Scrambled Eggs

I must be doing this wrong

2011-01-30T20:21:00.000-08:00

Last week, even more than usual, was hectic at work. I was at my desk before 6 a.m. on Monday finishing a brief.

On Tuesday, I got up early and got myself ready, got the kids fed, dressed, shod, powdered and lipsticked (or something like that -- it was stupid early), dropped them off at the appropriate centers of early childhood education, broke a few laws of both physics and the state in order to get to work in time for a meeting, performed the requisite gymnastics at said meeting, went directly to another meeting and remained entangled there until nearly 2 pm without a break for any of life's necessities, including but not limited to answering my incessantly buzzing phone.

When the meeting finally ended and I was able to attend to the Cursed Device, it informed me that my daughter's preschool had been desperately trying to get a hold of me because she was running a fever and needed to be picked up. By the time I called Atomic, he had already taken the bus halfway across town, picked her up, and tucked her into bed for a much needed nap.

I then made the innocent mistake of walking away from my desk for just a minute to attend to another one of the aforementioned necessities. When I returned, there was a message from my son's daycare saying that he, too, needed to be picked up due to fever and vomiting, thankyouverymuch. As I grabbed for the phone it rang -- dear, reliable Atomic again. He was on his way to pick up Dylan on foot while his guitar student (an old friend and father of two) hung out on our couch watching "Wonder Pets" with Gabby.

Half an hour later I screeched into the garage, grabbed the bottles of Pedialyte and jars of applesauce I'd purchased on the way home, and flew up the stairs.

"Hi, Mommy!" shouted my apparently unperturbed, fever-free darling. "We're playing dress-up. Dylan is Cinderella, I'm Rudolph, and you can be the Big Bad Wolf, okay?"

"App-pull!" added my content, non-barfing boy. "Bubb-bull!"

For the rest of the afternoon I multitasked, which was made easier by the fact that the role of the Big Bad Wolf was appropriate both for Gabby's dress-up game and the rapid-fire emails I was exchanging with opposing counsel. Although I can't recall specifically, I'm pretty sure I stopped short of threatening to huff and puff and blow his case down.

I saved that for the following day.

The rest of the week was a blur, punctuated by recurrent stomach ailments, looming (and, fortunately, postponed) deadlines, general whining (my own, mostly), moments of delight, that bzzbzzbzz noise my phone makes which I swear gets more insistent sounding when someone is really trying hard to reach me, and oh yeah, Atomic's birthday.

Mama said there'd be days like this . . . no, actually, she didn't.

Binky's Guide To Parenting

2011-01-10T14:55:00.000-08:00

In the past few days, I have been inundated with links to this article in the Wall Street Journal. A "must read," according to the conventional wisdom.

If opinions are like assholes, then surely parenting advice is akin to what issues from those ubiquitous orifices. And apparently owning one of said orifices is the only necessary qualification for writing a parenting book or article. So, I've decided to write my own. Here's an abstract, for those of you who want to get an exclusive sneak peek before publication:

Kids today are not being raised right.

• Just yesterday, I saw a toddler having a tantrum in a public place.

• Someone my cousin knows – we'll call him "Johnny" – had to go to community college instead of real college (or maybe it was a public university, one of those with the word "state" in the title – I forget) because his parents, lamentably, simply did not place enough emphasis on his education.

• Also, there's a lot of crime and stuff.

Research [1] has shown that when kids turn out wrong, it's their parents' fault.

Are you worried that your kids will turn out all messed up? You should be. If you're not, they will definitely turn out all messed up. So here are my simple rules for ensuring that your kid will not turn out all messed up:

1. No children's programming on TV, ever. Period. End of story. Reruns of Matlock and Murder She Wrote are fine.

Why? Studies[2] show a high correlation between viewing Matlock and Murder She Wrote and not being either a community college student or incarcerated.

2. Feed your children only circular or cylindrical food. (E.g., Cheerios, pancakes, logs of chevre, burgers)

Why? Because I said so. Now shut up and eat your Chevre McMuffin.

3. Sleep is a privilege, not a right. Before letting their sweet little heads hit the pillow, why not require them to calculate pi to twenty or so decimal places, or compose a short sonata?

Why? Studies have shown that sleep deprivation is a powerful motivator. If you miss this opportunity to motivate your children to hit important academic milestones, you are a lazy mother.

4. The only acceptable extracurricular activities are Spanish Club and clown school.

Why? Because other kids will beat your kids up if they join the Chess Club, Spanish is a useful language to know, and clown school may come in handy if your child does end up like Johnny (see above).

5. All petitions for an allowance, requests to exceed curfew, and other applications for variances of house rules must be submitted in Latin (or Pig Latin, for children under age three), on legal-size paper, in green ink, and notarized.

Why? I think this one is self-explanatory.

The rest of the book will be filled with mildly humorous (or deadly serious) anecdotes that illustrate nothing whatsoever.

Conclusion: All you have to do is follow these simple rules and your kid will absolutely not turn out all messed up. And remember -- if your kid does turn out all messed up, it's because you applied the rules wrong. So it's still your fault. Sorry.

[1] Just Google "research parents' fault" -- you'll see. Also, I read several parenting books and they all agree.
[2] My own carefully conducted research, which included reviewing the Tivo playlists of my parents, my inlaws, and some of their friends.

Happy Barfday To You

2010-12-11T20:45:00.000-08:00

Poor Gabby. She has yet to make it through a birthday without someone throwing up.

It started the day she was born. Right before I went to the OR for the c-section, they gave me some medicine that was supposed to settle my stomach and keep everything down. Let's just say the medicine did not have the intended effect. So much so that one of the labor and delivery nurses, who have surely seen everything, actually said, "wow."

When Gabby turned one, we were in Santa Fe with family. The morning of her birthday, I picked her up and she launched herself over my shoulder, landing on her head on a stone floor. She screamed until she threw up, and because she had thrown up the advice nurse said we'd best go to the emergency room, so off we went in a blizzard to have her checked out. She was fine, thank goodness, but the whole thing kind of put a damper on the day.

Last year, we scheduled Gabby's birthday party for a Sunday. The night before, Atomic started running a fever, and by morning he was barely able to move from the bathroom. Charming. We cancelled the party.

This year, we scheduled a party almost two weeks before her actual birthday so she could celebrate with her friends. Out of an abundance of courage, or a dearth of good sense, we agreed that she could have a slumber party and let her invite three little girls. She's been out of her mind with excitement for weeks, planning the menu (peanut butter and jelly sandwiches), the cake (strawberry and princess-themed, of course, with sprinkles), and the guest list (ever changing until the moment I pressed "send" on the evite).

The night before the Big Event, she looked a little pale and had dark circles under her eyes. I noticed that her nose was running. Her head felt a bit warm. We gave her some Tylenol, put her to bed, and hoped for the best.

This morning she had no fever and her energy level was fine, so despite her still-running nose we proceeded as planned. By noon she was sounding congested, so we decided to scale it back from a slumber party to just a regular party. We called all the parents and told them what was up, and gave them the option to back out if they wanted to spare their own household from whatever crud was rampaging through Gabby's system.

Bless their hearts, they all showed up anyway. And then, midway through pizza and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, Gabby barfed.

The amazing part is that after some tears and a quick bath, she managed to blow out the candles, have a bite of cake, open her presents AND thank everyone for coming before crashing out on the living room floor in her new sleeping bag.

My poor sweetheart. I hope the Birthday Party Curse is now past us. Otherwise things are not looking so good for Dylan next year.

Update: Nope, the birthday curse continues, and expands. We were supposed to celebrate Dylan's birthday tomorrow. Sure enough, Gabby came home from school tonight and promptly barfed. WTF? The kid never barfs. Except when it's someone's birthday.

Mommy's Xmas List

2010-11-20T11:28:00.001-08:00

Dear Santa,

I have been a very nice mommy this year. I only swore under my breath, and only when the occasion really really warranted it, like when the brand new Snow White underwear got pooped in five minutes after an epic and unproductive potty session. And I hardly ever pretended to be asleep when the kids woke up and started crying or pulled the covers over my head and waited for Atomic to deal with it. Really, I swear.

So here is what this very very nice mommy would like for Christmas this year:

1. Two hours during the day to get a mani/pedi
2. A nice dinner out with my girlfriends
3. A lock for the bathroom door

That's it. I don't need a Wii or an iPad or whatever fancy gizmo is in fashion this year. Just a little bit of time, and a little bit of privacy.

Sincerely,
Binky

Gabby's Bedtime Story

2010-11-12T18:54:00.000-08:00

Last night at dinner, Gabby said "Mommy, Daddy, I want to tell you a story." I happened to have my laptop on the kitchen table, so I took dictation as she spoke and asked a couple of questions along the way. Here's the story:

"Once upon a time, there was a princess named Daddy, and his name was Michael. And the Mommy-King was named Gina."

"And what did the King and the Princess do?"

"They hang out together."

"What else? Did they have an adventure?"

"They had some pancakes at the beach. The prince and the princess went on the beach and they got to fly away and a wolf came, and they put on the wings and they fly away from the wolf!

That's how it goes."

Verbiage

2010-11-11T00:13:00.000-08:00

We have quite a history with words in our family. Family lore has it that when I was three, I used to strut around informing anyone who would listen that I had "an extensive vocabulary." I also received a dictionary -- not a child's dictionary, mind you, a Merriam Webster Collegiate Dictionary -- and once I had learned to read I used to sit and read it as if it were Little Red Riding Hood.

What is it they say about apples and trees and such?

Anyway, Gabby informed me the other day that "When I was little, my favorite color was pink, but now that I'm a big girl my favorite color is fuchsia."

She has also started imitating our habit of spelling out words we don't want to say in front of her. Right now, her strings of letters don't actually spell anything, but I imagine we're going to have to learn Latvian pretty soon if we want to stay a step ahead of her.

And Dylan, being no slouch in the word department himself, grabbed Gabby's bottle of milk from her hands this morning[1], held it up in the air, and proudly said, "Bobble!"

Poor Mike will be lucky to get a word in edgewise around here.

[1] Yes, yes, she's using multisyllabic words correctly in sentences but she still likes her bottle of milk in the a.m. What can I say? She's not potty trained, either. Too focused on learning new words, obviously.

Torah! Dora! Torah!

2010-10-09T14:55:00.000-07:00

Gabby is a huge fan of Dora the Explorer. I'm not sure exactly how she came to be such a fan, since I'm pretty sure she doesn't watch the TV show (I'm not even sure we have that channel). It must be something in the air, kind of like the Princess virus that infects girls of preschool age.

Gabby also started going to a Jewish preschool, which she (and we) love.

So I suppose it was just a matter of time before she put those two things together and came up with ---- Dora Torah!

I have no idea whether Dora is Jewish (my guess is no), but nonetheless, I kind of like the idea of Dora having adventures in ancient Palestine: "Vamonos, Moses! Salimos de Egypt ahorita!"

I think she could be on to something there.

Cousins, Ice Cream, and Poems

2010-07-20T10:16:00.000-07:00

Gabby's cousins came for a visit a couple of weeks ago. She had a wonderful time showing them her room and her toys, her ice cream store on the corner and her friend, the poet.

Here's Lynn's take on the theme of "cousins":

My friends have come to get lost inside of yards
that disappear in the imagined lands we seek together
as it gets bigger with the company and all the
more fun as we run to places only we can see
as I wait for all these times with these cousins
of mine who arrive to make more memories

Lynn Gentry
myspace.com/lynngentry
Cousins
Haight & Ashbury
June 26, 2010
reprinted with permission

More Wit And Wisdom From Gabby

2010-07-08T17:55:00.000-07:00

I have a feeling my "Gabbycisms" posts are going to become like Jon Carroll's infamous cat columns, albeit not as charming or well-written. Those of you who like to read cutesy-wootsy stories about other people's children and the oh-so-funny (in the totally unbiased opinion of their mothers) little things they say, read on.

If not, tune in another time and maybe there'll be something here of interest to you.

*****
A few weeks ago, Dylan (who has now acquired the nickname "Dill Pickle") caught some sort of a bug and spiked a fever in the middle of the night, because it is apparently against the law for children to spike fevers during daylight hours. Atomic and I must have been discussing it in somewhat concerned tones in front of Gabby, because the next evening before bed she announced, "Mommy, I'm sick. I think I have a beaver."

Ahem. (Oh, try try try not to bust out laughing, no, don't look at Atomic, you'll lose it, c'mon now, stop that)

"Oh, really, honey? You feel sick?"

"Yeah. I have a little beaver."

Aaaaaand give up all hope, bust out laughing and then spend several minutes trying to convince a skeptical preschooler that you are taking her concerns seriously.

*****
On our road trip to Ashland last weekend, Gabby asked what the tall metal towers with wires were.

"Those are towers to hold the power lines, sweetie."

"Oooh. I want to see the Power Lions."

"Um, me too!"

*****
"Mommy, is Grandpa Grandma Birdie's daddy?"

"No, Grandpa is Grandma Birdie's husband."

"Husband?"

"Yes, the same way that daddy is mommy's husband."

Pause.

"Mommy? Mickey Mouse is Minnie Mouse's husband!"

If I Had A Hammer

2010-06-28T15:15:00.001-07:00

One of the things I love about urban living in general, and our neighborhood in particular, is the phenomenon of finding art and beauty in random places. I want my kids to grow up experiencing the unanticipated joy of a really good subway saxophonist, gorgeous murals on the sides of buildings, streetcorner philosophers, and the like. Our neighborhood offers so much of that richness.

On our corner, within view of Gabby's window, there is a man who sets up every day with a chair, a small folding table, and a manual typewriter. He has a sign that says, "Pick a topic and a price and get a poem." All day he sits there and welcomes all comers, all topics, clackety clack clack, poem after poem.

One day as we were returning home from daycare, Gabby asked, "What is that man doing?"

"He is a poet," I replied. "He will write you a poem about anything you want. What would you like a poem about?"

She thought about it for a minute, knitted her brow and said, "Hammers!"

"Hammers? Really?"

"Hammers."

It was getting late, so I said, "Ok, next time we pass by, we'll get you a poem about hammers."

I figured she'd forget. But sure enough, when Atomic passed the poet with her a few days later, she asked, "Daddy, I want a poem about hammers!" And this is what she got:

Looking around the room I saw my family
in pictures and wondered how they got there
as another was put up somehow as
no where could I find the evidence
but a hammer left out now and as I sat and wondered
as my mother did return with one more picture in hand
and in that moment I learned as picking up the hammer
she put a picture up of me and with all the help he
gave I wondered where the hammer's pictures
were hiding.

Lynn Gentry
myspace.com/lynngentry
Hammer
Haight & Ashbury
June 11, 2010
reprinted with permission

Before this interaction, we didn't even know Lynn's name. We'd nod and say hi when we passed, but we'd never had a conversation. Yet somehow, he managed to sum up so much of us in a little poem about hammers. That's a gift.

(Dream) Worlds Collide

2010-05-06T23:19:00.000-07:00

It's been a bit rough since I returned to work at the beginning of April. Not only haven't I had much time to blog, I haven't had time to breathe. Sleep is a distant memory, and reading for pleasure is something I might do on the bus from time to time, but for the fact that the buses are always jam packed and I usually end up standing, squished between some stinky rasta dude and a nasty Jean Nate/b.o. smelling lady, so I get to work reeking like a stoned streetwalker.

It's not like I got to ease back into work, either. No part-time, this time. No, ma'am. I hit the ground at warp speed, with two back-to-back labor arbitrations and a disciplinary hearing within my first month back, including one on a Saturday.

Oh, and did I mention that Dylan is teething?

I know that feeling torn between work and home is just a part of every professional mom's life, but man it gets to be a drag sometimes. On Saturday, as I got ready to leave for work, I went into Gabby's room to give her a snuggle and kiss her goodbye.

"We going to the zoo, mommy?" she asked as soon as I walked in the room.
"No, sweetie. Mommy has to go to work today."
"Oh."
Pause.
"I go to work, too. I get my jacket."
[Mommy weeps.]

And then there was my weird dream. I had spent the entire day in labor negotiations, and I was anxious about my upcoming arbitration. Dylan was fussy and so I brought him into bed with me. He proceeded to nurse just about every hour. In my groggy, anxious delirium, I drifted into a dream in which I was negotiating with the Committee of Babies, a union representing infants in their demands for more milk and the freedom to schedule their own naps. I found their demands unreasonable, but no more so than usual. I'm not sure I want to know what that says about my psyche.

A Reasonable Fear

2010-02-23T23:46:00.000-08:00

Gabby woke up screaming the other night. I went into her room and held her, and when she had calmed down a bit I asked, "What's the matter, sweetheart? Did something scare you?" (I asked this because she'd had a nightmare about a peacock the night before).

"I'm scared, Mommy."
"What are you scared of?"
"I'm scared of boogers."

Which was her way of telling me that she had a stuffy nose and couldn't breathe, and that she found that sensation a tad unsettling. But honestly, a fear of boogers seems completely reasonable to me at this point.

It's been a pretty awful, booger-filled winter around here. We've all had one cold after another. Poor Dylan has had a stuffy nose and grunky eyes for, let's see now, about 60% of his life thus far. And we all had RSV, which, if I recall correctly from the in-depth research I conducted with the help of Dr. Google and Web, M.D., stands for either "Really Shitty Virus" or "Rapidly-Spread Virus," or maybe it was "Remarkably Sucktastic Virus." Anyhoo, it appears that approximately 99.98% of all children in this area have said disease at some point in the last three months. (And by the way, what's with all these childhood diseases that we didn't have when I was a kid? Or did we have them and just called them something else, like "nasty cold and fever that lasts three weeks"?)

I suppose that means the preschool years are upon us. Those happy, golden days of wonder, Popsicle stick art projects and eternally runny noses. I can't wait to see what these years bring.

And meanwhile, I'll stock up on Kleenex.

Oy, The Guilt

2010-02-22T16:16:00.000-08:00

Well, I had some Big Grownup Fun this weekend. In a bar. Where they serve (shhhh!) -- alcohol! In glasses! Made of glass! And the only other people there were other grownups! And my husband, whose name, as it turns out, is not "Daddy"!

Like those sweet young innocents of yore, or of cheesy movies, we stayed out 'til ten o'clock.

We had a wonderful time, and got to see some dear friends. We laughed and shared stories, and cussed freely, and felt like sane adults for a brief, shining moment. The kids, although both recovering from nasty colds, were both fever-free and in the capable hands of an experienced and loving nanny. They were both blissfully asleep when we got home.

So why do I feel so guilty?

Poetry Corner

2010-02-20T13:51:00.001-08:00

Inspired by the recent Haiku contest at my friend's blog, Breakup Girl.net, here is a Mom Haiku for you all:

The most beautiful
phrase in English: Machine wash
warm, tumble dry low

Seriously, given the amount that Dylan spits up, that phrase brings a tear to my eye every time.

Dylan At Two Months

2010-02-13T21:41:00.000-08:00

I guess I haven't formally introduced my son here yet. Friends-in-the-computer, meet my son, Dylan Gregory Dadslast. He's a big boy -- 9lbs, 1 oz at birth and growing fast. The boy enjoys his milk, I'll say that much. His size gives him a critical advantage in withstanding the overeager affections of his big sister, who loves nothing more than to throw herself on him in a frenzy of kisses, shouting "I KISS HIM! I KISS HIM!" in his tender little ear.

Dylan is two months old today. At this early stage, it's hard to tell what he's going to be like, but so far the signs are good. He's got a pretty easygoing temperament and when he smiles, which he does often, he smiles with his whole face, and sometimes his whole body, kicking and wriggling and flapping his hands around.

He spends lots of time in a state of quiet alertness, just taking it all in with a rather amused look on his face.

Like all infants, he is capable of great fits of screaming, but they usually end once he's managed to coat my hair and all my clothing with a well-aimed stream of spit-up. (Who knew? Spit-up makes your hair shiny. Smelly, but shiny.)

And he sleeps for long stretches at a time -- a quality that may grow wearisome if it persists into adolescence, but which, for now, I consider a state of grace.

The Sweetness Of It All

2010-02-07T21:15:00.000-08:00

Well, obviously I haven't had a ton of time to post lately. If there is anyone still out there listening, sorry to leave you hanging. I've been a bit busy lately.

You see, I am now a mother of two. I have kidS, plural.

How odd. Not long ago I didn't think I would ever have a child, let alone two of them. And now, here I am, a completely assimilated citizen of Normalville, running around preoccupied with preschool applications and spit-up stains and oh-gracious-how-are-we-going-to-fit-two-carseats-two-strollers-and-two-grownups-in-one-Mini-Cooper (that's a story for another day).

It's amazing how easy that assimilation has been, how readily I've become just like every other stressed out mom, too easily distracted by the piles of laundry, too easily annoyed by a fussy baby or a whiny toddler, too ready to threaten to sell them to the gypsies -- this, after all we went through to have them. I often chastise myself for that.

Before I had kids, when we were struggling and wishing for them, I often imagined the special, precious moments, like gazing at my children asleep, watching them take their first steps, baking cookies together, hanging their art projects on the refrigerator. And yes, those moments are beautiful and rich. But the other moments, the stressed-out, hair-tearing moments, the exhaustion, the exasperation that comes after trying to explain for the umpteenth time that YES, we DO need to brush teeth EVERY NIGHT, the sore boobs from nursing the Giant Insatiable Baby, those are also very much a part of parenting. Those are the moments when it is indisputably real, and oddly enough, that is sometimes where the real sweetness resides.

Gabby's Recent Greatest Hits

2009-09-20T12:49:00.000-07:00

"MOOOONKKEEEEEYYYY CAAAAAAAAATTTTT!!!! SNUUUUUUGGGGGGLLLLE!"

- Shriek emanating from Gabby's room as the cat bolts, inexplicably failing to appreciate Gabby's enthusiastic toddler ministrations

Mommy: "One . . ."

Gabby: "No two!! No two!!"

- Gabby attempting to avoid being strapped into her car seat on the count of three

"Coffee. Raisins."

- Gabby's recent response to the question, "What would you like for breakfast?"

"Coffee?"

- Gabby trying to entice Mommy and Daddy out of bed. It might work, once she learns to actually make the coffee.

"H-I-J-K-Elmo-P"

- Apparently, the alphabet now contains a small, red, furry monster

Notes You Hope Never To Have To Write

2009-08-20T17:15:00.000-07:00

In deference to Gabby's future social life, I won't reveal whether any of these are based on real incidents:

Dear [close friend with child near Gabby's age],

It was so lovely having you and [child] over for a playdate. I am terribly sorry my daughter pooped in the bathtub while our children were bathing together. I guess the last ten blackberries were kind of a bad idea. I hope this little incident will not interfere with our daughters' friendship, or ours.

Apologetically yours,

Binky

Dear [happily childless friend],

Thank you for attempting to take me out to dinner for my birthday. Bummer that we got thrown out of the restaurant. I honestly had no idea Gabby could throw that far, or that forcefully.

Next one's on me.

Love always,

Binky

Dear [Director of exclusive preschool]:

I am writing because we have not heard back from you on the status of our application. I was wondering if it would be possible to schedule a follow-up interview. We would very much like the opportunity to demonstrate that the unfortunate biting debacle was an isolated incident.

Very truly yours,

Mrs. Binky

Dear Local Public Library:

I am terribly sorry that we returned a library book minus Elmo's lower half. I have enclosed a check to cover the fine, plus a small donation in the hopes that someday we may regain our library privileges.

Earnestly yours,

Binky

Dear Local Parks Department:

Sorry about the whole sand thing. Won't happen again.

Sheepishly,

Binky

Dear Neighbors,

I agree -- it is unfortunate that sounds carries so well between floors. I'm sure you realize that your cat yowls just as much as our toddler. How 'bout I bake you a pie and we'll call it a draw?

Cordially,

Binky upstairs

Dear Crayola Company:

I am writing to complain about what I believe is an instance of false advertising by your company. By calling your crayons "washable," you imply that crayon marks may be washed off any surface. Extensive, um, shall we say field testing? has revealed that such is not the case.

Sincerely,
A concerned customer

*****

2009-08-01T19:45:00.001-07:00

Gabby has begun her twentieth month of life and I have passed the twenty week mark in this pregnancy. It seems like a nice point to sit back and assess.
The pregnancy part is quite a bit better. I still feel like I'm swimming through Jell-O much of the time, but that may have more to do with the cold/cough I've had for two months than the pregnancy itself. The nausea has finally abated (thank the pharmaceutical gods for that) and my mood is considerably brighter (ditto). I am now CLEARLY identifiable as preggo and not just chubby, and I've even had people offer me seats on the bus. There's even a silver lining to the constant congestion -- it hampers my super spidey smell superpower, so bus rides and trips to public restrooms aren't quite as gross as they could be.

And Gabby continues to take the world by storm. She's big into puzzles right now, and can actually put the pieces back in instead of just taking them out and scattering them around the room. She's a huge Sesame Street fan, and every morning she drags us out of bed, saying "Cookie? Cookie?" She doesn't want a cookie -- she wants to hear Cookie Monster and boogie to the Sesame Street theme song.

She's putting sentences together, too:

"Daddy gave me watermelon!"

When asked why she threw her apple on the floor, she responded, "I don't want the apple."

And my absolute favorite: "I love you, mommy."

Every Pregnancy Is Different

2009-07-10T16:37:00.001-07:00

Hellz, yeah. I've certainly heard it before, but now I'm living it.

I feel a bit guilty and also somewhat shortchanged. The fact is, this pregnancy is hard. I'm very, very grateful that I was able to get pregnant at all, especially with comparably minimal medical intervention this time. But oh, geez.

Can I just kvetch for a moment? Am I allowed to kvetch and still be grateful? I hope so, 'cause I'm gonna. This is my blog, after all, and if I can't kvetch here, where can I?

Ok, so I'm nearly 19 weeks pregnant, and I'm still queasy. Thank the gods for Zofran, because otherwise I'd still be miserable. For the last however many weeks, I've been unable to choke down my prenatal vitamins (feeling very guilty about that) or my Zoloft (so I'm also depressed). On top of all that, I've had a nasty, terrible cough and chest cold for the last two weeks that has me sounding like an emphysemic octogenarian.

Last time, even though I was working full time, I could come home, put my feet up, relax and daydream. This time, I have a lovely, energetic, wonderful and exhausting toddler to care for, feed, bathe, and get to bed at the end of my work day. I love her more than my life, but sometimes I just want to come home and crawl into bed.

And on top of it all, I worry. I worry about whether the Doodlebug will come out healthy and happy. I worry over whether I will be enough for both of my children. I worry that at the ripe old age of 42, I may be too old for this. I worry about how Atomic and I both feel taxed to the limit as it is, and how we're going to get through the next few years. I worry about whether we'll have enough to support them and get them through school. I worry about where we're going to put the Doodlebug, since we currently seem to be fresh out of spare rooms. I worry about how in hell I'll be able to get two children up and down our stairs. I worry that I'll be a grouchy, unfun mom, a harried, nagging wife, and an absent, preoccupied friend.

I'd love to hear how all you intrepid parents of two or more manage.

Ok, that was just a teaser

2009-06-16T07:00:00.000-07:00

Sorry, but I couldn't pass up the opportunity to taunt my dear, long-suffering mother with my prior post. That was horrible of me, and I am sure to suffer some karmic retribution for my wickedness.

And now, as that old dude on the radio used to say, for the rest of the story.

Before we embarked on the original Child Quest (you know, the one that ended up taking WAY longer than we expected and turned out to be fraught with obstacles and bizarre twists and sadness and lots and lots of needles and resulted in one absolutely beautiful child and one somewhat whingey blog), Atomic and I had agreed that we wanted to have two children. That seemed like the right number for us, which is not surprising given that we each have one sibling and each sibling has two gorgeous kids.

After the aforementioned long, fraught, needle-and-heartbreak-filled (and expensive! Did I mention expensive?) Quest, we had our sweet little Pebbles. We felt SO lucky and grateful for our good fortune that we agreed to just leave it up to the universe whether we had a second child or not.

Well, that lovely Zen attitude lasted, oh, about a year. And then we started to realize that, as grateful and complete and happy as we are with our one, precious child, it would be kind of nice if she had a sibling. And even though her initial reaction to said sibling might be something akin to murderous envy, it would be nice for her to have a little brother or sister who would be there after we're gone.

So we decided to saddle up and climb back into them stirrups. We had no idea how long it would take, or whether it would happen at all. Certainly the numbers were not with us. But we thought, what the heck. Let's roll the IUI dice. What's a few more injections? If it doesn't happen, it doesn't happen, and we still have the awesomest kid on the planet.

And guess what?

(Go on, guess)

Exactly! It happened!

And there was cautious rejoicing in the Land of Binky, Atomic, and Pebbles. And Binky threw up many times and learned that early pregnancy and labor negotiations are a terrible combination. And Atomic became ecstatic, worried, and grumpy by turns because he was not sure what he was getting himself into. And Pebbles carried on, blissfully unaware that her world was about to be set on its head by a tiny, squalling little interloper.

I couldn't quite bring myself to blog about it, though. I think that was primarily because this leg of the journey was comparably short and easy, which didn't really make for a good story. And then there was this other part of me, the superstitious part, that didn't want to say anything for fear of jinxing it. I still have that fear. I'm afraid that my joy, or my hubris, or my relative lack of suffering this time will cause something terrible to happen. Dumb, I know, but it feels real enough.

So I held off. And I decided to post today because, well, because my mom told me to. And because we got our CVS results back today, and we know there's a teeny little boy in there with exactly the right number of chromosomes in the right configurations. So, you know, maybe we'll actually be having another baby this December.

Eeep!

Out with it!

2009-06-15T21:12:00.000-07:00

"NOW will you update your blog?" my mother asked me today. I could practially hear her foot tapping impatiently over the phone as she busily loaded up her shopping cart at Kohls with armfuls of cute little blue outfits.

"Yes, mom."

Ok, mom, here it is. I've updated my blog. ;-p

Vaccines

2009-04-10T16:21:00.001-07:00

Brava, Dooce.

She summed up my own feelings on the issue pretty well.

Words, Words, Words

2009-03-30T18:24:00.000-07:00

Recently added to the Gabby Lexicon:

Turtle

Shirt

Toe (meaning "tofu")

Eyes

Nose

Hi

Bye

Oh, boy! (Thanks, Jimmy)

Okay

And then there's a whole bunch of stuff that she says, entire sentences, nay, paragraphs, that we are simply not astute enough to understand. I predict there will be a lot of that in our future.

You Know You're A Mom When

2009-03-30T18:17:00.000-07:00

You know you're a mom when your toddler excitedly runs up to you to hand you something, and that something turns out to be a booger, and you say, "Thank you, sweetheart" and absentmindedly stick it in your pocket (along with the sock you found wedged into the car seat, the banana chip that you pried off the floor, and something that may once have been a blueberry).

You know you're a mom when all manner of nasty bodily fluids no longer gross you out.

You know you're a mom when you spend more time thinking about what you're going to put in your daughter's Easter basket than about the project you're supposed to have finished by Friday.

You know you're a mom when you can sing 642 verses of "The Wheels On The Bus" from memory.

You know you're a mom when the sight of your little one running toward you with her arms outstretched moves you to tears.

The World According To Gabby

2009-03-11T20:19:00.000-07:00

Ah, language. What a fun, fun game.

In Gabby's lexicon:

All food is "cheese."
All animals, except for rhinos, turtles, and fish, are "kitty-cats," and all kitty-cats say "hoo-hoo."
Turtles are sometimes turtles. At other times they are kitty-cats.
Fish are "cheese."
We're not sure what rhinos are called, but they are definitely NOT kitty-cats.
Anything hanging from a ceiling is "fish."

Got that?

Gabby also indicates, "I am bored. Go over there and find something with which to amuse me" by gesturing with one hand and uttering a single syllable, which used to be "that" but is now usually "ba" or sometimes "shoe."

I am assuming our little prodigy will have this all worked out by the time she starts kindergarten, lest she, like the child in the old Steve Martin routine, raise her hand and ask the teacher for permission to go mambo dogface in the banana patch.

Reflections On A Momentous Day

2009-01-23T16:13:00.000-08:00

Tuesday was the kind of day that simply could not be spent in solitude. Every fiber of my being yearned to be in a public place, in as large a crowd as possible, all witnessing and celebrating together the dawn of a new era in America. So the three of us got up early, hopped on a bus, and headed down to Civic Center, where we watched the inauguration on a jumbotron out in the sunshine with a few hundred friends and fellow citizens.

I admit I had been feeling a little queasy about all the hype and hero worship, mostly because I feared our national expectations getting out of control. As far as I have been able to determine, Barack Obama is not, and has never claimed to be, capable of healing the sick (although if he can get the economy back on its feet, that would count as a miracle), raising the dead (with the possible exception of our international reputation), or walking on water (ah -- I got nothin').

But once we got out there in that crowd, I started tearing up and couldn't stop crying for the next two hours. I was struck, not just by the change taking place in Washington, but by the change taking place in ourselves.

Now, this is a town that is, to put it mildly, rather fond of protests. Everybody's got a cause. But on Tuesday morning, just for that one day, there were no "Stop the slaughter in Gaza" signs in the crowd, no would-be freers of Mumia, no anti-brown apple moth spray faction. For a brief moment, we weren't anti- anything. We were resoundingly and earnestly pro. Pro-democratic process. Pro-Obama, certainly. Pro-peace, pro-diplomacy, pro-family, pro-science, pro-equality. And dare I say it? Pro-American.

New Stuff

2009-01-13T08:00:00.000-08:00

So, Gabby's walking now. She took her first few independent steps on her birthday (despite the knock on the noggin), and a week and a half later she just started cruising across the floor. See ya, mom! I've got stuff to do, and I have to bring these two toys along with me!

She seems rather pleased with herself, and rightly so.

She sailed through her 1-year vaccinations, and I breathed a little sigh of relief knowing she's protected. Given how many people are choosing not to have their children vaccinated these days, the possibility of a measles outbreak was kind of a scary thought. I know it's not 100% effective, but it's a heck of a lot better than no protection at all.

Unfortunately, my little foodie-in-training has become an extremely picky eater. What kid doesn't like grilled cheese, for pete's sake? Or pasta? She won't eat meat or grilled veggies or quesadillas or pizza or mush of any kind. She turns up her nose at rice and lentils, scoffs at hummus, and has even rejected bread. She nibbles on fruit and crackers and the occasional pancake. Fortunately, one can sneak all manner of pureed vegetables into pancakes, and if I smear enough peanut butter on her pears some of it actually lands in her instead of just on her. It wouldn't be so bad if she were a chubby baby, but she's teeny tiny - off the bottom of the weight charts.

Well, I can't force her to eat, and if she takes after my side of the family, this may be the only time in her life she's underweight, so I'm just not going to worry about it too much. I have faith that one day she will bite into a lovely ripe epoisse with a little fig jam and say, "Oh, mom! I had no idea!"

A Trip To The Library

2008-12-31T12:00:00.001-08:00

A dear friend used to say that we all have our bag of rocks to carry. Then she realized that the bag is not full of rocks -- it's full of books.

Life does seem to teach us the same lessons over and over again. I don't know about anyone else, but I always seem to need the refresher course.

My big lesson this week was gratitude. On the morning of Gabby's birthday, I was playing with her in the house in Santa Fe that we were sharing with Atomic's family. I went to hike her up on my shoulder, and all of a sudden I was grasping at air. Then came the sickening thud as she flopped face first onto the floor. She screamed and screamed, unable to be comforted by either of us in any way. I held her and rocked her, and then she started to get sleepy. I got even more worried and called the doctor. While I was on hold, she screamed some more and then threw up. We rushed to the emergency room, in a snowstorm. We were terrified.

By the time we got to the hospital, she was fine. She'd taken a nap, and was cheerfully waving at the nurses and doctors in the ER. The doctor advised us against a CT scan and told us to watch her carefully over the course of the day. She developed a heck of a shiner on her left eye, but that was about it.

Even now, a week later, I lose my breath and get a horrible knot in my stomach when I think about it. And then I am flooded with enormous gratitude and humility. The universe has seen fit to entrust us with this precious child. We'd better not fuck it up.

Now, as for the other books in my bag this week, well, it's not exactly the New York Times best seller list. Some, ahem, highlights:

Flights of Fancy: How To Lower Your Expectations When Traveling Coach

The Homicide-Free Family Vacation

Simple Holiday Meals For Fourteen Picky Eaters

Strange Rashes

How To Survive Your Inlaws (yes, this one is real, and it actually looks kinda good)

The Birthday Party by Harold Pinter

As I said, not exactly beach reading, but all worthy lessons which I am certain to forget by the next time I need them.

Here's wishing all of you love, peace, happiness, prosperity, and gentleness in 2009.

It has a name, Gabby!

2008-12-11T20:17:00.001-08:00

I've always gotten a little weepy watching the much-parodied final scene of The Miracle Worker. The concept that everything has a name is so basic, yet so counterintuitive, it's a wonder we ever invented language at all.

Once you give something a name, you can talk about it even when it's not right in front of you. You can tell stories about it; you can theorize, conceptualize. You can engage in abstract thinking. I think that scene always moved me because being able to name things seems like a prerequisite for personhood.

Well, our Gabby had a Helen Keller moment today. For the last several weeks, she has definitely worked a few words into her babbling, mainly "mama," "dada," "cat," and the all-purpose "dat" (that). "Cat" was a big step toward getting the whole things-have-names concept, but it wasn't until last night and today that I think she really got it.

Last night, she was in my lap, staring up at the gorgeous mobile Atomic made using some painted wooden fish from Mazatlan. She looked up, pointed at the mobile, and said "dat!"

I said, "Those are fish, honey."

"Dat!"

"Fish"

"Dish!"

"Fish"

"Dish!"

"Fish"

"Fffffffffffrthl. Dat!"

"Fish"

"Fish!"

"Yes! Fish!" Big kiss.

She went back to nursing, obviously quite pleased with herself. Twice more, she interrupted her meal to point and say something that sounded rather like "fish."

Now, she's gotten that far before, especially with the cats. But tonight, we were in her room getting ready for bed, and I asked, "Gabby, where are the fish?"

She looked at me quizzically for a moment, and then I saw it. That flash of understanding. I repeated the question.

"Gabby, where are the fish?"

She looked up, smiled hugely, and pointed at the fish.

"Fish!"

She then valiantly fought sleep for another half hour so that she could point triumphantly toward the ceiling every few moments and shout, "Fish!" with a tone and a grin that said, "I am SO all over this language thing."

Update: Gabby woke up this morning, gave me a big, sweet smile and said, "Fish!" So, yeah, I think the abstract thinking is probably still a few weeks off.

That Circle of Life Thing Again

2008-12-06T20:39:00.000-08:00

Getting back to the intensely personal here.

Gabby is growing and thriving. She had a bit of trouble putting on weight for a little while there, but once I figured out that she would still love me even if I supplemented my breastmilk output with a bit of formula, things turned around. She's not walking yet, but she will be soon. And her babbling is sounding more and more like actual words. Either that or she IS saying real words but she speaks only Uzbek. Or she mumbles a lot.

Gabby's new best friend (my best friend's daughter) was born yesterday.

Another friend just got some good news in a bad situation -- her daughter's brain tumor has remained stable for another six months, and she's managing to grow up and learn and love and laugh despite it all. Good thing no one told her she's not supposed to be able to do all of that.

Another friend and colleague, someone I've known for nearly 15 years and worked with in three different jobs, just got sworn in as our city's newest council member.

And another old friend, a teacher and mentor, is dying.

And so it goes. Round and round and round.

Who You Callin' Colorblind?

2008-12-04T20:13:00.000-08:00

I can't believe it's been a whole month since the election. For the past month, I've been so incredibly proud to be an American. (And a bit less proud to be a Californian, but don't get me started on that right now. I'm feeling fairly joyous and a tad philosophical, and working up a head of steam about self-righteous and intolerant out-of-state religious freaks would really harsh my mellow.)

So, where was I? Oh, right. President-elect Obama. Has a nice ring to it, dontcha think? He seems to be hitting the ground running, egged on by still-President Bush, who is so eager to hand off the steaming pile of turds that he has made of our national economy and international reputation is likely to leave skid marks on the White House lawn.

Of course I'm interested in what President Obama will do, but I'm also curious about what we Americans will do now that he is our leader. Will it change the way we think about race? For me, it already has.

We all hate to admit how much we've internalized the racism we grew up with, how much our sneaky little subconscious still recoils when a Scary Brown Person heads toward us on the sidewalk, but it's there. Recently, however, my subconscious is much more apt to look at said Scary Brown Person and wonder if he has kids. Or if he owns a house on my street and if so, whether he worries about his property values as he waters the hydrangeas in his garden. My rotten, racist subconscious has quite suddenly and disconcertingly decided that the Formerly Scary Brown People are actually Folks Like Me.

It's bizarre to realize I've had a mental shift like that, because it forces me to acknowledge that I had all those awful racist thoughts to begin with. And then of course I wonder if the person walking in the other direction is thinking, "Great. Another slack-jawed fool giving me the lovey googy eyes because she's suddenly figured out that we share a common humanity. Hoo-friggin-ray." It is, quite frankly, rather embarrassing.

But I'm hoping it's an experience that a lot of my fellow white folks are having. And I'm hoping that maybe the googy eyes will give way to actual conversations, and, you know, community and stuff, and then maybe we can all stop segregating ourselves and each other into little enclaves and fighting over schools and jobs and start realizing that we've got common goals -- and common enemies -- and oh geez I'm about to burst into that song from the Coke commercial so I'll just leave it at that.

Sunrise in Cincinnati

2008-11-04T04:40:00.000-08:00

My friend Michael has been volunteering for the Obama campaign in Ohio for the last couple of weeks. He's been sending back some wonderful stories of the way this election is transforming our nation. This one, sent two days ago, made me cry:

Sunrise over Cincinnati.

The last Democratic Presidential nominee to win this county was Lyndon Johnson. Yesterday morning voters began lining up at the board of elections at 7 am. By 8:30 the line stretched 4 blocks. I saw this myself. If you arrived at 9 am, you voted nearly 4 hours later. Our election monitors told me that people waited calmly and quietly. And voted. And, by all accounts, the vast majority were our people.

Many celebrated as they left the Board's downtown office. Some wept.

Yesterday a 60 member volunteer Cincinnati gotv team, many who have never participated in an election, led by a fresh-faced 23 year old organizer, hit several thousand doors. This is a team of old and young, black and white, people of every level of educational and socioeconomic background. Similar teams hit doors all over this county. Today, many of those same volunteers, joined by thousands more, will again hit the streets. As they will tomorrow. And Tuesday.

I haven't had the time over the last few weeks to think about the big picture. Of what this election means to us. What it means for my 5 year old niece. But this morning I did. As I watched the sun rise, I thought of her and a promise of a better America. I thought of the young volunteers (many only 17-23) who work 12 hour days on this campaign. I thought about residents of a city that has seen more than its share of racial strife. I imagined grandmas and grandpas who remember times in this country that were difficult, and how they wish for a tolerant and kind America - where their grandkids have access to a decent education, good healthcare, safe streets, a rewarding job.......a future. And I thought about the politics of cynicism and fear. And where that has brought us. And how it has divided us. And the possibility, the chance, however slim, of unity.

Sunrise indeed.

*****

Thank you, Michael, for putting your all into this effort, and for bringing home the hope.

On Nursing A Teething Infant

2008-10-27T08:00:00.000-07:00

Am I insane
To entrust my tender skin
To this ferocious beast
With sharp teeth and claws, thrashing
Inflicting pain needlessly, heedlessly
And sometimes just for fun?

How can I be her rock, her mountain
When my flesh is made of flesh, not stone?

I am not your rock; I am your mother.
Now stop biting me and go to sleep.

Babies For Obama

2008-10-22T21:37:00.000-07:00

Gabby's been an Obama supporter pretty much all her life. Apparently, she's not alone. Enjoy the slide show.

The Way We Consume

2008-10-19T21:25:00.000-07:00

We went to Costco today to pick up a platter of sandwiches for our Obama phonebanking party. The Peanut rode in style in her car seat, in one of those humongous shopping carts, beaming at everyone in her cute little "My Mama's For Obama" onesie and her little blue leg warmers.

As we left, I whispered to Atomic, "Uh-oh. We don't have a receipt for her. What if they stop us?"

"Don't worry," he replied, "If we had gotten her at Costco, there would be 12 of her, she'd be wrapped in seventeen layers of impenetrable plastic, and each of her would weigh 40 pounds."

Here's a photo of Gabby in her Obama shirt explaining her views to Timmy the Sea Turtle, an undecided voter:

Quote of the Day

2008-10-16T07:52:00.000-07:00

Jesus was a community organizer. Pontius Pilate was a governor.

And while I'm over here, did I hear old Cranky McGrumpypants correctly last night? Did he really suggest that soldiers returning from military service should be given positions teaching school without having to get a teaching credential? If I did hear correctly, why isn't anyone talking about what a completely absurd idea that is?

I have nothing but respect for our boys and girls in uniform. They volunteered to do a job that the rest of us wanted no part of, and they're paying a heavy price for our leaders' folly. I think they should have every advantage when they return home, including adequate health care (including mental health care) and substantial assistance with higher education and housing. The GI Bill should mean something again. If they want to come home and teach school, wonderful. Give them an education on the public's dime and give them the credentials and tools to do a good job. But to suggest that we should just skip all that fancy-schmancy elitist edumacashion and just plop them into a classroom? That's crazy talk.

Can you imagine?

"Johnny, where's your homework?"
"I fowgot it."
"Drop and give me 20!"
"Twenny whats?"
"Twenty push-ups, maggot!"
"Waaaaaaah! What's a maggot?"

****
"Sweetie, what did you learn at school today?"
"We learned about bawbed wire! And how to disawm a woadside bomb!"

****

Yeah, you get the picture.

Now, if in fact I did NOT hear that proposal correctly, well, in the words of Emily Latella, never mind.

The fact remains, though: McCain = total crackpot.

Russia's Foremost Design Expert

2008-10-10T21:00:00.000-07:00

With apologies and thanks to Rosemary.

Let's All Send This Guy Some Email

2008-10-06T23:26:00.000-07:00

My friends, meet Bobby May. Mr. May is a McCain campaign representative in Virginia, and in the fine, fine Republican tradition, he is doing a heckuva job.

He penned this HILARIOUS column about what an Obama administration would look like, including mandatory black liberation theology classes, raising taxes to buy drugs for his "inner city policital base," money for cans of spray paint to graffiti the White House, and foreign aid to Africa so the Obama family can "free their goats and live the American Dream."

Poor Mr. May. No one told him that you're only supposed to use the "N" word behind closed doors, in the company of like-minded people. Instead he unwittingly let the cat out of the bag. Ooopsie!

Now, let me be very clear here. This guy is not some random crackpot who spends all day in his pajamas spewing racist crap all over the interwebs. This gentleman WORKS FOR THE MCCAIN CAMPAIGN.

So, maybe we should all send Mr. May an email at bobbyleemay@yahoo.com and let him know what we think of his funny funny jokes!

The one I sent said,

"Dear Mr. May,

I read your column about what an Obama administration would look like, and I have to say you are doing an excellent job of representing John McCain. You really understand what he is all about, don't you?"

Please don't feel that you have to be as polite as I was. I think it highly probable that poor Mr. May will fail to detect the sarcasm oozing from my keyboard. He may just need one of you all to administer an electronic smack to the forehead.

You'd be doing a community service, really.

Go on. You know you want to.

Girl Gone Truthy

2008-10-05T22:55:00.000-07:00

You know how when you're in a debate, and you're not sure what the question means, and sometimes, ya know, you just have to wing it?

And how sometimes you say stuff that's, ya know, something that didn't actually happen EXACTLY the way you're telling it but you really really want them to like you and not think that your internal dialogue sounds something like bzzzzzzzzzzzzzz like that all the time?

Ya, whattya call that?

Ooooh, right. Thaaaat's a lie!

Already Smarter Than Sarah Palin

2008-10-04T21:01:00.000-07:00

She's not even in preschool yet, but this little girl is already smarter than the Republican Vice Presidential candidate.

Then again, so is my cat. You know, the one that stares at the wall a lot.

Maverick My Ass

2008-10-03T20:54:00.000-07:00

Actually, make that George W. Bush's ass. In which John McCain has apparently inserted his nose so far that, well, I'll leave you to your own revolting images.

Ok, I'll wait here while you shower and try to scrub that image from your brain.

All better? No? Sorry 'bout that. Maybe now you're ready for the Bush/McCain Challenge.

Brazenly Lifted From The Daily Kos

2008-09-23T19:41:00.001-07:00

I received this in my email inbox yesterday. Do you think it's legit??

SUBJECT: REQUEST FOR URGENT BUSINESS RELATIONSHIP
DEAR AMERICAN: I NEED TO ASK YOU TO SUPPORT AN URGENT SECRET BUSINESS RELATIONSHIP WITH A TRANSFER OF FUNDS OF GREAT MAGNITUDE.
I AM MINISTRY OF THE TREASURY OF THE REPUBLIC OF AMERICA. MY COUNTRY HAS HAD CRISIS THAT HAS CAUSED THE NEED FOR LARGE TRANSFER OF FUNDS OF 800 BILLION DOLLARS US. IF YOU WOULD ASSIST ME IN THIS TRANSFER, IT WOULD BE MOST PROFITABLE TO YOU.
I AM WORKING WITH MR. PHIL GRAM, LOBBYIST FOR UBS, WHO WILL BE MY REPLACEMENT AS MINISTRY OF THE TREASURY IN JANUARY. AS A SENATOR, YOU MAY KNOW HIM AS THE LEADER OF THE AMERICAN BANKING DEREGULATION MOVEMENT IN THE 1990S. THIS TRANSACTIN IS 100% SAFE.
THIS IS A MATTER OF GREAT URGENCY. WE NEED A BLANK CHECK. WE NEED THE FUNDS AS QUICKLY AS POSSIBLE. WE CANNOT DIRECTLY TRANSFER THESE FUNDS IN THE NAMES OF OUR CLOSE FRIENDS BECAUSE WE ARE CONSTANTLY UNDER SURVEILLANCE. MY FAMILY LAWYER ADVISED ME THAT I SHOULD LOOK FOR A RELIABLE AND TRUSTWORTHY PERSON WHO WILL ACT AS A NEXT OF KIN SO THE FUNDS CAN BE TRANSFERRED.
PLEASE REPLY WITH ALL OF YOUR BANK ACCOUNT, IRA AND COLLEGE FUND ACCOUNT NUMBERS AND THOSE OF YOUR CHILDREN AND GRANDCHILDREN TO WALLSTREETBAILOUT@TREASURY.GOV SO THAT WE MAY TRANSFER YOUR COMMISSION FOR THIS TRANSACTION. AFTER I RECEIVE THAT INFORMATION, I WILL RESPOND WITH DETAILED INFORMATION ABOUT SAFEGUARDS THAT WILL BE USED TO PROTECT THE FUNDS.
YOURS FAITHFULLY MINISTER OF TREASURY PAULSON

The Truth About The Tax Plans

2008-09-20T17:17:00.001-07:00

Here is a wonderful and well-sourced graphic that shows exactly who would benefit from each of the candidates' tax plans: http://www.countryclubfirst.com/.

The Republicans love to call the Democrats the "tax and spend" party. Seems to me they're the ones who love to tax (the middle class) and spend (on unnecessary wars, boondoggles for their wealthy friends, bridges to nowhere, and corporate welfare).

Hmmmm. I wonder what a corporate "Welfare Queen" looks like. Any of you talented folks want to take a stab at it?

Here's Foam In Your Eye

2008-09-17T20:57:00.000-07:00

We've heard all about Obama's fundraising prowess, but when you factor in the wads of cash that the RNC has to throw about, Obama's got some ground to make up.

So today, in honor of the mouth breathers who think that "latte" is French for "liberal arts education," I decided to donate the cost of one latte per week to the Obama campaign.

I hereby throw down the foamy gauntlet to you all. Click this here little link and donate the cost of a nice bottle of California Chardonnay. Or the price of one of them big old, whatyacallem? Books? Yeah. Those things you elite folks always have your noses stuck in. Or hell, if you're one of them Wall Street bigwigs who just pulled the ripcord on your golden parachute after handing off your mess to us taxpayers, maybe you'll have a crisis of conscience and donate the cost of a university degree.[1][2]

Put your money where your heart is. Go donate. And then come back here and let me know which symbol of effete leftyism you used to calculate the amount.

[1] And I ain't talkin' no state school, neither, mister.
[2]Ok, ok, there's a $2300 limit on contributions to the campaign, but seriously, Mr. Moneybags, go find yourself a nice independent expenditure committee.

Lipstick on a (Racist) Pig

2008-09-14T10:23:00.001-07:00

And they have the chutzpah to cry sexism?!!

http://uncapitalist.com/blog/?itemid=1736

Not My Daughter's Role Model

2008-09-12T17:33:00.000-07:00

I recently received an email asking me why I believe that Sarah Palin, despite all the celebrity "buzz" she has generated, is a poor choice to be Vice President of the United States. Here is my response:

Here is why I say "NO!" to Sarah Palin:I have a nine month old daughter. I want her to inherit a cleaner, more prosperous, more peaceful world than the one we live in now. I want her to get a decent education in public schools, and to learn that science and faith answer two completely different sets of questions. I want her to be able to make her own decisions about her body and her life. I want her to have clean air to breathe and clean water to drink. I want her to live in a world where polar bears exist outside of zoos. I want her to be proud to be an American, proud of a country that leads by example and not by force, proud of a country that deals fairly with its own citizens and with those who have come here seeking a better life. I want her to value the rule of law over the law of the jungle.

If McCain/Palin are elected, the chances of my daughter living in that world are severely diminished.

There are so many great role models for my daughter in politics: Hillary Clinton, Nancy Pelosi, Shirley Chisholm, Eleanor Roosevelt, Frances Perkins, Abigail Adams, Victoria Woodhull, Jeanette Rankin, Rebecca Felton, Nellie Ross, Geraldine Ferraro -- the list, I am happy to say, is long.

Sarah Palin is not good enough be on that list. I don't want my daughter to emulate a woman who has more snark than smarts, more lipstick than substance, who is celebrated for what she looks like rather than for the content of her character or the soundness of her ideas.

That is why I, as a woman, a feminist, and a mother, say "Hell, no!" to Sarah Palin.

To view other responses, go to http://womenagainstsarahpalin.blogspot.com/.

To send in your own response, send an email to womensaynopalin@gmail.com. Please include your name and home town.

Shake, Rattle, and . . . Snore

2008-09-06T18:46:00.001-07:00

For those of you keeping score at home, yes, that was a little bitty earthquake last night, right around 9 p.m. A 4.0 on the Richter scale, according to our friends at the U.S. Geological Survey. And Gabby, oh, my dear Gabby, she slept blissfully through it.

Since You've Been Gone

2008-08-29T21:44:00.000-07:00

Atomic has missed a few developments on the Gabby front since he's been away. Things move pretty fast here in babyland. In the past week, Gabby has:

become super proficient at getting Cheerios into her mouth;
gotten her first haircut;
tried a few new foods, including yogurt, egg yolks, cheese, and mushrooms;
gotten really good at crawling;
cut a third tooth;
pulled herself up to standing a gazillion times;
visited an old timey mining town with burros who wander the streets (She looooooved the burros, and they apparently loved her as well, which explains why they kept trying to eat her);
gotten a new bathing suit;
gone swimming with her best buddy Portia;
tried gnawing on some bread;
figured out the whole "peekaboo" thing;
signed "milk" very clearly for the first time;
experienced her first thunderstorm (which she slept through);
watched portions of her first Democratic National Convention (and witnessed history in the making);
made tons of new friends; and
fallen truly, madly, deeply in love with her Meema and Grandpa in Arizona.

It's been a fun and eventful week with a giant gaping hole in the middle. Hurry home, honey, before she starts walking!

For Now, We're Two

2008-08-24T18:43:00.000-07:00

Atomic went to Burning Man. Without us.

It was my idea that he go, and I am glad that he's getting to enjoy the event on his own. I'm glad we're getting to spend a little time apart - it mixes things up a bit, gives us a chance to appreciate each other, to miss one another.

And oh, boy, do I miss him. I started missing him before he was even out the door. I miss him every time Gabby does something cute (which is, oh, about sixteen times a day). I miss him at 3 a.m. when I realize I haven't yet trained the cats to get Gabby out of her crib and into the bedroom. I missed battling him for The Week In Review. I missed him ranting as I try to listen to Harry Shearer's Le Show on NPR yesterday morning, because frankly (and I say this with love, Harry) Atomic's rantings and ravings greatly enhance Le Show.

And it's only been three days.

Granted, the house is quieter, I can watch whatever I want on TV, the cats are a lot less raucous (although one of them did pee on the bathroom floor last night. Bastard.) , and I'm getting a lot done, chore-wise, but all of those things have downsides as well. I'm tired, a little stir crazy, and I think Gabby's getting a bit bored with me.

The good news is that Gabby and I leave tomorrow for a visit to my parents' house in Arizona. I don't think it will make me miss Atomic any less, but Gabby will get to be spoiled by her doting grandparents and I, I hope, will get some sleep.

Birthdays are different now

2008-08-09T23:54:00.000-07:00

I'm now 41 years old. Funny, I don't feel 41. A friend of mine who, AHEM, turned 41 waaaaaay before I did (47 days before, but who's counting), said, "Welcome to the second half." Indeed. Only, since we're not really ready for the second half, we've declared this our "Intermission Year."

In contrast to the festive blowout we had last year, this year I spent most of my birthday hanging out with a friend, taking care of a cranky, teething baby, and doing a few chores. In the evening, a wonderful friend-in-the-computer-turned-friend-IRL watched Gabby while Atomic took me out for dinner and a movie. I ordered the grownup equivalent of the Birthday Belly-Bustin' Banana Split (i.e., a sushi roll so complex I couldn't name half the fish, so ornate that it included little spirals of gold amid dollops of caviar, and so long it took up half the table). Then we saw the latest Batman movie on Imax.

That would have been a fairly ordinary Saturday night not so long ago, but tonight it felt like heaven. And I confess, I missed my Peanut and was also simultaneously glad to have someone else put her to bed tonight.

It was a perfect birthday.

Nipper

2008-08-01T22:01:00.000-07:00

Ouch! The problem with kids getting teeth is that they use them. Not to do anything useful, like eating, mind you. No need for that when mommy purees everything nice and smooth. No, the teeth are being put to a far better and more amusing purpose -- biting mommy. While nursing. Hard enough to draw blood.

I'm really distressed over this turn of events. When Gabby was born, I was anxious about breastfeeding. I'd known so many people who had a hard time with it, and I wanted so badly to be able to do it, even for a few months. I was delighted when Gabby latched on like a champ right away, and breastfeeding has been easy peasy for us ever since. Until now.

Every time she bites, I pull her off and say, "no!" and stop the nursing session. It's hard on both of us, though, and tonight at bedtime we were both in tears. Even worse, the first time she bit me hard, I cursed, yanked her off me, and tapped her face with my hand. It scared me, because without thinking I had almost slapped her. I don't want to hit my child, especially not in anger. It worried me that it was almost a reflex to do so.

I don't want to wean her yet -- I'm not ready for it, and I don't think she is, either. I'm hoping this is just a phase. One that we're going to have to get past (please god) before she cuts any more teeth.

GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!

2008-07-30T21:11:00.000-07:00

Total shitstorm at work last week. Poor blog -- always the last to know.

I had about 48 hours to draft a brief in response to an "emergency" ex parte motion. Emergency my ass. Basically, someone's overdeveloped sense of entitlement meant that I had to miss my baby's bedtime AND miss my day off.

Well, that poor fool learned in a big hurry that you don't mess with Mama Bear. Don't get me wrong -- I love to win for its own sake -- but if you get between me and my cub I will do everything I can to make you bleed.

Gabby's had a busy week as well, babbling up a storm (for some reason she says "da-da-da-da-da" when she's happy and "maaaaammmmmaaaaaaa" when she's really sad), figuring out the whole crawling thing (she's progressed to the combat crawl), and mastering the pincer grip (ouch!).

When Gabby's busy, that's great. When I'm busy, not so much.

On The Move

2008-07-09T23:14:00.000-07:00

Gabby's been a busy little beaver this week. On Monday, I came home from work and Meghann, our fabulous babysitter, said excitedly, "Look at what she can do!" She put her on the floor and put a toy in front of her. Gabby picked herself up into a push up, but then, instead of doing her usual worm action, she managed to get a knee under herself and propel forward. Atomic then told me she'd made it across the floor of his studio.

It's not like I missed her first steps or anything, but it made me a little sad.

By Tuesday night, Gabby decided that she didn't like sleeping on her back anymore. We still put her down on her back, but now she sighs, grunts, and flips over, and sometimes folds her arms in front of her and rests her head on them.

This morning she figured out how to use the adorable "Giddy-up" jumperoo we got her. She beamed and squealed as she bounced and bounced and the jumpy made galloping noises.

Oh, and she cut a second tooth.

This is going really fast. The dizzying speed of it really makes me appreciate bedtime, when all I can do is hold her and nurse her and cuddle her. I can't multitask when I'm putting her to bed. It's all about the two of us being in that moment, just staring at each other and hanging out together. And when she finally falls asleep and slumps into me, her total trust in me brings out the fiercest and tenderest feelings I have ever experienced.

She's my little girl. She's my big girl. She's a part of me, and separate from me. It's all quite confusing, actually, and rather wonderful.

A Few Things I've Learned As A Working Mom

2008-07-02T11:54:00.000-07:00

It's only been a couple of weeks, but I think I'm getting the hang of this. Somewhat. I have learned a few tips and tricks along the way, which I'd like to share with all of you:

Part-time schedules are for suckers. They mean that you get less money and less time to do the same amount of work.

I am a sucker. Despite point number 1, I willingly slog through the mountains of work while living for those blessed Wednesdays with my Peanut.

It is possible to cram twelve pounds of crap into a five pound bag if you're really determined and don't mind getting a bit messy.

Planning ahead really works. Who knew?

Sometimes it's ok to raid the rainy day fund when it's only partially cloudy.

If it doesn't result in a trip to the ER, an overdrawn checking account, an insurance claim, or an involuntary change in employment status, you're doing it right.

An effective way to exceed expectations is to lower the expectations.

Bonus points are rarely, if ever, awarded for suffering in silence or taking one for the team.

Being Terribly Busy does not make me Terribly Important, or Terribly Smart. Often it just makes me Terrible.

Smile when you say no, and try to say it every day.

Guilt is for sissies.

More lessons to follow, I'm sure.

P.S.

2008-06-19T22:55:00.000-07:00

Random thoughts on returning to work:

Having Wednesdays off rocks. Yesterday was utter bliss.

Having Wednesdays off also sucks ass. Especially when you don't get any less work in exchange for your reduced hours and pay.

Have I made the right decision? Can I really do this?

I vacillate between being really happy I'm back and feeling stressed and miserable.

And damn it, I'm still not wearing a watch.

A Momentous Day

2008-06-18T22:26:00.000-07:00

I went back to work on Monday.

Somehow, the sky did not fall.

The day started off pretty grim but got steadily better:

6 a.m. Wake up to Gabby's beautiful one-toothed grin. Pick her up and cry a little.

6-8 Rush around getting everything ready for my first day back. Feel like a complete scatterbrain.

8 a.m. Walk to work in the gross cold fog.

9 -10 Get my office back in shape. Try to figure out why my phone isn't working.

10:30 Pump.

11 a.m. Wish my phone still wasn't working.

12 p.m. Atomic and Gabby come for a visit! Yay! Show off the wee one to all my friends.

2 p.m. Pump.

2:15 Talk to boss. Decide to work part-time (4 days/week) for six months.

2:17 Panic over finances.

2:30 Start wading through work. Remember that I am actually good at this.

4 p.m. Pump.

5 p.m. Atomic and Gabby come back to my office and we troop over to City Hall together to watch people get married. See couple after couple emerge from City Hall with enormous grins, greeted with cheers, a marching band, and random people serving cake. Tell Gabby what an historic day it is. Cry a little, in a whole different way.

Apple . . . Tree

2008-06-14T13:52:00.000-07:00

I guess she is my kid after all. I'm wearing a shirt today that has a shiny, embroidered neckline. Gabby can't tear herself away from it. She even ceased her other favorite activity -- squealing at the cat and grabbing handfuls of fur -- in order to inspect the pretty shiny thing more closely.

Her other favorites? "Reading" (i.e. crinkling/eating) the New York Times and "typing" (i.e. banging on/eating) on the computer.

Like well-informed-but-helpless-before-pretty-shiny-things mother, like daughter.

I think there might be some shopping-oriented fun in our future.

Quick update

2008-06-11T17:28:00.000-07:00

Feeding was a resounding success.

No noticeable changes in poop as a result.

Tooth now visible.

More later. Typing w/ one hand sucks.

Firsts

2008-06-09T22:42:00.000-07:00

Gabby went to her first wedding on Saturday. And on Sunday, she attended her first play, The Wizard of Oz. Her review: the weather was a bit warm for her taste (it was outdoors), but the music was pretty catchy. Dorothy scored numerous gummy grins.

And speaking of gummy grins, Miss Tish also appears to be cutting her first tooth. I can't really see what's going on in there, since Gabby permits only momentary glances, but the other day she was gnawing on my knuckle and I felt something really sharp. So, either my darling girl is cheeking a shiv, or she's cutting a tooth. Either way, I'm gonna break out the nipple salve.

Rolling is now a fairly regular occurrence, although the poor dear still cries when she flops onto her tummy and then forgets how to get back onto her back. Sitting happens, sometimes, with assistance, and inevitably results in a comical tipping over. At least now she's got the muscle tone to not bonk her head really hard when she goes down.

And here's a really big one: Tomorrow we start . . . oh, wow, I can't believe it. . . solid food.

Things are going to start changing really fast around here, aren't they?

Time, Part II

2008-06-03T23:49:00.000-07:00

I return to work in two weeks. I never thought that would be something I dreaded. I never imagined that I would fantasize about being able to stay at home with my little one.

But I do.

It's crazy -- after 13 years as a lawyer, after all that expensive education and dues paying and incredibly hard work, I'd be happy as a clam to ditch the whole shebang to sit at home and play peek a boo with Gabby.

This turn of thought is particularly mystifying given recent events. My office just celebrated a HUGE victory in a civil rights case. By righting a long standing injustice, the court changed the lives of lots of people for the better. It's not an exaggeration to say that the world is a fairer and better place because of it. I worked on that case, and although my contribution was small, that victory felt like the proudest moment of my career.

When the decision was announced, celebrations erupted throughout the city. I desperately wanted to run down to City Hall and join the party, but Gabby chose that moment to take a much needed nap. And I was totally content to rejoice quietly and skim the decision on my laptop as she snoozed next to me. Seemed kind of a fitting way, actually, to celebrate a decision affirming the right of all people to form families.

Even in the afterglow of that event, I feel no strong pull to return to work. These six months have been such a luxury, and I am so glad to have had them. Being able toHaving to stop what I'm doing to pick up Gabby when she cries, feed her when she's hungry, change her when she's wet feels like such an indulgence. I get to say to the world, hey, fuck off, I'm busy. I work for Gabby now.

I have a feeling that the anticipation is worse than the reality will be. I know I'll be ok, in part because I don't care as much about my job. That's not to say I won't do it well -- I might even do it better, more efficiently. But it's no longer my identity and sole source of pride.

And that feels like a good thing to me.

I Hope You Dance

2008-06-01T21:09:00.000-07:00

Oh, gracious, I must be hormonal or something, because I have turned into the world's biggest sap.

WARNING: the following post is utterly devoid of sarcasm, ironic detachment, or postmodern sensibilities.

More than a year and a half ago, some of my friends in the computer organized a mix CD exchange. All of us were going through fertility struggles, and we all needed some inspiration. One of my favorite songs of those I received is called "I Hope You Dance" by Lee Ann Womack.

Dont let some hell bent heart leave you bitter,

When you come close to sellin out reconsider,

Give the heavens above more than just a passing glance,

And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance,

I hope you dance....I hope you dance

I got teary the first time I heard it, and thought, "That's what I want to tell my daughter some day." And then I thought "That's what my mom taught me. Given the choice, I've always danced, and I've never regretted doing so."

I played that song on the way to our first IUI. I played it again right before the egg retrieval in our IVF cycle.

Today, I played it for my daughter. I picked her up and we danced together in the honeyed late afternoon light in her room, and I sang to her and she beamed at me. I realized yet again that she is a dream come true.

One of Gabby's fairy godmothers has predicted that she will be a healer. In a way, she is already. I'm grateful to her and for her, and to H4F for sending me that song and to all the amazing loved ones who walked that hard road with us and shared their support, prayers, and wisdom.

May we all always choose to dance.

Big Night, Part II

2008-05-15T23:29:00.000-07:00

So, we didn't spend the ENTIRE night just thinking about our little peanut. We found ourselves completely enchanted by the Brahms concerto and symphony. Of course, we both sat there thinking about how much fun it will be to bring Gabby to the symphony and teach her about music, but we devoted, oh, at least 30% of our (shared) brain to actually enjoying the music.

There are definite cultural differences among the lively arts in our town. Ballet patrons tend to be fashionable, good looking, aware of themselves and their space. Many of them look like they might be former dancers. Either that, or they're just really well preserved and have fabulous personal trainers.

The folks who attend the opera always make me feel schlumphy, impoverished, and under dressed. They dress UP. Like they mean it. It is the opera, after all.

And then there's the symphony -- aaah, the symphony.

Symphony patrons seem to skew a bit older, or maybe they're just not as good at hiding it. At any given performance, you'll see a parade of corduroy and tweed blazers with elbow patches, many adorned with a slight sprinkling of dandruff about the collar. There are also a fair number of urban hipsters and young professionals, but they all look as if they'd be equally comfortable at a sci-fi convention.

In short, they are nerds. They are folks in touch with their inner geek.

They are our kind of people.

It's not just our fellow audience members that make us feel comfortable, it's the performers themselves. I can look at a ballerina with great admiration, wondering at how on earth she gets her impossibly long legs up behind her back and parallel with her neck, but I couldn't imagine ever actually talking to one.

And opera singers seem to be of a different species -- an extremely theatrical race of divas who never ever experience humdrum emotions such as mild surprise or simple contentment.

But symphony musicians? God love 'em. They look like your next door neighbor, dressed up for a family wedding. Or maybe that guy with the schnauzer you see in the coffee shop all the time. Or the woman in the next cubicle. It makes it all the more amazing that they create such magic. And that they're so interesting to watch, despite the lack of costumes, stage makeup, or body contortions (well, other than the occasional grimace from a soloist).

Hmm. Why do I have the sinking feeling that Gabby will likely torture us from the age of 7 on by refusing to listen to anything but her generation's version of Hannah Montana?

Our Big Night Out

2008-05-12T23:46:00.000-07:00

I have never appreciated my parents as much as I do now. Not just because I now understand what they went through, but also because they keep stepping up and doing these really awesome things for us.

I dunno, perhaps becoming grandparents for the third time has rendered them daft and unable to stop themselves from doing insane, over-the-top nice things for us.

Like coming to my house and emptying my dishwasher (?!!) I mean, who does that? And, get this -- flying all the way here for the weekend so they could watch Gabby while Atomic and I had a night to ourselves for our anniversary. Let me be clear: we're not talking about an evening out. We're talking a whole night. As in, 4 p.m. until 10 a.m. the following day. As in, dealing with the evening scream fest AND the 3 a.m. feeding AND the morning poopsplosion.

They rock. And they're completely insane. In a good way, of course.

So, you may ask, what did we do with all of that free time?

5 p.m. Cocktails and an early dinner reservation (during which we mused about what a potentially child-friendly restaurant we were at, answered one frantic call from my folks when Gabby hit an unprecedented level of wailing misery due, apparently, to a bottle that was one or two degrees too cold for her liking, called back seven times to make sure everything was ok, and debated aborting the mission and going home).

7 p.m. After being talked down from the ledge by the couple at the next table, we arrived early for the symphony and got to hear a pre-performance recital. Made one last call home before shutting off our phones.

8 p.m. Symphony performance. Enjoyed it thoroughly. And, over intermission drinks, talked about how much fun it will be to dress up Gabby and take her to the symphony in a few years.

10:30 p.m. Stopped at the symphony gift shop after the performance and found some cute stuff for Gabby.

11 p.m. Back to the hotel lounge for a nightcap and dancing. Wondered aloud how Gabby was doing and whether she was keeping my parents up all night. Talked about how much we missed her.

2 a.m. Finally turned in for the night. Wondered if Gabby was up.

2-6 a.m. Dreamed about Gabby.

6 a.m. Woke up early despite late night, as per recent programming. Pumped enough milk to supply a medium sized orphanage.

10 a.m. Reunited with our little smunchkin, who looked adorable in her little flowered dress and white cardigan, all dolled up for Mother's Day.

So it seems that the little person in our midst has thoroughly soaked into our psyches. And our hearts. And our imaginations.

Time, Part I

2008-05-08T23:00:00.000-07:00

Some time around the beginning of my last trimester of pregnancy I stopped wearing a watch. It was just too damned uncomfortable and it left marks on my swollen wrists. Immediately after the baby was born, I didn't bother wearing a watch because at any given moment I had no idea if it was even day or night and I really didn't give a shit. I wasn't wearing deodorant, never mind a watch.

Gabby's four months old now. We keep a pretty full schedule of activities. We go to events, see friends, attend classes. But I still have not resumed wearing a watch.

They say that when your child is small, the hours go slow and the months go fast. I feel like it's all going fast. Each day begins with these beautiful big eyes looking at me and smiling, and then all of a sudden it's evening and those lovely eyes are closing.

With my return to work looming (well, it feels like it's looming, although it's still more than a month away), I'm starting to figure out why the watch has languished for so long at the bottom of a drawer: I like being in this little bubble, just me and my family and those other folks I choose to see, doing whatever we please. I dread returning to a regimented life, a life where I have to consult my calendar constantly and account for my day in fifteen minute increments. I dread the feeling of not having enough hours in the day, of constantly being late for things because I try to cram too much into every last minute.

Of course, these musings bring up a lot of stuff about being a working mom, finding a balance between work and home, wondering whether I'll have any time for myself, and not wanting to miss a second of Gabby's childhood. I'm sure I'll be writing more about these things soon.

Ironically enough, I've been working on this post since March because I haven't had the time to pull my thoughts together in a coherent way. I think I'll just call it "Part I" and leave it at that.

In the meanwhile, I'll continue to float along watchless, thankyouverymuch, in my little bubble with my baby.

A Buddy Story

2008-04-30T22:19:00.001-07:00

Remember last summer when we almost lost the Monkey cat?

The poor thing was at death's door, suffering from a lymphoma that rendered her unable to eat. After the surgery and the feeding tube and the chemo (well, we'll never be done with the chemo), I am thrilled to report that the Monkey is her old frenetic, insanely social self. Not only that, but my fondest hope in that area has been realized -- the Monkey and Gabby are fast becoming buddies.

From the day we brought Gabby home from the hospital, the changing pad has been Monkey's favorite roost. Tonight, we also caught her snuggling in Gabby's folded up play mat, clearly relishing the smell of her little companion.

And Gabby has become aware of the cat as well. Although she has been smiling and laughing for a while now, Gabby let out her very first genuine shriek of delight when the Monkey jumped up onto the bed. Now she looks for her, and giggles like crazy every time she sees her furry little buddy.

Thank you, oh cancer gods, for sparing our Monkey, even for a little while. Every moment we have her with us is precious, and every smile she brings to our baby's face is a blessing.

Who's Trippin' Down the Streets of the City

2008-04-17T12:18:00.001-07:00

. . . smiling at everybody she sees?

Everyone knows it's Gabby!

I don't whether it's just babies generally or whether it's Gabby's penchant for making eye contact, laughing and smiling at everyone, but everywhere we go people smile at us and strike up pleasant conversations.

We toodle around town with Gabby strapped to me in her carrier, facing outward. She almost never fusses when she's in there -- she's too busy looking around at stuff and charming the pants off the folks at the produce stand, the bus driver, the baristas at Starbucks, and random pedestrians who catch her eye. She can't see me behind her, but she clearly knows I'm there as she confidently greets her public.

The other day an elderly woman approached us on the street. A soft, wistful smile spread across her face. She said a few words in Chinese, and touched Gabby's hand. Then she said a few more words and walked away. I suppose she could have been asking for directions to Fillmore Street, but something in her tone sounded like a blessing.

Later on, we got on a crowded bus during rush hour. A woman immediately jumped up and gave us her seat -- something that never happened during my pregnancy. We started chatting, and then another woman joined in the discussion, all the while cooing and smiling at Gabby. Standing between us and the women was a young gangsta-looking guy, with the baggy pants and the gold grill -- the whole nine. He, too, looked at Gabby and busted out a very ungangsta-like smile. He said, "Oh, they grow up so fast. My little girl is nine now, and it feels like she was just born yesterday. Enjoy this time."

Pretty soon half the passengers on the bus were chatting together and cooing and coochie-cooing Gabby, and she was eating it up, giggling and "talking" the whole while. It was wonderful to see this tiny girl bring people together.

I'm just happy to be a member of her entourage.

The Ties That Bind

2008-04-12T22:08:00.001-07:00

The Peanut is the spitting image of her father. Same eye shape and color, same complexion, same round head. I joke about how I don't know who her mother is, since she doesn't look a thing like me.

And when I make those jokes, I wince, because a little more than a year ago I didn't know whether I would ever have a child with a genetic connection to me, and that was breaking my heart. I truly believe that it would have made no difference in terms of how much I love my child or how I parent her if she had come to us via adoption or an egg donor. Yet, at the time we were considering these options, the possible loss of that genetic link felt like a pretty brutal narcissistic injury.

Some of my desires and fears in this area stemmed from my mother's experience. When my mother found her five birth siblings after years of searching, we were all amazed at how much she was like them. Despite having grown up in two very different families, on opposite coasts, my mother and her birth relatives shared not just a physical resemblance, but similar tastes, gestures, vocal intonations, even hobbies. (Who knew that mah jongg was genetic?)

In the eleven years since, we have all remarked on and rejoiced over those similarities. We have celebrated the genetic ties that bind us together and make us a family despite our lack of shared history.

And now there's a new kid in the family, one who shares my DNA. Who knows what genetic traits she has inherited from me? I certainly hope not a propensity toward obesity, diabetes, ovarian or breast cancer, and it would be nice if she were spared the nearsightedness as well.

I have no idea whether she will come to resemble me in any way. At any rate, at least right now, she doesn't look like me.

The weird thing is, that is totally ok with me. When I look at my daughter, I don't find myself searching for myself or my husband. I find myself gazing at a unique individual. She is completely and only herself. She looks like Gabby. Which is exactly as it should be.

And Speaking of Milestones . . .

2008-04-10T09:19:00.000-07:00

Guess who did a complete 360 degree roll last night?

Gabby has (knock wood) been a pretty good sleeper since she was born, but the last few nights we've had a really hard time getting her to sleep. I said to Atomic, "I bet she's fussy because she's working on doing something new." Lo and behold, she was.

She flipped back to front, and then front to back, and then looked up at us as if to say, "Hey, check me out!" Huge, toothless grin.

I know, I know, it's not like she suddenly stood up and started reciting the Gettysburg Address, but still. I'm proud. I can't help it.

Does that make me boring/lame/typical? Yeah, probably. But who knew boring/lame/typical would be so much fun?

*** Update as of 4/12/08: since her magnificent initial performance of said roll, Miss Tish has shown absolutely no inclination to repeat the feat. She's content to rest on her laurels (and on her mommy's shoulder) for a while, I suppose.****

Milestones

2008-03-23T06:22:00.000-07:00

Funny how new moms obsessively keep track of their children's milestones. There are shelves and shelves of books that will tell you when your kiddo should be raising her head 45 degrees, when she should be rolling over, grasping at toys, and smiling.

But no book can tell you all of the new things that your child will do, or when she will surprise you with them.

Gabby is three months old now, and she can:

lift her head,
hold her head up,
sit supported,
put weight on her legs when supported in a standing position (oh, she loves that one),
roll from side to back and from back to side
smile
laugh
giggle
titter
squeal with delight
grab for toys
grab Mommy's hair and pull. Hard.
find and chew on her hands
draw soft toys to her mouth and try to eat them

She also does things that are not in any child development book. For instance, she has now discovered her hands and sometimes doesn't quite know what to do with them, so instead of just holding them out there all willy nilly, she folds them in front of her when she's feeding. She has also learned how to raise her eyebrows independently of one another and does so to great effect. She blows milky bubbles (and seems to know how funny that is).

Every day is a wonder.

Almost every day is enormous amounts of fun.

Here she is with a diaper cover on her head and socks on her hands:

Thanks for being such a good sport, sweetheart. You make even laundry fun.

I hope everyone who celebrates it had a great Purim. Happy Easter to those in that camp, and happy Persian new year to us all!

A Mostly True Fairy Tale For My Daughter

2008-03-18T05:45:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time, there was a couple who desperately wanted a child. They had waited a long time with no success, and they were very sad. The couple spoke to each other and said, "Let us visit a healer, so that we may have a child that way."

So the couple went to a great healer. The healer said, "I will help you. But my potions and ministrations will do nothing for you if you do not have Belief. You must seek a spiritual path to your child, not just a physical one."

So the couple visited a priestess. The priestess instructed them to find a beautiful, ripe melon, cut a hole in it, and place their wish inside. They were then to bring the melon to the ocean at the full moon and leave it at the water's edge. "The goddess Yemaya will accept your offering and grant your wish," the priestess said, "but only if you have Hope in your hearts."

When the couple heard this, they were frightened, because their journey had been long and they were not sure how much hope was left inside them. So they visited the Wise Women of the Desert, with whom they had been long acquainted. The Wise Women lived in a Magical Dome where miracles often took place.

The Wise Women embraced the couple and peered into their hearts. They saw small embers of hope there, just barely glowing. So they blew on the embers and put kindling around them and said to the couple, "You shall have a child, and that child shall be precious beyond imagining. But you must have Love in your hearts in order for that child to grow." They kissed the couple on their foreheads, gave them blessings and powerful amulets, and sent them on their way.

On their way home, the couple encountered another couple. The young man and woman were on their way to be married, but they needed someone to solemnize and bless their marriage. "We will do it," the couple said, and as they blessed the young lovers, their own Love was magnified a hundredfold. The young couple thanked them, not knowing that they had given a far greater gift than they had received.

And at that very moment, a child began to grow inside the woman. The following winter, she bore a baby girl, who was indeed precious beyond all imagining. They named her Gabriella.

The couple brought Gabriella to the Magical Dome in the desert for a blessing. When they entered the Dome, they found there not only the Wise Women, but all of the spirits, healers, priests and priestesses, and others who had helped them on their journey. They formed a circle around Gabriella and each one presented her with a gift: one offered Wisdom; another the power of Healing; another Solace. Curiosity and Music, Compassion, Laughter, Self-Knowledge, and Courage -- these were all laid at her feet.

And Gabriella looked around her, looked deep into the eyes of her father and mother and all of the godmothers and godfathers gathered there, and knew that she was loved indeed.

Ordinary Miracles

2008-03-11T23:15:00.000-07:00

Gabriella is a miracle. Her very existence is improbable, long sought, but against the odds. I think about that every day when I wake up and see her break into a huge toothless grin.

She exists. That's a miracle.

What's wonderful about our lives now is that against the backdrop of the Big Miracle, there are all these other, smaller wonders taking place. The kind of tiny, quotidian miracles that are just part of having a baby. The smiles. The growth. Seeing her focus her eyes on a toy, and then reach out for it. Watching as she squeezes a stuffed animal and tries to stuff it in her mouth. Hearing her learn how to laugh. Watching her raise her head and push at the floor with her feet.

Her little brain is developing so fast, and her wee body gets bigger every day. I swear, if I'm away from her for an hour, she looks different when I next see her. Compared to what happens around here every single day, the miracles I heard about in church growing up seem, well, kinda lame in comparison.

Walking on water? Whatevs. Gabby's wiggling puts that to shame.

Turning water into wine? Yawn. Gabby turns her parents to mush whenever she smiles.

Parting the sea? Yeah, yeah, part, schmart. My kid is grabbing at toys and she's not even three months old!

I'm overcome with a sense of wonder, and a strong feeling of gratitude. And, I must confess, not a small amount of maternal pride.

I can't help it. My kid's a miracle.

Sick

2008-02-15T09:50:00.000-08:00

Head colds are never exactly fun. Not in the best of circumstances.

But having your first nasty cold in over a year, and then having your newborn catch it from you, well, that sucks royal monkey ass.

I honestly don't know how she does it, but our Peanut has managed to maintain her happy-go-lucky demeanor with a head full of snot. She snorfles and coughs and gags and makes mucousy gurgling noises all day and all night. She whimpers when I put saline drops up her schnoz and suction out the boogers. And then she smiles at me.

She doesn't get that from me, that's for sure. I've been a foul mouthed grouch since I first started sniffling. I grumble all day and all night, pausing only to hurl invectives and accusations at my poor, beleaguered, long-suffering husband. And by last night he, patient though he is, had had just enough sleep deprivation and aggravation to take the bait.

Somehow, the smunchkin managed to snore her way through what shall forever be known in our household as the St. Valentines Day Massacre.

We could learn a thing or two from her.

Road Trip!

2008-02-14T11:18:00.000-08:00

Gabby had quite the adventure this past weekend. The occasion was a surprise party that my mom threw for my dad's 65th birthday at their ~~retirement~~ Active Adult Community clubhouse in Arizona. We figured that seeing his littlest grandbaby, and seeing all three of his adorable grandkids together for the first time, would be the icing on my dad's birthday cake.

Dad was duly surprised and delighted. We also learned a few things about traveling with Gabby.^[1]

The good news is that, like her parents, girlina digs a good road trip. She spent a good part of the trip asleep, mastered the art of sucking down milk from a bottle in a moving vehicle, and still managed to sleep on her regular schedule at night, even managing the time difference with aplomb. Despite being cooped up in the back of a Mini Cooper for hours on end, she fussed for a grand total of maybe 30 minutes in both directions.

On the other hand, gone are the days when we could do a 12-16 hour drive (depending on traffic) in one shot, stopping only to fill one tank and empty another. No, this trip took the better part of four days, all for a 40 hour sojourn with my folks. Totally worth it, to be sure, but man, babies sure do march to their own (slow) drummer.

Gone also are the days when we could just throw a few things in a bag and head out. For the first time in, well, ever, I actually made a LIST. I started pumping for the trip a week in advance so we'd be able to give the wee one milk on the road without having to stop. We packed what I thought would be way more stuff than we'd ever need: six pairs of jammies for a four day trip; approximately a bazillion diapers; seven or eight different outfits; blankets; burp cloths; snuggle nest; snacks for the ride; half the medicine cabinet; and oh yeah, some clean underwear and a change of clothes for me. By the end of the trip, despite having done laundry mid-way through, I heard myself say, "Here. Put this one on her. It only has spitup on it."

Despite our snail's pace and the fact that both Peanut and I ended up with nasty colds by the end of the trip, we're really glad we made the journey. Our little road warrior has made her chops, and made her whole family happier in the process.

[1] Hereinafter known as "the wee one," "Peanut," "Smunchkin," "Chief Hungry Horse," "Princess Poopy Pants," "girlina," "baby monster," "kitten," "Boo Boo," or any other of a score of nauseatingly cute nicknames she seems to have acquired.

Losing Sight

2008-02-05T18:15:00.000-08:00

Back when I was in the trenches, doubting that I'd ever have a child, an online friend who'd had multiple miscarriages posted a photo of herself and her infant on her blog, with a single word: Joy.

The look on her face was irresistible. I still sometimes go back and look at that photo and cry. It gave me hope then; now, I know what she was feeling when that picture was taken and I weep with gratitude.

After all the pain and disappointment that I went through before life sent Gabby my way, I want more than anything to offer hope to my friends who are still struggling and suffering, the way that others extended their hands to me.

Suffering, I think, has the potential to expand our vision -- it makes us able to see others in a different light, to see what they see. That, I guess, is the definition of empathy, and empathy is a quality I value highly. At its most basic level, it's what keeps us from killing each other; at its highest, it's what makes of us saints and poets.

That's why it's so difficult for me to contemplate that perhaps my joy has clouded my vision. Now that I have what I so dearly wanted for so long, I risk becoming smug, prescriptive, self-satisfied. I risk losing sight of the suffering that connects me to people who have not yet made it to Normalville. This loss of vision struck me twice recently in the form of difficult conversations with friends who are struggling to have children, both prompted by something I said that was decidedly NOT helpful.

One conversation involved my attempts to reassure a friend that she would eventually have a child. I remember hating it when I felt people were shining me on with empty promises, minimizing my pain and fears for the future. Why did I turn around and do the same thing?

The other incident was even worse. In response to a casual "how are you?" I glibly remarked that I couldn't be better -- I have a baby and I'm on maternity leave! Ouch. Talk about rubbing it in.

I could claim sleep deprivation, or the way that an infant monopolizes one's attention, or just my relief and joy at finally having a child as reasons/excuses, but I'm not sure that's the whole of it. I fear that there's a part of me that wants to reside permanently in Normalville and shake the dust of Heartbreak Town off my feet forever. Who, me? No, I've never felt like a barren hag, never! I'm a regular Fertile Myrtle, I am, yes, a bona fide member of the Cute Moms' Club. We discuss sleep and poops and the relative merits of Ergo carriers and ring slings, and oh my, I could never even imagine injecting myself with fertility drugs in a public restroom like some junkie - never!

Am I delighted beyond belief to be past the despair and worry and obsession with my estradiol levels and waking temperatures? Well, of course. But the fact is, I used to own real estate in Heartbreak Town, and I will forever be marked by that experience. The little heart we saw beating in January '06 will never beat again, and nothing will ever change that, not even our little miracle girl. That stuff happened, and damn it, if I cannot undo it, I can at least honor that experience by keeping my eyes open and not losing sight of the suffering of others.

Blog For Choice Day 2008

2008-01-21T14:25:00.000-08:00

This year, on the 35th anniversary of Roe v. Wade, I am blogging because I have a whole new reason to be pro-choice -- my month-old daughter.

While Gabby was growing in my womb, her own tiny womb was developing inside her. She has milk ducts in what will someday be her breasts, and more than a million eggs in her ovaries. This reality came home to me in an immediate way shortly after her birth. Apparently it's common for newborn girls to bleed a little bit -- it's a result of sharing hormones with their mamas. Our pediatrician commented, "That's good! We know she has a uterus, and it's working!"

Holy @&$. My daughter has a uterus. I mean, of course she does, but wow. She's going to be a sexual being some day.

My daughter has a uterus, and it should be up to her to decide what grows there.

I have had the benefit of reproductive choice. Had I not, my life would have been very different, and Gabby would not exist. I want my daughter to have the same freedom, the same basic right to bodily integrity, the same ability to shape her own life. And I will fight for those rights with a ferocity far beyond that which I would bring to the defense of my own rights.

Parental Pop Quiz

2008-01-19T09:44:00.000-08:00

1. After a sleepless night and a fussy morning, the Munchkin is finally asleep. What do you do?

(a) Take a super-efficient power nap and emerge energized and ready to face the next onslaught;

(b) Leap joyously into the bathroom for your first shower in days!

(c) Throw in a load of laundry, empty the dishwasher, write out a few thank-you notes, feed the cats, fold, sort, and put your maternity clothes in bins, and start dinner;

(d) Strap the wee one in a carrier and go for a power walk -- gotta get serious about losing that pregnancy weight;

(e) Break out the breast pump -- it's never too early to start laying in an emergency supply;

(f) Sit around grinning moronically at your sleeping darling while half-assedly updating your blog.

2. As you gaze at your three-week old daughter and stroke her face, she suddenly locks eyes with you and spreads the corners of her mouth wide. What do you make of this?

(a) You believe the parenting books, your friends, family, and all the experts in the world when they tell you it's just a random movement of facial muscles, devoid of any emotional content;

(b) You're convinced that your child is a prodigy, that she loves her mama deeply and has just bestowed upon you a heartfelt and authentic smile.

3. Your "prodigy" has a blowout on the changing table. How do you react?

(a) Move in with clean diapers and ninjalike swiftness to contain the damage;

(b) Calmly proceed to change the diaper, clothing, and changing pad cover while patiently explaining to your little one that Everyone Poops;

(c) Stand by and giggle helplessly while your grumpy husband wipes down the walls, the furniture, the baseboard heater . . .

4. Your sanity requires that you leave the house and get some fresh air. It's 55 degrees and mostly sunny outside. How do you dress your newborn for this jaunt?

(a) Pants, shirt, socks, and bear cub fleece with hood and feet;

(b) Same as above plus an undershirt and a hat;

(d) Depends on whether she's traveling by stroller or sling;

(e) Whatever's cutest/has the least amount of spit-up on it.

Scoring: Give yourself five points for each answer, no matter which one you choose. Bonus points if you're wearing underwear, and if said underwear is clean, you are officially Ruler of the Universe and I bow to you.

The Magic of the Mundane

2008-01-05T10:31:00.000-08:00

Our lives have become a sort of twilight haze. One day runs into the next. I figure I'll know when it's Sunday because that's when the fat newspaper arrives.

The numbers on the clock tell me how long Gabby's been nursing, but not whether it's day or night.

Gabby eats, poops, sleeps, spits up rather spectacularly, and cries. Sometimes she cries for what seems like hours, impervious to our manic and often comical attempts to comfort her. Sometimes I cry, too, out of frustration, exhaustion, joy, or a combination of all three. It's a good thing I don't have anywhere in particular to go, because the few clothes that fit me (mostly pajamas) have milk, spitup, and lanolin stains all over them, despite my mother's heroic attempts to keep up with the mountain of laundry.

"Normal" life seems like a distant memory. What did I used to do with my time? Work? Sleep? No idea. It all seems irrelevant now.

Meanwhile, our little one is changing and growing every day. She's already an ounce heavier and an inch taller than when she was born. She's grown an extra chin and chubby cheeks. She inexplicably smells like sugar cookies. When she's asleep, she looks like a cherub. When she's awake, she grunts and makes all sorts of faces. Sometimes she looks like an elf. Sometimes she looks like Robert DeNiro.

She's a pretty funny kid for someone who can't talk.

She's a ton of work. She's a miracle. She's the best thing that's ever happened to either of us.

A New Kind of Intimacy

2007-12-28T21:19:00.000-08:00

The relationship between a mother and child is one of intense physical intimacy. In a way, that intimacy is a mirror image and counterpart to the intimacy of lovers that (well, aside from the doctors and the needles and the tubes and gizmos, I mean, in an idealized, blurry-edged fantasy world where fertile people live) brings the child into being.

Where lovers start as strangers and gradually discover each other, at times merging into a single being, the child and mother start as a single entity and slowly become physically and emotionally separate. And in both relationships, there is an unbridled delight in one's own and the other's physical being. Nowhere else in life can you revel in and explore another's body with such abandon, tracing each curve of the earlobe, nibbling on fingers and knees, caressing tummies and napes of necks.

Breastfeeding has been an absolute revelation for me. It's incredible that it happens at all, more so when you think about all the complex processes that surround that one simple act. Somehow, my body knows exactly what type of milk to produce, how much of it, and when. Gabby's sucking not only satisfies her hunger, it releases hormones that shrink my uterus back to its normal size (and make us both happy and sleepy). According to some promising new research, breastmilk may even have curative effects for people suffering from HIV and cancer.

And even crazier is how much I love feeding her this way. I love getting all snuggled up with her, skin to skin, having that connection and sharing the flood of hormones and responses. It's our own special little world, where we still share physical space and an intimate bond.

Miracles Happen

2007-12-27T21:17:00.001-08:00

Gabriella Elizabeth Hislast, born December 23, 2007. 6 lbs, 11 oz, 19 inches long. I never knew I could feel this way about anyone. She's a dream come true.

D-Day

2007-12-21T17:40:00.000-08:00

It's today. Today is Pebbles' due date. Not that she seems much interested in that fact. She's doing pretty much the same thing she's been doing for weeks and weeks -- splashing around in her amniotic spa, practicing breathing (seriously -- I had no idea that they do that until I saw it on the ultrasound), and kicking around.

Overall, it's been a wonderful pregnancy. I feel so honored to have been able to carry this little baby so close, so safe and tucked up inside me. I'm excited to see her, to look at her beautiful little face and hear her yowl and taste her tiny little toes, but there's a part of me that doesn't want to be separated from her just yet.

I think I'm also still terrified of the impending c-section. We found out a few weeks ago that our little girl is breech, and in typical Binky fashion I attacked the problem on all fronts. Two acupuncturists, a chiropractor, a hypnotherapist and three physicians all performed their version of the Magic Ugga Bugga Dance, and all were equally unsuccessful in persuading my little princess to flip over.

We did our homework as well: Acupuncture - The Home Game involved burning pea-sized blobs of moxa on my little toes. And then there was the Waterboarding. That entailed getting me upside down on an ironing board propped against the couch, with a bag of frozen peas right on top of Pebbles' head and a heating pad, soft music, and the soothing voice of her daddy down where we wanted her head to be.*

All for naught. The little peanut's butt remains firmly wedged in my pelvis. Hence, the c-section. We're giving her until the 26th to start the process on her own. If she's not out by then, we're going in after her.

*The Attorney General has refused to opine whether this practice constitutes a violation of the Geneva Conventions. However, he stated that if it is, in fact, occurring, then it is definitionally Not Torture. So you can all rest easy.

Will You Stay In our Lovers' Story?

2007-10-21T17:17:00.000-07:00

My due date is two months from today.

Two months. On the one hand, I can't believe we have to wait another two months to meet our little girl. And besides, I'm already so huge I have no idea where her growing body can possibly expand -- my esophagus? Hollow out a leg? The real estate is getting pretty tight around here.

On the other hand, though, it seems like this pregnancy started moving really fast at a certain point. I'm not sure when that was. I swear I was paying attention.

Two more months to prepare, physically and emotionally, for this new little person who will change our lives forever. It's really real now. We're still scared that something will go wrong, but the closer we get, the more we think that our little Pebbles is actually going to come and live with us.

Atomic played this song for me the other night -- Kooks, by David Bowie. Bowie wrote it after the birth of his son. It's the perfect love song for Pebbles:

Will you stay in our Lovers' Story

If you stay you won't be sorry

'Cause we believe in you

Soon you'll grow so take a chance

With a couple of Kooks

Hung up on romancing

We bought a lot of things to keep you warm and dry

And a funny old crib on which the paint won't dry

I bought you a pair of shoes

A trumpet you can blow

And a book of rules

On what to say to people when they pick on you

'Cause if you stay with us you're gonna be pretty Kooky too

Will you stay in my Lovers' Story

If you stay you won't be sorry

'Cause we believe in you

Soon you'll grow so take a chance

With a couple of Kooks

Hung up on romancing

And if you ever have to go to school

Remember how they messed up this old fool

Don't pick fights with the bullies or the cads

'Cause I'm not much cop at punching other people's Dads

And if the homework brings you down

Then we'll throw it on the fire and take the car downtown

Will you stay in our Lovers' Story

If you stay you won't be sorry

'Cause we believe in you

Soon you'll grow so take a chance

With a couple of Kooks

Hung up on romancing

Will you stay

As right and good as this song is for us and our child, there's another couple, friends of ours, for whom it is a million times more so. They're struggling right now, but when they do finally get their baby, I think we'll have to record a special version of it for him/her.

Ordinary Bliss

2007-10-15T17:33:00.000-07:00

I realize I've slowed down quite a bit on the blogging.

On the one hand, I don't want to peter out so fast. What's going on is pretty interesting . . . to me. It's just not exactly noteworthy or epiphany-inspiring. Yeah, I had my gestational diabetes test, and I passed. Hooray. I gained eleven pounds one month and 0.2 the next. I had a cold. I had a shower. The shower was nice. The cold, not so much. I'm thirty weeks along and, knock wood, all looks pretty good. We found a doula whom we adore, and we're looking forward to planning for the birth. The cat's getting chemo and is back to her old crazy self. Atomic's rewiring the house and moving furniture. I'm making curtains. We've got lots of gear in the house, and lots of tiny pastel pink outfits, despite my ever-growing loathing of pastels.

I don't know if I'll eventually become a mommy blogger. It seems there's already quite a bit of information and opinions about mommyhood in the blogosphere, and I don't know that I've got anything significant to add.

Maybe I'll rediscover the intensity if/when we try for the deuce.

Or maybe I'll just get inspired again once Pebbles arrives.

Or maybe Pebbles will be so all-consuming that I will forget I own a computer.

For now, I think I will continue to post sporadically, when the mood strikes, or when something significant occurs. I just don't know that I will ever again feel like a fevered Crusader seeking the Holy Grail. I mean, don't get me wrong, the Grail is super nice and well worth the pursuit. It's just that, well, "Sir Galahad Sitteth Around At Home With His Wife Admiring The Nice Grail" wasn't exactly a best-seller, was it?

Apples And Honey

2007-09-17T19:42:00.000-07:00

L'shana tovah!

I've written before about how much I love celebrating new beginnings. Last Thursday was Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year.

It feels very appropriate to me that the ten days between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur are known as the Days of Awe. It is a time of reflection and atonement, and, as I prefer to think of it in my more secular way, a time of healing. This is the time when God decides whose name gets written in the book of life for the coming year -- who lives, who dies, and who is born.

This year, the High Holy Days coincide with the beginning of my third trimester. I look back in wonder, amazed that we've gotten this far. Whatever one may call the Divine, the Life Force, the Universe, I am in awe. A year ago, we were despairing of ever having a child. Now, I want to fall to my knees in gratitude each time I feel my baby move.

It is also a time of healing for me. I had a somewhat scary episode last week, right on the eve of Rosh Hashanah, that underscored for me just how much healing has taken place. I was having an extremely stressful day at work, and on such days it's not unusual for me to have a couple of Braxton Hicks contractions late in the afternoon. But last Wednesday, they got really bad. I had three in rapid succession, and an hour and a half later another two. I got scared and called labor and delivery at the hospital, and they told me to come in to get checked, just to make sure.

I was terrified on my way in. I started crying and begging the universe to let my child be ok. I didn't want to think about her not making it after coming so far. But even though I was melting down, I felt a calmness at my core. I knew, I can't tell you how but I knew, that she'd be ok.

By the time Atomic met me at the hospital, I was feeling better. They strapped me to a monitor, did a quick ultrasound and checked my cervix. It was all ok. The very kind doctor who examined me was very reassuring.

Maybe I wouldn't have been scared at all had it not been for our history. But something about the experience made me realize how long it's been since I've dwelled in the Land of Fear.

I know I won't ever forget what it feels like to struggle, to mourn, to worry. But this baby, this wonderful, awe-inspiring being growing steadfastly inside my body, is healing me.

And it looks, God-willing, like there will be a new name in the Book of Life this year.

Lemonade Stand

2007-09-06T19:12:00.000-07:00

This may have been our last trip out to the desert for a while. It was wonderful and awful, exhausting, dusty, life-affirming, friendship-cementing and friendship-destroying. In short, it was Burning Man.

I did something there that I've never done before. I actually created and displayed a piece of art. I took the pain, heartache, challenges, joys, and weirdness of the whole infertility experience and turned it into . . . a thing. A piece of art that I called "Second Coming." Each of the baby carriages has a bottle of fertility meds in it, and the trees are made from syringes.

Photos below.

Photos courtesy of Eric Slade

Monkey

2007-08-25T18:27:00.000-07:00

Long before there was a Pebbles, long before I met Atomic, long before I lived here, I had Max. She's been my furry, four-footed, rambunctious little friend for twelve years.

When Atomic and I moved in together, we changed her name to Monkey because his cat was also named Max. So now we have Monkey and BooBoo, and we love them both.

I was looking forward with both joy and trepidation to the cats' reaction to Pebbles' arrival. Would the critters be curious? Depressed? Resentful? Oblivious? Would BooBoo pee on the baby like he pees on anything else placed on the floor? Would Monkey jump on her like she jumps up on every person she meets? Would we wake up and find Monkey in the crib?

In the meanwhile I've been enjoying snuggling up with one or the other of them. I especially love it when they rest their little heads on my tummy and purr. I imagine Pebbles likes that.

But now, now we're just hoping that Monkey is still here when Pebbles arrives.

Monkey stopped eating last week. After three days, we took her to the vet. They ran some tests and sent her home. The following night, after she still hadn't touched food or water, we brought her back, and they admitted her. A biopsy revealed that she has lymphoma. Kitty cancer. They removed about four inches of her intestine and finally released her Thursday night.

She's still in a lot of pain, and has to be fed through a tube three times a day until she eats on her own again. She's a trooper, though. Apparently the chances (damn statistics again!) are about 30% that she'll go into a full remission with chemotherapy, in which case she might be with us for another couple of years. If not, well, we'll have to enjoy all of the moments we have left with her.

I would really love for her to meet the baby, for the baby to have some memories of her. I know that's not terribly likely at this point, but even if the only memory that Pebbles has of Monkey is the distant sense memory of being lulled to sleep by purring while still in utero, that will be enough.

Old and New

2007-08-11T09:22:00.001-07:00

I turned 40 this past week.

Forty. That's old enough to be covered by the laws prohibiting age discrimination, a tidbit I've been giggling over for a week now. When my mother was 40, I was starting college.

And here I am, late bloomer indeed, soon to enter the brave new world of motherhood. My life is about to change radically, which is why I am so glad that so much of it is solid and stable and (I hope) not likely to change much at all.

I've got a nice house and an established career, and that helps. But even more importantly, I've got relationships that have stood the test of time. This baby is going to be born into a crazy but loving extended family comprising people who are related by blood and by love, people whose hope and support really brought her into existence.

We had a party last night at a little Italian restaurant where Atomic and I have been regulars for the last several years. Twenty-some loved ones, including my mom, who came all the way from Arizona, and a friend I've known for more than half my life. They all came out to celebrate what will probably be the last "adult" event in my life for a while (as another friend and mother of a two-year-old reminded me). These friends, who are at all different stages of their own lives, have taught me so much about the world and about who I am. And every one of them has cried with us, hoped with us, and celebrated with us throughout our journey.

Last night, I was blown away by how much these people care about me. And as much as they love me, I suspect they already love my daughter even more. Which seems to me exactly as it should be. Everything I have in my life, everything I've ever wanted for myself, I want her to have even more.

One of my friends gave me a sparkly headband for myself and a little tiara for the wee one when she arrives. That gift summed up where I am right now. I know I still have much that I want to achieve in my life, but right now I'm happily passing the torch, passing the attention, and I'm ready to focus on my little girl.

Oh, and the nickname "Flipper" has now officially been set aside. The Assembly of Grandmothers, Godmothers, and Other Interested Parties ("AGGOIP") has decreed that henceforth our child shall be known as "Pebbles."

Here's to a happy, full life for you, Pebbles. You are already so loved.

The Baby-Industrial Complex

2007-07-30T17:53:00.000-07:00

My dear friends and family, I am proud to present what may be my first NPP (Normal Pregnant Person) post:

What a racket.

First, you blow a nice chunk of change on fertility treatments. Then, once you've finally got the coveted bun in the proverbial oven, the marketing really begins.

Now, I have no problem with much of the baby gear on the market. A lot of it might actually be useful, if not strictly necessary. And I am, I totally admit, having fun compiling lists and surfing various baby sites. I'm reveling in it, in fact. Soft, cute baby things make me positively oogy, and I can't wait to decorate Flipper's room and buy her eensy beensy hats and shirts and things with monkeys and dinosaurs on them.

Today, however, I got a little reminder not to take things too far.

I was passing by a verrrrrry high end baby store. The kind of place with maybe a hundred items total in the whole store, all magnificently displayed, and, judging from the price, woven from pure gossamer by highly paid, well educated, unionized elves.

I couldn't resist. I went in.

The adorable onesie with the embroidered pig on the front? Forty-eight dollars. I think my eyes might actually have made a "sproing!" noise as they popped out at that price tag. Forty-eight smackeroos for a onesie with a friggin' pig on it.

I casually sauntered toward the exit, passing on the way the two ladies with the cherub-faced toddler in a stroller. They'd been merrily cooing over dresses for the child, holding them up to her face to see if they went well with her skin tone (?!), apparently unfazed by the hefty prices. As I passed, one of the ladies said, "Honey, stop picking your nose."

Ah, yes. You can dress her up in fancy dresses, but in the end, a baby is still a baby. And spit-up on a forty-eight dollar onesie is just as gross as spit-up on a five dollar onesie.

I'm sure I will succumb to the temptation now and again and spend way too much on stuff for my daughter. But in that, as in anything, balance and perspective are very good things.

These Are The Days

2007-07-27T19:30:00.000-07:00

It's been very circle-of-life around here lately. Friends getting good news. Other friends mourning losses.

Births, deaths. Little bits of pure joy bobbing around in sadness.

It seems like lots of people around me are suddenly dealing with illness and death. I've also been saddened, heartbroken, over a friend's miscarriage, wishing I could make it not have happened. Other people I care about deeply are slogging through the marsh of infertility, poking themselves with needles, sometimes hopeful, sometimes despairing, often just frustrated as hell that the plumbing just ain't workin'.

I spent a lot of time over the past two years asking, "why me?" Why did I get stuck with the lousy eggs, the dismal odds, the pregnancies that didn't stick? And now I ask myself, "why me?" Why do I have such a wonderful family, such loving friends, a good career, a loving husband, a great life . . . and a baby on the way? It's dizzying, really. What a reminder of the impermanence of everything.

Right now, I rejoice in knowing that there is a genetically normal baby girl flipping and flopping around in there, at the same time I grieve with my friends over their losses, and at the same time I fear another loss in the future. It's a lot to keep in your heart all at once. I'm doing my best to let it all be, to let go of needing things to be a certain way.

Today I am happy and sad and fearful and hopeful.

So be it.

Our Little Alien

2007-07-25T20:50:00.000-07:00

Yeah, that's my daughter. She looks like an alien. A super cute alien, to be sure, but gee whiz, kiddo. At one point during the ultrasound, I thought she was sucking her thumb. Nope, said the u/s tech, "She just poked herself in the eye."

That's my girl! Coordinated, like your mama. Now, wave hello to all your friends in the internets:

46XX

2007-07-18T18:25:00.000-07:00

No, wiseasses, that's not my new dress size. That's our baby's karyotype.

Normalville shall soon have a new resident. Our daughter.

Yup, you read that right. Daughter. As in, little girl.

Apparently my maternal instinct is not worth shit. I'll have to work on that. In the meanwhile, I'm floating ten feet above the ground. Our baby is healthy. She has the right number of chromosomes in all the right places with bright shiny faces. And the nurse called about five minutes after my last post. Bless you, Kaiser Permanente.

Flipper, my sweet little girl, I'm so sorry I got your gender pronoun wrong for a while there. I hope you won't be psychologically damaged by my thinking you were a boy. Although you should feel free to include this in your list of grievances when you're an angsty teen. I'm just so glad you're healthy. Your dad and I are over the moon, and all your friends in the internets and elsewhere are doing happy little dances right now.

Breast Cancer Awareness Week

2007-07-18T14:50:00.001-07:00

. . . is not for another two months. I meant to post about this, oh, a while ago when I first saw it, but I've been busy doing whatever it is that takes up my time these days. So I decided to compromise and post it apropos of absolutely nothing. It's just funny.

I just want you all to read Julie's hilarious and educational take on mammograms on her blog, A Little Pregnant. Now, don't you feel much, much better about mammograms?

Good.

Now go make an appointment to get one, and don't forget your little plastic cow.

@(*#$ing Snorkelwacker!

2007-07-18T14:32:00.000-07:00

*sigh*

I was hoping Kaiser would have called by now. Yes, they told me it would take two weeks to get the amnio results, but the nurse said that sometimes they come back a couple of days early. So now I've got myself tied up in knots, hoping that there's nothing wrong, hoping that they aren't just taking extra time to confirm bad news before they tell me.

Please, please, little baby. Please be ok. Please have all your chromosomes, and not too many, and all the DNA bits in the right places with bright shiny faces. We want you SO badly. Your grandmas and grandpas are beside themselves with anticipation. Your mom and dad think about you every minute. You have scores of fairy godmothers, both in and out of the computer, who are pulling for you and want you to be healthy.

Please be ok.

Out Of The Closet

2007-07-14T15:31:00.000-07:00

It occurs to me that perhaps one reason the Snorkelwacker seemed so fearsome is that I was in the closet with him.

Moi, in the closet about anything?

Yes, odd as it may seem, although I have revealed the intimate details of my reproductive health here on the interweb for all the world to see, I've been a bit shy about sharing certain, ahem, information with the people I see face to face every day. Which means that now that my belly is bulging, I'm getting a lot of strange and inquisitive looks. Eyebrows-meeting-hairlines types of looks.

A couple of days ago, I was getting ready to appear at an administrative hearing. The court reporter, whom I see at these things every couple of weeks, leaned over the table and asked,
"Are you expecting?"

What I heard was "Were you expecting . . . .?" And so I waited her to finish her sentence: "Are you expecting . . . . this hearing to take a long time?" Or, "Are you expecting . . . . to call a lot of witnesses?"

But no. She was asking whether I am expecting. As in, is that a fetus under your dress or are you just happy to see me?

I blushed. I stammered. I smiled and said, "Why, yes!"

"Congratulations!" she said.

And then I felt compelled to pour one for my homies. "It was a long road getting here," I said. "We lost a couple along the way."

Sympathetic and slightly confused look.

I'm not sure why, but I feel the need to say something like that every time someone congratulates me on this pregnancy. I think it's because the infertility part still hurts, and I want it to be more visible both for myself and for those still going through it, and because however delighted I am about this miraculous little one, it will not erase the pain of what it took to get here, or the fear that settles permanently in the heart of an infertile woman.

Healing is definitely possible. But not forgetting.

Snorkelwacker Returned To Closet

2007-07-05T15:27:00.000-07:00

Thank you, dear friends, for helping me beat the Snorkelwacker back into the closet.

I had the amnio today. I was, much to my surprise, calm and centered going in. Okay, I'll be honest. I wasn't the spastic nervous wreck I expected to be, so I considered myself calm and centered in comparison.

Kaiser treated me so well. A nurse came out, went through the forms with me, then led us back to the amnio room. The doctor was awesome, friendly, reassuring, and explained everything she did before she did it. The ultrasound tech was sweet and oohed and aawed at our "perfect" baby. And the nurse held my feet and rubbed my ankles during the amnio, which, while not exactly a day at the spa, did not suck nearly as much as I thought. It was really not bad at ALL, and whatever discomfort there was paled in comparison to our joy at seeing our gorgeous baby.

All of Flipper's measurements look good. He was as wiggly as ever, and had the good sense to scoot out of the way of the needle. (Watch out: here's where I start bragging about how smart my child is).

And look at the punim on this kid!

Cleaning Out My Anxiety Closet

2007-07-02T12:23:00.000-07:00

Despite all the happiness and tra la la, this is going to be a rough couple of weeks. My amnio is on Thursday, and we'll get the results two weeks after that.

I was fine, fine I tell ya, until last night when, out of nowhere, the Giant Purple Snorkelwacker emerged from my anxiety closet and started gnawing on my leg. The Snorkelwacker, despite his great size, has amazing stealth capability, so he was able to sneak up on me without my seeing him. And once he has his fangs sunk in, he's really hard to shake.

However bizarre it may seem for me to be discussing characters from a long-defunct comic strip in connection with my psychological state, it really helps me to manage my anxieties by turning them into outrageous characters. Otherwise, I start to believe the things they tell me. Horrible, horrible things.

Another thing that would help is for all of my friends and family to grab sticks and rolled up newspapers and give the Snorkelwacker a big smack across the snout, thereby sending him safely back to my anxiety closet, where he can frolic with the dust bunnies and the I'm-Not-Good-Enough monsters to his heart's content.

Will you do that for me, please?

One, Two, Three . . .

2007-06-28T22:04:00.000-07:00

Oh, pardon me. I was just sitting around counting my blessings. I hope I’m not getting too tiresome with these admittedly Pollyanna-ish ramblings about how my life is JUST PERFECT now that I’m finally pregnant. There’s still plenty of suckishness in the world, and even if I were tempted to forget that for one minute, Atomic (who has a social conscience that would put your average do-gooder humanitarian to shame) wouldn’t let me.

These days, though, it’s nice just to let myself enjoy what’s going on right now. I’m grateful that I have this. I don’t know how it will turn out, so I’m just enjoying it day by day.

I had a real moment yesterday. I came home from work and slipped on some comfy drawstring pants. I looked in the mirror, and there, staring back at me, was this totally cute pregnant lady! Ok, sure, so maybe I was sticking my belly out just a little tiny bit, and perhaps to a casual observer it may just seem like I've been letting myself go, and admittedly at this point there's way more chocolate milk and root beer floats in that cute little tummy than baby, but still.

I have a little bump.

WHEEEEE!!!! I have a bump!

Dispatch From Normalville

2007-06-22T11:25:00.000-07:00

Our stay in Normalville continues. It's very normal here. So normal, in fact, that I struggle to come up with something interesting to write about.

I'm getting pudgy.

My tummy is pooching out in a way it never has before.

I can feel the edge of my uterus.

I look like a bag lady because the only clothes I can wear are my loosest, baggiest, fat girl clothes and even they don't fit me right, which I find kind of fun.

I've pretty much stopped feeling queasy all the time, but I still get fatigued.

I eat a LOT of Jello.

Despite my utter narcissistic fascination with my body right now, sometimes I forget, for a split second, that I've got a passenger on board. And then I remember, and I have to suppress the urge to giggle, which is a really inappropriate thing to do when one is trying a case or in the middle of an intense labor negotiation.

Tee hee. I said "labor negotiation."

See what I mean? Normalville. What a freakin' weird place.

A Refugee In Normalville

2007-06-12T21:45:00.000-07:00

As I near the end of the first trimester, it is dawning on me that I may, in fact, have a baby come December. It is entirely possible that no horrible things will occur, that I will not be confined to a madhouse for a "long rest," that there will actually be a healthy, breathing human being emerging from my body in, oh, a little more than six months.

How is that possible?

If I do cross over into Normalville, will the residents there suspect that I'm a refugee from Heartbreak Town, across the tracks? Will my papers be in order? Will the Normalville Border Patrol come and knock on my door in the middle of the night to drag me back?

Or will I retreat into my little Normalville life and join the Normalville PTA and forget what it was like to live in Heartbreak Town? Will I stop calling my friends who still live there? If I do visit Heartbreak Town to see my old friends, will they throw tomatoes at me and slash my tires?

I'm not sure where I belong right now, emotionally. Even if I get my green card and settle down in Normalville permanently, I think I'll always have some mannerism, some accent, that identifies me as a refugee.

Do You Know My Flipper?

2007-06-07T23:20:00.000-07:00

No? You haven't met our little Flipper?

Here he* is:
I'm about a week past the point where I miscarried the first pregnancy, and as I result I've been even more of a raging lunatic than usual this past week. I'm not being sarcastic at all when I say that having an insane work schedule actually helped. It kept my mind off what I was sure was impending doom.

Despite the awful memories, I had finally convinced Atomic that we should go back to the nurse practitioner we were seeing before I had the first miscarriage. (I'll call her Nurse Troi, for reasons my geek friends will appreciate). Finally exercising a bit of rationality, I argued that seeing Nurse Troi again would not jinx the baby, and that if heaven forbid we did get bad news, it would be better to hear it from someone we knew and trusted. Still, I wasn't all that eager to go myself.

I finally sucked it up and went in for my first official, post-RE, prenatal visit. I started hyperventilating and sweating, oh, about four hours before our 9am appointment this morning. I dry heaved for the first time in a week. I think I may also have been a wee bit curt with my beloved husband, and, well, let's just say I'm glad that cats have short memories.

We went into the little room and I donned the ceremonial Blue Paper Gown. Atomic and I held hands and stared, zombie-like, at the ultrasound machine. When Nurse Troi finally came in, she said, "well, let's start off with the ultrasound and we can discuss everything else later."

I dug permanent nail marks into Atomic's hand. I closed my eyes.

"Can you see a heartbeat?"

"Bahahahahahahahahaha!!!"

(They're LAUGHING? Wha. . .)

I opened my eyes and, well, FORGET about the heartbeat, our little fetus was flipping and flopping around like a little fish. Squirming and wiggling all over the place. I've never seen anything like it in my life.

I've never seen anything quite so beautiful.

And neither of us could stop crying. We cried even harder when Nurse Troi told us our baby was just the right size, that I could stop taking prometrium because the placenta was "perfectly formed," and that everything looked just wonderful.

Of course, we're still scared and very conscious of all the things that could go wrong.

But man! You shoulda seen that kid move! It makes a mama proud, I tell you.

*Yes, I used the masculine pronoun. No, we don't know if we're having a boy. But for some reason, I've taken to calling him a him. If I'm wrong, I'm sure she'll forgive me. After some therapy.