Welcome Sun

The first year my family moved here from Iowa none of us wore coats. It just never got cold enough for us to upgrade from rain slickers (this is where we stood out as no one here wears raincoats for some reason). And in the summer, my mother was harpied by the other mothers for letting me play outside when it was eighty degrees. Apparently Northwestern children's brains cook in temps above 75. Considering my mother didn't allow us to wear shorts until is was 75 (a rule that was scrapped that first year) she thought those ladies were very silly. The climate here is mild here, is what I am saying, and well as a group we lose our damn minds when things go up or down the thermometer (exhibit A our crazy ice storm this winter which wiped out the city for two weeks).

It's been over eighty degrees here for almost a week. Sweet delicious sun, the kind that makes the evenings stay warm. This is weather that the rest of the country takes for granted but there are about eight nights a year in Seattle where you don't need at least a windbreaker (yes, I have been here twenty years so I wear coats now I am WEAK AND PITIFUL). Everyone has lost their collective shit and are sunbathing in the streets and wearing flip flops to the office. And well, there is whining about how HOT IT IS.

I admit it, our weather service has issued a heat advisory because it is supposed to be ninety degrees this week. Before you laugh your asses off, and it is funny, remember how amazing unprepared people here are for any sort of heat.

1. There is no air conditioning. So all of you that think "what wimps" while turning up your AC just know that my house is over eighty degrees right now and it is 8:30 at night. If we want AC we go to the movies.

2. Ditto for fans. A lot of people don't have them and I had to school several people at work about how to use box fans to exhaust your house.

3. People are just stupid. They will stay out in the weather for hours an hours, doing outdoorsy things--because Northwesterners who are not me are very outdoorsy--and not drink water, take shade or wear sunscreen. Lots of sun poisoning headed this way.

4. I think the sun is a little like the full moon to other parts of the country. It gives everyone an excuse to do foolish things.

So be prepared for hilarious national news stories about all the stupid shit that Seattlites have done in their "heat wave." We didn't make big enough asses of ourselves in the snow.

Pretty in YES Pink

There was a lot of chuckling when I found out I was having a daughter. If you are a woman, but not girly, not traditionally feminine, it seems that other women especially are eager to have you pay in some way for that. How dare you be different? A lot of people broke out the pitchforks, eager to poke me in the thighs so that I would dress my daughter in pink.

My mother gets an exemption for this. That poor woman walked over all of creation trying to find dresses for me without frills. Or ruffles. Or lace. Or adornment of any kind. That were not pink. In Iowa. During the 80's. Yes, I wore a lot of sailor dresses. And yes, she really does love me.

But everyone else seemed to think that I would have to start liking dolls and lace and decorate my kid's room in pink. And I didn't and people fretted and harpied me and wow, do people need to butt out. I have been bitched at for dressing my child like a boy and painting her room aqua and for not putting bows in her hair. Our definition of girlhood seems sort of stupid to me--there is nothing wrong with any of those things but it seems sad to me that those are the only things that should matter.

Secretly I didn't think this would matter. My girl would wear track pants and Ramones t-shirts and Converse sneakers. And she DOES. But there are also dresses that twirl a bit and the way she demands hair cream after her bath and her obsession with her mary jane shoes.

For the record my daughter has a doll, and a doll stroller. She has bears and books and blocks and toy kitchen. I bought many of things for her or bossed some one else into buying them.

And for the record she wears pink! Hot pink, usually, because she is pale like me and pastels aren't her colors.

And she wears dresses. Though this is her choice. Because my girl loves dresses. If given the choice she will always choose a dress. I usually put them over pants because this is the northwest and it is usually rainy or chilly and also girlfriend has enough bruises without going pantsless all over the universe. But her love of dresses is enough that I have bought half a dozen in the past couple of weeks--I don't want to do too much laundry.

I do this not because I have to but because she loves them. Because they make her laugh and beam and smile. And I will keep cruising the sale racks, finding fun and funky dresses I know my girl will love. I do this because I want to.

I don't have to do anything.

At Least Let Me Nap

I found it vaguely insulting that J was so insistent that I would need help with the baby this weekend. I am fully capable of taking care of my child for Fuck's Sake. But, as anyone with a young toddler can tell you, killing daylight with a child with fully mobility and shitty judgement is daunting. Four days of being trapped in this house would probably be a bit much.

Yesterday I hauled her ass to my mother's. This is not as much for help as you might think. Now I am grateful for my mother, and her assistance (and am painfully aware of how many of my friends are not so lucky to have supportive families), but dragging my kid, the dogs, all of their assorted crap and my shit to her house for an overnight is not a relaxing thing. Her house isn't childproofed at all. So constant vigilance is needed. Fortunately, Mo is pretty great about bringing you all of the dangerous objects in the house immediately just to get the heart attacks out of the way.

Few things. Disposable diapers really smell awful. How do people deal? Also, they leak and explode. Every time I've used disposables she has had shit spurting up her back. It makes no sense that people make fun of my cloth diapering her when disposables (and we've used different brands) are so awful. And SMELL. Good lord.

The kid didn't nap. We are having work done in the backyard and we left early yesterday because they were so loud I knew she wouldn't sleep. Not that it helped. She got up at FIVE THIRTY this morning. GODDAMN. If this is a preview of our trip later this morning I will be returning home in a body bag. She was exhausted after one night. I am beat to a pulp. The poor dogs ran around like crazies.

Oh and my mother is on Facebook now. GOOD LORD.

Four Day Weekend Baby

The soundtrack of my life is the squeaky keen of a toddler. All day long she chatters and screeches and wails. It is like living with a scarily large and bald parakeet. Since there is no way on earth to make the kid shut up we are trying to channel that noise into learning animal noises.

Y'all I didn't just go to college I graduated from kindergarten so I have the basics covered. I can moo and baaa and say woof. We have added in monkey and kitty and now fancy things like owls. But I admit there are some animals that have me stumped. WHAT DO TURTLES SAY? Or giraffes? Do they stare in stony-faced silence because that is all I was able to come up with.

In other ways I am failing my child she has started having very occasional, but volcanic tantrums. In infant mode you just are trying to soothe your child. But I feel like we have grooved over to toddler mode and the tantrums are not something to be soothed away.

So I put her in her room (WITH TOYS OR THE INJUSTICE) and well, I apologize West Coast for that shaking at 4:43 pm this afternoon. That was my child cracking open the center of the earth with the power of her rage.

In other news she hates me. Just in time for J to go away for the weekend. I suspect when he gets home we will either have improvement in the tantrums or well I will move to Hawaii and J can deal with her ass. He is going to a music festival this weekend and we are doing the vaccination appointment tomorrow followed by the toddler tour to my mother's house. She will probably have no need for tantrums because Grandma will give her anything she wants. Even dictators can't bitch if they are catered to. At least not much.

I am pretty sure I can convince my mother to make me breakfast Sunday and go with me to Ikea so I am all set.

Fell

I fell down the stairs today, at work. I was mincing down the stairs in my ridiculous shoes--with high wedge heels that make me look like I had foot binding done (they are, I am sorry to say, by J. Lo)--I always mince on the stairs because well otherwise I will fall. BAM, the stairs went flat like I was in a fun house.

I went down the whole flight, pretending that none of it was happening to me. I didn't scream or make any noise. And when I looked up everyone the next floor up was standing at the edge of the stairs staring at me. Nobody said anything.

It's weird when something like that happens to me, oh and they happen a LOT, my urge is to keep quite. To ignore the situation. If no one sees it it isn't real. So I got up and smiled at that crowd of people and practically sprinted back to my cube. I don't know how I got to be the kind of person who doesn't want anyone to watch her fall--or check to make sure she is alright. I wish I was a screamer, the kind of woman who beats off an attacker with a heavy pocketbook while tweeting her police whistle. Instead I would probably apologetically hand him my handbag and then look around embarrassed.

On the bus on the way home another rider admired the shoes. So there is that.

Happy Mother's Day

I remember sitting at a table with a lot of women I know, drinking cocktails, when I mentioned that I was meeting my mother for lunch that day. All around the table there were understanding shakes of heads and groans. All of them were commiserating on the unluckiness of having to meet Mom for lunch.

The problem was that I didn't really understand how they felt. Back then I met my mother for lunch or shopping or just went to her house to hang out pretty much weekly. We would drink wine, eat french fries, shop and not buy anything on any given Sunday. My mother has never once criticized me. She has liked some of my haircuts enough to copy them. She has never called me fat or bitched about my clothes. She has never once been unkind to me.

My biggest regret about my mother is that every woman I know doesn't have one just like her.

When I was six months pregnant she and I were eating cheeseburgers when she hung her head a bit and admitted she worried that things would change. I knew just what she meant. She was thrilled that I was having a baby--had privately prayed for that (no pressure) for years--but we had a good run going. It seemed impossible that we could enjoy each other so much with a baby. I had to tell her that I was worried too. Worried that I wouldn't make her proud, that she would try to parent my daughter, that I wouldn't measure up.

I have to say that from here we were right to worry and things have definitely changed. We don't meet for leisurely lunches or wander around aimlessly now. But I can say that my mother has still never said an unkind word to me. That she provides the reassurance that she thinks I am a great mom that I think no one can hear enough. She is crazy about my daughter and Mo is mad for her.

My mom told me once that our friendship was the prize for surviving the year I turned thirteen. We were not always so close, though we never fought the way she fought with my sister (I saved that for my dad). She has held my hand through some very difficult times and laughed with me during more good times. When I was two weeks postpartum she came and fed me roast chicken when I hadn't eaten in days. She comes to my house every week and never once wrinkles her nose at my messy house. She gives great advice and even listens to mine in return.

I think our friendship is my prize for not killing her when I was thirteen. And I hope that Mo is watching it--absorbing it through her pores. I hope that one day when she is older, and I take care to treat her with kindness and never ever criticize her hair, she will go out to lunch with me and bug me about my skincare and be my friend. I hope that one day she will have a baby and understand what I now know about my mother: she can't stand to criticize me because my sister and I split her wide open. She can't love anything as much as she does us. And nothing that could ever happen would change that.

That is a truth that I knew always but didn't KNOW until now. I am so grateful that Ramona taught me that. And so very lucky that my mother feels that way about me.

I hope that all of you are so fortunate.

Aquarium

In the past few weeks family life has definitely transitioned from oh the baby is a toddler now to OH THE BABY IS A TODDLER. What I fear would happen with the baby home with my MIL all day is happening. Girl is stir crazy in the evenings and on weekends. It's still a good arrangement for us all but we do have to plan to wear the be-diapered ass of some one.

Saturday we took her to the aquarium. We were treated with joyous cries of SHISH and much gleeful running around. Fortunately, on a rainy day the aquarium was full of similarly happy but psychotic children. It was a little like a frat party with sippy cups. And less booze. Every child there screamed NEMO at each tank. My child kept calling the seals GOGS.

Then yesterday she turned into a whirling dervish of rage and irrational tears. My parents got to witness an epic meltdown as she wailed for her daddy (because I am nothing! this is the gratitude that nine months of nausea, heartburn and having your intestines pulled out gets you). We dragged her to the park where she screamed and stomped because I wouldn't let her run down a ramp into the parking lot. Here is where I flip the bird at every fucking person who glared at me at that park because we were outside! Not at a goddamn library! Was I supposed to take her indoors at that point?

A tiny bipolar being lives in my house--she is the size of leprachaun and has the vocal projection of an opera singer. She makes dramatic faces if there are no strawberries for breakfast. She claps her hands every single time the Daddy finds Knuffle Bunny in her favorite book. She will walk over to her kitchen and hit the switch on the blender when I say "Make Mama a margarita." When I was having a bad day she came over, crawled in my lap and tried to cram her binky in my mouth (I tried it and I confess it was comforting). We get in daily arguments about the fucking dishwasher and how babies DON'T TOUCH. Every day is the best day of her life until you thwart whatever evil plot she has involving the toilet. And LORD HELP YOU if you try to clean shit off of her ass even if that is clearly what is making her crabby.

But she is a blast at the aquarium.

Bus Mishap

Every morning I wake up at five am, rush around to get dressed and hurry to get on a bus that leaves at 5:55 am. It is a surprisingly full bus, considering that no one should ever willingly go to work that early. Commuter buses, as a rule, are not nearly as lively as city buses. We do get our occasional drunk but mostly it is guys in suits, a few construction workers in hard hats and a couple of girls doing a very devoted commute in to a private high school downtown. People mostly nap, nurse a coffee or listen to music. Some read books or the newspaper. And there is one really obnoxious lady who whispers louder than I speak in the front. Usually about how bad her cramps are, or how they were last month or how horrible she is sure they will be next month.

It's quiet is my point, at least the morning one. Except this morning. When a plastic compartment on the ceiling exploded.

Apparently coolant on buses is circulated throughout the carriage and there is a tank above the center aisle. One that popped open and leaked a shit load of liquid all over everyone and the floor.

We were all lucky and no one was really hurt. The engine started smoking and there were fumes but the bus immediately pulled over. The worst injury was a twisted ankle from a woman who slipped on the wet floor. Another woman had gotten splashed and had a small chemical burn on her face. Most people were like me--annoyed and late for work with a small chemical rash on my foot from wearing open toed shoes in a coolant flood.

Of course on the way home I found myself sort of inspecting the ceiling. No need to take a coolant bath twice in one day.

Bitter

Am struggling with the end of the school year countdown feeling I have.

Since I haven't been in school well . . .FOR A REALLY LONG TIME.

Wouldn't it be awesome if your job could be like school once in a while. I mean I would love to go home at three every day. And actually get a lunch. And summer vacation? Brilliant. But also, that sort of do-over feeling that September brings. That you could build on what you learned but also begin something new and be better than you were the year before.

Adult work has this way of running together. And eight years later you look around and go wait . . .it's been eight years. That is longer than junior high and high school together. Where is my cap and gown?!

At any rate my brain is cycling down to finals week and tick tock tick tock my psyche is about to be bitterly disappointed. The summer is coming but I will not be spending it sleeping in and working on my tan.

There is actually no point to this. I am just bitter about being an adult sometimes.

Buy Me A Mini Van Because I Think I Am One of Those Moms

If you are a shameful, stumbling cliche like me and read tons of mommyblogs you have seen the meme about Five Reasons I Love Being a Mom. I haven't been tagged but I wanted to do it anyway. I am trying to really live in the moment with the baby and enjoy it. Since I am a What's Next kind of person this is hard for me.

What is also hard for me is to admit how cheesily I love being a mom. Longtime readers know that I am a cynical person. I had no illusions about motherhood and I am not a romantic. But you might also recall that I longed for a child. She was wished for, hoped for in a way that is vaguely embarrassing. And it was embarrassing because I didn't know why. There was no logic behind it, I just knew I wanted a family.

I didn't expect to love it so much.

Of course it is drudgery. And the lack of personal time and space and the ability to sleep in EVER is torture. And I would never suggest to anyone that they cannot be happy without children as sometimes it is mind numbing and eyeball searing and I really really want to run away to Brazil.

But then there are these five things, and countless more, that make me so happy to be her mother. I can't help it.

1. She loves popcorn (oh I know you are not supposed to give toddlers popcorn, close that OMG email--but she is a good chewer and we heavily supervise). And so sometimes we sit on the couch and eat a bowl together. We try to crunch louder, we dance, we feed some to the dogs. Something so simple as a bowl of popcorn makes her so thrilled. It makes me savor both the snack and her more than I ever would otherwise.

2. J and I have been together almost ten years. And we have bonded in a way that you only can being in a relationship like that. And I knew he would be an amazing father. But watching him with her breaks your heart wide open. Parenting her together has really changed how we relate to each other. And makes me love him even more.

3. Her favorite book has a page that features Eight Buzzy Bugs. And we always tickle her belly on that page. Except now if you even say buzzy bugs (or are on the page before) she starts to tickle her own self. And laugh. And laugh. It kills me dead with the cute and her laugh is the best music I have ever heard. No adult laughs like that. They are too worried everyone is staring at them.

4. This is also a hard thing about being a mother for me. But people are drawn to my daughter. I think because she is cute, objectively cute, but also because she really looks people in the eye. She flirts, she asks for their attention. So she is often the star of the play area or the child old men stop to talk to. Since I am socially stunted and she can't talk well . . .I muddle through. But she thinks the whole world is her friend and right now they are. It's a beautiful way to see people and I am learning it more each day. Plus some small talk ability because her ten words make shitty conversation.

5. I put her to bed almost every night (J does it once a week because I need a break and because WOW I do not want to have it become I can't leave the house around bedtime until she is thirty). If I get it together and give her a bath she smells like baby shampoo. But always she is warm and soft and in footie pajamas. It is the one time you can be certain she wants to snuggle. We read stories and she drinks the only bottle she gets all day. We talk about our days. And I sing her the Shema as I zip her into her sleep sack. Those are the 10-15 minutes that I look forward to every day. And when I miss them, the way I did last night, I feel restless and sad. Even on J's night I have to fight myself from drifting in there.

And now I will go scrape the cheese off of myself with a Ritz cracker.

Glamour Girl

Well, that outage was unexpected. J upgraded my laptop which was supposed to take less than two days and it turned into two weeks. Of course I had access to his computer but really if I can't read the internet from my bed than I don't use it? I didn't know this about myself but it does seem in keeping my character.

So two weeks without internet and I am going to tell you about yesterday. This is mommyblogging GOLD people. The child wakes up at six am but we're good. We eat waffles, we watch Sesame Street, we are playing ball. It's J's sleep in day which is a religious experience in this house--we don't disturb sleep-in day unless the house is burning down. And even then, it is to be done in a quiet manner--better to just roll up the other person in a rug and scoot them out to the front lawn undisturbed if possible.

So the kid and I are playing. There is a big rubber ball involved, she is using her baby doll to club the ball and it is fun. There is laughing. And then a bird flew at her head and we both screamed our faces off.

YES A BIRD. FLEW IN MY HOUSE! AND TRIED TO EAT MY BABY!

I don't know exactly how the bird got in the house and I really didn't know how to get the damn thing out. I tried and the baby cried and screamed and lost her mind. After twenty minutes I gave up, the child was hysterical and I had to go wake up J. Mo and I huddled with her blankie in room, talked about books and sang songs and then the bird was gone. We had a drink--hers was milk and mine was a Coke. GOOD MORNING EVERYONE.

Our day progressed. We had a great family day and got home in time to put the kid down for a much needed nap. She hadn't pooped yet and yes, those are chimes of DOOM you are hearing. All I know is that J went to get her because she was freaking out, almost passed out from the smell and the second I heard "OH MY GOD" I fired up the bathtub. There was a half off diaper, a sleep sack that needed a lot hot water and a baby who got an afternoon swim in the tub.

I am very sorry ya'll missed out on the glamour the last couple of weeks. But I am back and maybe now my laptop won't burn up in flames every night.

On Our Own

The Jewish calendar still doesn't come naturally to me. Since we don't have Jewish family and we still haven't joined a temple, we don't have traditions to lean on. And Reform Judaism really is about finding your own meaning in the rituals and holidays. It's hard to do on your own and we have really begun by each year layering on more observance. I guess we figure that when we find the right amount for us we'll know it.

As a side note, this seems to really piss of some people--none of whom are Jewish. Because to this segment of the population the whole point of Judaism is to keep kosher? I don't really understand their point really, except that they all happened to be Christian (though by no means are all Christians like this) and they would get het up about us not keeping over 200 commandments when I can say without assurance that those assholes weren't even really keeping up with their ten.

All of this means that last night was the first night of Passover and well . . .I had ice cream for dinner. We didn't go to a Seder (and fuck it, next year we are going to a couple of community Seder and I am attaching myself to old Jewish ladies until one teaches me how to make matzo ball soup!). But this year we are keeping a very wavy gravy HI WE ARE CONVERTS version of kosher for Passover. Which means we are eating in the Sephardic tradition (no grains but hell yes I am eating beans and corn), but not actually separating meat and dairy. And well, I am taking the baby to my parents' house on Sunday (for our interfaith SPRING DINNER) and there will be ham. Oh and probably bacon.

I actually do find meaning in given up the grains. It makes you thoughtful about what you are eating. Not just in the GODDAMN everything has wheat in it way (though it does and I really really want a brownie), but it makes you feel connected to a tradition. And to people around the world. Today I ate peanut butter on matzoh and knew that people around the world were doing the same. There is something to that, though I am not sure that it makes me feel closer to God. It does make me feel something for others. Which can only be a good thing.

Maybe next year I will host my own Seder. Or keep separate meat and dairy. Hell, maybe I will give up bacon! Anything is possible. I know we will find the place where we have meaning for our family. And we'll keep those traditions with our daughter. So when she is older, whether she stays Jewish or not, she will carry that with her.

But it's hard to do it on our own.

PJ Panic

When I was in high school my mother gave me a lecture about grocery shopping. She detailed what was a good price for items—prices that I believe were set in 1985 in suburban Iowa and have not budged—and given my cheap nature . . .well those same prices are my barometer today. I continually have rages about how name brand triple ply toilet paper should be 25 cents a roll even though rationally I know that, yes prices are not the same as they were when I was seven years old. It’s possible I have issues. But it’s also true that once a price gets in my head that becomes the One True Price and well really you should try to find something cheaper than that.

This isn’t about toilet paper, not really, though I guess a lot in life really is about toilet paper. It’s about pajamas, baby pajamas, and how sometimes my cheapness compulsion—which is weird enough on it’s own really—morphs into a whirling vortex of obsession.

I am an outlier with baby clothes. Because my kid is still wearing sleepers. Her pajamas have to have feet in them, textured feet so she doesn’t slide around like she is ice skating, and longs sleeves. We prefer they zip up the front but snaps are ok too. It’s April but it snowed yesterday and my house is a hundred years old and drafty. It doesn’t get hot enough to strip the kid down to the shorts pajamas they have everywhere right now until one week in early August. The rest of the year it is footies all the way. I must be the only one in America though, because it is really hard to find footed sleepers. Everyone else must live in warm climates with real summer and have newer homes with triple paned windows. My kid also wears her pj’s all the time—since my MIL rarely gets her dressed during the week. That is why the feet are key—she takes off socks unless she is wearing shoes. Two piece pj’s are going to result in my kid walking around in pj’s and a pair of Mary Janes.

As a side note, I confess that I feel a little strung out about the political statements my kids pj patterns make. They are so gendered! Everything is pink with hearts and kittens and shit. The "boy" patterns are so much more badass. At Old Navy this issue made me disproportionately enraged. The girl pajamas had twee things like ladybugs and the boys had really killer modern robots. Ridiculous. And yet I get harpied so much for dressing her like a boy that I feel self conscious buying things that are marketed for boys. My choices are to scar her for life by oppressing her gender identity or to bow to the patriarchy.

Uh. Not that I am over thinking this.

Anyway, rescue me from PJ hell. Where can I find cute, sleepers that are not $26 dollars each? GOOD LORD THAT IS A LOT OF MONEY PEOPLE. That will buy me two Target t-shirts and a twelve pack of Diet Coke.

Also, where can I find some fucking plain white onsies*? NO ONE HAS THEM. Size 18 months.

*Heh, how happy does it make me that spell check wants me to change onsie to ANUS?

Balance

When I was a tiny girl, probably around five or six years old, my parents were concerned by my sad inability to walk across the room without falling. Their solution was to sign me up for gymnastics class--probably because of Mary Lou Retton. In a class with a dozen other tiny girls in black leotards and white slippers I learned important life skills. Seat drops, straddle rolls and how to cling desperately to a bar and beg to come down.

Not surprisingly, since I was so klutzy that these classes were necessary, I was not exactly a gifted gymnasts. I did somersaults in all sorts of directions, I tripped trying to learn to vault, and I fell eighty-four thousand times from the balance beam.

My biggest memory of those classes, other than a bizarre fantasy I had about Mary Lou magically appearing from a tiny door that no one used int he corner, was trying to just walk across the beam without bobbling.

Sometimes I feel like parenting a baby is like walking on a balance beam. Besides all of the obvious and incredibly hard ways--the work thing, the staying married to the father if it is possible thing, the having good hair but not looking too Mommy thing--there is the family thing. As in your family and his family and how do you get everyone to shut up.

I have a good relationship with my parents and so the needing them to shut up hasn't happened much. Other than a few highly stupid comments my dad made about Mo not needing a nap anymore (uh, I remember napping in kindergarten, girlfriend is a year old Pop) we have had no issues. But they are my folks, their weirdness makes sense to me.

But figuring out how to cope with my MIL, has been such a challenge. In almost every way I think she is near perfect. She loves my daughter, which is the biggest thing. She takes such amazing care of her. She is supportive of the way we are trying to bring her up. But things come up. And because she cares for her every day she feels like she gets a bigger vote. I guess she does get a bigger vote. There is a tug of war between her being a grandmother and caregiver and GAH. It is confusing. I have a hard time feeling like maybe I am too critical of her or don't want to do what she wants just because she wants me to do something. Would I feel differently if this stuff was coming from my mother? Probably. Because I have this layered relationship with my mother built on her being a great mother, a great friend to me now and an amazing grandmother. My MIL and I don't have that relationship even though she is a wonderful person and I love her. So, yes, even though I hate it, I do listen to my mother in a different way.

This all came to a head last week. As many people know, cough medicine manufacturers pulled infant medications a couple of years ago. I think this is stupid, as the reason was mainly that parents didn't follow directions. But it doesn't change that medications are not available for infants at this point. And my MIL and husband were pressuring me to give the baby children's medicine at a dosage she remembered giving him as a child. Setting aside my doubts about her being able to remember the correct dosage thirty years later (I can't remember six months ago so how can she be SURE), I don't know that the medications are even exactly the same. I would love to have a cough medicine for her but I wasn't going to take unnecessary risks.

And for the first time J was on the other side. He wanted to give her something and was using his mother as a deciding vote. Oh I resented it. If we are bringing mothers into it well mine should be coming too (hi she would agree with ME) but somehow his mom counts more? Should she?

Eventually, we found a compromise, these are genius and worked very well. But trying to sort it out was this arduous process, so loaded and messy. A million of these situations will happen in the next eighteen years and we will continue to figure them out.

But I still feel like I am six years old, up on a balance beam. But now I am carrying a baby, a MIL, a husband, my parents, a cat, a pug and a dachshund along with me. I just keep inching along trying not to fall.

And the cat is digging her claws into my neck.

Competimommy

I feel lucky that there are other moms at my office. Workplace is not the most family friendly place in the world but there are a couple of us with small children. I am definitely the youngest, since again not a family friendly environment so people tend to wait until they are closer to forty and can't wait any longer.

One woman in particular talks to me about the baby. Her son is exactly one month younger and so it is fun to compare notes.

Except she isn't comparing notes. She is comparing babies. In every way. Every time I talk to her it is about how Baby C is doing this or that, how big he is, etc. I love talking about babies but I have long since learned not to mention anything that Mo can do that he cannot. I am sure she thinks that Mo is ages behind but I just can't handle how she panics if Baby C isn't doing whatever she thinks he should.

I don't know what compels parents to do this. Well I do a bit, I mean we all think that our children are the most perfect ever but rationally it doesn't matter if Timmy walks before Tommy or Mary has ten words when Marie has seven. The range of abilities and development between children, even those very close in age, is incredibly wide.

In other words, I am pretty sure her kid is going to get into college even though he can only say Dada at this point.

In the meantime I just smile and nod. And have the knowing conversations about how brilliant my daughter is--with my husband.

Suddenly That Flu Shot Seems Like a Better Idea

J texted me Friday afternoon. Don't stop anywhere. Since my bus was late I figured the kid had a case of Moldy Fridays and we would air her out and she would be fine. Sometimes Friday afternoons are awful--she is just bored and done with being home and a good dip in the pool or a trip to the mall play area and everything is right again. Then the next text, I am sick. And well . . .

J doesn't get sick. At least not often and not bad. So I was shocked to come home and find a mass of snot and fever on my couch. One who could barely hold up the slobbery copy of The Hungry Little Caterpillar he was trying to read. He was shaking and sweaty and OH IN A BAD WAY.

I felt fine, baby was chipper and in a good mood. We went to Target to stock up on Daddy medicine and had a lovely evening. The next day we had a good breakfast, nap, played and went to meet my parents at the Yuppie Mall. She played at the mall play area, we went out for lunch. It was a really nice day. And J was still sick and feverish, though somewhat better.

So I was single parenting again. Except I woke up with a fever, and limbs made of lead, and a cough that rattled the house windows. J seemed a little better when he woke up and it was a damn good thing because I was crashing at that point. Then the baby got a fever and well all hell broke loose in my house.

Eventually everyone napped and everyone's bedding got washed and we all drank some flat seven-up. My MIL came over and fussed over everyone (and thank GOD FOR MIL). And now Mo is down for the night. She's already woke up once from the coughing.

I apologize to everyone at Yuppie Mall play area Saturday. I didn't know I was letting a plague carrier drool on the tugboat.

I haven't had a true sore in your bones, feverish and dizzy flu in about ten years. I hope it is at least ten more until I have it again.

Tooth Drama

Those of you who follow me on Twitter would have seen a stomping fit of rage two weeks ago when I was home sick. I bit into a piece of toast and CRACK--off came a piece of my tooth. Actually two teeth.

Neither of these two teeth was a surprise offender. I knew they both needed to be fixed. In fact, I went to the dentist because one of them had been broken before. They built it back up and sent me on my way. Three weeks ago it was gone and crap. I am so pissed.

With jury duty and a bunch of work nonsense, tomorrow was the first time that I could get it to have it fixed. The past two weeks have given me a new appreciation for what Mo is going through teething. Mouth pain is something that you can deal with but god it makes me a bitch.

I will admit I even snagged a couple of the kid's teething tablets this morning in desperation. Those buggers actually work. Hip Hip Hooray for homeopathic remedies.

Tomorrow I am going to pay some one large amounts of money to drill into my head while I am doped up on a mild numbing agent. My face will be swollen and GAH. And I just cannot wait.

This Is Why Some People Never Read to Their Children

I was very cautious before I had my daughter. I carefully avoided judging parents or making grand pronouncements about what I would or would not do. I had ideas, certainly, but I worded those ideas so meticulously even in my head. I wouldn't tempt fate. I would see bratty children in public and smile sympathetically at their parents--it is just a bad day. I would give only vague answers to the controversial parenting inquiries--I would TRY to breastfeed, I hoped for a vaginal birth, etc.

I figure if you ever say "When I am a parent I will NEVER do X . . ." is a way to guarantee that you will do that very thing. Even things I am certain I would never do well . . .I don't say never.

Still, I can say that I really didn't imagine that I would ever become the kind of mother I am today.

I try distract my daughter into playing so I don't have to read to her anymore.

I KNOW.

But at the tender age of thirteen months, Mo has entered a particularly annoying stage. She wants books read to her every minute of the day. She has particular ones she wants read--usually the same book three times in a row and then a different one. She wants to turn the pages. And when you are done she will thrust the book at your and grunt. If you choose to interpret the grunt as a thank you well you are sorely mistaken. It is an order to read again. Or DIE really.

She has J's temper. Quick and violent (though to her credit she gets over things with some speed). She is eruptive when thwarted. She will CUT YOU.

And she is asking me to read for crying out loud. It's not like she wants to mainline Twinkies while watching PG rated movies. And I am so thankful that she loves books. I am a big reader--three or four books a week--and it would be sad to me if she didn't want to be read to. They are clearly her favorite toys, she drags them around the house and hugs them like teddy bears.

But still, after reading Butterfly's Surprise eighty-seven times I find myself finding a loud and annoying toy to try to tempt her with. Or J's Blackberry. Anything to not have to read, "There's something special you should see . . ." for five minutes.

It probably is unreasonable to expect her to learn to read before she can talk right?

The Last Drug

I've joked here about having an addiction to Diet Coke. It's more of a vice really, since I could stop (but wow I do not want to)--I don't smoke anymore, I can't have sex with anyone but my husband, I barely even drink since more than a glass of wine makes me go to sleep. Soda seems so tame and harmless.

But this is Seattle, a place so crunchy that honestly I think a heroin habit would be more socially acceptable. The soft drink industry is a billion dollar one, but I am clearly the ONLY ONE IN THE WORLD still stupid enough to drink the stuff. Naturally, the people most in my face about the soda are the ones who smugly drink Vitamin water (which has just as much sugar) or lattes (fat!) or still fucking smoke. At least my legalized stimulant can be consumed indoors.

I do not pretend that soda is a healthy thing and I do cave to peer pressure. I hide the cans. I try to pretend that I don't drink as much as I do. All kinds of drug seeking behavior I know. And this is how I ended up exploring the world of home soda makers.

I am confessing this to the internet, knowing that it is a little like saying I am growing weed in the backyard. My own MIL, sniffed snobbishly that of course this house needed more soda. This woman salts fucking saltine crackers and whines that I won't let her feed the kid all the juice she wants (also full of high fructose corn syrup). At least I am honest with myself about the shit being terrible for me.

I rolled the idea of a home soda maker around in my head for a really long time. I am ashamed to admit how long. Each time I backed away, trying to find a seltzer or a water that would sub for my beloved Diet Coke and failing. Finally I ordered it. And when it arrived I danced a jig.

The reality is . . .mixed. Oh it is so fun to make your own soda. And the seltzer flavoring is delightful--I have drunk more of that then anything else. The cola . . .I'm on my second batch which is much better. More carbonation and a little less flavoring. Less sweet. It's a work in progress. But the process is brilliant. It is like having my own little chem lab. I plan to figure out my own cocktails and eventually crack the code of the cola.

So if you decide to enter my little den of sin, where we still drink the carbonated sweet nectar, you will probably find me in the kitchen with my soda machine--carbonating everything in sight.

Feeding the Soul

It's strange how if your mom is a decent cook at all her food is what always tastes "right" to you. Other foods may indeed be better and you might like them more but that is where the bar is permanently set.

I remember being eighteen and having Chow Mein at a restaurant for the first time. I was stunned that it featured noodles. Because my mother's doesn't. Now my mother is a white lady from Des Moines, IA so I can't imagine why her recipe gleaned entirely from Better Homes & Garden is not completely authentic.

One of J and I's long-standing arguments is about French Toast. I like it the One True Way which is with butter, sugar and cinnamon. Maple syrup is for pancakes and waffles. That so many people (pretty much everyone who is not in my family) don't eat French Toast the right way is why I don't order it while out. Why bother if they are just going to put syrup all over it?

So my mother's pancakes are the RIGHT pancakes and oh there are so many things she made when I was a kid that still make me feel so happy and safe. They are comforting and homey and so delicious. Right after I had Mo she knew I hadn't eaten in basically a week. She drove up to my house and roasted a chicken and made mashed potatoes. This is simple food and something I could have made for myself or J could have made it. But it was my mother's chicken and potatoes and I made myself eat it. I consider that the turning point for me post-birth. When I stopped being QUITE so crazy.

This week I made pork chops for dinner. Nothing special, just sauteed in butter with garlic and pepper. But the baby gulped it up and begged for more. And I realized that my food is becoming her jumping off point and will taste "right" to her as she grows up.

Maybe I will have to learn to make pancakes that don't come from a box?

Hitting Publish

My body is not the same since I had the baby.

This is not shocking. In the past year, well, I have done nothing. I ate what I wanted while I nursed and lost thirty pounds in two weeks. Then I held on to that last ten pounds. Then I went back to work and gained back a couple. And it's all in different places.

I've read Linda. I know that it doesn't have to be this way. But clearly, I have not made losing weight a priority and when I am honest with myself.

I am not going to.

At least not right now. And I am a huge believer in dressing the body you have now. Since I can wear my pre-baby jeans well I was. But this was a terrible idea. Low-rise should not be happening for me, possibly ever. I decided that I was going to buy a great pair of jeans because I was tired of feeling like I was failing every time I put on pants.

I just decided to buy the same jeans, one size up. Well. No.

Muffin top. Bad muffin top. And worse, this was the largest size they made. Those of you who have sprung for designer jeans know that the whole point is the fit. If they do not fit perfectly than do not bother. And then I noticed the salesgirl gearing up to ask me something.

"We do have these in our plus size department."

I admit it, I hesitated. I wasn't offended and was actually glad she mentioned it. But I am ashamed to admit that I was ashamed. I don't think badly of plus sized women, in fact I think I made fun of my mother for caring about her size. I mean, as some one with four sizes of pants in her closet that fit, I know that women's sizing makes zero logical sense so there really is no point in worrying about it.

Except apparently I really didn't want to be plus sized.

But up to that department I went. And . . .no one stared. Customers in other departments did not fling things at me. No one screeched "YOU ARE TOO THIN FOR THIS DEPARTMENT." I was oddly sure both of those things would happen.

And they fit. No muffin top, no pulling at the legs. Ass up where it should be.

I should have been thrilled. Good jeans are a Holy Grail. But I admit it took me longer than it should have to decide to buy them.

I got home, blacked out the size and immediately loved them more.

I am angry. I am angry with myself for feeling this way. I am angry that I live in a world where women are supposed to be ashamed of being plus sized. I am sad that apparently my self-esteem is tied to an arbitrary number. And I am embarrassed at how much I am hesitating to type this at all.

But I am hitting publish.

I Choose Aruba

I spent today just hamster-wheeling around. I know everyone has days like this, where your to-do list just gets longer and there is chaos everywhere and I could actually hear my inbox ticking away like a bomb.

There was a time when I thrived on stress. I just piled more and more activity on top of myself. That stress pushed me to do more, to do better. That time has long since passed. The drama makes me want to curl up and hide. The stress doesn't push me to work faster but to throw up my hands in disgust. My capacity for bullshit is almost zero.

I work with some one who never seems overwhelmed. If she makes a distressed face than you know the end of the world is nigh because otherwise she doesn't sweat, she doesn't rage and not a hint of a frown wrinkles her brow. I long to be here, I long for it more than I long for thin thighs which is quite a bit. But, like the thin thighs, I don't think I long for it enough to do the major reconstruction on myself to become that.

I am thirty years old and I am accepting now that I cannot change how I am. I get involved. I want to do my best and I will get charged up if people are throwing obstacles in my way. But if I am not passionate about something I cannot fake it. I cannot make myself feel something that I don't. So the challenge is to find a way to deal with the drama and not explode from it all.

Or win the lottery and head to Aruba.

Mystery

One of the things I found most frustrating when I was pregnant was all the unknowables. You could buy clothes ahead of time but you didn't really know what size your baby would be. Would she be a swing baby or a bouncy seat baby? Co-sleep? Crib? Would she be a good sleeper? Would she like to eat? All of the articles and advice would wrap up the same thing--only you know your baby.

But I didn't know my baby, and deep down in places I don't talk about much because EW, I was worried I wouldn't know her ever really. That she would always be a mystery to me.

And while I still maintain that trial and error is a really stupid method of parenting a baby it really is the only way (wouldn't it be awesome if we could evolve so that babies could use a morse code in the womb--three taps if you will love the swing, five if I should just skip newborn sizes). I have to confess I really do understand my daughter.

I know the "I'm still asleep and need a minute to shut up cry" and the "I'm freaked out get your ass in here" cry. I know that when she makes that hard K noise it means milk. I know that the only place I can hide my cell phone where she will not find it is somewhere high above her head. I know that she has to have something fleecy over her face before she will sleep. I know the best way to stop a tantrum is to brush her hair. I know that you will always eat more than I expect--chop up an extra three strawberries and it should be right.

And then I think about all the things I don't know. I don't understand why she liked pureed pears but are not so hot on the real thing. Why does she chew on the rail of grocery carts? Why does she become a royal bitch at 4:30 regardless of how she napped? I mean I knew she can't really talk but gah SHE COULD BE POINTING AT ANYTHING!

Oh evolution FAIL.

How Do You Do It?

We were all hit with the crappy lung hacks last week. If there is anything more pitiful than a working mom going to work with a fever and no voice because she cannot face staying at home with the baby screeching--well that might be a one year old who starts hacking like a pack a day smoker. My poor MIL is on the mend but since she has asthma her cough is likely to stick around for a few weeks. Even J, with his cast iron immune system, got hit with it.

It might be best just to hose the house down with bleach now.

I also have jury duty this week--which has so far been very anti-climactic and boring. I worked at home today since my group didn't have to report. My group isn't reporting tomorrow either. I would just go to the office but I can already tell they would give me crap if I did have to report on Wednesday. Better to work from home all week than deal with that.

I am not good at balancing the work life thing. I know that a lot of people struggle with it but I feel like I do it worse than anyone else. It's amazing how much more patience I have for my kid if I haven't been dealing with whining people all day. And if I haven't spent a couple of hours on a bus. I want to know how everyone else does this. How do you juggle your life and your kid and your marriage and get dinner on the table?

It Doesn't Take Much

I have long admired Linda and I read her latest entry, and its million comments, with interest. Because LO, I have felt that and, like so many things on the internet, it felt so good to know I was not alone.

But why do we all feel this way? The more I think about it, the more I am convinced. Women, from the time we are tiny girls until we dry up into prunes, receive a pounding of messages. From magazines, TV, books, movies, our friends, everything about why we are not enough. The negative onslaught is constant and honestly, don't we all sort of forget about it after a while. I mean I don't consciously wonder why everyone on TV weighs two pounds and the wives on my TV shows are about 100 degrees hotter than their husbands. But that shit hits us in waves, day after day.

What we have to counteract it is . . well not much. We have people admiring our looks in the form of hitting on us. And we have on-street ogling. I AM SORRY BUT IT IS TRUE.

And once you are married, or seriously involved with some one that well runs dry a bit. As much as I adore J, and I do think it is important he find me attractive. I am his only sexual option, at least the only one that is sentient so he is going to tell me I am pretty. He is not a fool. So that feedback loop is pretty closed.

But the positive feedback, and not the gross graphic shit but just an admiring glance or a hello from a strange man, dries up right around the moment you most need it.

We live in a culture where there are women you fuck and there are mothers. And while I know that the MILF thing is everywhere that is the point. The MILF is supposed to be the exception. She is sexy because she is not like a mother. She is desirable for not being who she is supposed to be.

When you are twelve you still believe that it is possible that you will grow up to be a Brazilian super model. Even though you grew up in Iowa, hypothetically, and stopped growing at 5'7". Also, you have also always had Junk in the Trunk. But once you hit thirty, you are married, you have a child, well reality hits you. Huh, I am not going to have a growth spurt and be 6 feet tall am I? And the laws of reality apply to me! I am not actually going to be nineteen again! Well. Shit. That negative feedback loop is still playing, you are not enough, but there isn't much to defy it. Just your partner who loves you. And sleeps next to you. In that bedroom. That is so close to the knives. Maybe he isn't brutally honest.

He isn't a moron.

I don't think women want to be showered with catcalls on the street, at least not in an obscene way. But there is something, something undeniably unenlightened, but something uplifting about some one of the opposite sex who is not legally obligated to you making a quiet, tasteful gesture. Something along the lines of : hey! I'd tap that!

I Slept Nine Hours Last Night

Yesterday we took the baby to my mom and dad's house, dragged a bin full of clothes and toys and sippy cups in and ran from the house like we had just toilet papered the trees.

We had dinner reservations. True, they were in five hours, but we were drunk on having nowhere to go and no schedule to keep.

Babies have schedules. And our childcare arrangement demands precise scheduling. A high-pressure schedule where everyone is dependant on everyone else. If I take a crap and miss my bus well that isn't good for anyone.

People with digestive disorders really shouldn't have limits placed on their shitting abilities.

So we swept out of their house like the Grinch, only we had rolled up the carpets and left the baby inside. We spent our freedom going to Ikea. We are wild people. Then we arrived early for our reservation and got drunk waiting for a table. We ate beef and talked and I didn't have to order my dinner based on what the child could eat.

I love my child. I am sure that goes without saying. But there is relief in putting that down for a minute. The pressure, the fatigue, the strain. . .Putting that down, having a drink, eating a really really delightful piece of meat was worth every penny. Thank God for grandparents.

Moosh

I am permanently 24 years old in my own mind--still just starting out but not a kid anymore--which makes it disconcerting when J and I do something like celebrate our eighth wedding anniversary like we did this week. That would have made me a sixteen year old bride and since this isn't Alabama well, I never was a genius at math but something isn't adding up here.

Still trying to figure out what . . . I mean clearly I am still 24 right?

After eight years of marriage I would like to think I have figured out a few things. Since many of our friends, who were considered better matches I think, have married after us and are already divorced. We're still here and that should count for something.

The main thing I know is that you can't really know anything about some one else's marriage. I am sure that people see my husband and I and feel sorry for us. They think I am bossy or he is immature (and well YES) and they just thank god that they are not us. While I see things that go on in other marriages and well . . .there are very few people I could be married to. Possibly just the one. Which is fortunate, because well here we are. We have friends who have had affairs, who have vicious fights about laundry, who don't trust each other about money, whatever. But they are still kicking. And while none of those things sound worth it to me--well I don't have to be married to those people so I try not to judge.

TRY. I mean, I am still me.

I do know one thing for certain, when you get married you will fight. Your fight might be about money, it might be about work, it might be about parenting the tiny members of your house. It probably will be about all of those things honestly. It might be about how some one can't seem to fucking throw out the wrappers to Kraft singles even though HOW HARD IS IT TO THROW OUT A SHEET OF PLASTIC REALLY?!?!? I mean, for example.

I did the math the other day and realized that I have been cleaning J's toilets for ten years. TEN YEARS. Because he has never, not once, cleaned the toilet in our relationship. I am pretty sure some of your heads just exploded, either because you would just kill your husband/wife if they did that or you are wondering how J is such a master and does he give classes? It's not that I love scrubbing toilets, because really I think there is therapy for that, but I know he won't do it. And I love not fighting about it (and having to pee in a nasty toilet) more. I mean there are some things that I do that are just as annoying and probably selfish (though really what is worse than making some one clean up after your shit for ten years?). But it's all garden variety stuff. We fight about the normal.

He has shrunk a bunch of my sweaters and I never ever drag the garbage cans out to the curb. Somehow I pretty much always end up cooking dinner and doing the dishes afterwards but well I do NOT clean the cat box. When I add it up I feel so lucky that this is what is out there. The only real negative thing about marriage I can say after eight years is THAT SOCK ON THE FLOOR IS A SOCK ON THE FLOOR UNTIL YOU DIE.

After eight years I feel lucky every single day.

Why I Hate Award Shows

I knew that Kate Winslet was going to fucking with the Oscar. And I am so sad. I haven't seen the movie, haven't seen any of the movies, but I am so depressed that she won.

I actually really like Kate Winslet. Or I did. I thought she was brilliant in so many movies. I love her attitude about her body, about the business.

But The Reader is horrible. I can say that with 100% certainty without having seen it. And Kate Winslet made it worse. Let it be said that SS guards new exactly what they were doing and they do not deserve to be glamorized or felt sorry for. That it stretches the imagination beyond belief that one could have been illiterate. And to have Kate Winslet nude it up so that you can have the world feel sorry for fucking Nazis?

She has made statements about how "these people didn't know what they were doing. . ." And Kate, I don't think I can forgive that shit. That isn't Holocaust denial but it feeds Holocaust denial. People believe movies are true. They believe actresses. But actresses are playing parts. Parts that are full of fucking shit.

As I understand it, the movies ends with Kate Winslet's character in prison and suffering. And a Holocaust survivor is rich and unforgiving. By the way this is exactly what I wish were true--that all SS guards were in prison and survivors were all rich and happy. But it's not true and as I understand it it is played for sympathy. FOR THE SS GUARD.

Note to the Academy--just because it is a Nazi movie doesn't mean it should win awards.

Meme

Oh dear, the relationship meme as stalked from Sundry.

What are your middle names?
Mine is Anne. J's is Lee. Our parents are clearly very original.

How long have you been together?
Almost ten years. And we've been married nearly eight.

How long did you know each other before you started dating?
I am not sure that we ever even started dating. We uh became close and well he never left.

Who asked whom out?
I asked him to a party. He tried to bring a girl with him. He claims he thought that I was trying to set him up with my friend.

How old are each of you?
We're both 30. I am four months older. J claims this practically makes me a predator.

Whose siblings do you see the most?
His brother. Which is not often. We haven't seen my sister in a couple of years.

Which situation is the hardest on you as a couple?
Uh. Our infertility prior to having the baby.

Did you go to the same school?
No, I went to a women's college and massage school. J went through a voc school a couple of years ago.


Are you from the same home town?
J is from Modesto, CA and I was born in Des Moines, IA.

Who is smarter?
I'd say that we are probably about the same in very different ways. J is great with technology and puzzling out all kinds of problems. I am better with numbers and the boring book stuff.

Who is the most sensitive?
Oh dear me. I probably should toughen up but since he is pretty much made of leather it would still be me even if I were to do so.

Where do you eat out most as a couple?

A local pizzeria called Brooklyn Brothers. It is close to our house, delicious and a nice relaxing environment.

Where is the furthest you two have traveled together as a couple?
Florida. For my sister's wedding.

Who has the craziest exes?
Oh there could be so much debate about this. His ex was still living in his apartment when we met (he claims this isn't true but oh I think I remember) and well she was a total nutjob. But essentially harmless. I have a cast of more threatening types but garden variety issues. But I am the only one with a former stalker.

Who has the worst temper?
J without question. I give him credit because he does a really good job of controlling it and fighting fair. But he has the explosive temper. And it looks like Mo inherited it. DELIGHTFUL let me tell you.

Who does the cooking?
I do. He can cook and actually worked as a cook for a time so he does it sometimes. But since I do most of the meal planning I usually cook.


Who is the neat-freak?
Oh I think I would really enjoy a neat freak. Neither of us are at all and this house is small so there is a lot of clutter. And in the ten years we have been together J has never once cleaned a fucking bathroom. This has nothing to do with neatness. I just like to bring up cleaning injustices whenever possible.


Who is more stubborn?
Oh the stubbornness in this house is epic and I really cannot say who is worse. Except the baby who may be the one Stubborn that rules us all. But I am the one with relatives who lived next door to each other without speaking for decades.

Who hogs the bed?

We both do. And we share with two dogs. We really need a King bed but our room is the size of a shoe box so that won't be happening.

Who wakes up earlier?
Me. I'm at work before he gets up.

Where was your first date?

Um. My apartment? I have to admit it is all pretty vague.

Who is more jealous?
Me. But we don't really have
that dynamic in our marriage.

How long did it take to get serious?

Almost immediately.

Who eats more?

He does. And yet, until very recently he was really really skinny. UNFAIR

Who does the laundry?
We share it. He is not allowed to do my laundry since he ruins my clothes all the time and yet he still keeps doing it. One of my favorite cashmere sweaters was ruined about a week ago. Latest soldier to die in valiant battle.

Who’s better with the computer?

J is a network administrator. Take a guess.

Who drives when you are together?
J. He thinks I drive too slow. Of course his driving makes me act like my mother and shriek and gasp for breath.

Now everyone else! Link in the comments.

When I started using the Internet

Though I had played around a bit with a BBS in high school I didn't really start using the internet in a real way until my first job. It was with an internet start up crossed with Amway and my bosses didn't really understand what it was about. So I spent my free time (which there was a lot of) looking at internet content and searching yahoo and wasting time online.



This created a weird rabbit hole habit with the internet for me that carries on to this day. One second I am thinking about a movie I saw in second grade and then I am googling and researching the careers of the actors and finding out that their favorite book is my favorite book oh and wait has that author written anything new.



And it's been three hour

Healthy Eats

After ten years together I finally figured out something important about J last year.

Dude doesn't know how to eat.

I don't mean that he can't use a knife and fork, I mean that well his grasp of nutrition was more tenuous than I could have imagined.

I didn't realize that the fucked up girl-culture of dieting teachings women about fat vs. calories, protein, vitamins, etc. I found out that until I told him he actually thought that a piece of white bread with butter on it was a healthy snack.

This explains a lot about his food issues and also about his confusion about why I kept trying to get him to eat something beside canned spaghetti.

My mother dieted for my entire childhood. While I don't want to repeat that experience for my daughter I think it was a gift to learn to eat multiple vegetables at every meal, to eat lots of chicken and pork, to like fish and not eat so much starch. Not a perfect foundation but much better than what J had.

I do not want to create environment of "good" and "bad" foods though. My mother always seemed to believe that thin people could have good and bad foods but if you were fat you had no right to eat anything not scrupulously healthy--also she had "no right" to be hungry. It is just depressing to think about that.

So I consider myself a moderately healthy eater. I do get 5-6 servings of fruit and vegetables each day. I eat a variety of foods. I try to eat more plants, less meat and plenty of fish. I drink milk. I drink water. And I give myself a break. Notice that I don't say that I eat low fat, or low call or low carb. Everything in moderation.

But then again, I am not thin either.

I have low cholesterol, low blood pressure and my doctor said I am a very healthy person (with good bone density). My goal is to be healthy but also enjoy my foods. That is what I want to model for my daughter. I try to use my junky foods for things that I really enjoy since I don't want to eat too many of them.

That being said, there are some things that I know are not healthy and also completely terrible that I just adore. Note: I am not sure these things are really food.

1. Stouffer's lasagna (just the original meat version--not the Italian or chicken or cream whatever)
2. McDonald's Filet O'Fish
3. Queso dip made from Velveeta
4. Hamburger Helper--Cheeseburger Macaroni
5. Pizza Rolls

Does anyone else do this?

Anger

Reading this post of Her Bad Mother's, I saw so much of myself in it. And I do wonder how this happened.

J and I have long split chores in half. Yes, I complain because he has never, NOT ONCE, in our nearly ten year relationship cleaned the damn bathroom, but he does all kinds of things. He will never think to dust but he does dishes, laundry, etc without ever being asked. Over time I have realized that we have settled in a largely gender traditional set of roles. And I cannot tell you how that happened. But still, the work is roughly 50-50 which is the most important thing. There have been times when I have done the bulk of the work and times when he is carrying more than his fair share. Our marriage is a real partnership and I am both grateful and proud of that.

I assumed this would continue on into parenthood and, for the most part, it has. J is a very involved father. He does half of the actual child care. Sometimes more than half.

And sometimes I am really really angry and resentful of him.

I have tried to explain it to him and failed to do it in a way that didn't make him feel defensive. I am the default parent.

If I am home and do not say PLEASE WATCH THE BABY then he usually isn't. If I work late or there is an accident on the freeway it is an EVENT, even if it is only fifteen minutes. Because he isn't supposed to have her after 4:30. When I stayed home on leave he routinely went out for drinks for HOURS after work. I am not supposed to pee before taking the baby.

I am in charge. Always. This is not about discipline or anything. But I am supposed to be the authority. He doesn't read up about foods or plan her meals. He doesn't buy her clothes or shoes. When he told me he wanted to try cloth diapering, I was the one who had to research everything, buy it and then teach everyone how to care for it. I book her doctor's appointments (though he does usually take her), figure out new outings to takes her on and just manage everything.

It's not that I cannot do those things or even want him to do them. It's that I resent that I have to do them. He doesn't even notice. He gets this incredible credit for doing half of the care--for doing his share. And you know what, he is a great dad, I don't want to take that from him. But, often those same people look down on me for making him do his share. Doing half isn't good enough for mom. I am supposed to keep house and take care of the baby and work and probably have sex and it is just a lot.

Meanwhile his life hasn't changed. I shouldn't say that, it has. He loves her more than anything. He worries about her, he cares for her, he has had to change his schedule. But he has a life. He goes out drinking with his buddies. He makes plans without lining up child care. If he goes on a business trip or wants to leave for a few days the world doesn't stop. He has fitness goals and concerts to go to and things he wants to do. And I have a stack of books to read on my commute and work to do after she goes to sleep (though he does this too) and an early morning schedule to keep.

I shouldn't be angry with my husband. And since going back to work I have found that I am settling into regular angry instead of insane angry which has to be a good thing. I am angry that this is all there is though. The system is bullshit but all hail the system I guess.

In other words I don't think this is about J. It's about my own expectations and not caring about what other people think and fucking accepting the fact that my work really really isn't crazy about women with young children but they will just have to deal. She gets older every day anyway.

And being angry doesn't fix anything.

ALL CAPS

Last week was full of work drama that is barely interesting to me so I won't bore you with it, preparations for Mo's birthday party, drama with J's dad, a visit from his brother, the actually party, the actual visit of his dad and then today I got to work at 6 and didn't get home until 7 am about to collapse really from typing this paragraph.

Also, somehow my monitor died at work this morning and the IT told me to let him know when I bought a new one? WTF dude. So I have no working monitor at the office. And yet, no one thought I should just get to go home.

At any rate, Ramona had a fabulous party and though my house was not spotless I did not die of shame and there were eight thousand children playing in my living room. Everyone ate melty cheese and cupcakes and I got SCHOOLED by a five year old about how the party didn't have a theme and I FAIL being a mom and WOW who let me throw a party.

My friends really have cute and wonderful kids and that exchange was adorable and charming and so matter of fact. Like sorry, AB, you really shouldn't have a baby but BETTER LUCK next year.

If your baby doesn't run away because NO THEME.

So, I am just trying to swim here, all tired and achy, and still feeling very ALL CAPS.

If I were a superhero, I would certainly wear tights

Because without = chafing

OhHellNoWoman. She glares, she thunders, she sweeps into the room and roars "Oh HELL NO!" Once a more reasoned person, OhHellNoWoman found herself transformed by pregnancy via hormones into some one unable to control herself when it comes to bullshit. The second she smells bullshit she springs into action--swinging her head, squaring her shoulders and bellowing into the fray "OH HELL NO." Her voice paralyzes husbands committing acts of idiocy, frightens customer service agents and terrifies those who seek to wreck havoc with her day. She brings about justice, truth and price adjustments for consumer fraud.

One year

A year ago I was hanging upside down from some sort of wooden bar. Sadly, this is not a chipper tale of a stripper done good. I had been in active labor for almost 24 hours and was doing some bizarre contortions in an effort to Ramona unstuck from my pelvis. This is just as hot and sexy as it sounds. Also dignified.

I was heavily medicated (and thanking the good Lord for it) so I admit the details were vague. Also the ACTIVE LABOR FOR TWENTY FOUR HOURS thing made sleeping a wee bit tough and well yes, the details are hazy. Anyway, we did crazy shit that seemed totally rational at the time that Did Not Work and then they cut me open, gutted me like a fish and out she came (this should all be read with the proper reverence for the birthing of a child).

My baby is going to be one tomorrow y'all.

On one hand, this feels like a tremendous victory for J and I. Not only did we manage to create the family that for a long time we thought would not happen. But we have kept her alive for a whole year! I bet some one had a pool going on that shit. A year later here we are with a healthy, happy child who plays and bleets like a sheep and really likes to take Tupperware out of a drawer. Today she brought me a book to read to her and I am not lying you guys when I tell you that was a real milestone for me. My baby wanted me to read her a story. It was somehow different than when I hold her down before bedtime and force her to listen to the Very Hungry Caterpillar. I wasn't even mad when she wandered off at the end. She did her best.

On the other hand, I am shocked to find myself deeply sad. It is unlikely we will have another child. So while we are entering a whole new era for our family, the baby (real baby) era is ending. And it was too fast. I know that I rocked her in that chair and chanted YOU NEVER HAVE TO DO THIS AGAIN and wow that night was really hard. But I blinked and the whole year was over and . . .I don't even recognize myself. This is not me! I laugh at people like me!

This is what my mother would do OH MY GOD SOME ONE HELP ME.

This year was incredibly hard. I look about a million years older, tireder and sadly fatter. J and I had to work on things that we never struggled with in our marriage before. We are navigating all kinds of boundary issues with our families.

But it has been the best year of my life. I feel closer with J than ever. I feel closer with my parents and his mom and have become a pile of mush (clearly) about how many people love my kid. We are hosting a party for her (for us really) on Saturday--to celebrate us all making it this far. And while I am freaking the fuck out because my house really is a disaster and somehow I am going to get it clean before than? but for the first time possibly ever I am looking forward to a social occasion. We are going to eat spicy melted cheese and cupcakes (probably not together) and drink wine and toast my baby girl.

She changed my life. And I hope that I am worthy of her.

Babyless

Her birthday isn't until Wednesday but I am afraid Ramona really isn't a baby anymore.

She has the toddler shriek down, the mood swings, the freak out for no damn reason. BRILLIANT.

As some one who doesn't think of herself as a baby person I am taken aback by how sad I am by her growing up. I will miss my baby. Even as I am excited by the new little girl in her place.

Except for the shrieking. Fuck that noise.

Sunday

My parents come to visit every weekend, usually for Sunday afternoon. Most of the time, the timing is good and they arrive as she is waking up from her afternoon nap. If we are lucky she gets two hours and is delightful all afternoon. If we are not lucky she only gets an hour and ends up weeping piteously as they leave--usually with her ass in the air and her head on the Elmo couch.

And then there was today, when my parents arrived a little early, after she had gone down a little late. And my dad fucking woke her up (he doesn't think she still needs naps which everyone who has young children just slapped him in the face) and then he bitched that she was grumpy. Oh and she was grumpy.

My dad has largely forgotten what young children are like--I think because he was not terribly involved in the day to day activities when my sister and I were young. This man, that knows DAMN WELL that my bedtime was seven pm. until I was fucking ten years old thinks it is crazy that Mo doesn't stay up until 8 every night. He has age-inappropriate expectations for her. Note to future grandpas, one year olds do not stop crying if you just tell them to stop crying.

I am so grateful that my parents love my daughter so much. And my mother has pretty low expectations for these visits. She just wants to see the baby, and honestly likes to help me. She would be fine if I left her to play with the baby while I clean the house or take a nap. My dad doesn't really help with anything and I think at this point expects to be entertained. He always seems vaguely surprised that I don't have a roast in the oven and Ramona dressed to the nines to entertain him.

I am afraid he is disappointed every week.

But we all muddled through the day. Ramona ate everything in sight, ran around like a maniac all afternoon and then crashed in a blaze of glory. The rest of us watched James Bond on TNT and ate pizza. I still feel lucky. That really isn't a bad way to spend a Sunday.

My husband is an involved father. Baby care is divided pretty evenly between the two of us. I see now that my dad missed something by doing what he did. He seems to brag about how he doesn't change diapers, he didn't get up with us in the night. I love my dad, it doesn't matter. But my mom gets to enjoy Ramona more and I think she enjoyed us more.

And she also never pisses off her daughter. Which is a lovely trait.

Happy O Day Everyone

The IT department at my office failed to consider exactly how many of us would be trying to stream the inauguration on our computers. We crashed the network well before anything began. Fortunately, a friend belongs to the gym next door and we dashed over and sat in their lobby.

I am so grateful I didn't miss a thing.

I feel proud of us all today. Those who voted for Obama and those who did not. I feel energized and hopeful and so thankful that the past eight years are over. I hope we never take our right to vote for granted again. I pray we never give away so much of our freedom again. And I will try to always remember the hopelessness of the Bush Administration. You have to remember the bitter to appreciate the sweet.

My darling girl will not remember today. I know my MIL watched it with her but she probably didn't even notice to TV. If Elmo's not knocking then she is not watching. But she was here. It's amazing to think that just as my husband and I cannot really imagine the segregated world our parents (well really just mine) grew up in, our daughter will not be able to imagine a time when a black man couldn't be President.

I hope that the last eight years will be like the McCarthy era is for me for her too.

God bless us all.

Not Alone

I went back to my job in May. I feel as though I have been running a marathon for the past nine months. A frustrating, high-wire, stressful, never ending marathon.

I was prepared for most of what was going to be thrown my way when I had a baby (as much as that is possible). I knew that my husband and I would change, our relationship would change. I knew that we would have to have different relationships with our parents. I knew I would be tired (OH SO FUCKING TIRED). I was reasonable person and I was pretty well prepared (except nothing can prepare you for the brutal baby bootcamp of the first couple of weeks). I was woefully unprepared for the realities of being a working mom.

I say this with a lot of respect for those moms and dads who stay at home with their children. That is a different kind of marathon--one I am not entirely sure I could run. But trying to run a household and a family and have everyone get what they need while still doing my actual for-pay job has beaten me down.

I commute two hours a day or more. I get up before 5 each morning. Our schedule is held together with paper clips and chewing gum and if the bus is late or there is bad weather then the whole day goes into the shitter. Last Tuesday my bus was very late and I could feel myself just drowning in anxiety even as the rational part of me is thinking that half an hour should not ruin your day. But when every minute is scheduled the thing that gets scrapped is me. I skip lunch, I don't leave my desk. I run out the door to try to make a bus without waiting even a minute. I get home and play with the baby while I pee. I try to make dinner while reading her a book. It's just running, running, running and there is no break.

Lest anyone think that J is sitting around doing nothing, his schedule is just as hard. He has to split his time at work so his mom can get home early enough to sleep. The reason I need to get home by a certain time is so he can turn around and go back to work. I may to bed time (and the early morning wake up) every week night. But he gets her up every morning. The division of labor is fair--it just fucking sucks.

What I do know is I am not alone. There are millions of us in this situation--actually I would say I am one of the lucky ones. My childcare comes to my house. It never calls in sick or snowed in. We don't have to wake up the baby or pack her meals for the day. She doesn't even have to get dressed. And still it is this unrewarding and relentless hamster wheel. Just running and running. And millions of families do it every day. None of us are alone.

But I am pretty sure we all feel like it.

Food For Thought

Like pretty much every American I have food issues. Now, as an adult, I recognize my food issues are not your food issues. J and I have been married almost eight years and we are just scratching the service of how different our shit can be.

Mine stem from being a girl and not ever truly being thin. I remember my mother and grandmothers dieting even when I was very small. My mom did the color diet and slim fast and nutri systems and eventually weight watchers. The weird result is that I did actually learn a lot about nutrition. Of course I also learned that some foods were "bad."

I am thirty years old and I have never dieted. But I have to fight back all sorts of weird guilt about eating and not eating and wow sometimes I feel like I am dancing right on that edge.

J's issues stem from growing up poor. He doesn't really understand nutrition and portion control and wow I do not blame him. I've never gone hungry in my life, I really can't imagine what that does to a kid. Actually I can. It makes him binge eat and snack out of grocery bags. It makes him think that diet soda has fat in it. Or maybe that is just J.

So we are trying to work through this and teach Mo that food is fuel. Tasty tasty fool. That we eat more healthy food than none healthy food. That nothing is bad in moderation. We try to eat better every day.

So that we can saddle with her with some unforeseen food issues that she will tell the internet about in the year 2032.

So, in honor of National De-Lurking Day, what are your food issues? Maybe we'll be inspired.