the place where I keep granny panties you could also use as sails.

Weaned. (Wait, what?!)

2009-12-16T20:11:00.000-08:00

I looked at my 22-month-old son today and realized that I cannot recall the last time he nursed.

I had a moment's panic over that. See, I'd always thought that I'd give up breastfeeding only reluctantly, that I would clutch my sleepy toddler to me and sob during what I knew to be the last time, that I would miss it and mourn its passing. In fact, I originally planned to tandem-nurse boy and this next baby, and only started scaling back boy's nursing when I realized that 1) nursing while pregnant was making me dehydrated and therefore even more prone to nausea, and 2) if I added breastfeeding-sharing to all the other sibling-factors that boy was already going to have to deal with when the baby arrived, I was probably only making it harder for him in the long run. Anyway, it came as a bit of a shock to me that The Last Time had come and gone without commemoration of some kind.

The truth is, I guess we were both ready for the end. Boy had gotten down to only some token nursing before he fell asleep (at nap- and bedtime), and he was prone to twisting around, pinching me while he partook, and fiddling with my hair and clothes in a way that wasn't *exactly* the idyllic nursing of an older child that I'd envisioned. I'd pretty much had enough of the biting and pulling and pinching and bra-strap-snapping. It was kind of like trying to nurse a rambunctious puppy with the social habits of a seventh-grader.

Still, though, I find that I'm a little heartbroken. And it's because this is just one more of the many countless times or experiences in my son's life that I will never, ever be able to get back again. I can't hold him again as a newborn or a six-month-old. I can't ever again watch him learn to crawl or walk. The soft spot that once graced the top of his head is long since grown closed. He doesn't have that BABY smell anymore. The movements of his hands are deliberate and accurate now, and while watching him maneuver a toy car down his garage ramp is a symphony of beauty to me, I miss the hiccup-y wavings of his once-chubby fists.

I really thought, when I looked forward to becoming a mother, that once my child came to me, I wouldn't have to start letting go of him until he walked away from me on his first day of school. But that was naive and short-sighted. I know that now. The truth is that the second he was born, he started growing and changing in ways that I had to see, acknowledge, and release into the world. As much as I try to recognize the fact that my son isn't truly mine, but God's -- as much as I try to understand that he's come THROUGH me into the world, not TO me -- sometimes it's just impossible.

Sometimes I just want to hug my baby and hold him tight to me and never let him go.

The many sides of ME. Or maybe just the one side.

2009-12-10T21:34:00.000-08:00

Ways in which I'm a buttoned-up prude:

I always wear my seat belt, even if I'm just moving my car so my husband can pull his out of the garage.
I read the directions that come with IKEA furniture, microwave frozen dinners and LEGO toy sets.
I have never seen or touched pot. No idea what it's even supposed to look like. Totally serious.
I sort laundry and read the washing instructions on tags.
I can never fully enjoy getting a massage because I always feel guilty that the therapist has to work so hard.
I've never skinny-dipped, been drunk or snuck into anyone's yard to jump in their pool.

Ways in which I live dangerously:

I never, ever check my microwaved meals with a food thermometer when the instructions say, "Food should be fully cooked, and should reach an internal temperature of 160 degrees."
I don't floss regularly.
I will eat leftover sandwiches that I forgot to put in the fridge the night before.
I'll drink milk one or even two days past the expiration date on the carton.
I regularly drive five or ten miles above the speed limit when on highways, if it's with the flow of traffic, and seems relatively safe.

Wait.

I don't think that second list makes the point I thought it would.

The nicest note I ever got from a stranger

2009-12-10T20:43:00.000-08:00

This note renewed my faith in the generosity of the human spirit. Thank you, kind friend, for sending this to me via Facebook. (Personal data has been edited out to protect everyone's privacy.)

Hi there! I think maybe you've heard of me, I'm [a friend of your brother's]. On several occasions [your brother] has pointed me to your blog for an amusing post or adorable photo. One of those times I bookmarked it and return to read it often, because all of the posts are amusing, and all of the photos adorable. I think you are an amazing writer, and I really enjoy reading your posts.

I decided to write here because I don't have a blogspot account or a blog, but I wanted you to know that a few more prayers and good thoughts are coming your way for your pregnancy and new little one. The short prayer at the end of your "On the mend" post was really touching. I am hopeful that you all will be feeling your best very soon. I can see that you've had a rough couple weeks on top of a difficult few months, and I hoped some added prayers might help. Best wishes for you and your family!

I couldn't make this up.

2009-12-08T19:04:00.000-08:00

True story:

My husband walked into the powder room the other day to do his thing. Boy followed him in, and parked himself (fully clothed) on his little white Baby Bjorn potty. "Potty!" he dutifully exclaimed, and his daddy affirmed that yes, he was indeed on a potty and yes, daddy was using the potty too. As my husband was washing his hands, the boy then stood up from his little, never-been-used potty seat, turned around to face it, and leaned over it. Grasping the back of it with one hand, he yelled, "Cough!", made a gagging noise, and spit into it.

My pregnancy has scarred him for life.

Next thing you know, we'll be discussing an exit strategy from Afghanistan

2009-12-01T18:46:00.001-08:00

Actual conversation between boy and husband, by phone, yesterday afternoon:

Husband: "Hi, son!"

Boy: "Hi, dad!"

H: "Did you have a good day?"

B: "Det!" [Translation: YES!]

H: "What did you do today?"

B: "Mmm ... ABG! Ticket! Balls!" [Translation: We went to HEB! And the cashier gave me a Buddy Buck ("ticket")! And I used it to win clear plastic crap-tastic balls with stickers inside!]

H: "Wow! Did you have fun?"

B: "Det!"

H: "And what did you have for lunch?"

B: "Fries! Ranch! Chech-up!" [Editor's note: He also had a grilled cheese sandwich. Not sure why he chose to omit the entree from the re-telling.]

H: "Did you watch any shows today?"

B: "Boo coos! George! Sid kid!" [Translation: Blue's Clues, Curious George, and Sid the Science Kid. If you think that's too much TV for a not-yet-two-year-old, you can bite me. And read this post about my nausea.]

H: "Do you love your dad?"

B: "Det!"

H: "Ok. I'll be home soon. Love you!"

B: "Ee ooo, dad!" [Translation: Love you, dad!]

An open letter to my nausea

2009-11-16T20:40:00.001-08:00

Dear nausea,

I hate you.

Please understand -- this is not the immature, fifteen-year-old "I hate you" utterance that erupts when teenagers decide their parents are evil. This is not the ironic "I hate you" that you say when your best friend tells you she's lost 15 pounds. This is not even the more heartfelt "I hate you" that drivers mutter to the idiots who are inching along in traffic ahead of them -- the ones who keep slamming on their brakes for no apparent reason. See, none of those are really sincere. Those utterings are either regretted later or just not said with enough personal knowledge and history to be taken seriously.

Hear me when I tell you -- I mean it. I know you well. We have lots of history. And I'm very sincere.

You probably aren't taking me seriously. You're figuring it's a pregnancy-induced fit of rage, one fueled by a few months of daily intimacy with you. I'll admit that the last three months have brought things to a head, but the truth is, I've known you all my life. Any time my body or emotions were the least bit out of balance, you would show up. Bad migraine? Pukey. Fever? Nauseous. Ate too much? Gack. Worried about the SAT tomorrow morning? FACE IN TOILET. You have been an unwelcome part of my life for far too long, and I am determined to speak my mind once and for all.

I'm tired of you. You're the reason my 21-month-old watches more TV than I ever thought I'd let him watch -- because some days, the only 30 minutes I am free of you are the ones during which I lay in bed after we wake up and I let him watch "Curious George" or "Sid the Science Kid" on PBS. If I can manage to turn the TV and cable on, and get to the right channel, all while remaining perfectly flat, I can sometimes delay the inevitable dash to the toilet by a few precious moments. You're the reason that same amazing kid has learned to plead with me, "Mom play!" -- because some days I'm so listless from a morning spent with you that all I can muster is the energy required to recline on the couch in the playroom, WATCHING him maneuver his trains around the train table rather than helping him do it. You're the reason my neighbors think I'm a recluse -- because I'm afraid to talk to them for fear of retching in the middle of our conversations on the sidewalks in front of our homes. You're the reason my husband has to juggle not only his 60-hour-a-week job, but also more than his share of the household maintenance, along with the parenting we both want and expect him to do. You're the reason my mom sometimes sadly hangs up the phone after talking to me, because I can't scrape together the enthusiasm to chat the way we always have. You know, LIKE A NORMAL ADULT. You're the reason I had to bypass the dinner I'd made for myself tonight -- wheat pasta with red sauce -- AND the dinner my husband kindly made me -- my favorite frozen pizza, baked and sliced and arranged invitingly on a plate -- for a honey bun and two Oreos. You're the reason that some evenings, I cry. Because I'm tired of hanging out with you. Tired of greeting you every morning and trudging with you through the day and laying down with you at night. Tired of pushing through and past you to do the things I should be able to do, the things I want to do, or at least a passable fraction of those things, like run around with my son. Or shower AND brush my teeth on the same day.

You drain me of almost everything that makes me feel like me.

So, eff you, nausea. (The only reason I'm not using the word I'm screaming in my head is because my mother reads this blog.) Eff you and your stupid, omnipresent self. I want you to leave. I never want to see you again. The only reason I've put up with you this long is because I want this baby so badly, and if you have to come along for the ride, then I'll deal. But you know what? I'm in my second trimester now. I'm done with you. There's no more reason for you to hang around. So shove it. Hard.

And take your stinky ginger ale with you. Never effing worked, anyway.

Sincerely,

me.

On the mend

2009-11-12T19:15:00.000-08:00

It can't have been more than a week ago that my husband and I were remarking on our tremendous luck, in that boy had never been seriously ill. We'd dealt with a few runny noses and random low-grade fevers, but overall, we had really been fortunate. Our conversation was just the sign God was looking for that we needed to be reminded that we are not in control, because two days ago, boy was definitely out of sorts. I chalked it up to the fact that his second birthday was approaching, and that he was just trying out the whole expressing-an-opinion-forcefully idea, but in retrospect, I'll bet he was already feeling punky. I was also feeling worse than usual -- my pregnancy-related nausea and vomiting were making themselves more than known after about a week of lessening symptoms. Their return to full force was not welcome. All in all, we did NOT have a good day.

And then yesterday, I woke up next to a sick kid.

When I opened my eyes in the morning, I didn't really notice much out of the ordinary, except that boy made a couple of strange burping noises I'd never heard him make before. He didn't seem to be bothered, though, so as I got up to head for the bathroom myself, I didn't think much of it. The wave of nausea that hit me halfway there was just. Wrong. As I stood bent over in the bathroom, trying to keep my knees from buckling from the sheer intensity of the sickness, I remember thinking, "Whoa. What the heck is up with THIS?"

Despite the relatively alarming strength of the experience, the basic act was nothing new to boy or myself -- it's how we start all our mornings these days, with boy hollering, "Mom cough? Mom ok?" from the other room -- so I got cleaned up, washed my hands, and went to truck boy out to his high chair for breakfast. As I rounded the bed, he started being sick himself. I wasn't really all too shocked, I have to say, based on my newly-in-perspective sickness myself and his burping, so luckily I was pretty calm.

(If you have a weak stomach, you may want to skip the rest of this. Please know I'm not trying to be intentionally gross -- it was just a very vivid moment. It was kind of a defining moment in my motherhood experience, if you will.)

I've seen people get sick before. My mom took care of children in our home for many years, and I've been around my share of miserably ill kids. Anyone who watches MTV these days is bound to see someone throw up. It's no mystery. But there's something particularly rough about it when it's your baby who's sick, your child who's at the mercy of a body rejecting a bug. The force of his retching made him almost go limp, and it was so relentless that for a few seconds at a time, he couldn't draw a breath. It seemed to go on forever, and as he fought to breathe through it, arching his back as he started to panic, I felt more helpless than I have ever felt in my life. All I could do was hold him upright with a towel under his chin, and tell him it was ok, he was doing fine, mommy's here, just get it out, let the yuckies out and it would be all over. My little champ got through it, and sat panting and sweating as he recovered. He never once cried. I asked him if he was ok, and he said, quietly, "Det." That's his version of "Yes." It had never sounded more pitiful.

I scooped him up, and we headed for a room without carpet, as I had the feeling this wasn't going to be the last time we went through it. I called my husband, and my mom, letting them know what was going on, and consulting over whether a trip to the doctor was in order. As I was hanging up with my husband, another wave of nausea hit me. I ran to the powder room with the little guy in my arms, sat him just outside of it, and basically buckled. As he listened to me, he would cry out, "Mom?" Like, "What the hell, lady? Are you gonna die or what? 'Cause you don't sound too reassuring, if you know what I mean." All I could do was try to tell him, "Mommy's ok!" between retches. THAT'S when I knew it was bad.

I decided to just try him on some water once I got him into his high chair, instead of his regular breakfast. The sip he took stayed down for nine minutes, and again I had to witness his full-body retching, his gasps to get in air between the spasms. When his pediatrician's office opened at 8:30, I called and got us an appointment for 11, their first available. The hours from 6:45 to 8:30, when I could finally reach someone, and then the wait from 8:35 to 11, seemed like an eternity. For some of the time, I let him sit in his high chair and watch Sesame Street on my computer. My sick little guy insisted on sitting with his beloved Monkey and Pig tucked around him, and I didn't get any smiles that morning.

After it was clear neither of us would be eating anything, we went upstairs to his playroom to divert him from his misery. I thought the sight of his beloved "car-trucks" would inspire him to play a little, but all he did was lay on the floor and say, "Mom? Tired."

If any of you have met my son, you know that this is as unlike him as it is possible to get.

He threw up once more, then fell asleep in my arms. I let him snooze until it was time to leave for the doctor's office. My amazing husband came to drive us there so that I could sit in the back seat with boy in case he threw up again and started choking in his car seat. Normally a garrulous traveler ("Mom! Big bus! Yellow bus. White car?"), he sat silently, a small toy clutched in each hand, although he had no energy to actually play with either. He allowed himself to be carried into the doctor's office waiting room, where he sat listlessly on our laps. He then wailed through his entire examination, where we learned that yes, indeed -- he had a stomach virus. I was tremendously thankful for the fact that he had no fever or other symptoms, but the vomiting was worrying me, because by that time, he'd had NO fluids since 8 pm the night before. That was 16 hours of no fluids for my little guy, and that seemed alarming to me.

Luckily we got a prescription for some amazing medicine (yay, Zofran!) and it put a stop to his vomiting almost immediately. He slept all the way home, had some Gatorade and a cracker once we got there, and then took ANOTHER nap for an hour and a half. The rest of the day was spent regulating how much food and water he took in -- he wanted WAY more than I thought prudent to let him have -- and then he collapsed into bed before 9 pm.

I'm happy to report that he's now doing MUCH better, and has a newfound love of chicken soup with alphabet noodles. ("Mom! Eat Ps? Eat D! More Q. Mom find! Find K!!") I seem to have fought off my own stomach virus too, and we're slowly getting back to normal. But I'll never forget the feeling of holding my very sick boy in my arms, listless and miserable, and feeling powerless to do anything to make him feel better.

Lord, thank You for the blessing of the health of this family. Thank You for watching over us and touching us with Your love and protection. Please watch over us as we continue to mend. Protect us and our loved ones from illness and injury and pain. Help us to do Your work.

Incoherent ramblings on the nature of parenting

2009-11-07T19:50:00.001-08:00

I've finally been able to articulate the basic gist of my parenting philosophy. It came to me in a flash the other day. And I'm still working on it -- I imagine that this will be more or less in some sort of flux as the boy and I and his daddy grow and change, but this is what it is at its heart.

I think a lot of people look at children and want to make them into who they think they're supposed to be. And maybe some kids need that. I don't know. But I believe that children come to you ALREADY THEMSELVES. They're hardwired with some personality traits and characteristics and such. Even if I didn't believe that before, I believe it now. And what I think most shapes my parenting is the deeply-seeded (-seated?) belief on my part that my job isn't to change who my son is. I can guide him and help him develop healthy habits -- eating right, sleeping well, being polite and respectful, taking care of himself -- but my job isn't to make him into a "real" person. On the contrary -- my job is to learn who he already is, and glean from him how best to guide and teach him. And maybe even more importantly, it's to learn from him whatever he has to teach me. These days, he has much to teach me about patience and consistence. We've entered the "no" phase ahead of schedule (with his particular twist on it being "no like it!!") and the days have become more of a challenge than before.

Now, don't get me wrong. When I say I want to learn from my child, I don't mean I intend to let him walk all over me. I know that children need boundaries to make sense of the world. They need to be shown what's off-limits, like hitting and biting. And taking your cousin's favorite horsey stuffed animal and refusing to give it back. (Let's not do THAT again, buddy.) I'm good with boundaries.

Maybe I just got lucky, and God sent me a child who responds well to the approach I've taken. I don't know. He's just SO AWESOME. He's funny and adaptable and laughs a lot. He calls his cars and trucks by the useful hybrid "car-trucks." He loves his stuffed pig and his stuffed monkey, and looks for them every night before bed. "Mom? Pig monkey?" He gives kisses to his mom and dad when asked. He loves to watch squirrels in the yard ("Oh, wow!") and he says please and thank you, sometimes even without being reminded.

Yeah. I probably just got really lucky. Maybe I don't have it figured out after all.

Never mind.

Insomnia

2009-10-30T03:25:00.000-07:00

It's 5:30 a.m. I've been awake since 4:15. There is no good reason for this fact. Besides the one about being pregnant.

Things I've thought about over the last hour and fifteen minutes:

How much of the three pounds I've lost since becoming pregnant is due to sheer dehydration. This was wondered while actually throwing up.
Whether Steve from Blue's Clues truly draws the pictures of the clues that Blue leaves, or whether there's an artist who does that.
How much Halloween candy eaten constitutes "too much" when you're talking about Reese's, after all.
How to get the PBS Kids theme song out of my head. The jingle is only about six seconds long, further complicating the repetitive-song-stuck-in-my-head insanity.
Whether the toast I'm eating to settle my stomach will stay down, or whether I'll be seeing it again when boy wakes me up at 7 a.m.
Whether I'll actually be sleeping any more this morning at all, for that matter.
Whether it's butter or margarine that's supposed to be "bad" these days. I can never remember what the current thinking is. While I wonder, I will continue to put butter on my toast. I'll have to admit to not actively researching this one, either. Kind of happy with the status quo.
Whether to bother resetting the clocks in the kitchen, since our neighborhood loses power so frequently.

So, good morning to you, too!

First trimester rule #1

2009-10-26T21:56:00.000-07:00

...

"The Stomach Shall Be Obeyed."

This is why I have, in the last three weeks:

Gone shopping and come home with the fixings for a white-bread baloney sandwich, as well as cherry Kool-Aid mix.
Eaten a twice-toasted, mini-whole-wheat bagel with cream cheese at midnight.
Craved, prepared, and then was unable to eat one single bite of three different healthy, multi-course dinners.
Consumed more spaghetti than anyone should.
Dreamed, vividly, about yellow cake with chocolate frosting.
Bought -- I shudder to actually admit this -- Cap'n Crunch Cereal. The Crunchberry kind. The box is almost empty. My husband didn't have any.

This rule is also known, for me, as "Thou Shalt Not Stand Between Me and a Carbohydrate." I am like the anti-Atkins right now.

(That reminds me. I have to put twice-baked potatoes on the grocery list.)

Out from under my rock. With news.

2009-10-26T19:01:00.001-07:00

For those of you wondering where I've been, I can now tell you.

I have been right here, staring at my computer, wanting desperately to post something, but fearing that I would accidentally type "I'm pregnant" and then post it immediately.

Because I am. Yay! And we're finally letting the cat out of the bag.

It's been quite a roller coaster already -- there was the early anxiety that we'd have another miscarriage, the almost constant nausea and subsequent all-too-frequent interfacing with various toilets in our home (this is still going on -- ugh), the low hormone levels and resultant nasty medication, the meds for all the gross throwing-up-related stuff, the part where one of the meds gave me a horrible reaction and landed me in the emergency room, and finally the 11-week ultrasound that showed a squirmy, healthy baby.

You'll probably hear about the ER visit at least. It was memorable.

For now, I'm going to find some ice cream. Thanks for not giving up on me!

Ain't nothin' but a heartache

2009-10-24T18:41:00.000-07:00

I think I'm crushing on every person in this video, just because they are all SO. AWESOME. If I still worked in an office environment, I would want to work with people just like this.

My favorite thing about this? You can see the upcoming antics in the background of most shots.

And let me just note -- they all use Macs. OF COURSE THEY DO.

Office Workers' Awesome Backstreet Boys Lipdub - Watch more Funny Videos

It's been a while. Let's get caught up.

2009-09-14T21:33:00.000-07:00

Things that have happened recently:

I got on a plane with boy and my mom and youngest brother to take a 10-day vacation. The flight was three hours long, and I'd been dreading the flying-with-a-toddler thing. Boy was amazing. I didn't even need to hand out any of the earplugs I'd brought along for the folks around us. It helped that his uncle J was along to amuse him with the light switches above the seats, and to read him the emergency situation trifold card.
We landed in Wisconsin and the weather. Was. Perfect. Like, every day. Boy is now an outside-junkie.
Boy discovered sandboxes for the first time. His life may never be the same. Also, he may someday file charges against me as an unfit mother for not introducing him to them sooner.
Boy learned how to say, "Hey guys!" The fact that he learned this phrase before his native Texan "Hey y'all!" is cute to me, and probably appalling to my native-Texan husband.
I attended the wedding of a dear, lovely friend to a really cool guy who bears a striking resemblance to Will Smith. Yeah. He's pretty easy to look at.
We stayed with my mom's 90-year-old aunt who is incredible and still independent and truly one of the most devoted servants ever to do God's work on earth. She's also a little deaf. But that's ok. I can speak pretty loudly.
I went to my first-ever county fair, along with my family. Boy LOVED the "ba-cocks" (chickens), "babbits" (rabbits), horses, cows, and goats.
We ate a lot of cheese.
And sausage.
And fresh sweet corn. Like, it-was-on-the-stalk-five-hours-ago fresh. YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW GOOD THAT IS. Now, when I pass corn on the cob at the grocery store, I actually snicker and roll my eyes derisively.
We got on a plane to make the trip back home. Another three hours in the sky, and I was certain my earlier luck would run out. Nope. Boy was an angel again. I got super lucky. Mostly in having a mom who thinks ahead, because she'd brought along new toys for him that he'd not previously played with. That woman knows what she's doing.
The return home meant we were coming back to 90-degree-plus days. With humidity. Gross.
Then the Green Bay Packers won their season-opener on Sunday against long-time division rivals the Chicago Bears. I think I'm still high from that one.
Then Michele from thetomatobear came to town, and I am SO EXCITED to see her and meet her little one.
Then two days after we got back, our power went out for six hours. NICE.
Then I found the closest mall to our new home. It has a Pottery Barn AND a New York & Company. I may need to get a job to fund these discoveries.
It also has an Apple Store. Husband may need to get a second job to fund that one.
Then boy spiked a fever and was diagnosed with a virus. AWESOME.
Then I got a sore throat which I'm pretty sure boy gave to me. EVEN BETTER.

THERE. Now you know what's been going on.

Back soon.

Nineteen months

2009-08-30T21:35:00.000-07:00

Dear boy,

Once again I've missed a month. When you turned eighteen months old, we were temporarily without a permanent mailing address, and in the craziness of the move, your 1.5-year-mark slipped by. But here we are! You're 19 months old! And we have a new house!

I'm exhausted. Which is pretty much a direct result of the last two exclamations above. But it's a GOOD tired.

My favorite thing that's happened over the last month is your ability to tell stories. Every day when he comes home from work, your daddy sits you on his lap and asks, "What did you do today?" You usually answer with some order of your favorite nouns. "Car! Dad? Trucks! Bubbles! Elmo! Dad? Golf! Big ball!" The "Dad?" interjections are just to make sure he's still listening, I suppose, but you needn't worry, son -- your dad and I hang on your every word. Of which you know over 200 by now. (I counted them up before we went to your 18-month checkup in case your pediatrician asked me how many you knew, but he only asked if you knew at least seven. SEVEN. I just stared at him, and he smiled and said, "I'll just put down 'yes,' how's that?")

You've also been enjoying more weekend outings with your dad lately. Your most frequent destination continues to be Lowe's, or maybe Home Depot. The last time you went, your dad sat you on the lawnmowers, which you and Elmo seemed to enjoy immensely.

You've also been lucky enough to spend lots of time with your extended family this last month or two. You see your maternal grandfather every Sunday, your maternal grandmother and youngest uncle (J) come to visit you at our new house several times a week, you see your OTHER maternal uncle (D) as often as his busy teaching schedule permits, and your paternal grandparents have come to town several times over the last few months to assist us with the move process. Here you are having a chuckle with your uncle D, whom you've dubbed "DD".

You probably won't remember the details of this move from your first home to the one we're in now, but we moved out of our old home on July 26. Because our new house wasn't ready to move into yet, we crashed at your Uncle S and Aunt N's place for three weeks. They shared their lovely townhome with us, which afforded you oodles of time to play with your cousin S, who is about four months younger than you are. Here she is looking a-perfectly-dorable with her twin pigtails.

Speaking of hair, this month we leveraged your Uncle S's barbering skills and requested that he help us trim your shaggy mane. The resulting cut was one of my favorite looks on you, ever. The ultra-short sides and back showcased your silky fluff up-top, and you sported your faux-hawk just as well as any of Angelina Jolie's children ever did.

What else can I tell you about this month? You simply are a joy to be around, ESPECIALLY now that you've gotten so very articulate and chatty. The other day we drove by a tiny private airfield near our new neighborhood, and you spent the rest of the afternoon telling me about the "baby airplanes" you'd spotted near the hangar. "What did you see, son?" I'll ask you. You answer, "Ay-main. Baby! Sky. Vrrrrrrr. Clouds! Mom? SKY! Ay-main! More?" Because you always want more. More to talk about. More to see. More to experience and touch and learn.

That's the essence of the last month, son. And as much as YOU want more, I can tell you honestly that your dad and I want more, too. More of YOU. More time with you. More chances to try to soak up the light that shines from your bright eyes, more opportunities to sit you on our laps and hold you there as if we can slow down your meteoric growth and development for just a few minutes, just to hold our baby a little longer. Your dangling legs remind us every day (as well as the fact that though you're still only in the 10th percentile for weight for kids your age, you're in the 90th for height) that you are shooting rapidly upwards, out of your clothes and shoes and baby ways.

I love you so, so, so very much.

Love,

mommy.

Things I wish I didn't know

2009-08-21T23:09:00.000-07:00

I thought that once the physical ordeal of the miscarriage was over, the healing could just begin and move forward at a steady pace. But there was so much I didn't realize.

When you're really ready for a baby and you find out you're pregnant, it seems like that child springs into being immediately, and the forty weeks of pregnancy are just a formality you have to get through. Almost instantly, you're looking ahead, and thinking things like, "I'll be about four months pregnant when we take that trip in September." And, "When my uncle gets married in November, I'll be showing -- I should think about getting something to wear." Or, "Wow, I'll be huge when boy turns two in January. Better plan a low-key party!" You think about what room in the new house you should turn into a nursery. You wonder whether it's time to get boy moved into a big-boy bed, so you can use the crib for the baby. You look up baby names on the Internet, and you say them aloud to see how they sound with your last name.

When you lose a baby, even early in a pregnancy, you lose every single moment of the rest of the dreams you created. There are moments when I actually almost forget that it happened, moments when I still automatically think about getting out my maternity clothes, moments when I wonder how long I can keep boy on my lap as my belly grows. And every time reality comes back to me, it's like I've gone through the loss all over again.

I go hours, days, without hurting. And then something brings it all back. I looked at my calendar yesterday and I saw that I'd written, "Last ultrasound" on the day we learned about the miscarriage. I didn't know what else to write -- I wanted to mark the day somehow, because ... well, BECAUSE. It was a child we lost. It doesn't matter to me that it was tiny, that it was really more of a collection of tissues that were destined to become a recognizable person. There was a tiny beating heart there, and at some point, it stopped. And you don't just let a thing like that go by without wanting to remember that that little heart had been beating for a time.

"Last ultrasound."

I wish I didn't know that this kind of grief is the sort you have to feel in pieces. You can't just feel it all at once for a week and be done. That shouldn't surprise me. But somehow it did.

Yesterday

2009-08-06T19:52:00.001-07:00

Yesterday

All my troubles seemed so far away

Now it seems as though they're here to stay ...

Suddenly ...

There's a shadow hanging over me

Oh, yesterday came suddenly ...

It was the quickest OB/GYN doctor's office visit I'd ever had. Before yesterday, I'd have thought that was a good thing.

A week ago, I went to the doctor because I'd taken a couple of home pregnancy tests that were positive. (Wait, what did she just say?! Why didn't she tell us? That's good news, right? Yes, it was very good news. We were thrilled.) I was glad to finally go because it had been two weeks since I'd taken the tests, and although everything seemed to be going smoothly, I just wasn't feeling ... much of anything. No nausea, no cramping, not even much fatigue -- none of the things I remembered feeling early on in my pregnancy with boy. I knew that all pregnancies are different, but I still felt like I should be feeling SOMETHING. So I'd scheduled a confirmation visit with my doctor for yesterday, but last week I just needed to know that everything was alright. Luckily, my doctor's nurse-practitioner worked me into her schedule, and did a quick ultrasound, and it was an enormous relief to see a tiny flickering heartbeat on the monitor. We discovered to my surprise that I wasn't as far along as I'd thought -- the baby was measured at just six weeks' development, as opposed to the eight weeks' development I'd thought had passed. Still, I was so happy just to see the movement on that screen. When the nurse-practitioner left the room, I shed a few tears of gratitude and headed across the hall to do some routine bloodwork. That was last Tuesday.

Thursday afternoon, I received a call from the doctor's office. My bloodwork had returned from the lab and showed that my progesterone levels, which should be around a 25, were only at a 12. The nurse explained that progesterone was the hormone that maintained a pregnancy, so the doctor had prescribed a progesterone supplement that I was to take twice a day. It sounded like a pretty common pregnancy situation, and so I wasn't terribly worried until the nurse said, "Make sure you take these, ok? We want to do everything we can to maintain this pregnancy."

Uh-oh. Enter ANXIETY.

I filled the prescription within two hours of talking to that nurse, and took the first pill with dinner. It's been years since I experienced a buzz, but this hormone pill gave me the closest thing to one I'll ever have again. Within an hour of taking it, I was dizzy and light-headed, and when I turned my head from side to side, the world took a second or two to catch up to me. And my veins felt like there was lead running through them. My God, I thought -- TWICE a DAY? With a toddler to keep up with? This is going to be rough. But I took them. I took them every day. I would have taken six of them at a time if it would have helped.

That brings us to yesterday, the appointment I'd made three weeks ago and that my nurse-practitioner and I had agreed to keep, even though I'd just been seen. Yesterday.

My appointment was for 1:30 p.m. I left boy with my mom and my brother J, and headed to my appointment. Almost before my rear end had even hit the waiting room seat, one of the nurses was calling my name to be seen. Wow, I thought. That was fast. By 1:35 I'd left the obligatory urine sample, been weighed, and had changed into the paper sheet that's supposed to help you keep your privacy but really only makes you feel like an idiot. ("Hi, doctor! I'd get up to shake your hand, except I'm naked under this thing. Which you can plainly see because it's basically transparent. Thanks for the filmy scrap to hold over my dignity!")

The nurse-practitioner was immediately in the room to fire up the ultrasound machine. As she started the procedure, I noticed that the screen was turned away from me. And that didn't feel right. She was also very, very quiet, and there were long pauses between the light notes of her conversation with me. And every pause felt like six lifetimes.

She finally opened her mouth and said, "I don't see a dramatic difference from last week." I was willing so hard for the news to be good that I actually thought that what she'd said was a good thing at first. "Oh, good," I breathed. And then she put her hand on my foot. "No," she said gently. "I'm saying I don't see a change."

I don't remember if I said, "Oh," or if I just lay there silently. What I do remember is that I simultaneously knew that I'd already known this was coming, and that I could. Not. Believe. It. Was she saying that it was over? That ... I wasn't pregnant any more? She couldn't be.

I pulled my shattered mind together and managed to say very calmly, "There's no heartbeat?" She squeezed my foot again, and said, "I don't see one." And then she said, "I'm sorry," and that's when I started to cry. I lay on the table with my knees in the air and I cried pools of tears silently onto the paper beneath me.

She stepped out and called in my doctor, who was heartbreakingly kind and supportive. He looked carefully at the screen and I could FEEL him willing there to be some movement, some little sign that would give us all hope, even though I knew there would be none. And as he looked and looked and finally confirmed that there was nothing to show that the tiny baby was alive anymore, I cried. I didn't want to be that woman, but I was. I cried and I shook with the knowledge that I wasn't going to have this baby. And I fell apart all over again when I realized that, oh my God, I had to tell my husband all of this.

I'd heard people say it before. "We lost a baby." And I knew what it meant. It meant a miscarriage. It meant that someone who had been pregnant was no longer so. It meant that through no fault of her own, a woman's body had decided that things were not going well, and stopped the amazing chain of events that leads to the birth of a healthy baby. But now I know why it's those words that people use. It's because you feel like it's your fault, even when you know it's not. You feel like you did something to ... lose. Even though this child had no recognizable features, no fingers and toes to count, no tiny arms to wave around, the sense of LOSS is staggering. And I know that my doctor is right, that this happens to 1 in every 3 pregnancies, that it's so very common. And it does nothing to take away my pain and my husband's grief, and the sadness of our family.

I asked the doctor what to expect, and he told me that when miscarriages happen this early on in a pregnancy, he prefers to let a woman's body take care of things naturally. Which meant I'd have to wait for the process to complete itself the way it inevitably would. He explained gently that the process could take three or four weeks to begin, and that since I still had pregnancy hormones in my system, that I'd continue to feel pregnant during that time. I think that was the hardest thing to hear -- that I'd still be ravenously hungry and slightly queasy and occasionally bone-tired, but that I wasn't going to have the payoff anymore of a little baby to cuddle and love at the end of the road. He said he was sorry, but that this wouldn't affect my chances of getting or staying pregnant again, that I'd have as many children as I wanted to, that there was time and that he'd be here for all of it. And then he patted me kindly and left. It wasn't even 1:45.

One of the drawbacks of seeing this particular amazing doctor is that his offices are deep within a building in a medical center that is a maze of high rises. As a result, there is ZERO cell reception in his offices. I sat in that room and I prayed for the miracle of just one little bar on my cell phone so that I could tell my husband what had happened before I had to walk out into the world where there was no baby in my near future. I didn't want to have to walk out, make my payment, catch an elevator, pay for my parking and wait for my car to pull up before I could talk to him. But of course there was no signal. So of course I did all of those things, and in the lobby of the building when I was able to talk to him, I sobbed out the news as people around me stared and probably thought I was crazy. He left work immediately and we pulled ourselves together to call our family and let them know what had transpired. And we thanked our lucky stars that we'd managed to keep from telling everyone we knew, so that there were fewer times we had to say the awful, hateful, how-can-they-even-be-true words.

That was yesterday.

The thing is, I had known from the beginning that something wasn't right. I'd told several people -- my mother, my sister-in-law, a close girlfriend -- that something was very different this time around, that I was worried, that I was scared. Now I know that that feeling was intuition, and I'm glad it was trustworthy, even if it sucked.

Because it did. And it does. And while today is a little better because I'm not in shock anymore, the fact that our baby is gone is never far from my mind.

And yet.

Even through the darkest parts of yesterday, we knew that there was a purpose to this. I don't know and never will know what it is or was. But I trust that it's there, and that's enough for the time being. God has never, ever let me down. If He needed me to start a pregnancy that I couldn't carry all the way, if He needed to lift from me the trial of caring for a child who would have found this life painful, then I can thank Him and know that He did for me what I would not have been strong enough to do myself -- He showed great mercy in sending me yesterday so early on in this pregnancy. I know that. Yesterday, it helped a little bit. Today, it helps a little more. Tomorrow, maybe a touch more. So I'll just keep hanging on. Because He's taking me somewhere, and I don't want to miss the trip.

If any of you would like to say a little prayer, though, to smooth our journey, I would so very much be grateful to you.

Yes, indeed ... birthday cakes DON'T bounce. Thank you, Elmo.

2009-07-15T21:20:00.000-07:00

We've developed a bit of an addiction to "Elmo's World," and by "we" I totally mean boy. He loves it so much that we watch it now ONLY during meal times (save the finger shakes -- I KNOW). I happened to discover sesamestreet.org, where there are five entire 14-minute episodes of "Elmo's World" as well as a host of other short Muppet clips, and it has totally saved my sanity.

In the "Balls" episode, Elmo discusses things that do and don't bounce. When Elmo gets to the part where he observes that "birthday cakes don't bounce," boy LOSES it.

There's a lot I love about this short video clip.

In no particular order:

The way boy ramps up his laughter as the delightful image nears of a birthday cake crashing to the ground.
The faces boy makes as he chews on his finger at the beginning of the second clip. He's making the classic "Hey, I just came from the beach and I have sand in my teeth" face, although whatever was in his teeth was probably only green beans.
The way, when I correct his "Yeah" to "Yes, mom" he starts to say and sign "Please".
The way he gets so excited when the "Elmo's World" theme starts up (I think he even begins to dance and wave), then immediately whines in dismay as I fast-forward.
The way his furrowed brow lightens magically when he realizes he gets to watch a cake being smashed AGAIN.
The laughter, of course.
And finally, the crazy assortment of toys on his high chair tray. I can spot a cast-iron tea pot, a toddler crayon, and a tube of toothpaste. Hey -- he can play with whatever he likes, as long as he EATS SOMETHING.

Why didn't they teach it to us like this?

2009-07-13T20:16:00.000-07:00

If you've got to have the alphabet song stuck in your head, you could do a lot worse than this version with Ray Charles. You could probably even swing dance to this version. I LOVE IT.

Someone warn Dorothy ...

2009-07-09T19:20:00.000-07:00

The answer to the question, "How did that kid eat all those goldfish so fast?" is apparently, "He shared them."

Take a close look. You'll find them. I'll bet that Muppet is stuffed.

Tastes like chicken, no doubt.

2009-07-09T19:17:00.000-07:00

So we have these two nice, leather chairs that have at times resided in our library and our family room. They're cushy and comfortable and our favorite places to slump down to read, and they're really well made, so we think we'll get to keep them for a long time, maybe even give them to boy and any future theoretical siblings someday.

That is, if all the licking doesn't ruin them first.

I got it, kid.

2009-07-06T08:37:00.001-07:00

Boy just unloaded a whole alphabet's worth of flashcards onto the end table, made sure they were totally out of order, then turned to me and announced, "Mess." As if to say, "Would you get on this, please? SLACKER."

Thanks a lot, kid.

"I got it, mom."

2009-07-01T20:29:00.001-07:00

An actual conversation from this morning ... "Son, you look a little stuck. Do you need help?"

Pause. (Tiny voice) "No."

Seventeen months

2009-06-26T21:55:00.000-07:00

Dear boy,

If you're counting, you'll see that I missed the chance to write you a letter on your sixteen-month birthday. Here you are, seventeen months old, and your mother didn't write you a monthly letter last month! I hope you're not ruined for life. (I really do feel badly, so I'm sorry, buddy. I'll make this one twice as ... whatever these are.)

Up until about three weeks ago, I was pretty good about not letting you watch TV. But one day I needed 12 minutes to take a shower and voila! Sesame Street was on! And I remembered how much I loved it as a child, how I adored Ernie and Bert and Cookie Monster, and thought maybe it would amuse you for the few desperate minutes I needed to feel like a human being again. Lo and behold, you fell for it just as I had years (decades!) ago, and now you look for every opportunity to watch it. Your interest isn't so much in the whole show, though, as it is in one particular Muppet. As anyone close to you knows, you've developed a deep and constant friendship with Elmo. Your Ellie and Uncle J found an Elmo for you and when they presented it to you, your face lit up as if someone had just told you that you'd never have to suffer the indignity of being fed a meal again (more on that another time). Not only do you tuck Elmo beneath your arm when you nurse before bedtime, you say his name every time you see a computer, TV screen or iPhone, since various people have shown you clips of Elmo on each of those devices. And as I've noted before, you can be very persistent. "Elmo!" you announce. Or demand. "Elmo, Elmo, Elmo, Elmo, ELMO, ELMO ..." You always keep saying it until someone has acknowledged you in some way, preferably one involving YouTube.

What else is new this month? You're chattier than ever, which delights me. Most days, you actually wake up saying a word. This word has ranged from "No" to "Pool" to "Mom" to "Elmo!" The other day, just for kicks, I made a list of all the words you knew and could communicate, whether it was through sign language, gesture, tone or with actual words. And I finally stopped at about 90, convinced I was forgetting some. It's astounding what you can get people to understand. (Although to be fair, I would say that 85% of the time, you're asking for a remote, a phone, or Elmo. So maybe statistically it's not hard to believe that yes, we GET it.)

Here you are, demonstrating that should a skunk appear, you would know how to handle it. I was also simultaneously demonstrating that 1) it's always laundry day around here and 2) I am really good at folding towels.

You're quite the little ham these days, puppy, and the face below is one of my current favorites of yours. You don't really have a name for it, but you will paste this expression on the front of your head every time you sense that you're about to be in trouble. It never fails to crack me up.

We've had some success lately with you feeding yourself -- you certainly know what to do with a toddler spoon, following along with my "Scoop and eat!" chant with perfectly accompanying actions. However, you're much more interested in the process of biting food off to chew -- it's only been within the last month that you have realized that if someone hands you a large piece of food, you are not obligated to cram it into your mouth whole. The process of biting off manageable nibbles enchants you, and you demand lots of crackers for practicing. Here you are with your first cheese quesadilla.

Just last night, you gave me a tremendous gift. When you cried in your crib at 3:30 in the morning, your dad went to get you, and he brought you downstairs to snuggle up with us (our normal routine at some point in each night). Once you'd arrived, though, you seemed to have "lost your sleepy," and so after listening to you chatter quietly for 20 minutes, I accepted the inevitable and took you out into the family room so your dad could catch some more Zs. However, you really didn't want to play -- you wouldn't let me put you down. All you wanted to do was cuddle close to me in the lowly-lighted living room, and say, "Mom?" from time to time. I'd answer, "Yes, buddy?" and you'd tell me something in the unique and seemingly complex language you employ. I followed along as best I could, responding as accurately as possible, and we passed the most perfect 45 minutes in my recent memory, your warm weight a blanket around my heart. I will never forget that magical time with you in the wee hours, talking to my son as he lay with his head tucked beneath my chin. It was the first of many heart-to-heart mom-and-son conversations I hope we'll have, my boy, and it was special to me not just because you wanted a rare cuddle, or because your softly scented hair was right beneath my nose, but because you wanted nothing more than to talk to me, to have me listen to you, and to say, "Mom?" and know that I was there.

I always will be. Always.

Love,

mommy

Talk about fresh air

2009-06-24T21:45:00.001-07:00

For a while, we were putting swim diapers on the boy whenever he went out into our backyard baby pool. Then I did the math. The diapers are $7.99 for 11 of them.

Yeah.

We'll save those for trips to the community pool.

So yes -- he's in the buff above. I figure, hey -- it's his pool. He can do whatever he wants in it.

Things I have learned in the last two weeks

2009-06-16T14:33:00.000-07:00

Even the good husbands sometimes take a short trip to Crazytown.
Because they're the good ones, they always come back.
Real estate issues will speed a husband's journey to Crazytown tenfold.
Even when you curse its lack of storage space and the stupidly-shaped powder room you can't seem to decorate properly, you can get VERY attached to the house you moved into when you got married.
Especially since it's the same one to which you brought your baby home from the hospital.
And the one where he took his first steps.
(Sniff.)
Looking at potential new homes makes you realize weird things that are deal-breakers about the house you will or won't live in. Like, "I really want our next house to have a hallway."
Comfort food is named as such for a reason.
Chicken pot pie is my favorite entree comfort food.
I've been eating a lot of chicken pot pie.
Also? My jeans are getting snug again. (Maybe the dryer's too hot. Hmmm. You think?)

Among the moments that slip through my fingers like sand ...

2009-06-07T20:38:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, a 40-minute nap just doesn't cut it.

On those days, you've got to finish your nap in your mom's lap.

She doesn't mind.

She's cool like that.

Yay, youngest brother!

2009-05-25T20:24:00.000-07:00

My family has now welcomed one more college graduate into its ranks -- youngest brother has graduated from Texas A&M University with his engineering BS! Yay! Just about my entire extended family recently drove to College Station, Texas, to attend his commencement ceremonies.

Here's a shot of youngest brother with boy:

The trip to College Station allowed us a chance to introduce boy to the stomping grounds his daddy had roamed as an undergrad at A&M himself. We took some time to capture the sight of boy in a number of distinctly Aggie locations.

There's a magnificent tree on campus called Century Oak. It's enormous and stately and graceful, and very old. The tradition states that if a man proposes to a woman beneath that tree, their marriage will last a hundred years. The last time we visited campus, husband offered to recreate our proposal for me under the tree for the sake of good luck. Since I was seven months pregnant at the time, I passed -- it would have looked a little suspicious to passersby for a guy to be on one knee in front of a clearly pregnant girl. Anyway, we visited Century Oak with boy. Here he is walking beneath one of its impressive boughs with his daddy.

Very close to Century Oak, there's a statue of the first president of Texas A&M University. I forget his full name -- I think it's got "Sullivan Ross" in it -- but everyone calls him "Sul Ross" for short. Another of the Aggie traditions is that if you need some extra luck on your final exams, you put a penny at the foot of Sul Ross's statue and hope he'll lend you a hand or put in a good word for you Upstairs. When we stopped by the statue right after graduation, there were stacks and stacks of pennies at the foot of the statue (not to mention more than a few dimes). Boy put a penny there as a head start for his own tests someday.

I never claimed to be an artist.

2009-05-24T19:45:00.000-07:00

I present to you:

A collection of drawings that an-only-slightly-artistic mother created on her iPhone to amuse her 15-month-old son.

Enjoy.

And then God smote me.

2009-05-14T21:39:00.001-07:00

Remember when I alluded to the fact that boy was eating better, more easily, with less fighting? I guess he heard me say that. Because now? Not so much.

These days, I have to get food into him by preparing not one meal, but TWO. Meal portion #1 I call the Food of Value. That's the stuff I really want him to eat -- veggies and meat, fruit, that kind of thing. Portion #2, though, I call the Food of Interest. It's what I have to basically entice him to eat with, then slip in bites of the Food of Value in between.

Sample Foods of Value:

Beef with carrots and green beans
Chicken with squash and peas
Bananas with apples and pears
Turkey with sweet potatoes

Sample Foods of Interest (a.k.a., Things You're Appalled I've Fed to My Child):

Cinnamon graham cracker bits
Goldfish (the crackers, not the pets)
Torn pieces of string cheese
Kraft macaroni and cheese
Ramen noodle bits (he adores them)
Oscar Meyer bologna (ok, it was 98% fat free and all-beef, but STILL, right?)

I'm not sure why he's such a picky eater -- husband and I aren't what you'd call difficult eaters ourselves. But my mother has (rather gleefully, I might add) reminded me that I went through a phase as a one-year-old when I would eat literally nothing but hot dogs, cheese and Cheerios. And though I'm horrified that I was such a little toot about it, I'm somewhat encouraged that my child will someday be able to get through a meal of normal, regular food that I actually want him to eat. I feel so sneaky these days when I feed him -- I have to wave a piece of string cheese at him until he looks at it, then drop it on his high chair tray and while he's engaged in picking it up, I tiptoe in with two or three bites of the real food. And it's a battle I'm losing, because he gets more dextrous every day, whereas there's a limit to how quickly I can get a spoon of mushy food from the bowl to his mouth. The faster he gets with the fine motor skills, the less time I have to get those precious bites of vegetables into his jaws.

Please -- someone tell me it gets easier.

I do. I really do love him more than cookies.

2009-05-06T19:45:00.001-07:00

There's a fine art to baking the perfect batch of cookies. The uninitiated might think it has something to do with having the right recipe, but that's really only about 25% of the magic (for the record: Tollhouse. Or the Alton Brown recipe for chewy cookies, the one with lots of brown sugar. But I digress.).

See, if you want to sink your teeth into the perfect chewy cookie, you have to commit to the process. It's not just about letting your butter and eggs get to room temperature before starting your mix. It's not just about getting real vanilla extract and not just the imitation stuff. It's about the REAL details -- like using parchment paper on your baking sheet so that none of your perfect gems stick to the pan. It's about knowing that your first batch will take longer to cook than the range of time on the recipe, and that you have to hover by the oven door to watch them, like an overprotective stage mother watches her kids in tutus as they pirouette. It's about getting the fact that your cookies should come out of the oven not DONE, but ALMOST done -- they'll keep cooking on the pan for a bit. It's about being willing to stand and watch over that pan in the oven for just the right second to take them out, and then waiting three to four minutes (but no longer) before you slide a very thin spatula underneath them to get them onto a waiting cooling rack. And finally, it's about knowing that as much work as you put into them, there's only so many cookies you can (or should, really) eat -- so when the chips are down (ha), you've put in all that work for someone else's enjoyment.

Baking cookies is a lot like motherhood, I'm learning. When I think of the things I've sacrificed for boy (like reliably taking a daily shower, going out after dark, running errands on the spur of the moment instead of fitting them in around naps and meals, not to mention the quality of my sleep, the QUANTITY of my sleep, and the abysmal state of my body, post-pregnancy and mid-breastfeeding), the list makes me wonder why there aren't MORE families with only one child. Looked at objectively, it doesn't seem like the kind of experience anyone should be willing to repeat.

Luckily for all of us, though (and here's where the cookie analogy breaks down), there's so much more to the equation than just what you give up. Tonight as I rocked my boy to sleep, I buried my nose in his fuzzy, just-shampooed-and-towel-dried hair, and breathed him in. And though you might not have known it to see me do it, gently and peacefully so that his sleep wasn't disturbed, I do it with a desperation I can only barely contain. The ferocity of my love for him sometimes shakes me to the core with its strength and power, and it's saved from being bestial only because I pray fervently while I love him fiercely.

I can type those words, and others like them, and while they ring true to me, I know there are some of you reading this who may just shake your heads in confusion. I don't blame you. The words, put together, don't really make sense. I don't know how to tell you that the act of breathing in the baby-fresh scent of my son's hair is the purest form of prayer I know. I don't know how to explain that just feeling the perfect, unblemished joy of his smooth skin contains within it entire volumes of prayerful pleading and gratitude. Loving him has, ultimately, brought me closer to God, because He has entrusted me with a gift I can hardly understand -- the right to love and protect and guide my boy.

(On a completely unrelated note, I found out today that my son doesn't like warm, fresh-from-the-oven chocolate chip cookies. In fact, he doesn't really like cookies or desserts of any kind. I'll pause while the enormity of that statement sinks in for you. ... I KNOW. If I hadn't been there when he was born, I might have had to wonder if he was really, indeed, mine.)

Fifteen months. (Wait -- WHAT?!)

2009-04-26T20:13:00.000-07:00

Dear boy,

Even your pediatrician said it at your last check-up. "Has it been fifteen months already?" I am tremendously late in getting this letter written to you, so I'm sorry for the delay. The last month has been packed with excitement and activity, and I'm just now getting a chance to take a breath.

First of all, my boy, you've definitely decided that walking is for suckers. For the last few weeks, we've watched your running evolve from a simple somewhat-speedy waddle, to the current tuck-the-left-arm-swing-the-right-arm-and-make-a-mad-dash-for-it version. As I watched you fly by me today, I noticed that both your feet are actually off the ground at the same time, which makes it official -- you're a runner. This is occasionally disastrous when you're wearing your socks and zipping around on the ceramic tile floor, but it's also highly entertaining, and luckily it wears you out enough that your naps are getting to be sort of in the neighborhood of predictability. Meaning, you take at least one at SOME point almost every day.

Your dad took off a WHOLE WEEK from work this last month, and we took that precious family time to do some fun things together. You visited the zoo for the first time ever, and although we were certain you'd adore the animals, you were just as interested in the sign posts and food stands and trees and passersby. So this time around, the giraffes and elephants failed to impress, but we DID score big-time when we introduced you to the merry-go-round. Thank goodness something we did that day was a hit -- you really enjoyed it, although next time, I'm going to do the filming and daddy will hold you on the rotating device of torture. I was nauseous for an hour after we got off. Sadly, this is no exaggeration.

Later that same week, we took you to the Children's Museum for your first visit, and had an unqualified success there. You LOVED it! There's a section of the museum set aside just for little tykes like yourself, and you roamed around to your heart's content, ringing doorbells on scaled-down doors, flipping light switches, climbing up stairs, whooshing down slides (on your belly), and honking the horns of mini-cars. It was so much fun that I can't wait to take you back there, and I'm sure you'll grow to love that place more and more as you get older and we can check out the other exhibits.

One of the most remarkable things we've noticed about you over the last month is your broadening and deepening sense of independence. When we reach for your hand to help you over an obstacle, or guide you around something, you tuck your paw into your armpit, as if to say, "Step BACK -- I GOT this. SHEESH." Your desire to do things your own way leads to some funny sights from time to time, as you repurpose things from their original usage into a new and adapted function. Like your poor little yellow Bumbo chair.

I take it back. I guess you ARE still sitting in it, anyway.

Two things you still love -- two anchors in the ever-changing landscape of your growth and development -- are reading and short excursions. Here's a pic of you with a book ...

And here are a few shots of you exploring the campus where your mom when to college and grad school and where your dad earned his masters degree also. Someday if you decide to enroll at Rice, you'll have these shots to look back upon and smile at -- but if I'm being honest with myself, I'll admit that I didn't take these for you, but for me. There's something that both warms my heart and breaks it to see your tiny strides measured out along the stone passages where I spent so much time walking as an undergrad -- like two disparate parts of my life colliding together. I guess that's because I found so much of myself while I was at Rice, and now that you've become the central part of my life I've had to reinvent myself once more, and to see you in that place that changed and bettered and strengthened me -- well, it's special, to say the least.

And you look really good there, too. Like you belong. No pressure.

While I'm being honest with myself, son, I'll be honest with you, too. I started this letter to you blaming its tardiness on scheduling and the fullness of our days, but truthfully, I've been putting off writing this month's missive. I've delayed because when I started writing these notes to you, I did them to catalogue what you were learning and doing, as a way to record the days of your babyhood. And as these pictures clearly capture, those days are past. You had been on the cusp of toddler- and boyhood for some time, and I think you've finally crossed that threshold now, irrevocably and irreversibly. So for the last few days, I've been at a loss to know how to write this letter, how to address a baby whom I remember only fleetingly now. The little guy you are fills up my senses so much that I have to work hard to recall how your bouncy baby self fit in my arms, how your crawling self struggled to get around, how you had to work hard at sitting up. There are hours when I mourn the fact that I won't get to hold that baby again (even while I delight in the boy he's become).

I was contemplating all of this tonight as I nursed you to sleep. You'd only had one nap, so you went to bed earlier than usual, and your nursery was still infused with enough light coming through the blinds that I could see your sleeping face, long since asleep and done with your bedtime breastfeeding. Normally when you sleep, you do so with great abandon, your limbs thrown askew and your lips parted as you breathe evenly. Tonight, though, as I cuddled you close, I looked down and saw a glimpse of the baby I'd thought never to see again. Your lips, soft and pink, were still puckered as if you were nursing, and moved rhythmically as you nursed in your sleep. It was such a "baby" thing to see that I felt grounded again, relieved to see evidence that you are indeed the same little guy who used to go through five burp cloths a day early on, the same baby who came home from the hospital weighing only six pounds, the same tiny angel who used to fit into the t-shirts that look like doll clothes to me now.

And I guess that's the secret truth of it. No matter how you grow and change, how big you are, how old, I will not ever lose the baby you were. That's because even when you have to lean down to hug me, long after we've exchanged your car seat for a booster and then eventually when you start driving me around, even then -- you'll be my boy. My heart, my son, my baby.

Love,

mommy.

Benchmarking

2009-04-25T22:42:00.000-07:00

Skills I used to possess, which I am no longer certain I could manage:

Swing dancing, and swing dance teaching
Holding any conversation longer than five minutes not containing the word "diaper," "sleep" or "poop"
Being away from home for more than three hours at a time
Watching an entire movie without 1) falling asleep, 2) wondering if it's turned up too loudly, or 3) being interrupted by a crying baby
Eating a meal that is hot both when I start it AND as I take the last bite

Skills I now possess:

Managing a 20-second diaper change in the pitch-dark every night
Sniffing a baby's hindquarters in public without batting an eye or feeling an instant's worth of self-consciousness
Knowing by gut feel when everyone is just about to run out of clean socks and underwear, and doing laundry right before that point
Being able to distinguish "nice-and-quiet" from "too-quiet" without even looking
Not laughing when the boy "flutter-lips" his spoonful of dinner all over the place
The ability to name most, if not all, of the characters from Sesame Street, Oswald, Max and Ruby, Blue's Clues, and Sid the Science Kid
Knowing how many bits of string cheese are just enough to keep the boy interested in his dinner, but not too much (which will have undesirable effects on his digestion in many subtle and vicious ways)

I am not at all certain that these lists reflect an overall improvement.

Reflections upon having husband at home for a week

2009-04-19T21:35:00.000-07:00

I am dangerously, dangerously good at living like a hermit. Left to my own devices, I tend to snuggle deep into my comfortable world and ignore everything else. Especially when I get to see my husband every day during daylight hours, for seven straight days. BLISS.
We are an anomaly in that we could totally be together all the time and not get sick of each other. And yes, I know exactly how lucky I am.
I also got super-lucky in getting not only an incredible husband but an amazing partner in parenting. Two nights ago, boy was throwing a fit about bath time (which is a sure sign we started the bedtime routine too late), and as I headed up the stairs to join boy and his daddy for the tail end of the bath biz, I braced myself to hear husband scolding the little guy -- it was my gut expectation based on my own history. Instead, as I rounded the corner and found my two favorite guys, boy had calmed down enough to play happily in the tub, and his daddy was quietly telling him how proud he was of him, and how much he loved him.
As much as I hate to admit it, boy responds much more quickly to The Daddy Voice saying no than my own.
I do more laughing when my husband's around. Because I am always free to be myself around him, I find that I am WAY more in touch with my inner goofball when he's around than at most other times. The impressions we do, the songs we sing, the ridiculous dances we make up for boy -- all I'll say is, thank God there are no nanny-cams around to catch our antics. Because we'd probably look certifiably insane.
I do less housework when my husband's around. The laundry can wait. Mostly.
Husband could easily win Olympic medals if napping were a sport. Before I met him, I seriously would never have believed that 1) anyone could stand more than one nap a day, 2) anyone could fall asleep so easily and quickly, and 3) night-time sleep is somehow separate from naps and isn't affected by one's napping. I hate napping, and only resort to it when absolutely necessary to make it through the day. I always feel like I'm being either supremely unproductive-slash-lazy, or that I'm missing out on whatever's happening while I'm down for the count. Husband, clearly, does not share these sentiments.

iBet iMnot the first to come up with this iDea

2009-04-17T08:57:00.000-07:00

Dear Apple,

I write today to update you on the status of Offspring 1.1. (We had been living with Offspring 1.0 until January of this year, when Offspring 1.1 suddenly appeared in its place, so that's been our platform ever since.) Here's a quick rundown of the performance of various software as of today:

Applications with bugs

iSleep. Had we known that this application would have so many glitches, we would have insisted on it being installed before delivery. (You can be sure that, should we ever acquire an Offspring 2.0, we will insist upon this.) However, as it is, you know that we've attempted the recommended installation on a number of occasions, to no avail. We're currently running the application with a great deal of manual (ok, fine -- mammary) intervention, occasionally causing the MPU (maternal parent unit) to run iDragAss, and simultaneously causing the PPU (paternal parent unit) to run iStress and iWorry, but we're hopeful that with time, we can iron out the kinks in this app so that it runs overnight as it should.

Applications growing steadily more reliable

iEat. Offspring 1.0 seemed to run this app only grudgingly. However, now that Offspring 1.1 is a mobile unit, this app engages more easily and processes more input.

Applications running smoothly

iCharm. Offspring 1.1 runs this one like a pro. This app seems to run especially well when Offspring 1.1 is in the presence of the GPUs (grandparental units), or when Offspring 1.1 requires a reprieve from some failed task. Like running iSleep all night.

iLearn. We have been astounded and delighted with how well this app runs on Offspring 1.1. To date, Offspring 1.1 has learned the names and sounds of a host of barnyard, forest and jungle animals, the names of the MPU, PPU and GPUs as well as other related units, and much more. At times, this app runs almost too well, as Offspring 1.1 has also learned how to open and unload the diaper wipes container, how to pull tissues out of a pop-up container and distribute them around the room, and how to shove small items under heavy pieces of furniture just far enough that those items elude recapture by the MPU and PPU. All in all, though, we find that the excessive learning is worth the installation of this app in the long run.

We continue to be impressed with Offspring 1.1 and look forward to acquiring other applications to test.

Sincerely,

The MPU

Reflections upon visiting the zoo with a one-year-old

2009-04-13T21:58:00.000-07:00

Noon: "I can't wait to get to the zoo! It's been probably over twenty years since I've been there. It'll be incredible to see it again through our son's eyes. And it's such a pretty day, and we were smart enough to come on a weekday so it won't be so crowded -- this is going to be great. I keep thinking ... he loves dogs so much, you know? And he's SEEN dogs in person. So maybe ... maybe he'll be able to CONNECT to other animals once he sees them, you know?" [Husband does an excellent impression of digesting this information as if it actually makes sense.]

12:15: "Wow, is this the line of cars to get into the parking lot?! I guess we weren't the only ones who thought today would make a good zoo day."

12:35: "Is that lady arriving or leaving? I hate stalking pedestrians like some kind of serial killer."

12:45: "JUST DROP ME AND THE BOY OFF AT THE ENTRANCE ALREADY."

1:15: "Look, son -- big fish! In a huge tank! No -- no, honey, you're pointing at PICTURES of fish on the wall. Why don't you look at the ACTUAL fishies? Mommy and daddy did not pay $10 each to get into the zoo after fighting for half an hour to land a tiny parking space in the parking lot so that you could look at PICTURES of fish. We can do that in our own living room. In our pajamas. For free."

1:35: "Hey, sweetie, look! Seals! See them in the water? Over there? No, son, over THERE. See them? I know -- they're not exactly moving around much, are they? Trust me. That brown floating thing in the water, the thing that looks like lifeless driftwood, is a living creature! A seal! It eats fish, and can be very playful! CAN be. Looks like not today, though. Ok, never mind. Let's go see the giraffes!"

1:45: "Wow, buddy -- giraffes! There are ... let's see ... two, four, six, ... like, TEN giraffes! Including one baby giraffe! Aren't they cute? Look at their long necks! See how tall ... no, son, don't pick up that cigarette butt off the ground. Come here. Whoa -- did you poop? Oh, no -- that's the GIRAFFES. Let's move on. Quickly. While holding our breath."

1:55: "Ok, buddy, I know you'll like these guys -- ELEPHANTS! See how big they are? Wait -- let go of the chain-link fence, please. SON. Let GO. Look at the elephants! That one's raising his trunk in the air and -- Whoops, no, buddy -- that's not your sippy cup. That one belongs to that nice little boy over there. (Who IS looking at the elephants.) YOURS is right here. Ok, fine. If you're not impressed, we'll go find some monkeys."

2:05: "THERE'S an orangutan. A mommy and baby monkey! And ... ew. The baby monkey ... threw up, and ... is eating ... blech, comeonlet'sgo."

2:10: "See the baboon? Or, gibbon, whatever? See it? The shadows are falling on it there in the tree so maybe you can't, but it's there. Believe mommy, it is. Ah, crap. Daddy? WE NEED DIFFERENT ANIMALS."

2:15: "Aw, the tiger's sleeping. See the sleeping tiger? It's laying there on the rock in the plain sun, so I know you can see it. What, wait -- where's it going? Are you KIDDING me? Why would they even BUILD a cave for it that's so deep you can't see it? WHATEVER."

2:20: "HERE'S something fun. Let's ride the carousel! There's a nice tall stationary giraffe you can sit on while mommy holds you tight. Daddy, you film us. What? No, daddy, it's ok -- I won't get motion sick. It only goes around, like, five times. No worries."

2:25. "Take the kid. I'm nauseous."

2:30: "Ok, definitely time to go. Where's that map, daddy? We need to find our way back to the exit. So we can hike to the car."

2:32: "I AM A SMART WOMAN. WHY CAN I NOT UNDERSTAND THIS STUPID CARTOON MAP?!"

2:35: "We will be stuck here in this zoo forever. Because I cannot read this map. I KNOW we have to go past the hoofed animal exhibit. But the signs here in the zoo don't say 'hoofed animals' like the map does, and I DON'T KNOW IF WART HOGS HAVE HOOVES."

2:45: "You put him in his car seat. I'll load the stroller. And for Pete's sake, let's not come back to the zoo till he's in grade school."

How to annoy me

2009-04-10T21:56:00.000-07:00

Say any of the following to me, regarding boy:

"He's not sleeping through the night? Why not? Didn't you let him cry-it-out?"
"He sure is tiny. Are you sure you're feeding him enough?"
"You never give him [XYZ food that I fed my kids]? Why not?"
"He probably doesn't sleep well because you eat too much sugar/are still breastfeeding/he's too stubborn or naughty to go back to sleep on his own."
"It's cute that you still tiptoe around the house when he's sleeping. We always put a radio in our kid's room when he was a baby. That way he got USED to noise. You should have done that right away."
"He doesn't take a bottle? That's too bad. If you'd gotten him used to one, you could maybe go out at night once in a while and not be under house-arrest."

Note to self

2009-04-10T21:25:00.000-07:00

Things to be ashamed of:

Breaking my promises to myself.
Not being a better Baha'i.
Eating ice cream at 2 a.m. (No one NEEDS ice cream at 2 a.m. A glass of water? Yes. A banana? Maybe. Ben and Jerry's? Not so much.)

Things NOT to be ashamed of:

Breastfeeding.
Breastfeeding past boy's one-year birthday.
Breastfeeding without introducing bottles (resulting in the fact that boy never got used to them, and never would take them).
Not having any plans to wean from breastfeeding in the near future.
Having a boy who's not a textbook sleeper.
(Alright, I'll admit it.) Having a boy who's a CRAPPY sleeper.
Co-sleeping. (It's the most awesome feeling in the world to wake up in the middle of the night, and know that your baby is safe with you, right by your side, that if anything goes wonky in the night, like if a smoke detector or the security system alarm goes off, you can reach out and pull him close to you, that you're not separated by stairs or distance. Plus, he's such a warm little teddy bear on cold nights.)
Having a boy who's at the tenth percentile for weight, for his age. He's healthy and growing, alert and inquisitive, and has become a pretty good eater. SOMEONE'S got to make up the low end of the statistical distribution.

Just because I like 'em.

2009-04-01T20:12:00.000-07:00

How long has it been since I did a random picture post?

Well, that's too long.

There's a lot I like about this picture, which my husband took with his iPhone. (As a technology-aside, I'm kind of miffed that his iPhone, which is the newer model, takes much better quality photos than mine. Rawr.) I love that boy's leaning so far back, that he looks so happy and free. I love that he's wearing his monkey cap, and his Packers windbreaker. And I love, love, love the perspective on the swing chains.

The poor kid is going to have some kind of complex when he gets older. Because, yes, that's a monkey towel, too.

I love my boys. Even when they're watching college basketball.

Boy is rarely contained in any sort of contraption anymore. When he IS in a play yard of some sort, it's because I have to take my eyes off of him for a few minutes (like when I'm bringing groceries in from the car or something) and I need to be sure he's in a safe place. He usually spends that time either protesting vocally, or methodically testing the device for weaknesses (see above). Like the velociraptors in "Jurassic Park" tested the fences.

"You talkin' to me?"

We have several azalea bushes in front of our house as part of the general greenery/landscaping/I-don't-know-the-technical-term. Most of the year, they're boring and blah, but for three glorious weeks in the spring, we get a veritable explosion of the hottest hot pink you can imagine. It's the only three weeks of the year I take any interest in gardening whatsoever, and this year I was moved to get the camera out and capture some of the intense color of our blooms.

Storytime with pops.

"Um, mom? I'm kinda busy here."

"Seriously. The camera can't wait till this book is done?"

" 'What does a lion say,' you ask? RAWR!!!" I love this picture too. Husband's smile is the best.

I seriously had no idea my hair LOOKED this long. I've been on the verge of getting a serious cut -- like, chin-length, with side-swept bangs -- but this picture makes me think maybe I want to keep it long. I kind of dig the hippie vibe.

These days, I'm only cuckoo for strawberries

2009-03-31T23:28:00.001-07:00

Dear Cocoa Puffs,

It's 1:30 in the morning and I'm sitting here thinking about you instead of sleeping.

Up until two months ago, I thought I was done with you -- had been for years. You were a part of my youth I'd left behind, gladly, willingly, with no regrets. I hadn't even thought about you since high school. I'd moved on, Cocoa Puffs -- to Special K and Total and Grape-Nuts. I've even had some Shredded Wheat and Fiber One in recent years. I was through with you and all you represented -- Saturday morning kung-fu movies and after-school snacks and such. I lived in a different world than the one we'd shared.

And then, my youngest brother (who's still in college) shared some of his Cocoa Puffs with me. And -- I'll admit it -- I went a little crazy.

I bought a box for myself, I'll confess. Every other day or so, I'd have a bowl for breakfast. Boy even got a taste against my better judgment. I've never seen him sign "more, please" so quickly.

What is it about you? Is it the almost-but-not-quite-perfectly-round shape of your bits and pieces? It's charming the way you can roll around in my bowl, or spoon, or on the table when you bounce out of the box in your eagerness. More likely, it's that deep, chocolate-y burst of sweetness you offer when I crunch a mouthful. You've got more flavor than Cocoa Krispies by far, not that I'm even really comparing you two. Whatever it is, I can't seem to shake you, especially late at night like this.

I want to say I never should have abandoned you, given up what we'd had. I want to believe we can make this work again. But can we? If I'm honest, I have to tell you that I can't bring you back into my life the same way as before. This time around, I was hiding you in pantries, hoping my in-laws wouldn't catch sight of you. (What would they think of me?) And that's just no way to live. It's not fair to you -- you deserve better. It's certainly not fair to me. Because I've finally come to terms with the fact that you're just not good for me. You're not healthy, and I'M not healthy when I'm with you. Sure, you're dark and sweet -- I'll never forget that, ever. But these days, if you're not 75% dark chocolate, it's just not worth it. I've got a family to think of, now.

So goodbye, Cocoa Puffs. These last couple months have been fun while they lasted, but please know that this time, I mean it. If we run into each other on the cereal aisle, I can only promise I'll be civil. I can't stop to say hi -- the temptation's too great.

Don't call me.

Always,

Hanging out with fresh produce.

Within sight of Square One

2009-03-28T19:20:00.001-07:00

I think it was Eleanor Roosevelt who said, "A woman is like a tea bag. You never know how strong she is until she gets into hot water."

One of the last times I had occasion to test the strength of my own tea was when boy was two weeks old. Husband had taken the first two weeks off of work to spend time with us, and both of us are so glad that he did. Those two precious first weeks of tiny boy-ness could never have been recaptured, and it was exquisite to have that time together. Anyway, over the course of those couple of weeks, we'd learned that boy would sleep when held. Period. And that when I held him, he definitely thought it was mealtime, and therefore was restless and fidgety. So that meant that husband was the default baby mattress.

Every day of those fourteen days, I'd say to husband, "What happens when you go back to work? Where will he sleep?" Or husband would ask me the same thing. We didn't have any answers, though, and before I knew it, it was 6 a.m. on husband's first day back at work, and he was handing me a sleeping boy, and I had no idea how I was going to do anything that day, alone. Would he sleep if I held him? Early indications were that no, he would not. Would he sleep if I put him down? Definite no, there. Even if he did sleep in my arms, how would I pee/eat/shower/not get a kink in my back from the constant carrying? No clue. I was wound up as tight as could be over the dilemma.

Husband left, apologetically, necessarily, unavoidably. I looked down at the sleeping baby and prayed that we would figure it out. I might have cried a little -- I actually don't remember. It doesn't seem out of the realm of possibility. At the very first feeding after husband's car had pulled out of the garage, I got boy started nursing, and within two minutes, he'd had a massive poop blowout all over me, my only nursing nightgown, my (very essential) nursing pillow, himself and the bed linens. And you know what? I was instantly over my fear. Because if I could get myself, the baby, the bed and my nursing gear all cleaned up and still be able to laugh about it, I could handle this being-alone-with-the-baby thing.

So last February, tea = strong.

More than a year later, I've got water on the boil again. I've been off of Prozac now for about two months, and for the most part it's been going ok. A few things have been conspiring against me, though, and lately it seems I've been living right smack-dab in the middle of a cross-roads of things to worry about or deadlines of some sort.

My mom had major surgery to replace a hip. OUCH.
Boy has definitely hit separation anxiety, full-on.
Husband has traveled out of state the last two weeks out of three.
I've been helping my father-in-law with some cover letters for jobs as he searches for a new one, and in some instances, we've been submitting those cover letters and resumes right ON the close date for several job postings.
Both my brothers are going through stressful periods at work or school, and my heart aches for them.
Over the last two weeks, either husband, boy or myself have been ill at one point or another.

Taken one at a time, none of those things are major issues of any sort. Separation anxiety? Be patient and it'll pass. Mom's had surgery? Take her some frozen meals, visit her every day, and don't forget the flowers. Husband out of town? Tack on bath duty to the rest of baby-duty throughout the day, and enjoy the time with a drippy-wet one-year-old while you're on deck.

All at once, though ... well, that's a different story. It's seemed lately that I can't turn around without being behind on something I should have done already. Leaving the grocery store, I'd remember that I should have bought more trash bags. Heading home from mom's house to put boy to bed, I'd realize I never started that load of laundry I'd meant to, for her. Looking at my calendar, I'd clap my hand to my head as I grasped the fact that dad had another two job posting closing in nine hours and I hadn't started reviewing his cover letters yet.

The timing has sucked, because I'm starting to get really short on patience with everyone I love, and I feel a lot like I did a year ago when I STARTED the Prozac in the first place. I talked to my doctor about it, and we agreed that I'd take another week or two to see if the anxiety lifts at all. If not, he's supplied me with (sigh) a prescription for Prozac, 10 mg. So it may be postpartum depression, take two, and I'm not really all that excited about the possibility of this encore performance.

So now I'm in this weird limbo, weighing my every mood. Is it just a bad day? Or is it Something Else? The "right" way to look at it is to say that no matter what happens, whether I power through and find that I'm fine without medication, or I realize I need the scrip, I'll find I'm still a strong woman, a good mommy -- that I'm still brewing tea with a punch. And maybe in a few weeks, in hindsight, it'll feel that way. If I'm honest with myself, though, it feels like I should be over it by now. It feels like I shouldn't need the meds anymore, that I should have rebalanced by now and gotten things back into whirring good order upstairs. It feels, in short, like a failure to be even considering the possibility again.

(Sigh.)

Stay tuned.

Fourteen months already?!

2009-03-26T14:09:00.000-07:00

Dear boy,

You may be fourteen months old as of today, and therefore a big boy, but you still sleep like a baby -- with your tushie in the air. Exhibit A:

Instead of chalking up your milestones and such this month, I just wanted to share some pictures. I think they tell the story better than I could. So, Exhibit B is all about your love of books. You LOVE books, kiddo -- more than I could ever have dreamed you would. They are your number-one-favorite thing to drag out and play with. Yay! In fact, you would be happy to have us read to you all day long. The thing about that is, um -- how can I say this delicately? WE DON'T HAVE THE TIME OR PATIENCE TO DO IT FOR HOURS. Sorry. I never thought I'd say that I was tired of reading to you -- and maybe I'm not tired of reading to YOU, but just tired of reading these particular books that we have, so many times each day. (Yeah. That's it.) I can recite "Pat the Bunny," "Ten Little Ladybugs," "Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What Do You See?" and about a dozen others now from memory. While you find it charming during car rides, I don't think this is a life skill that will serve me well in any arena but stay-at-home motherhood. Without further ado, then, Exhibit B:

One of the most delightful things that's happened over the last month is that you have deemed it acceptable to cuddle with both your parents. Up until now, cuddling was reserved for your mother only, and even then the rare occurrences smacked of being largely accidental, like in the middle of the night when your head would droop onto my shoulder and you just were too sleepy to move it. Now, however, you've decided that we're worthy of your physical demonstrations of affection. And it makes your daddy SO happy. Exhibit C:

It's actually a really good thing that you've learned to be so snuggly, baby-kins, because honestly? I think you've been in need of the charm points since SEPARATION ANXIETY set in with a vengeance. I've taken to calling you a velcro baby this month, since even my short trips to the restroom cause you to protest vociferously. One such exclamation might sound like this, if you were to use words instead of screaming: "MOM! YOU ARE KILLING ME WITH THE PEEING! HOW CAN YOU NOT SENSE MY UTTER DESOLATION OUT HERE WHILE ... Oh, you're back. Read me this book?" Common sense and logic (and all the baby books) tell me that though it's a frustrating time for all of us, it should be just one more thing to celebrate, since your attachment to me and your dad means that our hard work at earning your trust has paid off, and you'd rather be in our company where you know you're safe, than without us. Intellectually, I get that. Emotionally, I'd like to pull my hair out. But of course it doesn't mean that I love you any less, son -- despite these challenges, you are more than ever my delicious cuddle bug, and you are still at high risk of me eating you up out of the need to consume you, because I love you so much.

This month, we blew bubbles for you for the first time. (What kind of parents are we that we never did this for you before?! Someone call Child Protective Services.) And, um, you kind of liked them. Exhibits D-H:

Finally, it had to happen, and we bit the bullet last weekend and took you for your first-ever haircut. As evidenced by the bubble pictures above, your hair (though soft and silky and adorable) was a little out of control. Last weekend, we headed to a place called "Snip-its" that specializes in kids' cuts, since we knew we'd need some professional assistance in distracting you during the trim. Your stylist was fast and kind, two tremendously important skills in her line of work. And all in all, you did better than we expected -- you only fussed for a minute, until the stylist pointed out a bottle of bubble solution on the counter and I got to work blowing some bubbles your way. Those people are geniuses. Exhibits I-M:

I love the lean you're doing in this one.

My shorn sheep. (Sniff.)

You are definitely rocking your new 'do, my boy. And that's the thing -- this haircut makes you look very much like a little boy now, and not a baby anymore. That's hard for me, son, so I hope you'll forgive me on those days when I look at you and get misty (or downright snortily-weepy, if I'm truthful about it). As I look back on this letter, I feel like I've been recounting more thorns of the last month than blooms, but the truth of it is that every day with you is a veritable garden of roses -- sweet and lovely and soft and dreamy. The thorns are few and far between, baby boy, and I am, as always, burstingly proud of the chatty, mobile, clever and loving child you are.

I love you,

mommy.

Part wit, part slapstick, all awesome.

2009-03-25T20:43:00.001-07:00

When I was in high school, I was your typical nerdy-pants smart kid. I had a circle of friends who had learned to cope with my nerdiness, and who had known me long enough to recognize that my occasional social awkwardness was probably due to the fact that I had never had much of a chance to learn how to be smooth, since I had strict parents who didn't approve of too much non-academic socializing. And when I was accepted to college, I remember thinking that it was a golden opportunity to recreate myself, to start fresh, to be the me I knew was in there, the me who was shy but a hoot to be around once you got to know her. Only one other classmate would be attending the university where I'd be enrolling, and I thought, "Now's my chance. I want to be fun and outgoing and adventuresome and, most of all, FUNNY." I was convinced that being funny was the best way to actually have fun yourself.

I spent a great deal of time as a college undergrad learning how to be me and be funny at the same time. I don't know how successful I was on other people's laugh meters, but to me, I'd done it -- I felt like a more entertaining and interesting version of myself, like I'd grown into my social sneakers, finally. It was actually a lot more work than anyone might have guessed, but it paid off, and I left college happier with who I was than when I left high school.

And so it's ... well, FUNNY to me that after all that time and effort, after all the trial-and-error spent on concepts like flippancy, sarcasm, well-timed comments and quick quips, that now all I have to do is jump out from behind the couch, and my son thinks I am a comic genius. His laughter ennervates me, emboldens me, makes it possible to shed any inhibitions I might have in the space of a blink, and so I find myself going to all kinds of foolish lengths, making myriad ridiculous faces and sounds, dancing in my family room in ways that would socially cripple me in the real world, just to hear him laugh maniacally. "More," he signs, falling over laughing, "Please, more, pleaseMORE." And so I do it again. Whatever it was, I do it again, sometimes long past the point of being able to stand the feeling of my face making THAT FACE one more time, and yet I do it again. Because he laughs.

I am finally the funny one. And sometimes it's inconvenient, like when I have to spoon-feed him his dinner around the laughter because the thing-that's-funny is the only thing keeping him eating, but it's always precious.

And I was right. It totally feels good to be the funny one.

Not quite a thousand words, but still, enough.

2009-03-24T21:46:00.000-07:00

This may be one of my favorite pictures of my husband and myself, ever.

There's so much in it. We'd just climbed this little rock wall at the neighborhood playground where we'd taken boy, when a friend of ours snapped the pic without our knowing it. And I feel like there's a story in every corner.

Being married to this man has indeed lifted me to heights I could never have imagined, or experienced alone. Or with anyone else, for that matter. As in everything we do, we climbed that little wall together, with his voice encouraging me whenever I couldn't quite find the next foothold or reach the next grip. And when we got to the top, somehow (but still not quite surprisingly), my hand ended up resting on his as we shared a hold. And ever so slightly, we leaned on one another. Which we do in all things, all the time. Plus, we're grinning. That's something else I do more of now than ever, thanks to him.

I love you, husband.

They don't call it the magic word for nothing.

2009-03-20T22:25:00.000-07:00

I'm convinced that when women say they want to have a baby, what they mean is that they want a 0-8 month-old. You know -- anything from a sleepy, curled-up bean baby who smells deliciously new in the world, to a chunky, just-sitting-up-on-his-own grinning and giggling eight-month-old who smells like Johnson's Baby Shampoo.

What those women probably AREN'T thinking of is a fourteen-month-old who knows his own mind but doesn't have the words to express it -- one who has big-boy wishes but baby limitations -- one who thinks big but has a really underdeveloped sense of self-control when it comes to managing his frustration.

In short, boy has been a toot lately.

Now, before you chide me for slandering the child, let me assure you that I know it's not his fault. I really do. He's just over a year old, for Pete's sake. I know that he's only just entering the age range when we can help him learn to deal with disappointment (like mommy saying "no" to his repeated requests to forego dinner for more time outside). I know that it's probably even more frustrating for him to not be able to tell me what he wants -- all he can communicate reliably is "please," so usually he keeps saying, "uh, uh, uh" and signing "please," and we have to figure out what it is he's asking-for-slash-demanding. Here's a short list of what he uses that sign to request:

Please pick me up
Please give me a bite of that
Please read me this book
Please read me another one
Please put me down
Please give me a bath
Please make this toy do that cool thing that I can't get it to do
Please can't I nurse just a LITTLE BIT?!
Please open this door I just closed
Please let me into the kitchen cabinets -- you're standing in front of them and I know you don't want me to get into them but I HAVE TO
Please give me the remote to chew on
Please turn your iPhone onto that preschool game app you downloaded that makes all the animal noises and does the names of colors and shapes
Please do that funny thing you just did again (and again and again)

You see our dilemma. It's a lot of pressure for one little single-syllable word. Clearly, this is the time to teach boy a few more signs, like "eat," "drink," "open," "close," and "iPhone." (You know, the basics of life.) Which means *I* need to learn those signs. I thought we were doing well with "more" and "please," but these days I can tell that there's a gap we could be filling.

I'll be dusting off my edition of "The Joy of Signing" this weekend. (That's what it's called. Really.) Stay tuned.

The chef recommends the green beans and carrots blend, sir.

2009-03-19T21:12:00.001-07:00

I used to think when people said, "I just can't get my kid to eat anything," that they weren't trying hard enough.

And now God is laughing at me.

Boy is not what you'd call a stellar eater. Though his noggin measures in the 80th percentile for his age, and his height is squarely in the 55th, his weight is only ever in the 20th percentile or so. If you don't have kids, you're like, "Sounds like one melon-headed skinny kid." Not exactly, though I DO think he walks like he's top-heavy. If you DO have kids, you know what I'm saying when I admit that I obsess about these numbers in ways that are probably far from healthy. Technically, I know he's not only FINE, but thriving. He's an active, inquisitive, happy and bright little boy, and I just tell people who comment on his lean physique that he's "built for speed." But sometimes those well-meaning people out there will use words like "I'm CONCERNED about his weight" or "Do you think he's getting ENOUGH to eat?" or "He's looking a little SCRAWNY."

Argh, to say the least.

If you were able to map out my daily mental energy commitments, you'd see that the breakdown goes something like this:

Encouraging boy's healthy independent sleeping habits: 30%
Preparing healthy, delicious meals of decent variety and getting boy to eat them: 45%
Providing stimulating play opportunities for boy: 25%
Creating an environment that will nurture boy's spirituality and character: 50%
Taking care of the house: 20%
Taking care of husband: 25% (luckily for me he's extremely self-reliant and capable)
Taking care of myself: Whatever's left when everything else is done (but that's another post)

(And if you're puzzled by the math, remember that mothers grow additional brain capacity once their children arrive. So of COURSE it adds up to more than 100%.)

One of the reasons I'm reluctant to let anyone else feed boy is because the task is a lot like opening a combination lock -- you have to twist and turn everything JUST RIGHT to get it to work. A typical lunch looks like this:

I prepare a plate that contains 1) a sippy cup of cold, fresh water, 2) a moistened paper towel for clean-up, 3) a bowl containing boy's main entree, usually a mixture of two veggies and some meat, 4) two to three Gerber's baby food meat sticks, which he actually likes, 5) some other pre-approved food item for a change of texture (such as bits of string cheese, iron-fortified Cheerios, low sodium Goldfish crackers, chunks of ripe banana, etc.). I set this plate down near boy's high chair.
I then assemble a collection of food-safe (read: non-stainable) toys and place them within easy reach of the high chair. For me, not boy -- these will be doled out throughout the meal to keep and maintain his interest in the act of eating.
Only then do I pick up boy and maneuver him into the high chair. Fifty percent of the time, this is a struggle. He's buckled in and bibbed up. Both of us are, more than likely, already sweating.
I prepare for the first-bite blues. For some reason, boy always acts as if the first bite of whatever I offer him is terribly offensive to him. When he sees the spoon coming toward him, he begins not only shaking his head from side to side to keep his mouth in motion, he also starts waving his hands to provide obstacles for the spoon. If I can manage to touch the spoon to his cheek, he gives up. But it's not uncommon for the first food spill of the meal to occur BEFORE he's even eaten anything.
Having tasted the first bite (and having realized I am not, indeed, attempting to spoon-feed nuclear waste into his mouth), boy consents to accept a few bites of veggie mixture.
Bite four or five: the first gag takes place. This calls for a change of texture. I pop in a bite of meat, a tiny button-sized morsel. This is chewed for approximately four minutes. If I'm lucky, he'll accept a bite of veggies to help wash it down.

And so we proceed. Spoon, spoon, gag. Banana. Sip of water. Spoon, spoon, spoon, gag. Meat. Chew for ever. Spoon. Gag. Water. Toys are flung, Cheerios crushed with thumbs against the high chair tray, sippy cups hurled. In between bites, gags and redirects, I also provide puppet play to entertain boy, retrieve dropped toys, wipe up food bits from him, his face, his hands, and his toys, etc.

The wiser among you are already filled with helpful suggestions. "He's not really hungry," you're thinking. "Don't let him snack between meals. Then he'll eat more readily." Huh. Tried that. The kid went all the way to dinner on just a few Goldfish crackers one day, and I still had to struggle to get him to eat. Others among you are thinking, "Of course he's not eating. Baby food is gross. Let him eat table food." Yep, good idea. Only my kid inherited my ability to gag on a chocolate chip, and without any molars, his tendency to gag is compounded by a real tactical difficulty in chewing food enough to swallow it. A handful of you think that if I made my own baby food, he'd be happy to eat it. You'd be wrong -- there's no difference in his reaction to home-made stuff versus the organic baby food I get at the store. Still others are wishing I'd stop making it a struggle and just go with the flow. And that's the path I've chosen now -- I give him plenty of variety of scenery to amuse him -- we eat not only in the high chair, but also in his Bumbo seat on the floor of the family room, surrounded by books, or we eat in his stroller while out at the mall or a restaurant or elsewhere, or I pull his high chair onto the back patio. It helps a little. I try to give him tasty new options from time to time, to vary his menu. And most of all, I try not to stress about it, or force him to eat if he's really indicating he's done or full. That's the hardest part -- dancing the fine line between encouraging a picky eater to have a necessary meal, and forcing a child to eat when it's not necessary to finish a serving, etc.

Oh, well. Chalk it up to item number 478 to second-guess myself about.

(Go hug your mother. Right now. Or call her, and tell her you love her.)

(Sigh.)

As if I needed the reminder.

2009-03-17T21:53:00.001-07:00

Dear husband,

You left on your work trip on Monday morning, and you're due back Thursday evening. I know there are couples who go longer without seeing one another. I know there are jobs that could require you to venture even further away than you've gone -- California is not the end of the world. And yet -- all I can think of is how much I miss you.

The baby's growing, love. He's been walking -- WALKING, not toddling -- all over since you left, and now even attempts jogging, as if it's tremendously urgent that he get from point A to point B in as little time as possible. He bellows while he walks, too, and it makes him sound like he's late for an important meeting. "Joyce! JOYCE! Get those documents bound for me while I go down to the copy room to pick up my business cards. HURRY!" Today I thought I heard him say both "Thank you" and "All done" in the midst of his babbling, and I felt those little words hit me full in the chest, like physical blows. How many more major milestones will he approach or meet while you're gone? And when will I ever get used to the sheer astonishment I feel when he does something like that?

I've been at mom's house every day with boy, as you know, hanging out with her while she recovers from surgery. So I haven't been home a lot while you've been away, but even the few waking hours I have here without you are too many. Without you here, the house has lost its vital spark -- the rooms seem to gape with emptiness, and I wish I could hear the click of your mouse from the office, or the sounds of FIFA '09 from the game room upstairs, because it would mean you would be here.

I find myself being super productive these nights. When you're here, I want nothing more than to have the chance to grab a shower after the boy's in bed, then cuddle up with you on the couch to watch "The Office" together, or maybe "Heroes." Sometimes you play PS3 games while I tap away on my laptop or read, and just having our legs entangled on the same couch is enough. I miss, as we've always expressed it, having you within a four-foot radius.

Please come home. I'm lost without you. I realized that if the modem or server or router or network or whatever-the-hell-we-have crashes, I don't know how to fix it. I don't know where the next book of checks is, or whether the phone bill is due. Tonight I ate bread and feta cheese for dinner, because if you're not here, why cook? (You know I love bread and feta cheese, so it's not like it was a huge sacrifice, but still.) I'm too short to turn off the smoke alarm if the steam from a hot shower sets it off. And if there's a roach -- MY GOD, IF THERE'S A ROACH. I will do what's necessary, but you'd better get back here quick, man.

Most of all, love, I need you here to look at boy with me. Not WATCH him -- LOOK AT him. There's so much of him to soak up that I feel brimmingly full with the doing of it alone. He is perfect and lovely and a little toot and our boy, and I need you here to help me adore him, to help me remember everything, to make sure we don't miss a second of his growing-up that we don't have to. We both have amazing family members who love him dearly, and they're valiantly doing their share this week -- but it's not the same, love, and I need you here to help me catch my breath from the sheer beauty of him. Today, he burst into delighted giggles when I stomped my tennis shoes around on the tile floor of my mom's house, and the sound went straight through me in the purity of its joy.

I want you to help me bear how happy I am, how perfect he is.

Please hurry home. I love you.

I miss you.

Love,

me.

Things no one ever says when they turn on the radio

2009-03-17T20:57:00.000-07:00

"Daughtry? SCORE."
"I really wish they'd play that new Britney Spears song more frequently."
"Wait ... when was that car dealership sale again? Turn it up -- I can't hear the announcer."
"Where do you think this DJ gets all his cool sound effects? I'd love to get some of those for ringtones."
"Man, this Nickelback song sounds NOTHING like their other ones."

How to tell if you're married to a nerd

2009-03-15T21:28:00.000-07:00

He makes up jokes to which the punchlines go something like, "'Entropy?' I said, 'Enthalpy!!'"
He mumbles and pretends he's speaking Elvish.
He jokes about crackers looking like "lembas bread."
When you're kicking around names for your unborn child, he's only half-joking when he suggests Eowyn, if it's a girl. (Note: He's Persian and you're half-Vietnamese. Your child is not going to look like an Eowyn.)
Deep in the recesses of your junk drawer, he still has his Dungeons and Dragons dice.
He admits to having a back-up calculator at work in case his current calculator breaks.
His current calculator is the same one he's used since college.
He uses advanced calculus in his job on any given day.
He thinks you're sexy when you reference scientific phenomena, such as flash-boiling.
Your whole extended family (AND his) use him as IT support.
He can tell you the difference between steam, smoke and water vapor.
He points out power plants when you travel to new cities together, and can typically tell whether they are coal- or natural gas-burning plants.
People call him on the phone to ask him random trivia from the 80s, just because he has a mind like a steel trap and never forgets anything. (This makes for interesting one-sided phone conversations. "Hello? ... Gordon Gatrell. ... Bye.")
He started a chemistry club when he was a child (which met outside in his yard, right in front of his window).
The first question he can remember asking his mother is, "What state of matter is fire?"
He got a little sad during the most recent "Transformers" movie when Bumblebee was captured. (Oh, wait ... that was me.)
He has an Optimus Prime impression, which he's convinced sounds exactly like Optimus. (It doesn't.)

How to tell if you, yourself, are also a nerd:

Every single item above is endearing to you, and you wouldn't change a thing about being married to a nerd. (Plus, people are always buying you books for holiday gifts. And you love it.)

Because inspiration is running thin ...

2009-03-09T20:51:00.001-07:00

... here's a little something I saw on facebook, called "Me-ology."

Food-ology

What is your salad dressing of choice?

It changes, but I always get it (a la Sally in "When Harry Met Sally") on the side.

What is your favorite sit-down restaurant?

Whichever one I can get to for an uninterrupted dinner with my husband. We're fans of Mark's, which is housed in what used to be a church. It makes for a gorgeous dining experience with the woodwork and stained glass windows.

What food could you eat every day for two weeks and not get sick of?

CHOCOLATE. I'm pretty sure I do this now.

What do you like to put on your toast?

Peanut butter. Smooth, please -- crunchy will do in a pinch, but I prefer the toast to bring the crunch to my breakfast, not tiny shards of peanuts.

Technology

How many televisions are in your house?

Three, plus one in the garage. I'm serious. It's a very manly garage we have. When the world goes digital, though, that one won't work anymore.

What color is your cell phone?

Black. Then again, it's an iPhone, so the answer really should be, "What color do you want it to be?" Because it can do ANYTHING.

Biology

Are you right-handed or left-handed?

Righty.

Have you ever had anything removed from your body?

Um, a human being. :) He's now 13 months old.

What is the last heavy item you lifted?

See above. He's well over 20 pounds now and while that will seem light in a few months, right now it's a bit of a strain on the old back.

Have you ever been knocked unconscious?

Not quite. I WAS once knocked into a doozy of a concussion. But the only time I've ever passed out was not due to physical trauma, but the psychological battery of observing an operation for a grad-school medical management class. It was a breast biopsy, and I passed out cold. Came to on the floor of the hallway outside the OR. Some kind souls lifted me onto a stretcher and took my pulse and made sure I was ok. If you're going to pass out, a hospital is a good place to do it.

Bull-crap-ology

If it were possible, would you want to know the day you were going to die?

No, thanks.

If you could change your name, what would you pick?

Something more unique than the name I have. I like my nicknames but not my full first name. I think it may have to do with the fact that growing up, there were sometimes as many as SEVEN other girls in my class with the same first name.

Would you drink an entire bottle of hot sauce for $1,000?

You have GOT to be kidding.

Dumb-ology

How many pairs of flip-flops do you own?

There are three in the active rotation currently. Favorite pair: A pair of snakeskin-ish casual flippies I got at Target. I LOVE them.

Last time you had a run-in with the cops?

Hm. Is "pulled over for speeding" the same as a "run-in"? If so, it was only about eight months ago. Got off without a ticket. Having a dad for a police officer is occasionally extremely handy.

Last person you talked to?

My father-in-law, by phone.

Last person you hugged?

Husband. He told me today, randomly, that he loves figuring out how to parent our son along with me. If that didn't deserve a hug, I don't know what does.

Favorite-ology

Season?

Fall.

Holiday?

Thanksgiving.

Day of the week?

Whatever day I get to spend with my husband and son, so usually Saturday.

Month?

Whichever one is the coldest.

Current-ology

Missing someone?

Today would have been my grampa's birthday. Definitely missing him today.

Mood?

Sleepy/Slightly anxious.

What are you listening to?

The hum of white noise from the baby monitor, plus the sound of the laundry sloshing away in the washer. This is the soundtrack to most of my evenings.

Watching?

My son grow up before my eyes.

Worrying about?

Oh, boy. This could take a while. ... 1) Being the best possible parent to my amazing child. 2) Balancing being a totally devoted mommy with being the wife my husband deserves. 3) Not slacking off in other important roles like daughter, friend, sister. 4) Finding time for ME. 5) My mom's hip replacement surgery this week -- I just don't want her to be in unnecessary pain.

Random-ology

First place you went this morning?

To the kitchen to make boy's breakfast (one multi-grain waffle, some bites of fruit, some Cheerios, and water).

What's the last movie you saw?

In the theater? "The Dark Knight." On TV or in general? Probably "Juno." Seems like it's always on right now.

Do you smile often?

All day.

Sleeping alone tonight?

Who sleeps? When I lie down, I'll share the bed with not only husband, but after the fifth or sixth waking of the night, boy as well.

Other-ology

Do you always answer your phone?

If I don't recognize the number, I probably won't answer.

It's four in the morning and you get a text message. Who is it?

Youngest brother, texting from college with a question about a paper. The only other person I know who'd be awake at that hour is my mother, but she doesn't text. :)

If you could change your eye color, what would you pick?

Hm. In some lights, I really like my eye color. The brown is shot through with gold in the right slanted evening light. Most of the time, though, it's just ok. I'd probably wish for something exotic and unforgettable, like silver or grey eyes.

What flavor do you add to your drink at Sonic?

The only flavored drink I order there is a cherry limeade.

Do you own a digital camera?

Yup.

Have you ever had a pet fish?

Yup. It didn't end well.

Favorite Christmas song?

Sleigh Ride.

What's on your wish list for your birthday?

Nothing. I have everything I could possibly wish for.

Can you do push-ups?

If I absolutely had to.

Can you do chin-ups?

Not if my life depended on it.

Does the future make you more nervous or excited?

Um, both?

Do you have any saved texts?

Yep.

Ever been in a car wreck?

Fender-benders, sure. (I was even in one while driving the drivers' ed car, though it wasn't my fault. Nevertheless, this did not endear me to the instructor.) I'm thankful I was never in one that required an ambulance or other emergency medical attention.

Do you have an accent?

No. But I can fake one.

What is the last song to make you cry?

I heard Sheryl Crow sing "Sweet Child of Mine" and I realized that there's an entirely new subtext to that song for me now. Sniff.

Plans tonight?

Missed "Dancing With the Stars." DVR'd it, so will catch up later. Aside from laundry, a shower and blogging, that's it. (Don't everyone rush at once to emulate my sexy lifestyle, now.)

Have you ever felt like you hit rock bottom?

Yes. Looking back, it really wasn't. But there have been several times in my life I thought it was.

Name three things you bought yesterday.

Thumbprint cookies, toddler shoes, and an Antone's sub sandwich.

Have you ever been given roses?

Yes. They were lovely.

Current hate?

I really don't dig that word, "hate." I do, however, strongly dislike not being at the fitness level I'd like to be.

Met someone who changed your life?

Of course. There were teachers, high school/college friends, guys I dated, a handful of college professors (one in particular, who later served as the master of ceremonies at our renewal of vows), and husband.

How will you ring in the New Year?

In some low-key way that totally represents our new style. Like, by watching a movie with the volume low to keep from waking the baby, while we sip sparkling apple cider, and eventually we'll fall asleep before midnight, only to be awakened by our phones going off at 12 with texts from the people we love.

What song represents you?

Not the TITLE, but the SONG "The Lady is a Tramp" has always been kind of a personal anthem of mine. See, she's a "tramp" because she doesn't do things the way everyone else does. She's real and sincere and vital and fun, and that's what I hope I am to others.

Would you go back in time if you were given the chance?

Depends. To experience a lost era? Maybe. But to relive my own life? Never.

Have you ever dated someone longer than a year?

You betcha.

Do you have any tattoos or piercings?

My ears are pierced, twice on the left side and three times on the right. There are earrings in all of them.

Will you be in a relationship four months from now?

"For better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, forsaking all others, until death do you part." Yeah. I'd say so.

Ever cheated on anyone?

Nope.

Would you be a pirate?

The English major in me prickles at the way this one's worded. If you're asking if I'd LIKE to be a pirate, then the answer's no. I heart indoor plumbing too much, and my fear of the ocean would probably put a cramp in my professional lifestyle. But if you're asking "would you ever find yourself as a pirate?" then the answer is, if I were a pirate, then of course I would.

What songs do you sing in the shower?

Whatever's stuck in my head. These days, lots of lullabies and children's songs.

Ever had someone sing to you?

Yes.

When did you last cry?

Probably today.

Are you afraid of being alone?

Physically, no. I like some solo time to unwind and do my own thing. Relationship-wise, though? I'm no longer myself without my husband. So in that sense, terribly so.

Do you like to cuddle?

Yes.

Have you held hands with anyone today?

Now that boy's walking, he frequently reaches out for a little mommy-support. Yes.

Who was the last person you took a picture of?

Definitely, without a doubt, boy.

What kind of music did you listen to in elementary school?

I vividly remember running around the gymnasium to a few songs in particular. "Jump" by Van Halen. "Putting on the Ritz" by some band I can't recall. And this awful song called "Swingin'", and I can't remember who did that one either. At home, I listened to whatever my parents were listening to.

Do you believe in staying close with your ex(es)?

I used to. I no longer think it's always possible, though.

Are most of the friends in your life new or old?

New friends with old souls, and old friends with long memories.

Do you like pulpy orange juice?

GACK.

What is something your friends make fun of you for?

What don't they make fun of me for? Seriously, I have no idea. Probably how I used to look like Winnie Cooper from the Wonder Years TV show.

Do you have a crush on someone/want to be in a relationship with someone?

Just one man. And I'm married to him. Though I will say (and husband knows this) that if I were offered the chance to have lunch with Hugh Jackman or Jon Bon Jovi, I would definitely make sure there was no lipstick on my teeth and that my brows were shaped. (Fanning myself now.)

He probably thinks this post is about him.

2009-03-07T23:27:00.001-08:00

Scene: MOMMY has set up video camera in the family room. She has turned the camera screen such that BABY can view himself in the screen as he stands in front of the camera. BABY, who is munching a small chunk of Girl Scout Cookie (MOMMY wishes she could tell you it was a piece of fruit, but it's not), catches sight of his face in the screen, experiments with how his movements translate onto film, and then decides to strike up a conversation with the good-looking child he can see.

Note the double-take BABY does when he turns to MOMMY and sees that she's finishing up the cookie she'd shared. (What you can't see off-camera is that BABY is signing, "more, please" but is instead forced to sign another sign he knows -- "all gone.")

Maybe next time we'll let him actually PLAY.

2009-03-07T22:58:00.000-08:00

Logic puzzle for you:

Two sets of parents and two very cute little boys head to the neighborhood park for an hour. How many digital photos can the parents take of the boys and themselves in that amount of time?

Apparently, the answer is 183.

Here's but a sampling of those.

The independent walker:

Whoops.

The playground equipment:

The crazy parents:

The family photos:

The slides:

The swings:

If they'd just quit being so friggin' cute, maybe we could bear to leave the camera at home.

There's still hope.

2009-02-26T19:58:00.001-08:00

Daddy may not like to dance. But mommy does.

And guess who's at home all day with the baby?

Leaps and bounds

2009-02-26T14:09:00.000-08:00

Dear boy,

Here you are, thirteen months old -- you're now squarely in your second year of life, and you're making the most of it.

As I predicted in your eleven-month letter, you are indeed not only walking, but walking well, and often, and with great gusto. When we reach out to take your hand while you toddle around, you frequently stop short, pull in your arms close to your chest (making you look like a tyrannosaurus rex) to avoid contact with us, and grunt, as if to say, "Um, I've GOT it, thanks." In the last six weeks or so since you took your first steps, you've progressed quickly to not only tee-tottering around, but stopping without falling over, changing direction, walking while carrying objects of various dimension and mass, stepping over toys on the floor, and even running a few steps when you're really charged up. With each step, your dad and I can see that your confidence is growing just as your balance and coordination improve, and as usual, our hearts swell with pride to watch you master such big-boy skills.

With your enhanced motor skills have also come language skills. These days, your most frequent utterance is, "What's this?" In your unique language, it sounds more like, "Wah-zis?" You punctuate the question with vague but urgent multi-fingered pointing, and since we can rarely tell what you're actually indicating, I'm certain we've told you the names of things you couldn't care less about ("That? That's a bottle of low-sodium soy sauce, son. SOY SAUCE. Mommy doesn't like to wake up after a dinner of fried rice with her rings too tight. Oh, wait -- you probably wanted these Cheerios ..."). Other things you're saying regularly (that make sense) include the sounds a dog, cow and duck make (woo-woo, booooo and ack-ack, respectively), the sound a car makes (confusingly for some, also woo-woo, since you can't get out all the consonants for "vroom-vroom" yet), the words, "hi," "ma-ma," "da-da," "nye-nye" for night-night, "um" for when you want a snack or meal, and the word "uh-oh," probably because you hear that one all day long, since you're constantly falling over, dropping things or pitching toys into hard-to-reach places in the family room. The things you're saying that DON'T make sense comprise a list nearly as long, and they include the utterances, "gogoly," "oh-buh-dee," "bob-chick," and "cockly." We have no idea what any of those mean, but they've become part of our strange family pidgin just the same.

Not all of your rapidly-expanding language skills are spoken, however. You have been great about signing "more" for months now, and lately you've added a few other signs, such as those for "please," and "all done." It's so gratifying to be able to communicate with you more reliably, and your dad and I are delighted you've taken so well to the signing.

(Here you are modeling a family hand-me-down. To me, you look like a tiny, disgruntled Chinese waiter. Where's your other sock, by the way?)

You enjoyed not one, or two, but THREE birthday parties in honor of your first birthday, son. The first was with your cousin and your buddy, both of whom are just four months younger than you are. (Their mommies were there, too, of course.) The video at the bottom of this post is from that impromptu party. The second was on the night of your birthday and brought your mom's extended family together not just for your big day, but for the Asian New Year, as well. It was a late night for you, but you handled it beautifully. The third was your official party, with your grandparents, aunts and uncles and a few family friends. The pictures below are from that party. Your dad and I really thought you'd relish the chance to dive into your first cupcake, all by yourself, but we were wrong. You really weren't all too interested in the frosting or cake. (Are you sure you're my child? Because that's foreign to me.)

One of the challenges that we've tackled now that you're a year old (and then some) is night weaning. I'm finally ready to admit that there's no real reason you need those milky snacks in the wee hours anymore, so about a week and a half ago, I started to pick you up when you cried at night, but not nurse you -- instead, we sit in the rocking chair in your room and just rock until you've calmed down and fallen back asleep. I won't go so far as to say it's going well -- there are some rough nights, and some rough periods most nights, as a matter of fact -- but on the whole, you've accepted the change better than I'd thought you would. I'm hoping to be able to say next month that we've made some strides in the right direction with your night-time sleep -- once you're used to not nursing anymore, then it'll be time to start lowering you into that crib when you're less and less asleep, to get you used to falling asleep without me at all. I shudder to think of how long this process might actually take, but we'll get through it, buddy. Hearing you protest (loudly) is hard on me when comfort is near at hand, but this is the right thing to do in the long run, son, and at least I can cuddle and soothe you while you cry. For the record, I'm sorry it's hard for you, but I find solace in the fact that you'll never remember any of the tears later. I, however, will remember not only your tears, but my own.

So son, here's to the fantastic voyage you've taken us on already, and to the journey ahead. And someday when you view these posts, maybe you can take a peek at this video and tell me what the HECK you were talking about.

I love you,

mommy.

Before boy was even born ...

2009-02-25T20:21:00.001-08:00

... I came across this enchanting little photo somewhere, and the image of this angry little bluebird stuck with me. Now, I know I'm anthropomorphizing it -- I know this little bird isn't angry at all, that it's merely a trick of perspective and this breed of bird's unique markings that make it appear pissy when seen from a dead-on perspective. But I think the image was entitled "The Angry Bluebird," and it certainly seemed to fit.

Fast forward years later, and all of a sudden I have cause to remember that image. When boy was about seven months old, he made this face constantly, and all I could think every time was "The Angry Bluebird." And I'm so glad I snapped a few shots of the face, because of course he doesn't make it anymore, and it's just further evidence that each of these magical, amusing stages are so fleeting.

I give you ... the angry bluebird.

I can see we have our work cut out for us.

2009-02-25T20:18:00.000-08:00

This series of pictures is proof that no little boy is ever born a gentleman.

Boy's sweet little cousin looks a bit stunned at having her lovely green star toy snatched away from her so swiftly. Thank goodness for boy she seems to be the forgiving type.

Looking ahead

2009-02-24T08:38:00.000-08:00

A letter to boy, twenty years from now:

Dear son,

I am so proud of you. Your determination and steadfastness have enabled you to accomplish so much! What some people call stubbornness, I call stick-with-it-ness, and the ability to stand up for what's important to you. It's sure to continue to serve you well, son, and I'm so glad you know your own mind and are strong enough to express it.

Love, mom

A letter to my almost-thirteen-month-old son:

Dear boy,

You may think you can outlast your mother in persisting in waking up just as she lowers you into your crib all night. She's here to tell you that you get your stubbornness from her, and she's perfected it. YOU CANNOT WIN. Also, if you don't stop repeatedly throwing your toys onto mommy's MacBook keyboard (despite her constant attempts to thwart you), you won't live to see two.

Persistence may be an admirable character trait, son, but not when it endangers mommy's technological best friend.

You've been warned.

Love, mommy

Sometimes I forget ...

2009-02-17T20:28:00.000-08:00

... that there's a world out there beyond my and boy's comfortable, safe existence. I forget that not everyone in the world enjoys personal and religious freedom.

It's deeply troubling when you do think about it.

Lately, a group of Baha'is in Iran have been subjected to persecution because of their beliefs. It's all conveniently couched in lies and falsehoods around "Iranian security" and the like, but at the heart of it, they're being held in prison without access to due legal process just because they don't worship the same way the people (and I use that term loosely) in power do.

Here's an article on cnn.com written by Rainn Wilson of "The Office," himself a Baha'i, with more details.

Please -- if you have a heart and 10 minutes, send a note to your congressmen and/or women online to ask them to support the members of the Baha'i Faith in Iran through writing or supporting legislation in Congress. I'm glad to say I've already done so, though I'm a little embarrassed that it was the first time I've ever actually gotten my rear in gear and did it.

And may those men and women be kept safe in God's hands, and delivered back to their families very soon.

In so many words

2009-02-13T21:41:00.001-08:00

I love this site. I never could have done this distillation of Write Softly myself.

So this is, apparently, what the blog is all about. I had no idea there was so much emphasis on folding T-shirts all over the blog.

No more refills

2009-02-11T22:14:00.000-08:00

So, I'm getting off of Prozac.

I've been on a low dose since boy was two weeks old. That means it's been just about a complete year. When I started it to combat the postpartum depression that was controlling my life (and not in a good way, like how staying up to speed with "The Office" controls my DVR free space), my doctor told me that the plan was to stay on it for a year, or until I stopped breastfeeding, whichever came second. Well, I'm still breastfeeding, and have no immediate plans to stop, as long as boy still finds comfort in it -- it's a bond with him I've come to cherish deeply, and I see no reason to end it now. (That probably deserves its own post: breastfeeding a toddler. With eight teeth. And a wicked sense of humor.)

But what is on the horizon is the idea of having another baby. And if I can manage it, I'd rather go through this second pregnancy without extra medication in my system. I understand that it's considered fairly safe, and that many women need to be on Prozac or some other antidepressant while pregnant. I applaud them for doing what their bodies need, for taking care of themselves, because ultimately THAT'S what's best for the baby. It's just that if my body can do without it, that's the way I want to start off with this next baby.

About a month ago, with my doctor's support, I started taking my regular dose of Prozac only every other day. Did that for two weeks. Noticed no change in how I was feeling. Phase 1: Check.

Phase 2 was to cut back to just three times a week. I've been doing THAT for two weeks. So far, no change. Phase 2 is almost over. One more week of this, and it's phase 3: full stop.

I have high hopes. I'm feeling pretty good, and on days when I'm a bit cranky or down, I'm certain I would have been the same if I were still taking Prozac every day. (Contrary to popular belief, the meds don't make you blissful, or keep you from having ANY downs at all -- they just make your downs manageable, help you cope with them in a healthy way.)

It will be nice not to have to take it every day (then again, I'm doing the prenatal vitamin thing, so it's like swapping six of one for a half dozen of the other. But it's really just one of each. Ah, you know what I mean). At the same time, that medicine helped me get through a really rough spot, and if Prozac was a person, I'd owe it a lot of thanks.

So here's to you, P. Thank you for helping me surface out of the ocean of fear and anxiety that was my brain-space for two dark weeks. Thank you for helping me see that maybe losing 25 pounds in 10 days is too rapid a rate of weight loss for a new, nursing mother, and that maybe I should take better care of myself and actually eat something. (Come to think of it, you may have done that job too well.) Thank you for enabling me to open my eyes to the wonder of my little boy's tiny feet, to see the light in his bright eyes, rather than just seeing that it was time to change or feed him again. Thank you for helping me tumble head-over-heels in love with the little guy. I'd started down that path already, but you really cleared away my roadblocks, and there's certainly no turning back now.

If you were a person, I'd totally send you flowers. At least. Maybe even a lobster-gram. Definitely something expensive.

Because you made a tremendous difference. And I am so very grateful.

Tomato, to-mah-to ...

2009-02-09T22:32:00.000-08:00

Even before we were married, husband and I disagreed about one important aspect of life together. It seemed that every few days, we'd have cause to drag out the old argument again and go head-to-head. There never was a clear winner. We tried compromise, only to find there was no middle ground. We enlisted the advice of other married friends, to discover that our polling left us no closer to a solution. We even tried NOT dealing with the issue-at-hand at all, but that just led to a huge mess.

I'm talking about the all-important, earth-shattering, is-this-gonna-be-a-deal-breaker-or-what issue of ... how to fold T-shirts.

Husband favors a complicated fold I call the double-trifold. You hold the T-shirt by the shoulders so that it's facing you, then you fold both sleeves behind the center of the shirt. THEN you tuck the neckline under your chin and do a quick scoop-up twice. You know, the Gap fold.

I fold shirts the way I was raised to fold shirts. (This is also known as "the right way.") I start with the T-shirt held up by the shoulders (but facing AWAY from me), then fold down the center line so that the sleeves meet up and are "stacked." Then I tuck the sleeves under, and fold up the shirt once from the bottom.

I'll admit that the Gap fold has one advantage -- when you glance into your drawer, you know just which of your old T-shirts is on top, because the front panel is clearly visible. I get the plus, there. But that's where the pros end. Because the Gap fold makes your shirts extremely thick in your dresser drawer, so that you can stack fewer of them in a "column" in your armoire.

MY method is clearly superior because not only can you see a full quarter of your shirt's front (which is more than enough to tell which shirt it is, especially when you consider that you're probably only folding cheap, old shirts anyway, so what does it matter?), your folded shirt also only has four shirt-layers to it, six if you count sleeves. (The Gap fold yields an astounding NINE, including sleeves.) So you can get more of your old giveaway blood-drive/college/March of Dimes T-shirts into your drawers.

When we got married and I took over laundry duty (because I'm the one who will actually listen for the chime and transfer stuff from the washer to the dryer, thereby avoiding the cooked-in hard creases that result from forgotten wet clothes sitting overnight in a humid, icky machine), I made a sincere attempt to live with the Gap fold. I figured, Hey, we're married now. I can give in a little. I can extend the olive branch. I can show flexibility and maturity and adaptability. How bad can it be? So I sorted and washed and dried and fabric-softened the cheapies, and folded them carefully into the nine-layered behemoths that they were, and packed them into husband's dresser drawers. I did the hell out of that Gap fold for two years.

Then we had a baby. And things got a lot more crazy. And now? I fold the T-shirts however I damn well please. Which is The Right Way.

Husband hasn't said a word. He either 1) hasn't noticed, 2) is more mature than I am, and has let it go, or 3) is plotting to get back at me in some other diabolical way, just when I've decided he's over it. *

Hmmm.

Remind me to check to make sure the toilet isn't Saran-wrapped the next few times I use it.

* Update: Husband claims he's been quietly refolding the shirts his way before putting them in their drawers, and has just been choosing not to make an issue of it.

He's a smart man.

I don't look good in low-rise cargos, anyway

2009-02-06T21:11:00.000-08:00

Internets, the crazy has struck again. You've got to help me. Someone, please -- take the TV remote away from me. Hide the phone, and take away my credit cards.

Or else I'm going to order Hip-Hop Abs.

You know I'm not immune to the seductive ways of the infomercial. You know how those late-night voice-overs call to me. And you know I miss the swing dancing I used to do (and teach) before boy was born. Maybe that's why this particular fitness DVD appeals to me so much -- because "it's not exercise, it's a dance party!!"

Right.

This morning, I was SUPPOSED to be packing and getting ready for a short trip we're taking to visit my in-laws. But what I found myself doing was sitting, mesmerized, in front of the TV while Shawn T discussed his trademarked "power-T" ab-crunching dance moves. My wet hair was dripping onto the clean laundry I'd folded and was about to place in our suitcase. I saw the water drops on my jeans, and you'd think this would have spurred me into action, but no -- I perched on the edge of the bed and sat through a half-hour of the infomercial, taking in the before and after photos and the teary testimonials with all the earnestness of a religious zealot. Wow, I thought. That guy lost 58 pounds! And 22 inches in total! Maybe if I got THIS one ... And then the fine print caught my eye.

Results not typical.

It didn't stop there.

You may be less successful.

And there it was. A cold, hard reminder that not only did THAT GUY order the DVD, he then DID it REGULARLY, and probably (gasp) changed his eating habits, too. He might even have been doing extra workouts he didn't discuss. For all I know, he might have had liposuction on top of it all.

So I flipped the channel over to The Food Network, and watched Paula Deen top a 70/30 hamburger with a fried egg, and dip her twice-deep-fried potato fries into mayonnaise.

That's WAY more my style.

The only thing missing was the pink polo shirts

2009-02-04T10:24:00.000-08:00

Ways in which a one-year-old's birthday party is a lot like a frat party:

Bottles are passed around liberally.
Someone's guaranteed to crap his pants.
Your floor may have throw-up on it at some point.
The salty food runs out early, while there's too much dessert left.
At least one guest shows up in pajamas.
The guest of honor ends up getting called a lot of names. (How different is "stinker" from "a**hole," really?)
It's a lot wilder than it was in your head when you planned it.
Everyone's sweating.
Party guests may disappear for hours at a time.
Some girl is gonna cry.

Full circle

2009-02-02T21:47:00.001-08:00

About ten years ago, I read a study that said that when women sit next to men on airplanes, it's the men who end up with control of the shared armrests between them over 70% of the time. Why anyone would bother to actually research and document that particular phenomenon, and where or how I came across it, is beyond me. But come across it I did, and in my mind it stuck.

Ever after that, I would approach each business trip with a mission: To Acquire The Armrest. I'd eye my row-mates on those Continental flights with a steely gaze, sizing them up for any territorial tendencies. As soon as I sat down, I'd whip out my paperback and snap those elbows out to cover all fronts (or sides, as the case may be). If someone had to sidle past me to get the window seat, I moved enough for the sake of politeness and tactical necessity, but as soon as they were past? SNAP. ELBOWS. I was like a pop-out automobile windshield sunshade, I would unfold those arms so fast.

Moral of the story? I hate, detest, loathe thinking I'm nothing more than a statistic.

The other day, I was out walking with boy around our neighborhood. It was one of those magnificent Texas winter days -- clear, breezy, sunny and about 55 degrees. The wind was just crisp enough to make me tug boy's hood up over his spikey-mikeys, and seemed to blow every bit of haze out of the air, so that everything looked sharp and colorful. It also caught the fabric of the stroller enough to make even our three-mile walk a bit of a workout, which was a nice bonus. As we were traipsing along, a school bus rumbled by, and I caught the sound of the laughter and conversation of the kids on the breeze. Surrounded by the smell of exhaust and green vinyl seats for just an instant, I was transported back to my own days of riding the bus to or from high school football games, and I remembered that I'd seen many, many moms pushing strollers myself, through neighborhoods a lot like mine. It came back to me in a flash that I thought I knew what their lives were like -- I imagined mild, tranquil days of light errands and playing with babies, days in which the greatest challenge to be faced was whether to make chicken piccata or broiled sea bass for dinner. I thought they headed out for their stroller walks humming just under their breath, content and at peace and carefree. I thought their kids were your average, textbook kids who were good sometimes, tantrum-y others, and just like any other kid you could point out. And I'll confess I thought those women were probably boring and dull and that I had nothing in common with them.

So now, 1) what an idiot I was. And 2) hooray for irony! I'm one of them. I'm square in the middle of that statistical distribution -- a former career professional turned stay-at-home mom, 33 years old with a child under the age of two, contemplating another child in the next 12-16 months, living in a suburban neighborhood, with a stroller and car seat and SUV and an HEB grocery store I adore. I belong to a mom's group, I own more plastic toys than I ever wanted to (though not as many as I could, I'll state in my own defense), and yesterday I oohed and aahed over my girlfriend's new Honda Odyssey minivan. I even lick my own child, and say things like, "Just one more bite for mommy, please!"

(Sigh.)

I have misjudged you, stay-at-home moms. And I had forgotten that I'd done so, but I'm apologizing, for the record. I see now that you are not all the same, that you are not statistically one. I understand that you are each unique and interesting and rich in subtle differences from one another. Of course you are. It just took me most of my life to appreciate it, about as long as it took for me to join your ranks, strangely. Yes, some of us are literally soccer moms, and others are room mothers and still others may pack juice boxes and carrot sticks and PB&J sandwiches for their children's lunches. But we also speak many languages, hail from various former pre-child careers and lives, worship in different places, prefer different retail establishments for our myriad senses of style and fashion.

We are all women, but not the same woman. We are all mothers, but not only mothers. We don't receive pay for what we do, but we work (and work hard) just the same.

So here's to us, whether we're struggling with teething or potty training or tantrums. Here's to our patience and selfless nurturing, whether we're mothering toddlers or teens. Here's to appreciating one another, because sometimes we're the only ones who remember to do it. Here's to sticking together, because someday our kids will head off on their own, as they rightly should and we've raised them to do, and yet we'll watch them go with needle-sharp pains in our broken hearts.

I'm raising my ice-cold pretentious can of orange-flavored, La Croix sparkling water high to you, my sisters. Forgive me for my short-sightedness for so long. I'm proud to be one of you.

Bedfellows

2009-02-01T20:47:00.000-08:00

I'm one of those annoying people who has to have total darkness before she can fall asleep. (To be fair, it's probably only annoying if you've ever lived with me -- so, sorry, Mom and husband.) Even the glow of the indicator light on boy's baby monitor seems blindingly bright to me, and I have to make sure that the light isn't shining in my general direction. Either that, or I have to have an obstacle -- like a pillow -- in between me and the tiny green dot of light that seems to shine straight into my brain, keeping me awake.

Anyway.

Because I'm sensitive to light, I was opposed to having a television in our master bedroom, but eventually I wore down. It's turned out to be largely a non-issue, since husband, 99 times out of 100, is asleep long before I turn in, so there's rarely occasion for me to gripe about the flickering light in the room if it's on. But instead of the glare getting on my nerves, it's turned out to be the remote control.

See, my husband is blessed with the ability to fall asleep faster than anyone I know. It's great for HIM. It means that whether we're on vacation (and therefore in a strange place) or not, whether we're in a rainstorm or not, whether it's an afternoon nap or an early bedtime or a crash at the end of a long day, he's out within two deep breaths. The drawback for me, of course, is that if there's anything I want to chit-chat about at the end of the day, I have to make sure I catch him while the lights are on and he's not yet horizontal, because otherwise I may find that I've been talking to myself for 15 minutes about the last episode of "Lost" I just got around to watching.

(On three or four different occasions, he's even fallen asleep WHILE TALKING TO ME. Granted, each time, he was really tired anyway, but it was disconcerting because he shifted gears right from normal conversation into dream-speak instantaneously. I was all, "What do you think about repainting the library?" and he was all, "I think it's a good idea, because the guys were driving the truck, and the meeting was moved anyway, so Trent told me he'd take us out to lunch. Grandma?" Wha?! There's a lot wrong with that sentence or two, but that last part really gets me. Not only am I not his grandma, she's been dead for like eight years.)

Ok, FOCUSING. Sorry, Internets.

So husband winds down by watching a little SportsCenter or MSNBC most nights. While I'm surfing or reading, he'll flick the channels a bit, and then in one sudden move, he's switched off the TV, spun onto his side to face the window, covered his head with one hand or a pillow, and mumbled "g'night." And none of that would bother me if the remote control made it over to his bedside table. But no -- it never does. Instead, it just gets dropped wherever it was when he hit the "off" button, as if he'd turned off not only the TV but his own active brain waves and motor control, and I never learn my lesson and fish it out of the blankets at that moment. Nope. I wait till about 3 a.m., and I've just climbed quietly back into bed after nursing the baby, and as I flick the blankets back to slip into the warmth and ease back into la-la-land, the remote goes flying and hits the chest of drawers across the room with a clatter, scaring the tar out of me. Either that, or it tumbles out of the blankets in the near-darkness, and for a split second I think it's a large rodent, and I try to scream but I can't get out any noise past the object lodged in my vocal cords, the object being my own heart, which has leaped in panic and tried to skitter into the bathroom by itself to crawl up onto the counter and point at the rat and shriek.

Yeah. I really hate that remote being in bed in the night. The only technology I can deal with at 3 a.m. is my iPhone, and that's because it's sleek and sweet and tells me the time when I can't see even as far as the night stand without my contacts. In fact, I'm pretty sure it ends up in bed through the night at least half as often as the remote does.

Hmmm. Maybe I should quit my complaining before husband reads this post and starts to get ideas about banning remotes AND iPHONES from bed.

Because that would just be crazy-unreasonable.