Bad Girl Mom

I attended a toddler-friendly event recently that was centered around crafts and attended by other stay-at-home moms. This particular friend that hosted the event is a lovely woman with a husband, small child, huge dog AND an immaculate house, which kind of already makes me feel like a fish out of water. The couch – so fresh and spotless! The bathroom – so shiny and free of errant pee! The mirrors – so gleaming and fingerprintless! I found myself distracted by the sheer wonderment of it. How is this possible? Two penis people and a dog in the house, and you could eat off the kitchen floor? No. It just doesn’t compute.

But I felt even more alien in this company when the conversation turned to grown-up things. It was brought to my attention that the hostess of the event sells Mary Kay now, a fact which I was completely unaware since, as she put it, “You don’t do parties like that.” It’s true, I don’t. Tupperware, Pampered Chef, crystal stuff, jewelry, whatever – I hate that shit like I hate chain e-mails and will not participate. “Really?” exclaimed one of the moms incredulously. “I love those parties! How can you not like those?” I felt others stop and look at me. “Uh…. I just don’t. I love parties, but I have zero interest in talking about kitchenware and all that stuff and would rather spend that time at a girls night out or book club meeting or going dancing or something instead.” Oh, she reads books too, and rattled off some titles I hadn’t heard of. Until she mentioned The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo – my very favorite book of like, the last ten years. “Hated it!” she proclaimed. “Thought it was supposed to be so great and instead it was just so graphic and weird and dark.”

But I like graphic and weird and… wait a minute. And then it dawned on me: I had stumbled into a Nice Moms Party. I didn’t have anything in common with these moms other than motherhood. I am a Bad Girl Mom.

What is a Bad Girl Mom? I know there are a lot of us out there, but somehow we don’t really congregate in places like the playground, Mommy & Me, or Baby Gap. We are not sanitized, and not celebrated in mainstream media. We love our children more than life itself, feed them good food, take care of them with zealous and tireless attention, but haven’t quite gotten the hang of the squeaky-clean thing. And don’t really want to.

It’s easier to explain what a Bad Girl Mom is by illustration and you can draw your own conclusion if you are a Bad Girl Mom or not. And if you are, Dear Little One, please know that you are not alone.

Bad Girl Moms don’t watch their language or the language in music like a hawk. My child learned to say the word “douche” before “please” or “thank you” and knows all the words to plenty of non-Radio-Edit songs by the likes of Black-Eyed Peas and Sir Mix-A-Lot. I just think there are a lot more important things to be upset or concerned about. McLean spouting out “I got that visual spit, next level visual shit” is just not high on the list.

My child also learned to say “I ripped one!” and laugh hysterically rather than “Excuse me, I tooted.”

Bad Girl Moms don’t apologize for being randy. At least one of my children was conceived on the back patio. I refuse, REFUSE to not see myself as sexy anymore just because I have scrambled egg shrapnel in my hair and don’t really get to wear my cute shoes anymore. They are still in my closet and their very presence affirms that I was once a desired creature and will be again someday.

A Bad Girl Mom will not buy a nursing bra unless it is pretty and makes the rack look good.

And I cannot, cannot, CANNOT get behind Crocs. I don’t care how practical they are – they are butt-ugly on grown-ups and children.

Bad Girl Moms have particular tastes in entertainment that do not extend to the likes of the Twilight saga or Real Housewives of Whatever Some Such Bullshit “reality” type shows. If I have the time to sit in front of the TV and lack sufficient energy to go out and have girl time, I’m going to watch True Blood, not Glee.

My person and hair have been polluted all at once with drool, spit-up, poop, baby food and breast milk so much that I felt like the star of some freaky Japanese fetish video, and still I opted to lie down for a nap rather than have a shower. That is a Bad Girl Mom move right there.

Speaking of housekeeping and nudity, Bad Girl Moms are not particularly concerned and have better things to do. During the week of potty training, my son teabagged every conceivable surface of the living room, dining room, and some parts of the office. He even did headstands on the couch for guests, allowing them to see directly into his colon. I encouraged this behavior, and even mutually applauded it with his father. Potty training is hard enough without getting all uppity about it.

So, in conclusion, I would just like to say, motherhood is a very intense journey, and sometimes mind-blowingly difficult. Getting uptight over the little things just doesn’t feel right to me, so I let them go and laugh about it. And hope you do, too. Bad Girl Moms, unite!

Aren't They Adorable?

Post-partum Woes

I’m thinking of writing a children’s book. I would call it “The Saggy Baggy Ass.”

What, you don’t think that will sell?

Some of the 60 pounds are coming off, which is super. But what of the stretched out skin left behind? I would tell the tale of the skin on my neck and belly, and its wiggles and waggles, how much the baby loves to grab the skin and yank with all his five-month-old might (which feels especially invigorating if his nails haven’t been cut in awhile). But loose skin on my butt? Really? Can’t I just keep the nice round badonkadonk I was cultivating while pregnant and lose the still-pregnant-looking belly instead? It’s not fair.

But that’s not what drove me to sit and rant today. What is on my mind, Dear Reader? Post-partum hair shedding. People, I have lost so damn much hair in the last two months, it’s a wonder I am not as bald as Mr. Clean. Which got me to thinking of a whole list of things you could do with the hair I have lost. Why waste it? I will commence with said list now:

1. You could clean up the oil spill in the Gulf. And still have hair leftover to clog about a dozen shower drains.

2. You could make a whole other Valley Girl with a bangin’ hairdo. Just add some Forever21 sweatpants, Reeboks, and a nursing bra -- Done!

3. You could glue a big stick on the hair and have an eco-friendly mop. Your floors never looked so shiny!

4. You could glue the hair all over your body – voila! Blond gorilla suit for next Halloween!

5. You could prop up the hair on a chair, put sunglasses on it, and set it by the front door like Cousin It to frighten off door-to-door salespeople or those that might want to share their religious material with you.

6. If you’re looking for a good excuse for being late to work, or just really want some attention, slam the hair into the trunk door of your car and get pulled over. And you’ll have a great story to tell your friends!

7. Bake the hair into a pie and give it to someone you really hate. Like Meg did on Family Guy.

You see, the possibilities are endless! I could come up with a dozen more, but I have to go haul the latest load of hair to the trash before the kids wake up.

(Thank you, Kimo, for the nudge. This one’s for you!)

The Mama Rules

So here I am, the mother of two boys. How do you do it? That was the question I asked a lot of mothers who have more than one kid while I was pregnant with Noah. I never really got any concise answers. I read a book on having a second baby and it was all pretty much common sense. No tricks, no real tips. I want tricks, dammit! So I have been winging it. But I keep getting told by people while I’m winging it that I “seem so calm.” Even my chiropractor tells me I am so very calm and have an aura of serenity whilst she is adjusting the hips that are still jacked up from having to accommodate my 9+ pounder and the 50+ pounds it put on my person. I personally believe it’s because I was just so darn happy when the little bugger was finally born and I didn’t have to be pregnant anymore.

But upon reflection, it dawned on me that I do have certain rules in my job of being mom to my two boys. And that perhaps I should share these rules with others in my position, or about to be, who are not finding the helpful tips they seek. They are meant to be helpful and nothing more. And they likely will not apply to people with special needs kids, colicky babies, single moms, etc. There is a special place in heaven for you, and however you get by day-to-day is a damn miracle. But you can read these and have a chuckle nonetheless, and see if any apply to your situation.

1. Sleep when the baby sleeps. I know, I know. There is so much I have to do and that’s the only time I can do it, blah blah blah. You know what? Bullshit. You can let the dishes sit. You don’t HAVE to check your e-mail and guess what? The laundry will wait. Turn off your phone, lay the hell down and get some sleep, or at least close your eyes and be still. I have a small window of time during the day that both boys are asleep, and that’s the time I forced myself to lie down. Your emotions and mental functioning will be light years better if you do yourself this one huge favor.

2. See your girlfriends. No, not text your girlfriends, not e-mail or even phone your girlfriends (though this is helpful in a pinch) -- get your ass out of the house and SEE your girlfriends. You can have the kid(s) with you or not (though the break from them is nice and this gives them a chance to bond with Daddy), but you need to see and hug and be in the physical presence of those core women in your life who are supportive and love you. Yes, after you have kids, this takes a Herculean effort to coordinate. Everyone is busy and you are really busy, and especially if she has kids too, she is busy! But figure it out. It’s important.

3. Do not stress over how your body looks right now. Are you Heidi Klum? Do you have a Victoria’s Secret runway show coming up or a cover shoot for Cosmo? No? I didn’t think so. Then give your body a break. Your body did some amazing-ass things to bring your beloved children into the world, so why don’t you cut it a slackburger with cheese? Or even a turkey burger with cheese? It will get back to normal in its own time, especially if you are breastfeeding. But the really important thing I have learned after all these years of self-body-loathing is to marvel at the awesome power my body has demonstrated through having kids. We moms are absolutely mind-blowing in our strength when you really think about it. So think about that, and not about how much longer it’s taking you to lose the weight than some ass-clown on the cover of Us magazine who has a personal army of hired help and probably doesn’t even change diapers and “got her body back” in like six weeks. She is perpetuating an image that is just not realistic for 99.9% of the mothers out there, and you need to realize that.

4. Do some cardio. No, not because you need to be concerned about how your body looks right now (see #3 above). But because you are emotionally still in a very fragile state, and you need to get high on all the endorphins you possibly can. Put one kid in the stroller and the other in the Baby Bjorn, and go for a walk, get some fresh air, every day if you can. If you’re breastfeeding the World’s Hungriest Baby like I am, and are a little nervous about straying too far from the house, do your cardio at home. “But I don’t have an elliptical,” you may whine (like I did). “And I can’t afford a gym membership,” you may also whine (also like I did). And just then, my eyeballs settled on the brick step down that leads to my back patio. I’ve taken enough step classes in my day to remember the basics, so with the baby strapped to my torso and McLean running around the backyard doing his “workout,” I am able to work up some decent cardio. It is just as great of a workout now as it was in the early 90’s! The baby sleeps the whole time (even with the Black Eyed Peas blasting away) and I don’t have to be in public with my dirty hair in a bun and mangy sweats. To cool down, I pick up dog poo in the yard. Hey bitches, it’s squats with weights when you have a 14-pound baby attached to you! I’m just sayin’! Work with whatever you have.

5. Honor Thy Date Night (or Day), And Keep It Holy. This is where Grandma and Grandpa come in especially handy for me. When they offer to babysit, I jump on it and calendar them on the spot. They get to have quality time with the grandkids, and Derek and I get to be a normal couple for a couple of hours and talk about something besides nursing, diapers, bathtimes, food choices, etc. – all the business of running a family that takes up all our normal conversation time. I can wash the spit-up out of my hair and put on make-up and wear cute shoes and feel something resembling sexy again. And I can appreciate my husband in a whole new way. Yes, he is a great dad, and that is sexy, but he’s also a great date, and we have fun together. Date Night can also be Date Day if that’s when your babysitter is available. As long as you leave the house together and do something you both enjoy, who cares when it happens?

6. Sit Down To Eat. Three times a day. Yes, you read that right. We get so caught up, running around taking care of the needs of others, we too often forget about ourselves. Even if it’s only a few minutes to sit and shove a few bites in my mouth, this is a little care-taking gesture I give myself, and also a good example to set for my kids. I want them to see that you should respect your body and the food you are putting into your body by paying attention to it. I also want them to know that I am a person who needs to be cared for, too. There is a fine line between taking care of kids and becoming their servant. I find it is easier to keep that boundary clear when you demonstrate for them how you treat yourself. The intake of food is only one small part of this concept.

7. Sometimes You Just Have To Cry. There will be times, in spite of the best-laid plans and adherence to the rules that all hell just breaks loose. This is just how it is with young children – you can never predict the next milestone or meltdown, and sometimes they happen simultaneously. All. Day. Long. Sometimes you have to step into another room for a few minutes and just cry. Sometimes you have to call someone and cry to them. Sometimes you have to call someone to come over and watch your kids so you can leave the house and cry. You’ll know which option is the right one, but choose one and save your sanity. Don’t hold it in. Being a mom is a very hard job -- the hardest job I’ve ever had (and I’ve had several), and also the lowest paying and least appreciated. But I wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world, so it’s up to me to take care of myself when the going gets tough.

So I guess that is the main rule here when you boil it all down – TAKE CARE OF YOURSELF, MAMA! You have to be good to yourself before you can be your best for others. You are kicking ass every single day and don’t you forget it.

My Stay-At-Home-Momness: A Freakin' Manifesto

It’s a “rock and a hard place” location to be. I can’t stand how blogs are so self-obsessive and really want to move this blog away from that, but sometimes I will have to relay things from my point of view. I tend to want to see things from all sides and many points of view, but my own experience is the one that is most clear and most telling to me, the one that shouts out “Write about this, beotch!” So here goes.

I am in a weird limbo place between heaven and hell (both of which I believe we create right here on earth). I am a Stay At Home Mom. A lot of people proclaim this makes me “lucky.” Actually, it was a planned occupation, and a lot of sacrifices were made to achieve said occupation. What’s funny though, is that for most of my life, the life I live now was what I considered to be a living hell. Constant responsibility for a small child and pregnant with a second, the vast majority of my time is spent cooking, doing dishes, laundry, changing diapers, wiping a little tiny snotty nose and poopy butt, brushing little tiny teeth, changing little tiny clothes, feeding and caring for a dog and cat, repeatedly reading the same cycle of 20 children’s books with animation and enthusiasm, exerting multitudes of patience during teething and growth spurts and power struggles and the near-constant spills and bumps and falls that happen when dealing with a person whose efforts at coordination and speech resemble a tiny little drunk person.

Whenever there is the smallest gap of time in these duties, I am able to cram some much-needed exercise in there for me or a shower. Forays out of the house more likely than anything involve walking to the park for some playground action or going grocery shopping for my little bottomless pit and the two adults in the house.

None of it really takes any intellectual thought or talent. I am discovering now that that was probably the biggest sacrifice I made in giving up my day job. I suppose the argument could be made that it requires creativity, especially where cooking is concerned, but even that hobby I once reveled in has taken on a rote feeling. What is odd though is how little time I have now compared to before. I was always a very efficient worker with a strong work ethic. For those legal secretaries of you out there, the last desk I worked on before leaving the business was five-on-one. And they were a prolific five in Intellectual Property. This, in a firm where two-on-one was the norm. I still got everything done every single day that was put before me, had time to sit down to a decent lunch, spend time with friends, check e-mail, view every dumb video on YouTube and read every stupid chain letter sent me. Those days are gone. And though my tasks are menial, I still feel like a slacker if the vacuuming doesn’t get done or I didn’t run that errand I was supposed to do today, or haven’t checked my e-mail in four days. How could I not have time for these things? It's a whole other universe of time management skills.

But what bothers me more is that what I now do for a living is, by nature, a lot of the time, intensely boring. I suppose that’s what happens when you slow life down to accommodate a life starting out – the lack of stimulation can be incredibly crushing when you are used to a controlled fast pace. There is also the isolated nature of the job – it is not a group endeavor. The bulk of my time is spent with someone not yet skilled in conversation, and two mute animals. I am not alone, yet still feel intensely lonely a lot of the time. This, from a person who used to treasure and crave alone time on a daily basis!

So why on earth, you may ask, would a person choose this life when it is clearly not the Sleeping-In-Going-To-Yoga- Eating-Bon-Bons-On-The-Couch-Mommy-And-Me-Bliss that a lot of people imagine it is? The answer is simple: Even before my son was born, I simply could not imagine it any other way. Once I had finally found my Mr. Right and we decided we wanted to have kids, I knew that myself and my husband were going to be the only caretakers of those kids, with occasional babysitting here and there. And I knew that certain sacrifices would have to be made in order to achieve such a goal, not the least of which was financial.

Though my income as a legal secretary was pretty outstanding, it’s not like I had any degree of career satisfaction, and so it was relatively easy for me to leave the job behind. Not bringing home the paycheck, however, was really going to hurt, and we have had to learn to go without certain things in our lifestyle that we used to take for granted. But it’s like my dear friend Tommie told me long ago when she told me about when her daughter Shannon was born: This incredible creature came into her life, and she was in love, and she turned to her husband and said there was no way she was going back to work. He said “We’ll be poor!” and she replied, “Then I guess we’ll have to be poor.” And that was exactly how I felt, and still feel. There simply was no other choice to be had, and it’s not like we’re indigent or anything. We’re fine.

This is not to say I condemn or judge in any way those moms who do return to work – FAR from it. This job is not for everybody, and I think it is a very wise woman who recognizes that she will be a better mother if she does focus on her career rather than stay at home and go insane. Even some of my single mom friends, who HAVE to work to survive, have confided that even if they could stay at home, they just don’t see how they could do it from a psychological perspective. Also in going to work, she is setting a great example of the work ethic for her kids, which is something I really admire.

It is a highly personal choice (like whether or not to breast-feed) with a lot of factors going into the decision, but whatever path a woman decides, I would hope it is not with the intention of “doing it all”. Nobody, man or woman, can give 100% to motherhood and 100% to a career, and to expect to be able to do so, I believe, is delusional, and setting oneself up for failure. I think it’s a load of crap that women put on themselves a lot of the time to believe that they can handle the full-time job of motherhood along with the full-time job of a full-time job, live on three hours of sleep per night, no social life, no time for hobbies or fun or taking care of herself. I just don’t think that is living, and sooner or later, you’re going to burn yourself out completely or have a psychotic break. Neither is good for you or your kid.

So why do I stay at home when it obviously doesn’t really suit my personality? Because I need to. I never miss a second involving my son’s growing up, and it would break my heart beyond repair if I did. The times he falls and needs a hug, I am there to give it to him. The times he takes his first steps, I am there to see it and applaud him. Every bite of food or sip of liquid he takes, I know exactly what it is because I bought it and prepared it for his specific needs and taught him how to eat it. The times his mental engines are firing and he needs the stimulation of all those books (or Legos or coloring or play group or whatever), I am there to read the books again and explain things to him with all the time in the world. After all, the dishes can wait, but a demanding boss or nine-to-five or actual career cannot. This is why, in spite of the hardship of a lot of my job, I still love it and am beyond grateful to have it.

Now I have to get back to that poopy butt I mentioned earlier. Otherwise known in our house as an “assex” (short for ass explosion). Peace and love and joy to all my sister mamas out there, stay-at-home or otherwise. I have much love for you amazing women.

Toddler Makeover

Today was a milestone: The First Haircut.

We weren't going to cut his hair at all until forced to do so by his hair becoming a fire hazard, but it became clear that it was really bugging him, being in his eyes all the time, so I decided to just cut it enough so the poor little bugger could see. That ended up being about an inch all the way around, and still left it pretty long.

I strapped him into his high chair outside and did it myself with a cheap-ass pair of Vidal Sassoon scissors, distracting him with a "cookie" (kid's Z-Bar, honey graham flavor). He looks like such a little boy now! And I had forgotten how cute his little eyebrows are!

Here is the "Before" shot, perched on Daddy's shoulders at the creek in San Luis Obispo last weekend:

And here is the "After", in which he seems quite pleased with his new 'do, and hopeful that those bitches at the grocery store will stop thinking he's a chick:

Baby Noah Says Hi!

I went in for a gyno appointment yesterday, and turned out I was due for an ultrasound. Which was kind of a bummer since Derek likes to be there for those, but alas, I flew it solo. I find it funny this time around how much less unnerving the whole thing is. First pregnancy, you are hanging on every word the ultrasound technician says, every inflection his voice has that might be a hidden meaning of something regarding the health of your unborn baby. It is nerve-wracking, to say the least. And then with the doctor -- am I eating the right things? Am I gaining too much weight? Am I gaining enough weight? Why does my leg feel like it's being sliced open with a dull butcher knife in the middle of the night? WTF?

This time, I have just kind of relaxed about everything. Brain stem looks great? Grrrrreat. Spinal cord fluid at normal levels? Super. Oh look, he's grabbing onto the placenta! That's so cute! M'kay, see you next time!

Then it became all about food as I was way late for lunch after a longer-than-expected appointment. I didn't even have questions for my doctor other than "Am I clear to fly in March for our Hawaii trip?" (I am.) Yes, I will be playing the part of "Beached Whale" at the luau, but what a beautiful place to be a whale, right?

Back From Hiatus

The World’s Slackingest Blogger has some news: I’m pregnant!

This is how much I’ve been slacking: I’m already five months, i.e., halfway through the pregnancy. It was a bit of a surprise. Okay, it was a total surprise, and I would be lying if I said I wasn’t a tiny bit bitter about the timing -- that I finally felt cute again for my 40^th birthday, was back down to my wedding day weight after nearly a year and a half post-partum, and was successfully navigating the challenges of full-time mothering. There was a feeling of not being in control of the whole thing that was pretty disconcerting, but I have since kicked those weak feelings in the ass and embraced the whole experience for what it is: a tremendous blessing.

It has gone by so fast this time, I guess because I have been so occupied with other things to obsess over rather than what size fruit my fetus most resembles this week and whether or not I should be eating peanuts and what position is best to sleep in and what can I do about the damn stretch marks from coming?

For one thing, taking care of McLean these days is more than a full-time job that requires every ounce of my thought and energy. He’s just so busy! He’s into everything, wants to read everything several times a day, is eating like he’s training for a hot dog eating competition. Then, as with last pregnancy, I immediately became deathly ill with a couple of colds back to back, which turned into bronchitis. Always fun to be hacking your brains out while pregnant. Combine being sick with the usual severe fatigue of the first trimo, throw in a dash of the holidays, and you have one pathetic whiney person, i.e., me. Keeping a halfway clean house and being sociable were out of the question, much less getting on the computer to write.

But as is always the case when you’re too consumed to write, these seem to be the most fertile times that I want to write. There is so much to talk about. I’m kinda tired of talking about myself (downright bored with it, actually), but there are a lot of topics I want to cover in the future in this forum: Being a stay-at-home mom, environmental and health issues, and some more before and after’s around the house. We will be converting our office to a play room, so that transformation should be interesting to those of you who dug my last makeovers.

So more to come, dear readers, now that my health has returned and Little Man is learning to entertain himself a bit more. I have missed talking to you and sharing with you.

Oh, and guess what? It’s another boy.

Boo Boo Monkey The Kitty: A Story In Pictures

So we went and got ourselves a kitty. Boo Boo because she is a lovey . . .

And Monkey because she has the craziest, longest, skinniest little monkey tail. Here she is admiring McLean's flexibility:
Here she is letting McLean test her collar for durability:
Here she is letting McLean rearrange her hair:
And here she is sniffing McLean's fragrant diaper:
Here she is getting ready to give me the old Head Bonk:
And here she is watching football. Bad kitty!
Again with the fragrant diapers:
And here she is checking out her monkey-ass in the mirror:
It is pretty apparent thus far that she is McLean's cat. She definitely prefers him, perhaps because of his short stature, or perhaps because she was the nurturer of her litter.

Sammy has been extremely good around her, though Boo Boo's tail still puffs up a bit when he comes into the room.

She has already dropped a couple of deuces into her little catbox and has made herself thusly at home. We are thrilled with our new family member.

For more sweet, socialized animals in need of homes, go visit Sante D'or in Los Feliz -- they were awesome!

Julie and Julia

I don’t exactly know what this post is about, except to say that I think I am leveling out after the trauma of the past two weeks.

I had my mommy book club meeting tonight, and we were reviewing Julie and Julia. Somehow the conversation always turns back to our babies and I find myself wondering what on earth these beautiful, thoughtful, considerate, brainy women could have possibly been like before procreating. Maybe it’s the writer in me, but I go back and forth. Wouldn’t so-and-so have been SO much fun to go out to the clubs with? Oh, and this one has SO been through the ringer with family shit. And then there’s the other one, who had this amazing career as an ….. well, it doesn’t really matter.

I know for me, I was a completely differently animal – never gave two shits about vaccines, pesticides, whole organic foods, chicken stock versus chicken bouillon, breastfeeding versus formula,.

But something happens to you when you have a child that is so unsettling in the way you look at every single little interaction you have with the world around you. I’m not saying that people who don’t have children don’t understand – far from it. I just think that when you have crossed the threshold into the area of having someone else be the center of your universe, be that your career, relationship, your pets, whatever, you consider all the consequences so very more delicately. And that is such a precarious way to live. But I share it with so many. There are so many people on the earth now, and every single one of them has a mother.

One of the topics that came up a few times tonight was the lack of tolerance me and my ilk now have for violent or horror movies. I think it comes down to now seeing every person being killed on the screen as somebody’s baby – some woman out there duked it out with her hormones and her uterus and her vagina and her relationship and her gag reflex and her job and her health care situation and her sleep cycle and her very sanity for ten months (nine months is some kind of effed up urban legend, bitches!) to pop out that human being that she loved and cherished and would die for, and here it is being blown up to smithereens for our entertainment. That’s just so screwed up, y’all. Can’t do it anymore. Not even a little.

And while I always tell them that I am not a joiner, the truth is I came to this mommy group because I was isolated and needed companionship with my own kind, and we all know when we are together that there is something more at work here. We are a community of people who understand each other in profound ways, even if we are only very recently acquainted.

I came home tonight to a quiet house. Sammy, sitting in his bed, looked at me like “Well, where you been, beotch?” and we had a little snuggle. I felt comfort knowing that he had been alert and keeping an eye on things in my absence. I did my usual thing of going to McLean’s room and looking in on him, listening to hear his breathing, putting my hand on his back. And then wanting to just give thanks that things have worked out the way they have. They haven’t always been necessarily to my liking, but they fit my life perfectly. And that’s fine for now. I have to put my trust in a Higher Power and know that things are being taken care of, whether I control it or not. And that no matter what happens, I will be given the strength to handle it.

Sammy

Well, I guess it was bound to happen sooner or later. Or sooner.

We have another dog.

I was all fine for waiting. It didn’t seem appropriate to run out and get another dog after everything we have been through in the last couple of weeks. But the stark, cold absence of any furry creatures in the house became too much to take. The grieving process of our loss became too much to take, and at some point, you have to stop crying. You can’t keep telling the same sad story anymore, and you can’t keep living in receipt of sympathy, no matter how depressed you are. And ultimately, we decided that the best way to honor what an awesome, special, one-of-a-kind dog Rufus was (and Babe was, as well) – was to give another rescue dog a home. So that’s what we did.

We got the info through a friend, who got it from another friend. A dog had been found on the street and the owners no longer cared for him and kept him chained up in the backyard. Fed him hot dogs as his main source of food. Yeah, stupid shit like that. Derek and I sat down and discussed it. Was it too soon? Or was this a good way to help us recover and move on? We chose the latter.

I explained to Larry, the guy who found the dog, that we would take him in, but after our recent run-in with a two-faced rottweiler and subsequent heartbreak over losing Rufus, if this dog shows any signs of aggression whatsoever, especially toward our son, he’s out. Understood.

We’ve had him five days now. Aside from being ridiculously cute, this dog is doing everything in his power to not blow it with us. He is smart, and has learned the rules fast, and is nervous about breaking them. He’s still young and puppy-ish, so he really wants to play. But his main joy comes just from being able to BE IN THE HOUSE WITH US. Just being in the bathroom while McLean has his bath (he dropped his Kong in the tub tonight, trying to get McLean to play with it), or watching me put laundry away or do dishes – huge major fun stuff for him. He just wants to be involved. He’s doing great on walks and quickly learned to not pull on the leash. Now he walks through the neighborhood like we are in a dog show. He loves when I pet him, especially his face, muzzle and ears, and of course, loves the leg-shaking belly rub.

He knows what “no” means, and I’m teaching him some commands already. When he gets the command right, and I tell him “good boy, he’s a GOOD BOY” he wags his tail furiously.

He is still on probation until we can really trust him around the baby, but it’s pretty apparent we are in love with this dog already, and that the feeling is mutual. And he is helping us heal.

We had to change his name. The previous owners called him “Hennessy”. Um, douchey to say the least. I wanted to name him Larry, after the guy who found him, but Derek vetoed it, and instead opted for Samuel L. Hound Dog.

I told him fine, as long as the “L” stands for “Larry”.

Thank you, Larry, for bringing us Sammy. You are now our friend for life. And thank you, Lise, for sending us the e-mail about our newly adopted special friend. If not for you, we probably never would have known about him.

R.I.P. Big Brown Dog, ???? - 2009

God, I don’t want to write this post. I would rather be doing anything other than writing this post. But I have to get it out of me and move past this horrible Stage 1 of grief for the sake of my sanity, my sleep, my little boy I need to be present for.

Our Big Brown Dog is gone. I have had pets before, loved them intensely, and lost them for various reasons, usually old age. The loss of this one goes so far beyond the pain of the others, for various reasons. But mostly we just weren’t ready for the shock of him leaving us so soon.

A few weeks or so ago, I noticed he just wasn’t that enthusiastic about his food anymore and was losing a bit of weight. He was still eating every day, so I didn’t think much about it. He was still very active, going on hikes and long walks with me, and of course, always engaged in his favorite activity of squirrel-chasing. But he seemed a bit down, and I chalked it up to his being lonely without another dog in the house. We adopted a second dog, and within the first two days, it was apparent she was not a good fit. Rufus watched her like a hawk, especially around McLean, and seemed to be extremely territorial with her when he has never been like that with other dog visitors in our house. The other dog lunged at McLean threateningly when he crawled too close to a toy she had claimed as hers. Then she full-on attacked Rufus over another tennis ball toy in the backyard and a horrible fight ensued. Derek managed to break it up with the garden hose on full blast, but she got Rufus pretty good. His ear and cheek were torn up and bleeding profusely, and I took him to the emergency room vet, planning to take the new dog back to the rescue guy when I returned that night.

Over three hours later, the vet told me my dog’s wounds were going to be fine, but that he was in kidney failure, and had been for some time. He would have to stay overnight to get fluids into his system and flush out the waste products from his bloodstream. He ended up having to spend three nights and four days in the hospital, hooked up to an IV. I visited him every day and walked him, promising him I would return for him when it was okay to bring him home, but he didn’t understand. The staff told me he cried inconsolably for hours after McLean and I left.

When we brought him home, antibiotics, antacids, special dog food, etc. in tow, he was ecstatic, and we had hope that after some much-needed rest and ridding him of the kidney infection, he could lead a normal life and we would monitor his kidney levels. But it wasn’t to be.

The first few days, he slept a lot, ate a little, and was just generally happy to be home, following me from room to room. Then a few days later, he refused to eat anything. I tried every food imaginable. He never peed in the house. He never cried or complained. McLean kept going into Rufus’ bed and laying his head on Rufus’ head in sympathy. He didn’t understand why Uncle Rufus seemed so sad.

The unbearable heat and smoke in the valley were taking its toll on our cabin fever, so I took McLean to the mall to play in the little kid play area. We came home an hour or so later, and Rufus was curled up in his bed, and he was gone. I think he waited for us to leave so I wouldn’t have to see him die. Because that’s the kind of dog he was.

Rufus was so much more than a dog to us. He came into our lives so serendipitously. You know how everything happens for a reason? The only reason I moved into that tiny little apartment in the middle of Crack Den, Venice, was to pick up Rufus. He was the first big thing that Derek and I did together. We shared and loved and adored Rufus before we even shared living space.

The day we moved out of that place before taking possession of our new home in Encino, Rufus had been in the backyard while our stuff was being moved out of the apartment. When I brought him in so the landlord could inspect the place, Rufus sniffed every corner of the empty place and cried hysterically. He knew we were leaving, but he thought we were leaving HIM there, too. He cried and howled and stayed glued to my side until I finally loaded him and Babe into the car to make the trip over the hill to our new house. He was so excited in the new place, he could hardly contain himself. He loved his new house and yard so much, but mostly he just loved that he was with us. As long as he had us nearby and knew we were okay, he was okay. But if I cried, Rufus cried with me and it killed him if he couldn’t fix what was wrong.

One day while walking him and Babe in our new neighborhood, this older man in a nice car stared at us as we walked down the street, turned his car around and stared at us again. I was getting creeped out when he finally pulled over and asked what kind of dog Rufus was. “I don’t know,” I answered. “He’s a rescue.” The guy looked wistful and sad. “I had a dog looked exactly like your dog,” he said. “Bull mastiff. Had that dog fifteen years, and it was the best dog I have ever had in my life. Broke my heart when he died. I hope you know what you’ve got there.” I reassured him I did, that he was an awesome dog and we loved him very much. But I had no idea how little I appreciated him.

It sucks how guilt plays such a huge part in the grieving process. When I was pregnant with McLean, Rufus figured it out when I was a couple months along, and frequently would sniff my belly area and then look at me and whine excitedly. In the beginning it was cute, but as my pregnancy (and hormones) progressed, Rufus became more protective and anxious, following me not just to every room, but to every part of the room I was in. I couldn’t take a pee without him supervising, and as everyone knows, you pee about ten thousand times a day when you are pregnant. I became so annoyed with him. I was hanging around the house more than I was used to, very sedentary, taking up so much more space than I was used to, and here was this big dog constantly underfoot. It was like he couldn’t wait for that offspring to pop out of me so he could play with it, but my god it drove me nuts! I remember that still, very small rational voice in my head telling me “Someday you are not going to have this dog anymore, and you are really going to feel like shit for being impatient with him.” But I didn’t listen. And it’s things like that that I think about now that he is gone.

Coming back to the house is a dreadful experience now. It’s like my own home seems an unfriendly place now that there is no Rufus on the other side of the front door, butt wriggling, happily whining that I am home safe and sound, making me feel like the biggest, most important person in the universe.

It sucks having visitors come to the door now, too. He would growl and bark with suspicion, until it was determined that the person was a loved one, and then he couldn’t wait to shower that person with the warmest, most loving welcome imaginable. He was overflowing with happiness and love for friends and family, but all intimidating “Don’t Even THINK About Effing With My People, Jacko, You Just Keep Steppin’” to all others – salespeople, gardeners, UPS guy, etc. He had the absolute best radar of a person’s or another dog’s intentions I have ever seen. And if you were planning on hurting one of his loved ones, well, you would have to go through him first, bitch. I no longer feel safe. And my house doesn’t feel like a home.

I feel like vomiting a lot and I don’t sleep well at night. I can’t stop thinking about him and how he probably was suffering toward the end, but was being brave and still proudly doing his job. It kills me that he died alone, and that I didn’t even get the chance to say goodbye, rub his beautiful, soft ears one last time and tell him that though I didn’t tell him nearly often enough, I have always loved him and always will. It kills me that when we buried him, I had to cover up his sweet, handsome face that even in death looked sweet, like he was only sleeping. I can’t imagine the pain of this ever becoming less, much less going away. I have moments where my higher self reminds me that we were so lucky to have him for the time we did, because he has changed us for the better. McLean got to have him for his first dog, a big meaty hunk of a hound who was so excited to welcome him into the world, would have died for him and never got jealous of him, though he had every right to.

It’s hard for Derek and I to comfort each other right now, because neither of us can be strong for the other. We are struggling with the same painful loss.

There’s some quote that goes something like this: “Every day I strive to become the person my dog thinks I am.” That’s what I’m taking from all this. I’m sure we will have other dogs in the future, and they will be wonderful, and I am going to strive to be that amazing person that Rufus saw in me. And somehow go on and accept that our pets are not meant to out-live us. It sure hurts when they go, but it is inevitable.

And that’s all I have to say about that.

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.