Gesundheit

Now that the truly worrisome elements of our Festive Holiday Disease have passed, we have moved on to more amusing stuff. Amusing to me, at least. This morning upon waking, the Toddler sneezed 26 times in a row. Literally. 26 times. He just kept sneezing and sneezing, stifling, then sneezing. I was in awe and for a moment had flashbacks to the young girl who appeared on the Today Show having had hiccups for a number of weeks. Were we next? But 26 was as many consecutive outbursts as the boy had in him, I guess. Oh well.

Holiday Hospital Tour '07

We made it through Christmas Day, but just barely. After a long day of faking his way thorugh presents and naps and coughing and gagging, at 6 o'clock last night we finally decided that Lucas should probably go to the E/R at Children's Hospital. The Toddler was wearing his "Trouble is My Middle Name" jammies and a black stocking cap when Ron wrapped him in his new Lightning McQueen blanket and carried him down to the car. The kid didn't even flinch. He had been on the couch with us for half an hour trying to stop coughing, trying to get a decent breath. We had tried all the usual suspects: cool air, steam, warm juice. But nothing worked. I had read that croup allegedly peaks between days 2 and 3, and here we were at the end of day 5 with no real improvement, and over a long holiday weekend, no less, when going to the pediatrician hadn't even been an option. He was diagnosed via the Nurseline.

So they went. And I stayed here with Alex, who was sleeping, waiting for word. And I waited. And I felt very alone. Even though I knew it was probably only croup, this is the first time we have had to deal with serious coughs or truly high fevers, and I was exhausted. And once I sat down in the quiet I was overwhelmed by our living room full of toys that weren't being played with. It was just so quiet in the house. I knew Alex needed his sleep, but it took all I had not to go wake him up just so I would have company, so there would be kid noise again. The peace and quiet was unnerving.
Eventually, I got ahold of a couple of friends by phone, the kind of friends who double (when necessary) as interventionists just long enough to talk you off the ledge du jour. Because on Christmas night, when your first born is on his way to the hospital without you, and your other baby is sleeping in another room, and you are 21 weeks pregnant...well, like I said, it's lonely and it's overwhelming and it's too, too quiet.

This morning, though, at first, Lucas looks better. He should, considering he's been hooked up to Albuterol and has a steroid to boot. For awhile he is on the floor in the next room happily playing with his new Lego trains. And then he starts to fade again. And it's time for more of the oral steroid, which he immediately throws up all over himself, my husband, and the surrounding area. Then after a quick bath, it's time for a breathing treatment--ten minutes of whimpering inside his clear plastic facemask with purple dragon details. As he cries, the steam puffs out through "nostrils" on either side of the mask. My sad, unwilling little dragon.

As for me, I will be taking down the Christmas tree and decorations today. I know this should probably end with a neatly drawn vignette about rediscovering the true meaning of Christmas, about remembering what's truly important in life. And yes, while there's some of that involved, there is also a great deal of disappointment. Three years in a row. But I'm trying to let it go. What can you do but let it go?

No Place Like Home for the Holidays

It is Christmas Eve and we are under quarantine. More or less, I mean. Ron has gone out to get a few last minute items (including lunch). Lucas is miserable with full-blown croup--103+ fever, chills, coughing so hard he vomits, and so on. Alex seems to mostly have a cold with a little touch of croup thrown in. His fever is finally down today, though, so that's been a bright note. We have been really hard to find bright notes the last couple of days.

So tomorrow is Christmas. I have to keep reminding myself, as yet again it doesn't really feel like it. I had held visions of sugar plums and reading special books for the little boys all gathered around the glowing Christmas tree (it is Alex's first Christmas after all). Instead we all huddled on chairs in the master bathroom while a hot shower spray steamed up the room. It was too soggy for books. And we tried to get Lucas excited about Santa, but he just slumped back against Ron's chest and stared off.
Last year Ron & I spent Christmas night proper at Bergan Mercy Hospital trying to stop my contractions with Alex. It worked, but it still took some of the shine off the holiday.
Here's hoping.

At any rate, we will not be going to my parents' house in the morning yet again. And we will not be going to Ron's family gathering either. We will be here--wiping noses, taking temps, doling out the Tylenol drops, holding sick boys in our laps.
Merry Christmas.

What the Holidays Mean to Me

It's beginning to feel a lot like Christmas at our house. And it's not just the tree, the lights, the gifts waiting to be wrapped. It's mostly, well, the annual spread of Holiday Cheer, and by that I primarily mean, "Disease."

For the third year in a row, we have been blessed with a Festive Holiday Virus. Last year and the year before it was the Norovirus (or perhaps Rotovirus, those crazy twins are so hard to tell apart). But for 2007 we have received something new. It appears at this point to be a cold variation, which started with a fever and cough, then blossomed to include a runny nose, watery eyes, and the occasional sneeze. Alex was the first to fall on Thursday, followed closely, of course, by the Toddler late Friday evening. I am still waiting my turn, but that doesn't mean I've been missing out on all the Holiday Fun--I spent last night on couch duty with Alex (all the more celebratory at 21 weeks pregnant).

As for other Holiday preparations...I have not yet begun to wrap gifts. And I still need to finish the framing projects I'm working on for both sets of parents. And I need to make some brilliant kind of salad for a family gathering tomorrow. And pick up some fragrant bath something-or-others for Ron's Aunt Letha.
But first things first, I suppose. Lucas and I made pancakes this morning. [Let it be noted that powerlessness is not my strong suit, so I am all about feeding a cold as well as a fever.] And I am working diligently to maintain a saline/suction/temp-taking/Tylenol schedule with the boys. In addition, I have managed to put on a bra, brush my teeth, get dressed, and refill our bird feeders--all before noon!

I am considering that next year, perhaps, we will move into some sort of sealed bio-dome for the entire month of December in an attempt to avoid perpetuating our latest (contagious) Holiday Tradition. Please call if you know anyone with such a timeshare to rent. While the bio-dome is preferable, we would also consider a portable plastic bubble (or bubbles). Thanks!

Back Again

Wow I'm bad. Sorry. I'm not even going to bother with the promises about regular forthcoming blog entries. Think I've probably cried wolf one too many times for anyone to buy that bridge at this point anyway. Instead, I'll do my best to bring the general story up to date.

Pregnant. Me. Still. 14 weeks tomorrow, and let me tell you, it's drag. ging. I was once again taken out by morning sickness as I was with Alex. No actual throwing groceries, but that debilitating nausea and 24/7 general malaise. I still feel like shit in the evenings but otherwise seem to be improving gradually.

A couple of weeks ago we had a little scare when I blew out a uterine vein. That was fun. Very gorey. But all seems well at the moment, and the baby didn't even seem to notice that little incident.
So that's the pregnancy up to this point. We'll answer the boy/girl question sometime mid-December, and until then...well, I'm just taking it one day at a time. One very loud, busy, nauseous day at a time.

As for the boys, they don't get the fact that I'm growing another little sibling, only (in my opinion) that Mommy's not as much fun as she used to be. But they're coping. Alex has been pulling up and cruising furniture since roughly 7 1/2 months (he'll be 10 months on the 18th) and is on the verge of taking his first wobbly steps. Maybe by Thanksgiving. And Lucas, well, he's 2 you know. He likes to help with chores (laundry, loading & unloading the dishwasher, raking leaves, dusting, and so on) and is obsessed with trains and race cars. And sitting on Alex. And taking toys away from Alex and occasionally bashing him in the skull with a sippy cup.

So that's us. I am still here, still pregnant, still chasing around two little boys and trying to find time to write.

Oops, She Did It A--Oh Wait, No She Didn't

I know I'm a little late to the necktie party, but still I feel compelled to weigh-in on last night's VMA fiasco. And I'm not just talking about the opening performance.

First off, though, Britney. Oh, Britney, Britney. Brit-ney. For one thing, I'm going to tell myself that she did not choose her own costume. That I'm willing to blame on a stylist, although it certainly made me feel better about my own postpartum bod. I mean, egad. Sure she looked good for having had two children recently in close succession, but with the sharks circling someone should have known that little black number was only gonna be blood in the water. She should have just said No, as it were. What is it they teach with Stranger Danger? "Just say, 'No,' go and tell?"

And as far as her actual "performance" is concerned...I felt for her. She looked scared. She looked like she knew the number was hopelessly lame. She looked like she wanted her 2001 snake back so she could crawl into its hole & die. [Note: Okay, so I think pythons actually spend most of their time in trees, but that doesn't exactly work to make my point, so I'm bending the truth. Please, if you're an albino python out there reading this, don't sue me for gross misrepresentation.]

Going in I was almost rooting for her. No, I WAS rooting for her. I wanted her to kick ass so that everyone would shut the hell up. It would have been a brilliant, Lee Press-On finger raised at the media and all other naysayers. "Can you hear this Bitches? Well lemme turn it UP!" But obviously it didn't work out that way. The whole thing was a set up. Just give the girl enough rope.

As for the rest of the show...Maybe I'm just old fashioned, but I was really looking forward to seeing groups like Fall-Out Boy and the Foo Fighters churn out some ass-kicking, Best-of caliber performances. I was not looking forward to watching them perform in my friend's basement, which is how the "Suite" concept came off. One can only look up Dave Grohl's nose so many times before even I begin to question my affection. The claustrophobic camera angles and poor acoustics made it almost painful (not to mention the drunk chick in every front row who was clearly aware of the fact that she was on camera). And God forbid they would have aired an entire song at any given time. It was like, "Here's Fall-Out boy...[riff riff riff]...and now back to you!"

While it's true that Britney pretty much blew, at least she can count among her miserable company members of MTV's creative and production teams. Better luck next year, guys. You too, Brit.

Third Time's A Charm

If you had asked me 6 weeks ago if I was going to have another baby, I would have told you--in no uncertain terms--absolutely not. No way. No how. Nuh-uh. But then something happened: Alex hit the magical 6-month mark.

It's the same thing that happened after Lucas was born. One day I'm be-boppin' & scattin' along, completely content with my solitary son, and the next I'm telling Ron I think I should get off the pill so we can start trying again. And we did actually "try" with Alex, which was a joke. For 3 months I bought those stupid ovulation tests, which are basically target practice for when you take the "real" test. I never could catch a hormone spike with those stupid things. So we tried, which was annoying. If you have ever actually "tried" to get pregnant in a keeping-track-of-ovulation kind of way, you know what I mean. And with no results by early April that year, I told Ron that we were going to abstain until further notice so as not to conceive a Christmas baby.

He was fine with that, so fine, because his birthday is December 19th, and as he will be happy to tell you, it sucked when he was a kid. His siblings always hit the proverbial birthday goldmine, while little Ronnie got the shaft--one present to cover both occasions. So for that reason and the fact that I absolutely did not want to spend the Holidays on bed rest, we abstained. Except for one teensy little indiscretion the night before Audri & I left for Minneapolis. Except for that one time. And wouldn't you know...I spent Christmas home alone on the couch, lying with a pillow between my knees & timing contractions while Ron took the boys to celebrate in Glenwood. Happy Effing Holidays.

So this time when we decided to go for number three I told Ron, "And we're not going to actually try, like I'm not going to track anything. We can just have fun and see what happens." You'd think I would have learned something by now, wouldn't you? Like I'm sure as soon as those words were out of my mouth, people in the back of the theater were covering their eyes in horror & shouting, "Nooooo...Don't go in there!" Yeah, well, after you.

Off the pill I came. And since I didn't even have a standard "green week," I thought, "Oh great, I'm not even ovulating. Fan-tastic." I am 35, after all, and at 35 (according to one report) only 55% of women will successfully conceive after a full year of trying. So I waited. And waited. And I thought, "I wish I'd get my freakin' period so I'd at least know that I'm functional." Not that that has anything to do with whether or not you're actually ovulating. But I digress.

So...still waiting. Then last Thursday when I got home from work, just for S&G (and because if you're a woman and have ever gotten into the addictive cycle of peeing on sticks "just to see if maybe") I grabbed a First Response out of the linen closet ("linen and pee stick closet" more specifically) and headed to the bathroom.

"Ron?!" I hollered. Then walking out into the living room, eyes fixed to the tell-tale stick, "Ro-o-on!" Where the hell was he? "Where are you?!" I yelled.
"In the kitchen?" from the next room. Oh.
"I think we're freaking pregnant," I said rounding the corner.
"What?!" So this is what it takes to get his attention away from the computer monitor.
"Seriously," I handed him the stick, "How many lines do you see?"
He looked down at the decisive lines I had thrust in front of him. "We're pregnant," he said, "Holy crap."

So we're shocked of course, but only sort of. God forbid I would be off the pill longer than two weeks before getting pregnant. Wouldn't want to be normal or anything. Now we're just waiting for my first doctor's appointment on September 13th to find out the actual due date, though we're guessing the last week of April or first week of May.

Let the games begin!

We Are, How You Say...

...pregnant again! Just found out this morning.
Details to follow, but to answer immediate questions:

Yes, on purpose.

No, not trying for a girl.

About 15 months apart.

If all goes well I will end up with 3 children at or below the age of 34 months.
And you think I'm crazy now?

Mars & Venus on the Couch

Tonight we're watching a repeat of "Scrubs" when a new Sprint commercial comes on. Perhaps you've seen it. Accelerated grey film with neon-like doodles that appear and change along with the voiceover. Toward the beginning is a line that goes something like, "When you were young, what did you dream about as you fell asleep?"

At which point my husband, sitting next to me on the couch with feet propped on the coffee table, says as though on cue, "Boobs."

"What?"

"Boobs. Didn't you see the boobs just then?"

"Oh my God," I'm laughing now, "WHAT?!"

"Those were boobs."

"Ron, seriously. Oh my God, those were not boobs!"

"Those were subliminal, neon boobs!"

I get up and walk into the kitchen to get a drink. "You have lost your shit," I say.

"They were boobs," he says, rising as I sink back into my seat. Five minutes later he is still not back. I mute the television. The distinctive clatter of a computer keyboard. I know exactly what he's doing, which triggers in me an eye roll reminiscent of the finest slot machines.

"Ron," I get up and walk into the kitchen where he is hunched over my keyboard, gazing pie-eyed up at the monitor, "seriously, you are not--"

"See?!" he interrupts, "They are BOOBS!" He has of course, being my husband, Googled the new Sprint commercial, played it, and frozen the screen on the moment in question.

"Fine Dear," I concede with only a hint of sarcasm, "they are boobs. Hairy, blinking boobs," referring to their apparent eyelashes and deceptively eye-like motion. Not to mention that they are floating among similarly drawn stars, as though suggesting nighttime and sleep. Unless he thinks the stars are fireworks someone has shot off to celebrate the appearance of magical, disembodied breasts.

"You can't tell me they didn't do that on purpose," he says.

"Sure I can." Oh, Testoste-Ron. You dear, sweet Man.

I Heart Motherhood

It is insane to me how much I love being a mom (and I don't think that's the just the Zoloft talking, although I'm sure it doesn't hurt). No I really just feel like I've hit my stride with the boys, and considering I was never even sure that I wanted kids to begin with, it kind of seems like a miracle.



As with most things in my life (save, perhaps, this blog [thought I should point that out before someone else did]), I go for full-contact motherhood. No half-assed crap up in here. Unless you count the bottle-feeding thing. But I digress. If you've ever wondered who on Earth takes the time to read all of those crazy parenting books, um, you're lookin' at her. Among other things, the bookshelf above my desk contains the following titles: The Happiest Baby on te Block, The Happiest Toddler on the Block, Common Sense Parenting of Toddlers and Preschoolers, The Baby Book, The American Academy of Pediatrics Guide to Your Child: Birth to Age 5, Playskool Toddler's Busy Play Book, and Unplugged Play: 710 Games and Activities for Ages 12 Months to 10 Years. Not to suggest that I've read every single page of every single book, but let's just say we're acquainted.

The Best Part About Sharing Your Blueberry Muffins With a Just-Turned-Two-Year-Old

They don't know the tops from the stumps.

Jerky

My house smells like meat.

Not because I'm cooking or anything. It just smells like meat. This has been going on for about two weeks, and it's about to kill me. At first I thought I might just be pregnant and experiencing the accompanying hypersensitive nose, but after peeing on numerous sticks (pregnancy tests, I mean), I eliminated that possibility. Ron claims he doesn't smell anything, although he was quick to suggest it might be the cats. "Guess we'll have to get rid of them," he quipped. He says this a lot. Anyway, as someone who has had cats for going-on eleven years, I can assure you (and Ron) that they are not the source or this particular odor. Unless they've tricked out a barbie in the basement, which is possible (but not likely).

First we changed the air filter hoping that had something to do with it, but it didn't help. Then, I bought a Glade Plug-Ins Scented Oil Fan (Fresh Linen, to be specific), which only made the place smell like "Flowered meat," as my spouse so delicately put it (funny, since he claims he can't smell anything). Let me tell you, though, Ron knows from meat. When he lived in Bettendorf, he had a fair to partly sketchy apartment (at idyllic "Chateau Knoll") that always smelled like meat. It was like the guy downstairs ran his food dehydrator 24/7 & gave out free jerky with the crack. Anyway, now our house smells like eau de Chateau with no downstairs neighbor to blame it on.

So every time I enter the house it's like I get rolled by Slim Jim & his wing man (Jack Link). On the off chance that anyone else has experienced a similar, disembodied meat scent phenomenon, please advise as to how I might convince it to go into the light. I'm desperate. And we're running low on A-1.

Poll Dancing

I don't know about you all, but lately my caller ID has been absolutely lit up with political and special interest pollsters. Bo-ring. I actually got a call the other day from the National Right To Life Association. Of course, as this was the highlight of my day, I couldn't help but answer:
"Hello?"
"Hello, Miss Lee?"
"Hi!" I said, enthusiastically, "Is this the National Right To Life Association?"
"Yes, it is," said the nice lady on the other end.
"Yeaaah," I paused, "You're gonna want to take me OFF your call list."
They must have gotten my name during my temporary stint as a Registered Republican during Nebraska's last gubernatorial primary, when I switched parties to vote for Governor Dave (and against Coach Tom). Anyway, needless to say I will not be contributing money to, nor will I be supporting in any way/shape/form, candidates who find favor in the National Right To Life Association. As if.

Birth Write

Okay, folks, I'm trying to change my ways. In addition to taking extended vacations from Vera Lynn, I am also notoriously wretched at giving up the rest of the story when I leave you hanging. Case in point: Alex's misshapen head. I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry. I will do better. Granted, I'm still not going to wrap that one up just yet, but I will take a minute to expound upon my sado-masochistic labor experience. Oooh, it hurts so good...

I have to admit, Libby handled herself with a certain amount of grace.

By the time I got to the hospital that morning, she was already hooked up to the Pitocin. Libby, her birth coach Cheryl, and her husband John (Ron's brother) were playing Uno. You remember Uno, right? You draw until you can match either the color or number, you get Skipped, Draw Two, go Wild, etcetera. They had combined 2 or 3 decks to make this monstrous, obnoxiously thick stack of cards that never seemed to get shuffled properly. Or I am just shitty at Uno and a sore loser besides.

So as morning became afternoon, we watched the clock. And time. Crept. Slowly. By.
I looked through the magazines I had brought along. I made and re-made my grocery list. I ate cups of Kozy Shack pudding from the visitors' fridge in the next room. I got my ass kicked repeatedly at Uno. Then finally, a little after six in the evening, things started to get interesting. The contractions were actually starting to hurt enough that Libby didn't feel like playing cards (I think they had ramped up her Pitocin by this point, since she had progressed only about 1/2 a centimeter all day). Since she wanted to go without painkillers, I suggested we go for a walk. "You should try to get up and move around," I said, "That's what helps get the baby down into position."
No dice.
So I got the big blue birthing ball out of the closet and sat down on it just past the foot of her bed. "Do you want to try this?" I bounced, "It's rather entertaining." I grabbed onto the end of her bed and took a few exaggerated hops. "Needs a handle, though," I added.
Still nothing from the bed.
"Come ooon, Libby," I tried again, "Maybe it would help you pass the time?" I shrugged innocently up at her and smiled.

She didn't go for the birthing ball, but that folksy little maneuver did get her to agree to a brief walk down the hall. Once we returned to the room her night nurse came in and basically told Libby in no uncertain terms that it was wonderful that she wanted to have a natural birth, but in order for that to actually happen she was going to have to get much more active (read: You're gonna have to get off your ass, Sister). It was roughly at this point that Libby opted for pain meds. A choice for which we were all grateful.

Next thing we knew, she was ready to push, and at 10:50 p.m. (after 3 little sets of 3 shoves), Hayden Charles Lee emerged. And I got to watch the whole thing, too. That was cool. I didn't watch when Lucas was born because I decided that I didn't need to see something that size coming out of my body. To be honest, I wasn't completely sure I needed to see something that size coming out of ANYONE's body, but Libby reminded me that I'd never have one "that way" again, so I decided what the hell, right? You only get so many chances in life to watch something like that. Actually, it was cute. Libby actually said, "I'm not sure what your comfort level is, but you're welcome to stay." To which my internal dialogue responded something like, She's not sure what my comfort level is? Has she met me?

So anyway, Baby Hayden has arrived. He was 1/2 an ounce heavier than Alexander was at birth and exactly the same length. I can't believe my little guy was ever so tiny. So delicate and curled into himself. So still. Already I can't remember those days. And in a way I'm grateful. And in a way I'm sad. And in a way, I'm considering having another one.

Touche

En route to the hospital I got behind a white Chevy pickup truck with the following window decals:

My truck has balls.
(So I checked, and yes, there were the requisite faux-nads dangling just below the hitch.)

and

My other toy has tits.

Neat, I thought. Good for you. And then I noticed his vanity plate:

Guy.

Slap & Tickle

My sister-in-law, Libby, is scheduled to be induced this morning, and I am going along for the ride. Partly to support her (yeah, yeah), and partly to welcome my new nephew, whom they plan to name "Hayden," but mostly (mostly) for my own perverse pleasure. See, I really want to watch someone else's labor experience. Of course I haven't told Libby this, because there's just no gentle way to say, "I'm coming to the hospital because I want to see what's going to happen to you." That just seems mean. And Christmas would probably be awkward.


But I am so curious that I can't help myself. She has this insane idea that she's going to go sans epidural, which I of course think is insane. To me, wanting to "fully experience" a "natural" childbirth makes about as much sense as the desire to "fully experience" a "natural" appendectomy. Not to mention the fact that I was present for a brief period during Libby's early labor with her first child, and from the onset she was writhing around moaning & carrying on...I've got 20 bucks that says, "Epidural by noon."

So to summarize--Libby/labor, Me/vaguely disturbing S&M-like fascination with birth process.
I'll let you know how it goes...

Fear Not the Giant Freak Head!

I'm just trying to get your attention long enough to let you know that I am coming back. No really, I mean it. Not another hollow promise. Daddy really will buy you that pony. It's just that I've been super busy helping Lucas throw dirt clods at the house and coaching Alex on his tummy to back roll (though he remains unconvinced that my method is more effective than his--shrieking in limb-servered agony until Mommy scurries in to flip him back over).

Anywho, as the week progresses I encourage you to check back-posts, since my first order of business will be clearing out my draft file. See, it's not that I haven't been writing as much as it is that I haven't been finishing. So no guarantees on quality. No rose garden either. Stay tuned...

Rock the Vote or A Few Words on Sexual Politics

Okay, so now Jim is moving to Denver, and I am sad.

I mean like embarrassingly sad.

I mean like the summer after 3rd grade when Amy Harrison moved away to Texas, sad. Somewhere in a drawer I still have a photograph from the last afternoon she spent at my house. I remember we curled our hair all fancy and put on flowered dresses. In the picture, she is standing next to my parents' bird bath smiling and holding a sign--green magic marker on loose-leaf--"Bye-bye Amy Harrison 1981," it says (my idea, I'm sure). I never talked to her after that. Back then there were no cell phones, so no free long distance calls between Iowa and Texas. There was no email. And at 9 we were still a little young for productive letter writing. So that was the end of that. Full stop. Bye-bye Amy Harrison.

As for Jim, he was the first new person I met when I moved from Minneapolis to Omaha in 2003. At the time he was the acting manager of the Barnes & Noble store I was trying to transfer into. My initial impression of Jim was that he was kind of a dick, actually, which he may have been (and still may be, though I've apparently grown accustomed). Regardless, over the past few years we've become friends. We've bonded over our shared sordid past in retail management, our affinity for eclectic music, the fact that we've lived in the same cities during opposite years. My son, Lucas, and Jim's boy, Noah, are only a few months apart in age. Jim gets my obscure pop-culture references, my seemingly random Seinfeld remarks. He is capable of volleying repartee when properly engaged, he writes (or intends to). We are, in a sense, late-onset college drinking buddies. Only instead of college it's work, and instead of the drinking, well, we work (okay, so the analogy falls apart here, but you get my point).

See, as a general rule, I consider myself quick to gain acquaintances but slow to make friends. It just takes so much time to get to know people and honestly, at this point in my life, I already know a lot of people. The trouble is that most of them live too far away--Honolulu, Charleston, Minneapolis. And the few good friends I have here...well I'm sure they'll be the first to tell you that I am downright shitty about finding time to get together. I am just so stupidly busy juggling schedules--Ron's work & school, my job, the boys--that I rarely actually get it together enough to venture out with friends. I do, however, somehow manage to get my happy ass to work 3 days a week (most of the time), and although the store is not technically a social club, sometimes it may as well be.

Anyway, at this juncture I am unsure how to continue. The friendship, I mean, and that's part of what makes me sad. As what you might call a "late bloomer," I have always had good male friends. Until I started dating (my senior year of high school), I was always the sidekick, the one you took along so your mom would let you go out with that boy. And usually that boy brought along a friend too, a kind of pity pal to entertain the sidekick. Those pity pals became some of my best friends. In college, I was also often just one of the guys. I shot pool, tossed back Jack with no chaser, decreed killer Asshole rules. Trouble is that now, out here in the land of the grown-ups, there are certain expectations, a kind of Harry/Sally stigma to it all. See, if Jim were a girl and moving to Denver, it would be easy. I mean, you call, you visit, you have pillow fights, etc. But the whole boy/girl/married thing requires a different kind of etiquette. I mean I don't really think you call, do you? And I guess the pillow fights are out (not that girls actually do that--I just threw it in for the male readership). In a way, it kind of feels like 1981 all over again. Minus the fancy hair & pretty dresses.

But I'm not crying in my beer just yet. It is 2007, after all, and there is email. And Ron & I are going to be in Denver in September, so I'm sure we'll look Jim & Tracy up then. In the meantime, I did what you do to commemorate such important rites of passage (or what you did in 1987 at least)--I made him a mix tape. So life goes on. It's just that starting this week, work will feel a little more like WORK. Not that there's anything wrong with that...

The Weighting Game

My friend Jim is on a diet.

And not that I am bitter, but it's working. It's working to the point that I have threatened him with my leather punch. As in, "I swear to God if you don't get smaller pants I'm going to put another hole in that damn belt of yours!" Because he is constantly pulling up his pants at work. I mean constantly. Like if you just met him for the first time, you'd think it was some kind of tic for which he'd forgotten his medication. Which means that all day at work I am reminded of the fact that Jim has already lost more weight in two weeks than I have been trying to lose for 5 months.

Part of what bothers me about this is that I know how to lose weight. I've done it before--beer weight after college, baby weight after Lucas. I'm smart about fitness. I know what to eat/lift/run/you-name-it to get back in the game. But this time, for whatever reason, I just haven't been doing it. A conscientious objector, if you will. And I was starting to get comfortable at my new weight until this whole Fat Blast incident arose.

As I understand it, the whole thing was his wife Tracy's idea, and Jim is admirably playing the role of supportive husband. They've had such success that after a couple of weeks, I ask Ron if he'd want to do the Fat Blast Diet with me. "Sure," he says, "I'm feeling pretty flabby lately."
So the next day at work, I glance through the introductory phase of the program. Long story short, for the first 9 days it basically allows you to only eat fruits & vegetables. Sounds brutal to me, but if Jim "Beer & Artificial Fruit Snacks" Kaucher can do it, I'll be damned if it won't work for me. I deliver the diet information to Ron that night at dinner.
"It's supposed to be for the first 9 days," I say, "But I was thinking we could just do that part for like 3 days or something & then start phasing in the next foods."
Ron shakes his head and cuts into his steak. "No," he says, gesturing in my direction with the newly skewered meat, "If we're gonna do it, we're gonna do it. No half-assed crap."
Hmm. I'm thinking. This means no orange mocha frapps at work. No finishing the toddler's food. No cheese. No waffles. No thing. Period. I panic a little. Punt! "I'm not sure I can commit to 9 days," I say, "Let me think about it."

And a few weeks later I am still thinking about it.
Finally, last night, Ron & I visited the diet issue again. At this point, Team Lee seems to be on the same page regarding weight and fitness goals. Our shared plan going forward is--simply put--that we will not get any worse over the course of the next year. Is that a little sad? If we can just not completely go to shit, we reason, there will be plenty of time to deal with the issue next summer. Ron will be done with his MBA in May. The boys will be older. We will have more time to master concepts like "fruit" and "exercise." In the meantime, we will maintain. Main. Tain.

As I typed that last part, the phone rang. It was Ron, on his way home from Glenwood with the boys. He's going to drive-thru McDonald's to get a McFlurry for himself, and do I want one?
Yes indeed, I say. Make mine a double.

Head Games

Today I am too tired to be funny. Or poignant. Or reflective.

Actually I'm too tired to be writing this, but I have to find some way to pass the time while I wait for coffee to brew. Not that coffee is really going to help matters. I'm more than just that kind of tired.

As I've alluded previously, in his first twelve weeks, my little baby Alex has been a bit of a fixer-upper. First, there was the search for an agreeable formula. Then the thrush. Then the reflux. And somewhere in there we started the Pavlik harness for his hip dysplasia. Then the thrush made an encore appearance. And now, one day after he finished with the Pavlik, I am putting off calling the pediatrician about our next little obstacle: craniosynostosis.

Sounds serious, doesn't it? Yes, well. Well, well, well. It could be worse. Seems that one of the sutures in Alex's skull has fused prematurely, and that (if left untreated) will cause his head to grow all wonky, which could not only lead to years of playground ridicule, but to seizures and other brain-related maladies. Generally the fix is a craniotomy, where the skull is broken, thereby releasing the suture. There is a less invasive endoscopic procedure available in certain cases, but we don't know yet if anyone here in Omaha offers the option. If not, we are prepared to travel (assuming that Alex's case qualifies), but that begs a whole list of other questions: If we travel, who will travel? Who will take care of Lucas? Could I bear staying behind? Could I bear making the trip? I have no answers.

Nor will I have answers until I start the ball rolling by making the first dreaded call. Then, there will be a visit to our pediatrician. There will be a referral. There will be meetings with the pediatric neurosurgeon, the plastic surgeon. There will be me looking at my beautiful boy and trying to imagine his skull broken. Even though I know better, there will be me trying to figure out what I could have done differently to prevent it. I will picture complications. I will dream he is healed.

When all is said and done, I know Alex won't remember any of this. Not my tears over seeing his little legs in the Pavlik harness for the first time, nor my panicked fingers tracing his ridged skull over and over as though to erode the seam. I keep reminding myself that kids are resilient, that I am the one with the real issues. Alex smiles up from the bouncy where he has been sleeping. Alex, master teacher, your mother has lessons to learn.

Diet Rite

Let me preface this all by acknowledging that realize I don't have much to complain about in the post-partum weight loss department. I paid my real dues after Lucas was born, taking a leisurely 11 months to lose 45 of the 50 pounds I had gained (thanks in part to a diet rich in Peanut Butter Captain Crunch). This time around I only packed on 35 (thanks in part to a rousing bout of norovirus the week before Christmas). Now, at almost 7 weeks post-partum, I only have 12 pounds left to lose to return to my pre-Alex weight (17 pounds to return to pre-Lucas weight, but let's not get stupid here). That said, I've also already played all my "Get Out Of Jail Free" cards. Water weight? Gone. Depression? Dealt with. Too busy to eat? Not so much anymore. It's time to get serious.

So now I'm kind of on a diet. Actually, I'm kind of on lots of diets. In the morning I start out on the Post cereal Eat 2 Lose 10 Plan. "Lose 10lbs. The Heart Healthy Way!" the box brags. All I have to do is substitute a serving of a Post Heart Healthy Cereal for two meals a day. So each morning I carefully measure out one half cup of cereal and one half cup of milk. This week I'm doing Grape-nuts which, by the way, I've found to be highly polarizing, the Hillary Rodham Clinton of cereals, if you will, as everyone seems to have an opinion about their edibility. (In the interest of equal time, I suppose a case could also be made that Grape-nuts are "the George W. Bush of cereals," except that I like Grape-nuts. But I digress.) Try as I might, though, I can't bring myself to eat cereal two meals a day.

Instead, in the best of all possible worlds, for lunch I do the Progresso Soup Diet. Progresso boasts "32 different soups with 100 calories or fewer per serving." Sounds wonderful and easy. Except that instead of just a serving, I eat the whole can, which wouldn't be so bad if I didn't chase it with an entire box of Girl Scout Cookies. (I am not making this up.) Damn the Girl Scouts and their Boxes of Sin! They show up every year just as I'm about to drop weight. Damn them! Why? Moreover, why did I feel obligated to order 9 boxes? I'll tell you why--because I was a Girl Scout, and I remember the humiliation of having to knock on doors and solicit strangers to buy my stupid, lame-ass cookies.

So here I am trying to drop a pound a week on this cereal soup diet, but every time I open the cupboard I'm acosted by boxes of sweet crunchy goodness. The only way out, as I see it, is to launch a kind of Cookie Blitzkrieg, to consume all the remaining cookies in as little time as possible. I've already proven that I can kill of a box of Caramel deLites in a sitting. Can I do an entire sleeve of Thin Mints? Can I do two? I have to get these cookies the hell out of my house!

Hallelujah! In the time it has taken me to write and edit this, I have polished off another half a box of the caramel thingies. At this rate I'll be cookie-free and on my way to Miss Hawaiian Tropic by week's end! Must...keep...going...

Post-Partum De(com)pression

So as you might have guessed, I finally had the baby. Alexander Paul. Alex for short. And I sailed through the first couple of post-surgical weeks, piece of cake, wondering why people get so worked up over this c-section thing. I was mobile, I was lifting my toddler, I was off the pain meds completely. Yay, me! Aren't I great? And then, when I least expected it, when I practically couldn't stop bragging about how quickly I was recovering, about how great, how optimistic I was feeling...Wham-o! There it be.

I knew I needed help when I was no longer able to employ my internal filter. You know, the one that, when people ask, "How are you?" allows you to answer, "Fine, thanks," on even your worst day? Let's just say I was having a lot of worst days. For instance, during one of my first shifts back at Barnes & Noble, a well-intentioned co-worker gleefully asked, "So, how's that new baby of yours?"

"Crabby and LOUD," I said, with no hint of irony. You should have seen the look on her face. And I continued to answer this question honestly, sometimes with a laundry list of Alex issues: the Pavlik harness, invasive thrush, the possibility of reflux, the "not so much with the sleeping thing"...should I go on? I could, you know. For awhile.

Anyway, I decided that perhaps this is not normal. I understand the frustrations of the early days with a little one (I had those with Lucas), but it seemed to me I should care enough to keep that pesky filter switched on. And there are other things. Some of the time Alex is my precious angel. I can't get enough of his smell. He is cute and sweet and working on his first smile. And some of the time, when I'm preoccupied, when Ron is here or my parents are here or when Alex suddenly squawks awake from a previously peaceful, if brief, slumber, I'm like, "Oh right...A baby."

Of course there have been other times in my life when I've crept near the alluring edge of that Batshit precipice and looked down. Long way down, there (if you haven't been), though I've always managed to turn away in time. In my life B.C. (Before Children), I would have considered this latest low merely a tempermental artistic funk, nothing a few bloody mary's, half a pack of cigarettes, and some kind of body piercing wouldn't fix. But now that I'm in charge of two babies under two, such self-destructive behavior is a luxury I can no longer afford (see also "Britney").

So as of last Thursday I'm taking a low dose of Zoloft, which on some level feels like an admission of defeat, a white flag. I mean, shouldn't I be able to cope with all of this on my own? Last time I checked, being Super Mommy wasn't supposed to involve any kind of serotonin imbalance. But at the moment, this morning, I seem to be over the hump. I mean, overall I'm doing well (filter unemployed). It was a huge step for me to actually ask my doctor for help, since that doesn't fit in with my general DIY M.O. To me it suggests weakness, a vulnerability with which I'm not entirely comfortable. A fact which, even under the best circumstances, might threaten to send me into some kind of depression. Good thing I'm taking something for that.

Getting to Know Your Friends

How many times in any given year do you think you receive this email? You know the one, "Chocolate or vanilla ice cream?" "Any tattoos?" "Craziest thing you've ever done?" and so on. My sister-in-law (who, as far as I know, doesn't read this blog) forwards hers to me so often that I have made a kind of game out of memorizing her answers. Like, "Wait, wait--I know this one! You like vanilla! With chocolate sauce!"

Not that I mind, really. And out of sheer boredom (read: "denial of all the things I should be accomplishing" or "post-3 a.m.-feeding insomnia") I usually take time to cut & paste it back to her with my own reliable answers. Lately I have even been guilty of forwarding it on to a few close friends who, I hope, will read it as the desperate, hollow gesture it is intended to be. I don't expect any responses. It's more like a calling card left in their tray, corner bent (top left). In some bizarre way answering those ridiculous questions helps me to remember who I am. Or who I was. Or who I might be if I were getting enough sleep to allow me to remember my own name most days.

While I'm usually able to recall the basics ("Where were you born?" Council Bluffs, Iowa; "Favorite day of the week?" Monday), other answers are slower to surface and frequently threaten to turn into novellas.

"Any tattoos?"
Yes, one. A long-stemmed rose on the inside of my left ankle, near the bone. In memory of my friend Monica, on what would have been her 30th birthday. The suggestion of back-story without really going there.

"Craziest thing you've ever done?"
My answer to this one changes depending on how I'm feeling and what I can remember on any given day. Last time I drudged up this little gem: Made out with an Australian guy in the ladies' room of a night club in Inverness, Scotland. Granted it's not that crazy, nor is it the classiest thing I've ever done, but the complex location seems to lend it street cred. Sometimes I use, Made a bong using an empty pop can, my earring, and a Bic pen, but that's only crazy if you've never done it, and I have actually had people point out that the earring isn't really necessary, especially if your Bic has a fine tip.

See, at one point I was actually out in the world. Before marriage. Before kids. Before my 30s. Before I realized that more or less things are the same wherever you go, and hangovers are a bitch, regardless. I don't really think that anyone but me is interested in what time I started filling out this questionaire (2:47 p.m.) or whether or not I've ever broken someone's heart (I hope so). Sometimes it's just nice to remember where I came from (Glenwood, Iowa) and think about something other than the next child who will need fed (Lucas) or the next load of laundry that needs to come up from the basement (towels).

Happy Valentine's...oh, whatever.

Normally, I am not a bitter person.

Okay, that's probably a lie. Let me rephrase: Normally I am not bitter about Valentine's Day, specifically. I don't expect fancy gifts or flowers or chocolates (read: I do not expect Tiffany, roses, or Godiva liquer truffles [in that order]). I'm happy with dinner & a cocktail or two, either at home or away. Maybe a card, maybe not. No big deal.

I blame this on ("credit this to?") the fact that I didn't really date in high school, so I got used to the inevitable loneliness & disappointment at an early age. I didn't stumble (literally--Boone's Farm) onto my first boyfriend until senior year. Bill. Billy. After a brief stint on the pro arm wrestling circuit, and after fathering three kids by three different women, he is currently doing time at Florence on a federal weapons charge. Who knew arms posession for convicted felons was illegal (darn those meth convictions anyway)? Anyway, even that year was less than spectacular in the romance department.

Of course the cheerleaders or future farmers or some other group were always peddling their wares, exploiting our teen-angst, hormonal hearts in the name of a quick buck. Carnations and Slo-Pokes, mostly, for a dollar or two a pop. I can admit it now, but on Valentine's Day I was always filled with a sort of nervous anticipation, wondering if this would be the year I received something from an actual male admirer instead of just my girl friends ("Best Buds," "Luv ya!" and the like). And of course, each year, with the final bell came disappointment, that really annoying kind that feels like a rock in your throat & tastes like tears even though you're smiling. Every year I'd cut my losses, gather up my best-bud-blue carnations & head home. The end.

So today I think I'm just feeling a little of those killer post-partum hormones. I've already forgotten what Ron did that has me so annoyed. I only know that as I sit here pounding away at the keyboard, iPod blaring, he is in the next room working on his laptop, and in my chest I have that tight, pissed-off feeling. And when I finally do get up from my desk, I will probably sigh loudly and slam a few cupboard doors as I make the coffee. Who knows? But I suppose I'd best get over it, as we have a dinner reservation in just over four hours. Should probably turn off the Ani DiFranco then (that can't be helping, now, can it?). And might want to think about changing out of these pajamas. Maybe take a shower.

Bitter, party of one...oh, whatever.