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.

Dear Alanis

"A traffic jam when you're already late" is not ironic. It would be ironic, however, if--for once in your life--you actually left the house in plenty of time to arrive early, but then (Oh God, the ass-biting irony!) ran into a traffic jam that made you late all the same.

Thank you for your time.
Sincerely,

The Shelf--Rated 'R' for 'Regrettable'

It was reminiscent of a scene from the old black & whites, the imaginary audience in my bedroom gasping, hiding their eyes, "Don't go in there!" they shrieked. But I did. Into the closet. Over to the shelf. Over to the high, high shelf on which are stacked (dum dum dum DUUUM...) my pre-pregnancy jeans.

I don't know exactly why I did it ("No occifer, I not been dinking."). Okay, yes I do. I have my 34 week appointment coming up on Thursday and I'm afraid of getting yelled at about my weight. People tell me I'm "not nearly as big" as I was with Lucas (an odd comment that sets off the internal dialogue, "Heeey, whaddya mean 'not nearly as BIG?!'" but I digress), and because I'm not on bed rest, obviously I'm more active and feel much better than I did at this stage with him. Still, the scale creeps up. And up. And up. And I thought that, whether it serve as reality check or relief, if I could just TRY ON a pair of my pre-pregnancy jeans, maybe I would feel better. Maybe I would feel worse. I don't know.

The shelf is stacked precariously high with denim, and I manage to knock down the whole stack with only a couple of jumps (God forbid I would have gone for the step stool). Sigh. It's like some kind of sordid ass scrapbook. I rifle nostalgically through the size zeros, past the short-short Abercrombie skirt I wore as a bikini cover-up the summer before I got pregnant with Lucas, past the skinny jeans from American Eagle I wore in grad school when I was running 30 miles a week and which I'm keeping in the hope of gleefully slinking into them again on my 40th birthday, ala one of those Speical K commercials. I thumb past the Size 2. Size 4. Hmm. I pause to hold up a pair of size 6 jeans that I wore last winter mid-weight-loss. Hmm. I shake them out again and hold them up to the light. Nah. I toss them aside. I am intrigued by the next pair in the pile. I have no idea what size they are, as there is no size tag, but they look convincingly like they could be a 6. Or an 8 maybe. Did I buy jeans that size? I don't even remember. They look reasonable enough anyway. I try them on carefully, tentatively, as though I suspect some type of small, poisonous reptile lurks down one of the legs. I attempt to pull them up. To my surprise (and delight) they come up easily over my hips and thighs, and, although I can't button them around the baby, I can tell that they will fit after said baby is no longer a consideration. Sweet. Sweet! I am smiling.

Feeling confident, cocky even, I reach for another pair. Distressed Silver jeans I bought in the Juniors department and wore to my 15 year high school reunion 3 months after I had Lucas. They, too, slide up with only a bit of additional encouragement (read: tugging). These are a tougher call but seem good enough, considering. Good enough. I've been walking when the weather is good and this weekend started light lifting & squats again. This makes me optimistic (fearful?) enough to keep it up. Or to plan to keep it up at least.

I abandon the pile of jeans on the bed and turn back toward the closet. One more thing. I have to work at the bookstore in the morning, and I'm wondering if I can squeeze (so to speak) one more week out of my brown maternity pants. It's been touch and go for the last month, to the point that one of these days I'm afraid I'm going to have to call Jim and tell him I'll be late due to a wardrobe emergency, or worse yet, due to a complete mental breakdown brought on by the fact that I have outgrown my maternity pants. There they hang, flimsy-looking brown things slumped pathetically over their hanger. I stare at them for a minute or two. They seem harmless, still I'm too scared to reach for them. Instead I slide the mirrored doors closed and turn off the closet light, pausing to glance back at the denim wasteland strewn across our bed. Tomorrow, I say to them, meaning the bookstore pants. I've had enough fun for one day.

LOST: 1 Sexy. If Found, Please Bring Back.

Well, against my better judgement, tonight I am going to watch the Victoria's Secret Fashion Show on CBS. Yes, at almost 33 weeks pregnant, I am the proverbial punishment glutton.

If necessary, I can blame part of it on work. I do open at the store tomorrow, and there are usually a few people the morning after who come in looking for outfits they saw on the runway. So I guess it could be considered a work assignment. Really, though, I know that instead of concentrating on the product I'm seeing, I will focus most of my attention on the bodies wearing said product. These bodies will have sleek thighs, concave waistlines, reasonable breasts. I will think about stretch marks and fret over whether or not I can sneak through these final however-many weeks of my pregnancy without getting any. I mean, this baby is bigger than the last one was at this point--what if it's enough to finally push my fragile epidermis past its limit?

I will bemoan the fact that I seem to put on most of my pregnancy weight at the hip and thigh. Never mind the fact that I lost it all the last time. This--this is a new time. What if I stay this way forever? Oh sure, in Happy Fantasy Land in my head next summer I am going on almost daily runs pushing my two young sons ahead of me in their double jogging stroller. People who see me along the way have internal dialogue like, My God! Those can't both be hers--she looks so good! (Let me mention here that I REALLY, REALLY like life in HFL.) But I'm a realist. How will I find the time and energy to get back into shape after this baby is born, especially in the middle of winter? How, how, HOW?!

And as Giselle and Adriana and Karolina stride purposefully down to their poses, I will be thinking about c-sections. This baby is still breech. What if I have to have surgery? I mean a c-section is like Major Surgery. The closest I've come to that is having my wisdom teeth pulled the summer before I left for college. I don't like the idea of someone cutting into me and--perhaps more to the point--I don' t like the idea of the scar that's left behind. People attempt to console me with comments like, "Oh, but it's just a 'little bikini scar,' it's no big deal." Yes, but I don't have any scars there now. I like my abs. Well, I mean I like them when they look normal, not so much now. And I like my bikini line. I don't want to have to think about whether my c-section scar is covered by my bikini (also something I wear next summer in Happy Fantasy Land). I want to buy cute lingerie at work without stressing out about hiding scars or stretch marks like so many of my Clients do. Of course, my husband has already tried to console me by saying, "It'd be cool. It's like we'll have matching scars," referring to the "little bikini scar" he acquired as the result of a hernia operation he had when he was 4. (God bless him, he tries.)

Don't get me wrong--the logical part of me understands that all that really matter at this point is delivering a healthy baby, regardless of the route he takes. I understand this. But the shallow part of me just wants to look like me again. I don't need to look like Alessandra or Heidi, really. At this point, I just want to fit into pants with zippers. Ah, zippers! Now that's sexy indeed.*

*Not that I don't appreciate the finer points of shiny, blue, full-panel elastic. Oh, you know you want some.

Sure Plays a Mean Pinball

At 17 months, Lucas still isn't talking. Oh, he has spoken some: cheese, da (dad), key (kitty), up. But most of these words have since been retired leaving only the occasional hi and dow(n)!, the latter of which he uses primarily to discipline our keys when they get out of line. Don't get me wrong, he's by no means a quiet child. He babbles constantly, animatedly even, in a language I can only refer to as "Lucanese." It sounds a bit like yodeling punctuated with an occasional, self-appreciative laugh. I, of course, am convinced that something is horribly wrong, while my husband is convinced that I'm horribly worried for nothing.

I just find it ironic, I guess, that my child is a late talker. Anyone who has met me can attest to the fact that it's hard to shut me up once I get going. To underscore my point--when I was in the third grade, we put on a play called "The Case of the Missing Parts of Speech," and I was cast as the adverb "Too Much." My costume? A rainbow t-shirt and bright orange pants. You can recognize an adverb if you really try. It may help you if you notice that they often end in l-y! In high school I won all kinds of speech contests (with real trophies!) and even the community theatre's drama scholarship. But my kid? No talkie.

So basically now I'm just sitting around (getting fatter and) waiting for his verbal explosion, rumored to hit most kids around the 18-month mark (18 days away and counting). In the meantime, people do their best to pacify me with stories about their own late-talking toddlers, but mostly I just nod and smile politely. Too vivid are the sounds of my niece's perfect little voice. Sure, she's 4 months older than Lucas, but her words have always been clear, even early on-- "Baby!" "Kitty!" "Mommy!" And then there's Jim's boy, Noah, who is also 4 months older than Lucas. He not only knows his muppets, "This week he learned to say 'Bert' and 'Ernie' in the same day!" and his numbers (except for "2" apparently), but he has also graduated into the world of, "Fuck!" and other expletives.

I do find some comfort in the fact that otherwise Lucas is an excellent communicator. He waves, points, signs "All done," goes to his highchair when he's hungry, taps the fridge when he wants his sippy cup of milk, delivers a shirt to the cat when he wants us to dress it (another story entirely). And he is excellent at following directions--loves to put his own used diapers in the Diaper Genie, walks back to the crib at naptime, fetches random items on request, helps to put on his shoes, and so on. It's just that whole talking thing he doesn't quite get. Not yet, anyway. Not quite yet.

My Kingdom for a Toilet Lock

I'm not saying that I would kill for one exactly, but at this point I think I've comfortably worked my way up to "mame," "disfigure," and possibly "torture."

What I want is an old school toilet lock. The kind that somehow (I would tell you exactly how but--oh, that's right!--I can't FIND one) hooks under the rim and clamps down on top of the lid. The only kind we have been able to find in stores is a version that simulaneously attaches to both the tank and lid using suction cups. Suction cups. This seems like a great idea until you remember that--hey, how 'bout that?--the real reason one is supposed to use a toilet lock in a home with young children is to keep said children from drowning in toilet water. And they want me to keep my toddler from drowning using a highly developed system whereby suction cups act as the chief prevention mechanism? Riiight. Ron bought us one: It was successful for nearly 24 hours before Lucas figured out that if he wiggled his little finger around and hooked a nail under the edge of the top suction cup that he could easily pry the thing off. Brilliant. So obviously that whole idea went down the crapper, so to speak.

Not that I am afraid of Lucas drowning in the toilet. That's not my motivation here. But I would love--LOVE, mind you--to be able to get ready in the morning without either a) applying makeup at the vanity while holding down the toilet lid with my foot or 2) engaging in a version or versions of the following conversation:

"Lucas, close the lid please. No. No! Close it. Close it please. Thank you. Good boy!"

[Obligatory clapping. Lucas begins to peel small pieces of toilet paper from the side of the roll, as we have locked it down with a special device designed to prevent him from unrolling it entirely. He sneaks these one at a time under the lid and into the water.]

"Lucas no... wait...oh, okay. That's okay. Yes, toilet paper goes in the toilet. Yep, good job buddy."

[I hear splashing and glance down to see that Lucas has reached his right arm into the bowl and is gleefully swirling the water.]

"Oh! Lucas! No. NO! That's yucky. YUCKY," I emphasize as I pull his arm away and close the lid. I grab him around the waist and hoist him up just enough so that I can rinse his hand off in the sink. Then I dry Lucas with my free hand while he whines and I explain that Mommy's sorry but we don't put our hands in the yucky water. I put him down and hand him a squeaky purple bath toy. It might be a frog.

[Suddenly Lucas reaches all 8 of his arms in different directions, simultaneously grabbing my hairbrush, comb, etc. and attempts to slip everything into the toilet.]

"No, Lucas. NO! Hey! [I grab as many of the aforementioned items as I can and toss them into the empty bathtub and out of harm's way. I would put them in the vanity but it is safely child-proofed, meaning that it would take an adult approximately 5 minutes to break in, and right now I don't have that kind of time.] We don't put those things in the toilet. Those are Mommy's. Not for Lucas. For MOMMY."

And a version of this continues until I either give up the task at hand or assume the lumberjack position (leg up on the john). Shutting Lucas out of the bathroom altogether is only a viable option if I don't mind listening to, "Uh! Uh! Uh!" outside the door the whole time or, the other option, outright crying and the muffled thud of a sixteen-month-old throwing himself against the door. I am so jealous of my husband for being able to take a 15 minute shower 5 mintues before bed, well after our toddler has called it a night. No wet hair or second-day hair issues to contend with. No hair drying or styling. No makeup to apply. And he's currently sporting a beard, so no shaving to deal with. No facial regimen to keep up. No moisturizing to complete. Not to mention that if he needs it, he has the ball cap option. He would probably argue that this is a gender-neutral opportunity, but come on. In that case I might just as well raise the white flag & roll over.

So the quest for the lock continues. In the meantime, I am a lumberjack (and, for the time being at least, I'm okay). No really, I mean it.

Coming Soon To A Blog Near You

After an extended hiatus, the writer will be returning to her blog. Oh when? About as many years...(stay tuned).