Before/After

I love a Before and After. How I love thee, let me count the ways. . .

Recently I was on a girly-girl trip with Rhonda and Bunnie involving much liquor, sun and smut mags (Us, People, Life & Style, etc., you know the ones at your hair salon, bitches!) I love when they show celebs before plastic surgery and then after and critique the work that was done (it's usually BAD). Call me shallow, but it is an in-your-face reminder (pun intended) that money can't always buy you beauty. And that, along with several beers, snack foods, and a pool equals fun, my friends.

I love the Before and After of a good makeover. It always reminds me of the transformative powers a woman has; how all she need do is flick a little makeup here and there to emphasize the good and downplay the bad, and this can make her go out in public and feel like a new person and thus, have a fantastic day. Every little step, every little transaction, every little exchange becomes magic. I don't know how, it just does.

I really love the Before and After of weight loss photos. Even though most of them are ads for herbal supplements that will turn you into a mouth-chewing, jittery insomniac with an attitude and fake orange tan and shoulders up to your earlobes and weird dried out hair and shot-to-hell adrenal glands, I still get a little inspired to step up my exercise program and shed some extra poundage because MAN it feels good to slide into those old jeans you haven't worn in forever, even if you can no longer wear them because the acid wash is no longer au currant, who cares? It feels awesome. Which reminds me, I will do my own personal physical before and after when I feel I have gotten to my "after" post-baby body. Hasn't quite happened yet, but I'm working on it. And man, that ain't easy in the valley heat. I'm far more inclined to lie around the house than run around the house if you know what I mean.

Which brings me to another beloved Before and After: Furniture. I have always far favored used, worn in, beat up furniture much more than anything I could get new at Ikea or BB&B or whatever. I'm the same way with jewelry. I want the piece to have had a past life before me or I'm just not interested. And since I am now the mother of a small chil'ren, I don't really have the time or energy to scour the flea markets and antique spots that I once did, so I kind of let the pieces find me. It's sort of a hobby, sort of an eco-passion, sort of a thing I do to keep from going completely mental.

So here are my latest transformations, and unless you are a Decor Whore (I totally ripped that off from Rhonda and fully intend to use it as the title of a used furniture decorative blog one day) you may find the below quite boring. But if you are intrigued, do continue.

I recently ran out of bra storage space. No, srsly. When you get pregs, your boobs change size. Then when your milk comes in, they change size, then when you have the baby, they change size again, then when you lose weight, but your boobs don't, they change size again. Obviously, you don't want to throw all these freaking bras out since hi, they cost money, but you can't hang them on the walls as some sort of feminist art statement either (well, I guess you CAN, but they are usually nude or white color, which is just sort of not very aesthetically appealing or conducive to any kind of relevant artistic statement), so.... You need to store them for future use. So. . .

I went into our garage and found this. This used to live in my grandfather's bathroom (before he passed, may he rest in peace). I had some sort of sentimental attachment to it because it was my grandfather's and thought, hey, it could come in useful someday. To store. Nuclear waste. In it. Or something.

You can tell it lived in a bathroom because A) It is shit brown; and B) It has this crazy orangey/red linoleum top to resist moisture, I guess.

So I took the thing, gave it a good cleaning, slapped a couple coats of girly lavender paint on it, and threw a very light sprinkling of glitter (it doesn't show up in the photo -- I wanted it very slight). I glued some adhesive mirror tiles purchased from Michael's on the front, and slapped new drawer pulls on it that are dark purple crystal. And here you go --

I wanted to do some more mirrors on the top part, or maybe decoupage, but decided I kinda like the way the goofy orange/red linoleum surface plays off the little necklace hanger I have above it. So I left it alone.

Then, there was this drunk/batshit crazy/overmedicated/weird woman who lived down the street. One day, she advertised (via spray painted words on her garage door) that she was moving and having a garage sale. Man, I wanted to be at that garage sale. Mostly out of curiosity. Why was she moving? What kind of weird shit did she own? But I was busy that day and never made it, and the next day, this poor, sad chair was in front of her house.

I dragged it home, like some forgotten, abandoned, weather-beaten beast. I hosed it, sanitized it, spray-painted it, and put a cute pillow from Tuesday Mornings on it.

A couple days later whilst stroller-pushin', I spied the chair's sad, forlorn loveseat relative also kicked to the curb.

That too got dragged home by its ass and sanitized, sprayed, and decorated with pillows from Ross. Now, it is my favorite cushy place on the whole patio.

Then we come to this little funky item. This is a milk can that Derek pinched off Grammy's estate on one of our trips there a year or so ago. It definitely has an adorable, old school quality, but you can't quite shake the feeling that the can spent a bad weekend on the street corner of Crackville and Ghetto, so. . .

. . . after a good hosing, I spray painted it purple. Why purple, you ask? It coordinates with the morning glories that have taken over our yard, and just kinda sits there and looks cute.

So there you have it. My Before and After's. Be sure and tune in for the next episode of Not-So-Queer-Woman's Eye For the Effed Up Furniture.

Having A Bat Moment

Okay guys.  My boredom was reaching critical levels.  Not so surprising, being a stay-at-home mom.  It is a very noble pursuit and not an easy job by any stretch, but srsly, has to be the most. Boring. Job. EVAR.  There are so many surprises in any given day as far as your little one changing and developing and growing.  But at the same time, there are no surprises in any given day.  You get up early, go hiking, prepare, administer and clean up after three meals, change a bunch of diapers, vacuum up dog hair, unload the dishwasher, rinse and repeat the next day.  There’s just not much room for variables, and certainly no real brain activity.  When you are used to a much faster daily pace, the lack of stimulation can be jarring.  And the monotony of it was really starting to threaten my sanity.

Until today.  Which shall henceforth be known as Bat Day.

Daddy is home today, so I left the wee one in his charge while I trotted off to Hollywood to meet up with Shannon for a hike.  I had always wanted to do that bitchin’ Hollywood sign hike, so that is what we did.  Not such a great day for views as it was pretty overcast, but the actual space really is special and kinda magical, and it was nice just to do it and get caught up with Shannon. 

On the way up the hill, she motions to the Bat Cave off in the distance.  “The Bat Cave?” I ask, “like from the TV show?”  Yes, THE Bat Cave.  She said she could show it to me if I want, it was just a short drive from there.  Of course I agreed.  If you grew up in the 70s, you loved that show too, right?  We headed back down and drove over to the site, parked and walked up. 

There was the mouth of the cave in all its ominous glory, a tunnel actually.  But this is not how it looked on TV.  There were a couple of crappy tables set up with a bunch of crap sitting on them.  Nearby sat a handmade sign that said “GARAGE SALE – BAT CAVE.”  There were a couple of little cameras set up.  Oh neat, somebody’s doing a student film, I thought.  That’s cute.

Then I heard the voice.  That voice.  If you watch Family Guy, you know that voice well.  I looked at the guy standing behind the shitty garage sale table from whence the voice came, and in an instant knew that this was a cosmic moment whose magnitude would not likely be realized until much later.  I turned to Shannon.  “Holy shit, dude.  That’s Adam West.  Standing there.  At the mouth of the friggin’ Bat Cave.”  We stood there in giggly silence for a minute, looking at each other, looking at him.  Was this really happening?  Did we stumble on some peyote spores in the air and were having like a spiritual bat-hallucination of some kind?  It was all too enormous to contemplate.  Like visiting Buckingham Palace and bumping into Prince Charles.  WTF?  You may find yourself living in a shotgun shack.  And you may find yourself behind the wheel of a large automobile.  You may find yourself at the Bat Cave standing next to Bat Man.  And you may say to yourself, Well, how did I get here?

Shannon asked one of the guys nearby if we could walk into the tunnel without getting in the way of their shot.  The guy said they were finished shooting, so we walked toward the tunnel.  

Mr. West was looking at us.  Now, for having lived here my whole life, I haven’t had that many celebrity encounters, and the ones I have had, I really didn’t want to be that douche who runs up and is all like “Hey man, I really love your work, is Brad Pitt really cool to work with?” blah blah blah.  But it was SO hard not to run up to him and throw my arms around his neck and tell him how much I love him on Family Guy.  How much I loved him as Bat Man.  Just how generally friggin’ AWESOME he is. 

And just then, in that sweet, half-whispery, semi-unhinged Adam West voice of his, he asked us, “Can I interest you in a little vial of bat dirt?”  Shannon and I were giddy.  Are you kidding me?  

We stood at the garage sale table and chatted with him about the various junk items that were present.  Shannon told him she hikes there all the time, "But you're never here!" she says.  She asked about the little black box with the big red button on it.  “Is this how you got in and out of the Bat Cave?”  He smiled and replied, “No, this is the ejector button I used to eject King Tut from the Batmobile.”  I noted a box of used socks on the table.  “Are these genuine Bat Socks?” I asked.  “I wasn’t aware that Batman wore Hanes.  That’s nice to know.”  He chuckled.

Holy shit.  We were chit-chatting with Batman about Bat Junk at the mouth of the Bat Cave.  How did I go from flat-lining valley mommy to this moment?  It's as if the House Maven gods took pity on my sorry domestic ass and threw me a friggin' bone.

We ambled along into the tunnel for a look around.  I asked Shannon if I should go ahead and gush and tell Mr. West that he is my favorite part of Family Guy.  She said yes, I should.  So we headed back out to do just that, but he was gone.  Vanished.  Into thin air.  We hadn’t even had the presence of mind to take a picture of him.

But the memory of my Bat Day, well, I will have that forever.  It reminded me that there are still fun surprises in life, and for that, I need to remember to be grateful.

We got back to the car and I picked up the phone to call Derek.  “Dude.  You are not gonna believe what just happened.  Are you ready to be SOOOOOO super jealous?.......”

Poor Big Brown Dog

He’s the only dog in the house now, and thus, the only object of McLean’s tight little grabby fist.  Feel for him, people.  He is showing so much tolerance and patience.  It’s not easy being constantly squealed at and tugged at by a tiny little person with Larry David hair.

I call this one the "Chuck Norris thigh-choke-you" maneuver:

R.I.P.

I don’t think it’s really dawned on me yet.  One day she was here.  Today she is not. 

It happened pretty fast.  She was a little clingy last night, but nothing really out of the ordinary.  Then this morning at 7:30, she came into our room and was foaming at the mouth and breathing weird.  I called the vet and said I was coming over with my pug.  By the time I brushed my teeth and wrapped her in a towel and got to the car, she was starting to go.  She died in my arms before I could even start the car.  She had been trying to tell me goodbye, and it didn’t occur to me that she was dying.

Babe has always been there.  She was a tough little monkey and nothing wrong ever happened with her physically, at least until two weeks ago when I took her to the vet for her arthritis.  Since giving her the anti-inflammatory meds, she’s been a lot more mobile and was even going for walks again.  But I realized this morning after I stopped crying, after Derek buried her in the backyard in her favorite lurking spot, after I changed my clothes where her bladder had emptied out once I got out of the car – she has been dying steadily since she lost her hearing about six months ago.  See, Babe always had to be part of the action.  She loved to be involved.  Put goofy outfits on her, take her picture, let children tug on her ears and loose funny skin – she was in heaven as long as she got to be close to you.  Losing her hearing took her away from all that and really confused her.  It depressed her.  Turned her into a ghost.  She really hasn’t been the same since.  So in a way, I’m kind of relieved.  She wasn’t physically suffering, but her larger-than-life personality was suffering, and that’s just as bad if you ask me. 

She had a really good life.  A woman from Little Angels Pug Rescue happened by her one day, tied to a stake in some asshole’s backyard.  She was skin and bones and had been flea-bitten so badly, her skin was infected all over her body.  The woman offered the guy $50 to take Babe off his hands and nursed her back to health, in spite of her own small children and three other dogs in the house. 

When I saw Babe at the adoption fair that day, she was my dog.  I took her home and put some meat on her little pug bones and walked her constantly – her big joy in life.  She squealed and screamed when she was happy, which was often.  She moved with me five times one year after my divorce and was always a trooper.  Back before old age caught up with her, she could hike just as long and hard as the big dogs as long as the weather wasn’t too hot. 

She loved me.  Even when I wasn’t so nice to her.  Even when she took a backseat after the baby was born and she was no longer The Baby.  She never resented him for it.  She loved to walk up to him on his little play mat and sit next to him so he could reach out and grab her dog tag and not let go.  She was such a good dog, and I don’t think I will realize how great she was for awhile after she’s been gone.  It doesn’t seem real yet.

I had grand plans today of washing her bed, but it still sits there and I can’t seem to bring myself to do it.  Maybe tomorrow.

Things I Never Imagined I Would Hear Myself Say...

...until I became a mother: 

1. “No honey, we don’t want your foot in the poop.”

2. “Oh my god, is it 9:30 already?  Cripes, I have to go to bed.”

3. “Okay, go ahead and give your junk a good grab before I put your diaper back on.”

4. “I took a shower today AND bought groceries.  By God, I am freaking WONDER WOMAN!”

5. “Honey, please let go of Mommy’s skin.  She needs it on her face.”

6. “Okay!  Let’s go drop off the poop in the toilet!”

7. “Oh man!  I got poop in my hair!”

8. “Another poop?  It’s only 10 a.m.!”

 

Things I never imagined I would hear myself say in the last eight years:

“Baby, take a good look at that man on the TV.  Listen to how smart and confident and wonderful he is.  He is our President now.  You're an American, honey.  Be so proud."

Happy New Year!

Ah, Christmas/New Year's visiting Grammy was so nice.  And because we always have to have one goofy photo to end the serious family photo session, and someone had the poor judgment to let that goofy photo be procured on our camera, I thought it would be fun to post it here.  Yep, my in-laws are a very serious bunch, but I love 'em.

And yes, that charming lady in the middle picking her nose is our famous 104-year-old Grammy, Elsie McLean.  If you don't know why she's famous, google her ass and get wise, I'm sure.  Cripes, she's even on Wikipedia!

So while in the Burbank airport on the way to Chico, I bought a few magazines to help kill time and among them was this most horrid of rags, Star Magazine.  But the cover advertising the best AND WORST beach bodies gave me hope at making me feel better about the sorry current state of my own sugar-overloaded gelatinousness, and so I purchased it and brought it to Chico.  Now, Grammy is a smart cookie and a total lady, and reads (no exaggeration) about a book a day, does crosswords, plays Bridge, golfs three times a week and still has time to make persimmon cookies, chocolate cake, and then waffles for everyone's breakfast.

So it came as kind of a shock while we were all playing Mexican Trainwreck one night to look over and see that Grammy had very quietly finished her novel, and with ancient ninja-like stealth, had picked right past the Glamour, the Sunset, the Allure, and gone straight for the much smuttier reading fare.  And read it cover to cover.

Recipe for a long life:  Tons of golf, lots of salt and black coffee, not listening to doctors, and, as it turns out, Tara Reid's cheesy butt cheeks and the latest on The Hills' dipshits.  Who knew?

A Christmas Wrapping Story

It’s not even Christmas yet and I find myself getting all emotional about Baby’s First Christmas -- an event McLean is not old enough to even appreciate or remember.  It’s way too late for me to be up and I’m sitting on the floor of the office, wrapping the toys and books and toy keys we got for him (he always goes after mine so I figured he should have his own set, like a mini-janitor).  Why I bother wrapping them, I have no idea, but it seems anti-climactic not to do so, and hey, the little guy can grab and rip, so why not add an element of mystery?

The Christmas Story marathon is on, a movie I so love.  It seems like the last couple of times I’ve caught it on TV in the background of my life, it always lands on that part when Ralphie is kicking the crap out of the bully kid, and his mama shows up to break it up and she pulls Ralphie off the kid and turns him to face her and he just looks up at her and starts crying.  Something about seeing his mama just turns the rage into tears, and then she takes him home and splashes water on his face and the back of his neck to cool him off even though it’s snowing outside and tells him to go lie down and calm down, and damn if that whole exchange doesn’t just kill me EVERY SINGLE TIME I see it.  It’s just so tender and an honest little moment of life and how a mother and son would interact in a situation like that.  It makes me wonder if the director or writer of the film had just such a moment as a little kid because the scene is handled with such sensitivity and beauty. 

It made me think about my little boy, how there will be similar times in his life when it just gets to be too much, and the anger will turn to tears.  And I will have to hold it together for him and calm him down so that he can learn to one day calm himself down and regain control of his emotions.  How do mothers do this?  Is there a book on how to do it?  I’m sure the mother’s first instinct would be to get in there and pound on the bully kid yourself because he dared to attack your baby.  But that’s not the right thing to do.  And I need to be an example of the right thing to do, difficult as that may be.

So I sit, wrapping his presents with cheap paper and tears, anticipating the good, the bad, and the ugly of parenthood that is yet to come.

Happy Holidays, dear ones.  I hope your holidays are filled with peace and love and the Air Rider Range Rifle you always wanted.

An Open Letter To Trader Joe's

Please stop putting crack in the chocolate chunk cookies for the love of non-elastic-waistband jeans.  A girl has a hard enough time losing the post-preggo gut.  Geez.

Listen To Your Valley Girl, M'kay?

This is going to be a weird post.  On the one hand, I’m going to tell you to be cautious, and on the other hand, I’m going to tell you not to give in to the fear.

Some of you longtime Valley Girl readers might remember the vicious, nasty, cuss-laden post I wrote to the person who burglarized our house nearly two years ago while Derek and I were at work.  Unless you’ve gone through a similar experience yourself, nobody can adequately convey the feeling of violation and rage that accompanies such an event.  It is nothing short of devastating. 

Though we have since gotten an activated alarm system and a doggie door so Big Brown Dog can satisfactorily patrol the entire premises, and though the police who investigated the crime assured us that “these people” who do these sorts of things almost never return to the scene of the crime for a repeat offense, the feeling of being unsafe never really goes away.  Most people end up selling the house and moving after being robbed for that very reason, but for others, that’s not really an option. 

One of my dearest friends of all time had such an experience last night, I’m sad to report.  Everyone was home and asleep and oblivious to what was happening in their home – even their mean, protective pit bull who would scare the bejebus out of anyone.  Some asshole got in, rifled through their most personal and expensive objects, picking and choosing what to take, and slipped out without being noticed.  All while their two kids slept in the next room. 

People, going through it myself was bad enough, but knowing someone you love is now going through these feelings is awful, and since you are likely someone I love if you are reading this, or even if I have never even met you, you are someone I care about, and I am begging you, BEGGING YOU—

Step up the home security right now.  Today.  I don’t care if your dog is Cujo and you sleep beside an insomniac Special Forces mercenary with Bionic hearing and a bad attitude.  KEEP YOUR DOORS AND WINDOWS LOCKED UP.  Put motion detector lights on your roof or by the front door.  Don’t leave out valuable stuff that can be seen from the street.  If you are home and someone comes to your door selling shit, let them know you are home, but don’t open the door.  Tell them (as I do) that you have a really mean dog that will bite them on the balls.  And as the cops who took our burglary report told us to do, put wooden dowels in your windows like this…

… so that windows cannot be forced open.  Every single window, even ones you think nobody would ever know about.  You can get these at any hardware store for cheap and cut them down to size to fit your windows, or have the dudes in the store do it for you.  And you know those plastic thingies that lock onto the window sash?  Do you have those?  Forget them – they don’t work and can easily be forced off.  That’s how Assholio got into our house.  Basically do everything to make your beloved pad say “Move along, Mother-Effer.”  These are hard times economically, and people will get more brazen about trying to steal your shit.  And while I sympathize with anyone having money probs, stealing what belongs to another and violating their sacred space is never the answer.

Which brings me to my next point I really want to make.  Don’t give in to the fear.  There is a lot of panic and paranoia in the air right now that only gets worse when people start feeling threatened.  They perpetuate a vibe of hostility.  I’m guilty of this – after our house was hit, a neighbor of mine cast suspicion on a guy down the street since he is kinda street-looking and drives a douchey car.  Other than being annoyed with his noisy douchey car, I never thought twice about the guy, but now I was looking at him with suspicion and hostility as well.  This is not good.  In times like these, we need to be reaching out to our neighbors with love and a helping hand more than ever, and thinking of ways we can help one another.  Being afraid of our current circumstances doesn’t help anything.  Our beautiful country has been through way worse and it will get through this.

But in the meantime, there’s nothing wrong with being a little extra cautious.  I’m just sayin’….

Be safe.

Love,

Jennie

 

 

Baby, Interrupted

I feel like teething has taken over my life.  The first two bottom chompers are busting their way into the world, and poor little feller has been pretty miserable.  He gets fevers, drools a lot, and his booger production has launched into overdrive.  This makes it hard for him to nap, and the only thing that comforts him is nursing.  So needless to say, I pretty much nurse all day.  And he doesn't just pacify -- he consumes.  The boy is becoming a little tank.  My biceps are ripped from hoisting his sturdy little butt up.

The thing that kills me is that he is in pain, and all the goofy little remedies I try don't really do much.  He still looks at me pleadingly with big, fat tears coming out of his eyes -- Make it stop, Mama! -- chomping down mercilessly on his own fingers.  When I take him out in public and people come up to admire him and fawn over his cuteness, even though he is tired from lack of nappage and his gums are on fire, he will still smile at them like they just made his little day.

I remarked the other day that the teething would be much easier on me if he would just act like an asshole once in awhile.  But so far, he is just being his usual Golden Child self.

The Return of Shaft

Exciting news, people.  Shaft is back in the hizouse.  After a long and pregnant hiatus from my stripper pole, Shaft was lovingly returned to me by his foster mother, Heddie, who took excellent care of him and did lots of twirls on him so he did not have to sit sadly and idly in the garage whilst I gestated.

  

Why am I posting a picture of myself with both a tiara and g-string on my head?  That was the last great Shaft night -- my surprise bachelorette party where several girls took their turn with Shaft and much debauchery ensued and much liquor was consumed and lap dances were performed and, well, those pictures are just too dirty to post.  This is a family blog, bitches.

And also because I miss that girl with the thong on her head.  It's been awhile since I've seen her.  But I feel like she is making her way back....

Heaven

Dear McLean,

Some days you are just hungrier than others.  About once a week or so, there is a 48-hour period during which you must eat every hour and a half and you let it be known with your newfound strong lungs if the grace period for the current feeding has expired.  I suppose it takes a lot of food to maintain the title of Longest Baby In The World, which is why I don’t complain about it.  Somebody’s got to empty these giant milk jugs and it might as well be you.

But something sounded different when I put you down for your nap today.  You had already eaten and been changed.  You made this pleading cry that I hadn’t really heard before, and it wasn’t just naptime fussing.  You had just eaten, so it couldn’t be that.  I had just changed your diaper due to a huge assex (that would be ass explosion for those of you not familiar with my vernacular), so it couldn’t be that.  You were so very tired from being up half the night eating, but you just couldn’t sleep.  You can’t talk yet, but you kept repeating “ma ma ma ma ma ma ma ma. . . “  I went in and picked you up and held you against my chest and sat in the easy chair.  You wrapped your long little arms around my neck and lay your head on my breast and promptly fell asleep.  You just wanted Mama, and that was all.

A few silent minutes went by and then suddenly Uncle Rufus came running in from the living room, whining anxiously like he always does when you cry.  Only this time he wasn’t whining at you.  He was whining at me.  “WHAT IS WRONG????” his wrinkled up brow and concerned eyes pleaded.  Your mama was crying like a baby.

I have long believed that we create our own heaven or hell right here on earth.  A shift in attitude can bring the greatest joy into the most hellish of circumstances.  And likewise, all the money and fame and accomplishment in the world cannot bring true happiness to anyone.  It’s an inside job.  This is something I want to teach you as you grow up.  You are not responsible for my happiness, but in that moment that you slept on me, I felt heaven on earth in the very depths of my soul.  The only other moment that came close was the day I married your father.  And as I sat there with you, I thought how incredibly fortunate I am.  I am the richest woman in the world.  I’ve been through some heavy times in my life and had terrible moments of despair.  But they were all like cobblestones paving the way for me to have you enter my life. 

When we made the decision to have a baby, I didn’t know at the time that I needed you, specifically you, one in a billion you.  But here you are.  To say “I love you” just seems so very inadequate, but it’s all I have.  I love you.

Of course, I couldn’t very well explain this to Uncle Rufus, so I just told him it was okay and, believing me, he curled up on the monkey rug and the three of us stayed that way for at least an hour until you woke up, ready to eat again.  Ready to hang out in our little slice of heaven.

Love,

Mama

Postpartum Woe #658

So not only do I have the big giant gelatinous belly to deal with which cannot be stuffed into anything resembling normal clothing, but now this.

I was warned this would happen.  I read it in the pregs websites.  I was told by friends who have been there and had it happen.  And hormones are hormones, after all; they don’t discriminate.  But I thought that by some little miracle, like, maybe because I am special, this side effect was going to skip my hairy ass.

No such luck.

And no, my ass is not hairy.  But my head is.  For now, anyway.  While I was pregnant, it was a rare day that a hair fell out of my head.  Srsly.  Even after washing and conditioning it, blow drying it, teasing it, whatever.  The preggo hormones stop the normal hair-shedding process, and my hair just got thicker and thicker and it was awesome and I never had that annoying thing happen, you know where you can feel a fallen hair on the back of your arm somewhere and it bugs you but you can’t quite reach it until you pissedly have to turn your whole outfit around to the front so you can pick the hair off and drop it on the floor in disgust?  Yeah, that didn’t happen for nine months.

Until last week.  And it happened all of the sudden, in the shower one day, and hasn’t stopped since.  Enough friggin’ hair falls out of my head per day to make a whole other Jennie.  It sucks.  I try to be gentle with it, not tug it, not even blow dry it or futz with it.  I still take my prenates every damn day.  How long is this going to continue?  It’s hard not to panic when I am clogging up the drain catcher completely TWICE PER SHOWER.  And I have to pull off of there something resembling a brown doily.

Ugh.  Do you think I would look cute bald?  

Well You Took My Heart, And You Stomped That Sucker Flat

This is a line from an old country song my dad always used to sing.  And I am convinced it was originally written by a mother. 

I know you’re not supposed to run to rescue your kid after every little peep he makes, but it is SO HARD not to sometimes.  Our little guy doesn’t cry much, so when he does, it just kills me.  And when he does cry, it’s not the annoying, bitchy sound you would expect.  Imagine a little puppy who is heart-liquifyingly adorable, who never pees on anything he’s not supposed to, doesn’t chew your shoes, and loves to cuddle and make you happy.  Now imagine that puppy, singing the blues.  It’s kind of a sad, howling, heartbreaking kind of sound.  How long could you stand it?  And then to see his face while he’s making that sound, with these sad, pleading eyes.  I can’t take it.  If he makes that face while he is supposed to be napping, I have to hold him and make that face go away or I will die.

It is breaking my heart enough that he is growing up so fast already.  This past Sunday while I was sleeping in and Daddy was manning Tummy Time, McLean rolled over for the first time on his own.  I heard about it later, and was sad I missed it, but happy that Daddy got to have the first big milestone since he doesn’t get to spend much time with the little guy during the week.  

But then relaying the event to Jen on the phone the next day reduced me to sputtering tears.  It’s like, you want your baby to grow big and strong and develop and gain independence, but why does it hurt so much when it happens?

WAAAAHHHHH!!!!

The Agony And The Ecstacy

So I took Little Man to his 2-month check-up at the pediatrician the other day.  The agony over whether or not to vaccinate, and when and which ones to use, rages on.  I had hoped by now I would have a much clearer opinion on the subject, but basically have narrowed it down to this:  I know there are a few nasty things out there that my child could actually still contract and I am okay with giving him vaccines for those specific diseases, in two-month intervals, and in mercury-free, single-dose injections.  I just don’t want him injected with anything just yet.  He is so young, and the first two years are when so much brain development takes place.  I’m just not okay with it.  Add to that the thought of someone taking a needle to my precious little baby’s skin and the thought just makes me want to fly into a Mama-Bear hysterical fit. 

But my pediatrician, God bless her, has been really helpful in grappling with the indecision.  Not one to take the “I am Doctor and know best” approach, something I really hate, she explains the risks and benefits of everything thoroughly without the hard sell and adds a good dose of sympathy:  she, too, is a mother, and has had to wrestle with the same issue and feels my pain.  She also relays the information in a mother-to-mother respectful way, which I reciprocate to her.  I am quick to tell her I am not some shithead who reads a few things on the internet and suddenly thinks they have a medical degree.  I take my opinions from several sources, keep an open mind, and settle on whatever makes the most sense for me.  But this issue is really making me nuts and I would appreciate any feedback from others who have also struggled with this.

Meanwhile, our little boy is doing great.  He is now up to 11.1 lbs and 24.5 inches long.  He is a tall boy!  He still breastfeeds with gusto and is having more awake time during the day where he smiles and kinda does this little giggle thing.  It kills me, it’s so cute.  He sleeps about 12 hours per night, except for two feedings, after which he conks right out again.  So I get a good deal of sleep, it’s just broken up into three and four hour sessions.

And now for the hard stuff.  It’s hard for me to even talk about it because I will break down into tears like some deranged mushmonger (yes, I did just invent that term).  I love him so much, it nearly breaks my heart, every minute of every day.  There is no respite from the pain of loving him – it is always there.  I remember reading a quote from Erma Bombeck that said something like deciding to have children was like deciding to have your heart go permanently walking around outside of your body.  And now I understand what that means.  And he is so sweet and loving and trusting that the rare occasions he actually cries feel devastating to me.  This part of motherhood is something I never could have prepared for, and is something I struggle with every day.  I’m not used to that weight on my heart yet, and don’t imagine I ever will be.

It is also heartbreaking how fast it all goes.  When friends who have children see my son, they remark how tiny he is and how it seems like just yesterday that their son/daughter was that little, while I am thinking holy crap!  He is two months old already and is HUGE compared to when he was born and has changed so much in so many big and little ways.  My days are full of nothing but feeding him, feeding myself, and getting a shower and maybe a walk in there, but they seem to be rocketing toward unpacking his college dorm room with lightning speed.  Every morning when we get up, it seems he has grown taller, has a new facial expression, makes a new cooing sound, has more hair on his head, has a different color eyes.  It just happens so fast and you want to have the presence of mind to savor every single minute.

Uncle Rufus also loves the baby, and as I expected, has not demonstrated an ounce of jealousy over being unseated as the #1 baby of the house.  He whines painfully whenever McLean cries, he gives him a good sniffing-over every time I set him down between boobs during feedings, he parks himself in McLean’s room for most of the day and considers himself to be a vital part of the McLean Care Team.  It’s really cute.

The pug, on the other hand, just can’t be bothered.  But she’s old, and is far more concerned with the timely delivery of her chicken leg in the morning.

I would have to say that all around, we are one happy little family, and I thank God profusely every day for all that I have.  I have finally found an occupation that I really and truly love.  Mommy.  It suits me.

Baby Boy Arrives!

Finally! I know, this post is SO three weeks late, but to say I have been busy would be such a ridiculous understatement. First, the details:

Our boy McLean, a whole ten days late, finally decided to vacate the McLean Condo in his own sweet time without being induced. It was the classic scenario: Got up to pee at 2:30 in the morning and my water broke and contractions started almost immediately after. I got to have the “Honey, it’s time!” moment, and in retrospect, I am SO HAPPY we waited for him to come out when he was ready. Even my doctor at my post-partum check-up said that he was happy I listened to my body and we didn’t induce. He said he now brags about me to his other patients and how it has taught him to step back a bit in certain circumstances, rather than intervene – something that is “scary and humbling” – his words -- for a doctor to do. It was cool knowing I had some influence on this man’s 25+ years of doing this job. Anyhoo….

Turns out the boy wasn’t as big as had been predicted. He was 8 lbs., 3 oz. – WAY smaller than we had been told, but my va-jay-jay was not complaining. He was 21 ¾ inches long, didn’t cry much when he came out, and bravely tolerated all the poking and prodding a newborn endures when they first come on the scene.

The days that followed at home are now a blur. I was one of the lucky 1 in 100 women who suffers severe headaches from the epidural. I’m talking such intense throbbing, not even Motrin makes a dent. The only thing that helped even slightly was lying down with a cold compress to the head, but that was not possible to do most of the time with breastfeeding every two hours. And the headaches lasted for the first week. It was like the pain I didn’t have to suffer from contractions showed up to torment me later in a different part of my body. Plus my back and neck were killing me from the pushing, so being comfortable was not happening. So while my baby was sleeping, well, like a baby, I was not. I had to wake him for feedings to keep up my milk supply. He is VERY much my boy – he sleeps like he is in a coma, and waking him would just break my heart because I know how he feels. Waking up sucks.

On top of this going on, there was the crying. Not him – me. He never cries unless he has a poopy diaper or is too hot in his snuggy-wrap. But his mama on the other hand, oh boy. I would stare at him and start crying because he is so beautiful. I would be overcome with love that is so intense and excruciating, I would burst into tears over dinner (mid-forkful – I’m serious!) I would start thinking about his delivery and that last push right before he came through my body and into the world, how light and relieved I suddenly became physically, but how emotionally flipped out I was that this little person I have been so connected to and close to and safeguarding all these nine months is now out of my body and loose in the world. It is a moment I will never, ever get over as long as I live. And they wiped him off and put him on my stomach and he was looking at me all quiet and I was looking at him and saying through my tears, “Hi. Hi. I’m your mommy.” And I would think of the way he looked at me and start crying all over again. I would look at myself in the mirror, dirty hair, dark circles, bloodshot eyes. But because my baby looks like me, this has made me see myself as beautiful, and this makes me cry too.

Eventually, the crying settled down (until now, writing about it) just in time for me to get the awful cold that everybody and their dog has had, which turned into bronchitis, so I’ve been sick and gross for the past week and a half. Again, sleeping doesn’t happen when you’re breastfeeding and then coughing while trying to sleep, so getting well is a slow-going process. But I’m feeling better now and cough less every day, just in time for Father’s Day, which brings me to….

Friggin’ Dad and Husband of the Year. I don’t know how I would have survived any of it without him. He took care of me and handled everything that I couldn’t cope with (and I couldn’t cope with anything, people), he held me when I cried and didn’t make me feel stupid, he changed a bajillion diapers and just clicked into fatherhood so easily and with such a good attitude. It has made all the difference in the world. I am a very lucky woman. A family woman. And I couldn’t possibly be happier. In spite of the bumps and challenges along the way with everything that has happened, we have this incredible little son who is part of our family now. I love spending my day with him and caring for him. He is such good company. Such a sweet little fella who smiles at me with his whole face and just makes me glow inside.

Coming up in future installments: Uncle Rufus and his reaction to the new family addition. Here is a visual teaser for you: Imagine a Big Brown Dog trying to inhale a baby through his nose and you have a pretty good idea.