semipseudo

Let's Put A Bird On It.

2012-01-03T21:45:00.000-08:00

Now that I'm moving to Eugene I feel the sudden urge to start an herb garden, buy a bicycle, and cleanse my new house with patchouli incense. And I might start putting a bird on everything. My inner hippy has gone into hiding while living in Portland's slightly more aggressive version of Northwest culture. But in Eugene I'm very "eh, let's put some Bob Dylan records on and call it good..." So if you see me at the Saturday Market buying homemade candles, just don't worry about it.

My sister was helping me sort Jack's baby clothes the other day. I couldn't remember which bag I had put aside for Goodwill and which one was full of keepers. After she examined the contents of both she declared, "Well, this one has a bunch of Tie-Dye onesies in it so it must be the bag of clothes you are saving."

"Yeah, must be." I nodded.

See??? All my huffing and puffing and righteous indignation about Portland culture and I'm secretly hoarding Tie-Dye paraphernalia in my closets.

***

In other news, I think I am going to do a 'before and after' series for the new house. It's empty now, so that will be the 'before' part. I'll post those pics in a few days. Then I'll fill up all the rooms, change the curtains 18 times, and post 'after' shots. And to digress for just a moment, I have to tell you that I can spend many an hour worrying about the statement my curtains are making. I've spent the last two years avoiding them all together and I've had bare windows this entire time --- which has been worth it just to avoid all the stress of taking them down and putting them back up again over and over. But sometimes I do go to K-Mart, Target, Fred Meyers, Ikea, Ross, and wherever else is open at 10 pm to peruse the curtain aisle, then I get sad because it seems to me everyone else has no problem at all picking out curtains. (Or sometimes I do buy some and stick them in the closet with Jack's Tie-Dye's -- hence the 18 different sets I have for my 'after' shots.)

When it comes to the kids' rooms, I'm much more confident. I already have a ton of ideas and am hoping the landlords will let us paint. If we can paint, I'm debating different options for the color of the nursery. My brother suggested I put a poll up for her NAME and I was going to go for it but after a brutal round of in-person polling with just siblings and parents I don't think I have the stomach for having all my favorite names voted down on the Internet! But advice is welcome on what color to paint her room, so here are the options: (please feel free to vote in the comment section since I don't know how to create a real poll).

LIGHT PINK

TANGERINE ORANGE

SOFT GREEN

YELLOW

Let the Baby Bump Begin

2011-12-01T16:32:00.000-08:00

Let's talk about the baby bump. As in, is that a baby in there or did you just eat a lot of bacon and eggs for breakfast? Little bit of both! I'm a bit of a whiner when it comes to pregnancy, which is an unfortunate quality (working on it!) but the one thing I absolutely love about being knocked up is the belly! Even at my skinniest, I have never, ever had a 'flat tummy' so having an excuse to flaunt the bump rather than perpetually finding ways to hide it in between pregnancies is such a nice breath of fresh air. I can just relax, and let it all hang out, literally!

Here I am below, just over 15 weeks.. I am already rocking the maternity shirts! If you look at the second picture, you can see my belly now is almost as big as it was when I was 20 WEEKS with Jackson.

The Daycare Diaries

2011-11-29T23:48:00.000-08:00

Jack has been at The Sunshine School since he was 6 months old. He's played with the same friends for three years. He's been in a serious, although sometimes rocky, relationship with his girlfriend Ruby for that entire time. He's moved from the infant room, to the wobbler room, to the big boy room for "potty-trained" toddlers.

This school has been our saving grace. For all the hectic mornings, crazy work schedules, and days we forgot diapers / shoes / milk, etc -- they always have a smile, a reassuring word, and an extra set of whatever we dropped in a puddle, peed on en-route to daycare, or happened to leave at home that day. Most days he lunges toward his favorite toy, favorite friend, favorite teacher. Laughing and engaged the minute we arrive. And for the one or two days a month when Jackson clings to me, holds onto my leg, cries and begs: "Mommy, don't go" the teachers bend down, pat his back, give him hugs and always say "Here, let me help with this transition" as I nod, fight back tears, hold him for 30 more seconds, and then stumble out of the classroom toward my car, toward my work day, toward ten more hours before I see him again.

A common joke between Brent and I (among many inside jokes since we became parents) is "Oh, did Daycare teach you that?" Which, I guess, is more of a question than a joke but we always laugh in amazement and wonder at the new words, skills, and tricks he brings home. After his first few weeks there, our 6 month old started using sign language at the dinner table for the words "milk", "more", and "all done". Fast forward a year and a half later, Jackson starting counting to ten in the car everyday, it went something like this: "1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 7, 7, 7, 7, 7, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10. JUST A MINUTE WE'RE NOT DONE!" (This last sentence was a line he stole from one of his favorite books. It adds a certain flare to the counting segment that I attribute to a budding appreciation for the dramatic).

He's also learned the alphabet, certain colors, how to pee standing up, and a rapid response outcome to the phrase "I'm going to count to 3" that I can only thank the teachers for instilling in him since we have absolutely not even one back bone between the two of us and neither one of us knows what the heck is supposed to happen after three. We just know it gets him to stop throwing pickle jars out of the cart during our weekly grocery shopping. (He must be putting the pieces together: Pickles + Mommy = total cliche and baby on the way! Like the flare for the dramatic, he also picks up on those psychic tendencies from me -- but we'll be going more into the whole 'I KNEW I WAS PSYCHIC!' epiphany later in this posting).

Apart from all the obvious benefits of early learning, social development, etc I just find everything about daycare very comforting. From the macaroni seasonal-themed artwork to the potty training sticker charts to the hand written notes at the end of the day:

"Jackson really enjoyed playing with the dinosaurs today! He ate all of his broccoli at lunch time! He got to sleep in the Director's office because he wouldn't stop giggling at nap time and then all the kids were giggling instead of resting! Actually that happens quite often we thought you should know!"--Ms Tina

I'm probably so grateful for the dependable yet diverse routine they offer Jack because I know that if I were to be home with him each day, there would be no schedule, no music class, no arts & crafts, no daily walk to the playground. Cause on the weekends, I'm pretty much like "Let's cuddle all day!" or "Winnie the Pooh!!!!!"

They also give great advice. And they manage to do it in a really non aggressive but firm way (with lots of teacher head nodding that I find quite affirming, actually).

"Some of the other parents are starting to potty train at home. Would you like to try that? (Head nod).

and 4 months later...

"We noticed Jack still wears diapers every day. Would you like to see what a pull up looks like? Here's an article on p-o-t-t-y t-r-a-i-n-i-n-g." (Extra long head nod).

"It's starting to rain a lot now. Because of how we live in Oregon and all. Would you like to bring a rain coat for Jack? That will help him stay d-r-y if we go outside to play."

And stuff like that. I kind of like it. They are always helping us figure out how to parent better which is super awesome because Brent and I are both the youngest of our siblings and WE HAVE NO FREAKIN IDEA what we are doing most of the time.

But now. Oh boy. We are moving. And Jack will have to say goodbye to all his little friends. (Who he probably thinks are his brothers and sisters since he's spent so much time with them his entire life). I know I'm gonna be a total hot mess on his last day, but for now I am putting those thoughts out of my head and just concentrating on finding him an equally fantastic pre-school in Eugene. He won't need to go full time, which is great, but we want him to go two days a week so that he can continue learning all that stuff that we fail to think of. And so he can still have access to crayons.

So I prepared an extensive list of daycare options to call through and first on my list, by random chance, was a Montessori school. Thanks to the huge chip on my shoulder and my constant cynicism of God-knows-what I immediately scrawled "going to be bitchy" on the form that contained their contact information. I sighed, then called anyway. The lady who answered said:

"It's a little late in the day for us to be answering questions. You need to call in the morning if you want information on our school."

"Oh, umm, okay, sorry. I was just wondering if you do part time care? Like, for a couple of days a week?"

"Oh no. Definitely not. It's very important the children have a regular school day 5 days a week."

So funny they have no time to answer pesky questions like "Do you have any openings?" but plenty of time for a phone lecture. Snap. They told me, yes they did! Oooh, I'm so scared of you Mister Montessori! Anyway, I got the chance to confirm my psychic abilities, which was cool. Proof below.

The only daycare, oddly enough, that was more than willing to answer every question I had over the phone and BE NICE TO ME was the Baptist one! The Sunshine School is also Baptist. For all my crazy politics and Catholic upbringing, who would have figured? But you know what? Those Baptists make some good daycare!

We are going on a few tours after Christmas, so perhaps I will have an update then on what we decide. I may stop by the Montessori school just for some more material.

*To dear friend Sarah -- this post is for you (and all amazing teachers out there) in tribute to the many years you spent at Head Start. Where would all us clueless moms & dads be without smart, dedicated, loving teachers who care for our kids and save our butts every day? You probably don't want one of my crazy blog postings dedicated to you. But I did it anyway.

Almost Home

2011-11-18T21:53:00.000-08:00

We drove down to Eugene for a friend's birthday party a few weeks back. Also on the agenda was looking for our new home. As we pulled into town, I began taking pictures of the freeway in front of us. Leaning out the car window to snap photos of my home town is not something I would have done in the twenty five years I lived there. But after seven years in Portland, I felt like a tourist giddy with excitement.

Sometimes you don't know how much you've missed something until you almost have it back.

People think I'm nuts for being so sentimental about moving home. But the nice thing about getting older (I can use that expression now -- I found GREY HAIRS the other day, which is a whole other situation I need to post about later. Correction, my co-worker and dear friend actually found the grey hairs on my head and I insisted she pluck them out so I could stare in disbelief) is that I have come to accept a few things about myself. For instance, I like everything that is safe, familiar, and known.When I was little, spending the night at a friend's house seemed so exciting, but by 7pm, like clockwork, the homesickness would kick in and I'd ask the parents to drive me back. When I traveled to places like New Orleans, Los Angeles, or Mexico I usually spent the whole time sitting inside, calling home. During my pregnancy with Jack, I spent a month in Mexico at a language school. Everyday after class I went straight to my room and read until bedtime (there was no TV). I only brought four books so I read Barack Obama's autobiography three times in a row. (Thanks Mom! I feel quite connected to Obama now -- and you know, as a side note, he used to watch a lot of TV himself and where did he end up? Harvard and the White House!). Anyway, only twice did I go sightseeing -- forcing myself to sign up for day trips to the local sights and museums. My other outings consisted of walking to the Internet cafe down the street to email friends and family.

Throughout the years, after each trip I took, I would always return home and scold myself: Why can't I be more adventurous? Why don't I explore the city, make new friends? Why not embrace the change of scenery? Back then, it seemed so small minded and almost offensive to good judgement that I did not enjoy those experiences more. Over and over, I would ask myself: What am I so afraid of?

But now I'm all: Who cares? In theory, expanding your horizons is an essential component of one's life journey, blah-de-blah-de-blah and all that plus a bag of chips. But at the end of the day, I'd just as soon learn about the world through books, movies, and television. I'm a dreamer, not a doer. That's who I am. I would prefer to explore Iceland by watching a documentary rather than risk the flight. Cause that's some ocean flying right? And actually, I'm not even that curious about Iceland. And while everyone else on Facebook is doing it, I really don't want to backpack through South America, die of frost bite while climbing Mt Hood during a blizzard, or ride my bike to the Coast while enjoying Oregon's scenic highways. I just don't enjoy adventure.

What I do enjoy is the familiar. The comfort of laughing for hours in my parent's kitchen, driving past streets that carry a thousand memories, calling family friends up on the same phone number they've had for years, running into people I know at the grocery store, and most of all -- being in my own skin. Eugene is like a glove that fits perfectly. And in that town, I can merge the unfamiliar with the familiar. I've been navigating parenthood for three years now. This whole time; I've been asking myself all those same questions that twirled around in my head* after each trip. Because all those questions boiled down to just one: What am I so afraid of? (*I'm sorry, but Cain's quote is too much to resist and, to be honest, I can relate).

In Portland, I feel like a failure as a parent. Always paralyzed with anxiety over where to go and what to do. I don't know which park is the best or how to find a kid friendly restaurant for family date night. Is there a place we can go to paint pottery? I wouldn't know, so intimidated am I to even Google it on the Internet. "There's too many options, too many freeways", I whine to Brent. Should I find a kids indoor gym by my work, or near our house? I scribble out pros and cons lists in my head for the perfect library. WHICH ONE WILL BE MY SON'S CHILDHOOD LIBRARY??? The Clackamas one has more books, but the Oregon City one has a pretty brick exterior. The Portland metro area is suffocating me with eye-rolling worthy dilemmas.

At this point, I'm ready to break up with my mundane and ridiculous crazy parent inner-monologue. The hopes I hold for my children are nothing unique. Just a magical childhood. That's all. And up here, I'm beyond lost as to how we'll provide that. But in Eugene, I don't even need a map. I know every amazing, special, and awesome spot to go. For each season, there are numerous traditions from my own childhood that I can't wait to share with my kids. In Portland, being a homebody means BEING AT HOME. But in Eugene, being a homebody means BEING ANYWHERE IN THE CITY. It's my territory, and Internet searches to find a pizza place are not required.

So I continue to count down the weeks until we move. Ten! Every night I comb through Craigslist looking for the perfect 3 bedroom, 1 bath, ranch house with wood floors and an attached double-car garage (Are you writing this down, my Eugene peeps?). In my head, every Saturday is mapped out with the places we'll take Jackson. Dinner menus are planned for Sunday night gatherings with our family. (That someone else will be cooking). Maybe life won't be perfect in Eugene, but I know that it will be OUR life. So I can't wait to be almost home. No apologies for that sappy ending.


In my parent's kitchen.

Once again, I deleted a quarter of my post before putting it online. I had to make a cup-o-noodle and watch two episodes of "Brides of Beverly Hills" just to motivate myself to rewrite it. (And no, cup-o-noodle does NOT have enough sodium in it and YES it does need extra salt).

People Are Very Mad At Me (Except for Tina Fey)

2011-09-30T20:41:00.000-07:00

I wasn't going to post about my latest shenanigans here, because I believed doing so would contaminate the innocence of this blog. But. Here I go. (LOOK AWAY, semipseudo, LOOK AWAY!)

Here at this blog, I'm nice. You're nice. Everyone's nice. And with the exception of the 'Farmer's Market' posting, I've pretty much stayed away from controversy.
Which is not without effort. I have a lot of opinions in my little brain, and they tend to manifest themselves in a very vent-y, hysterical, arm-waving way. That's why I mostly just lecture the world IN MY HEAD. And not IN PUBLIC. However, there was a little bitty line, and I sort-of-kind-of-a-tad-bit crossed it. By entering a blog contest, about pregnancy, on babycenter.com via a post on the topic of 'natural' childbirth.

Apparently, people do not respond well to aggressive honesty masked by humor. I would have added a bunch of disclaimers like "I support every woman's right to make her own independent choice when it comes to child birth" but they only gave me 350 words so I thought I should spend the majority of my word budget on, you know, inflammatory and somewhat interesting statements instead. Silly me. I have, from time to time, promised to write a post on Semipseudo about my aversion to 'natural' childbirth, but I knew it would be so involved and long winded that my lazy self just couldn't get around to it. So instead, a sub-par & abbreviated version of my argument is now on the world wide web, provoking an army of angry women who were not very impressed by what I had to say on the subject.

Let's take a peek at what some of them had to say:

"Your opening paragraph was perhaps meant to be snarky and funny but it was really annoying and offensive to me."

"If you aren’t interested in natural childbirth or feel it is not for you, then that is what it is. Good for you. But to assign words like “martyrdom” to an experience you don’t understand or share is simply ignorant."

"Is this article supposed to be funny? Or well-written? Huh."

"Can you imagine if someone turned it around and characterized medicated/c-section births as “Those too posh to push, lazy, druggy mums?” A Slice-n-Dice Delivery? No I guess we’re all too busy listening to Enya in our birthing pools to put words together. How about we all sit around and critisize each other’s births to make ourselves feel better about our own choices. Yeah, that’s a great idea."

"uh I really hope this person is not picked as the new blogger she sounds like a bit@h. I really dont get why people feel the need to be so snotty and self righteous about their choices who asked you?"

"And I’m terribly disappointed in BabyCenter for picking this as a good blog. It’s insulting, patronizing, one-sided, NOT amusing, condescending, and not particularly well-written. This is what is supposedly reflects blogging moms?"

"Do you honestly think this is witty, insightful or clever? Do you think this even makes any sense?"

"I did not find this blog funny or well written at all. Referring to women who make a different choice than you as martyrs is insulting and ignorant, no matter how much you try to sugar coat it or cove it up in a failed attempt at humor."

"Ignorant."

"There is a lot more to this than just Virgin Mary Martyrdom or whatever nonsense this author wants to call it. The medicalisation of birth is having a HUGE impact on the health and wellbeing of women, the rise and rise of PND and PTSD and the difficulty so many parents in first world countries are experiencing with bonding and conciously parenting their children. Ask yourself why we hear stories, in this day and age, of people leaving babies and toddlers unattended at home because they are worried about their careers or twisted stories of physical and sexual abuse and so on. So much rests on good beginnings, which will never be taken seriously while we have this rubbish focus on whether labour pains are warranted or not. Grow up Rebekkah Whittaker."

***

Wow. Well, first off: my name is spelled with one 'k' not two. So if you really want to slam me then why distract from your zinger with spelling errors? That just has novice written all over it.

There were also a lot of supportive, hilarious, love you forever(!) type comments. (No one actually said "I love you forever" but that was the spirit of their comments, in my opinion.) I won't quote all those women because I think the other side brought up a lot of good points. So I am giving them a forum here, on my blog, as my way of saying: "You are right. You have convinced me. Well said, people."

Actually, the reason I am quoting them here is because of a little advice my mom gave me. And moms always give the best advice right? MY MOM, who happens to be the smartest mom, told me that Tina Fey also has critics. Now, you should know that Tina Fey and I have A LOT in common. She's probably trying to call me right now. That's how almost close we are to being friends. Anyway, my incredibly brilliant mother said "Rebekah, Tina Fey does not respond to her critics. She prints their comments in her books. And then makes fun of them." (Or something like that, right mom?). I don't have a book deal yet. So I just have to print their comments in my blog that 14 of my closest friends and family read. Cause I'm poor like that.

The evening we had this discussion, it was late, but after I dropped my mother off and put my son to bed, I couldn't stop thinking about what she said. I logged onto my computer and googled the words "Tina Fey makes fun of natural childbirth" ON A WHIM. And you know what came up? YOU KNOW WHAT CAME UP, PEOPLE? This:

SNL Skit: "Birthing Class"
I kid you not, Portland is mentioned in this clip. (Click above to see the video)

I don't know if Tina, in real life, had an epi or not. But, Tina, if you are listening, I want you to vote for me so I can win this friggin' contest because now I'm all: bring it. Bring. It. On.

Click here to vote for me or to leave an educational comment. I love you all forever.

A Bridge To Somewhere

2011-07-08T23:32:00.000-07:00

To where? Outside, I guess. As a first step, anyway. I joke about my aversion to anything that involves opening my front door, and stepping out. My clumsy, non-rhyming motto goes something like this: No walking, no hiking, no white water rafting (despite the never ending invites from my well meaning co-workers and friends), no outdoor-sy type stuff at all.

But there is one exception to my indoors-activities-only mantra. A certain thing that is the very definition of outdoors: camping.

Growing up, our Dad took us on wonderful trips - to the Coast, to Sisters, to Olympic National Rain Forest, trips across the Country and to Canada, to name a few. Our mode of transportation was usually a big van with a tent tucked in back. The snapshot memories in my head are distant and blurry but I remember them as:

Circling the site round and round, finding the perfect spot to set up camp.

Stories by the fire, one after the other, as we watched the flames flicker towards the darkening sky, taking our words and giggles with them as they disappeared, into the stars that looked so different out there, a thousand sparks of white dotting the endless black universe. A thousand questions provoked as you stared up, up, up.

Sisters side by side, the flashlight our dim lamp, as we flicked our hand, card by card, onto the picnic table. Winning and losing War, Gin Rummy, I Doubt It.

Burnt marshmallows & rocks that dug into our elbows at night as we tried to sleep on camping mats until the wee hours of the morning.

Mosquitoes, wet clothes, and cold chicken noodle soup out of a can that tasted delicious.

* * *

I’m always waiting for those moments when I can stand on the other side, as a parent, and take in the view as Jackson introduces himself to the world as it offers itself to him. At points in his life, years from today, he will have a bank of memories, some of which will come on him like a tidal wave when he least expects it. But today, I do not know if he even holds a single memory inside him that will last til his fourth birthday or beyond. So I wonder: Which will be the memory that sticks? The one that he’ll look back to, and think, "that’s when my life began…". Of course, so much more had come before. But he won’t know it. He is almost three, and I wistfully tell myself that any day now will be the one that contains a ‘pause’ button. Will he tell me later, that he remembered trick or treating on Halloween? Or the 4^th of July Fireworks display he gleefully danced to? Or the first time he sat in a big kid swing, flying toward the sky as he learned to pump his legs and pull the chains as he held on tight? Or the time he zipped the tent flap-door open and closed, over and over, on his first camping trip?

The timing of his first real memory is beyond my control But the stuff that memory is made of, I might have a hand in.

* * *

We decided on July 2^nd that it might be fun to go camping for the holiday weekend. Procrastinators yet optimists that we are, we figured no reservation and no camping gear would not be major impediments. It's also been years since we last camped, but Brent and I pulled it together after completing a few pre-trip tasks such as: googling 'Oregon Coast Campgrounds' and comparing several side by side shots of fir trees to find the exact right location, securing the last space available for the 4th of July weekend, frantically fitting in two trips to the local sporting goods store for supplies.

We almost got sidetracked by a few arguments over brands, sizes, and prices on all the necessary equipment: We have to buy a Coleman tent. They are most superior! But this one is $15 less! The sleeping bag has to be warm enough for 30 degree weather. No, it just needs to be tsunami proof! That cooler is NOT large enough and is definitely the wrong shade of green, it needs to blend gently into the background of foliage so as not to shout it's presence to the forest!

I was going to give you the minute by minute play back of the entire trip, but then I figured: why invite more people to delete this website from their bookmark menus? Didn't the Farmer's Market post do enough damage? Instead, I will give a brief recap of our mini-camp-cation. So! Highlights! Here we go:

The Short Version for those of you who find reading about people’s vacations worse than clicking through 78 uploaded Facebook photos while simultaneously asking yourself “Why am I voluntarily viewing this entire album while sitting on my couch alone, muting the television so I can give the waterfall shots my full attention?”:

WE COOKED POTATOES FOR 2 HOURS OVER THE FIRE BUT THEY WERE NEVER DONE, WE SLEPT ON THE GROUND, THEN FACED A (POTENTIAL) BEAR ATTACK THAT ALMOST HAPPENED, THEN WE DROVE HOME!

Longer Version (minus the potato situation, because that was what it was):
I’ll say this: I am not one for sleeping on the ground. Therefore we brought an air mattress. Which apparently requires batteries. So that was an extra trip to the local grocery store 14 miles down the road, right before dark. But you can't really trick Nature. It's like, "Heck No! You may have cheated labor pains through excessive, recurring epidurals but you are going to feel every moment of sleeping outdoors!" On a positive note, I may have stumbled upon a new exercise fad; because after 8 hours of trying to balance three people on a 'shifting air' mattress every muscle in my body was d.o.n.e.

Asleep

Awake

Really Awake!

But, being as ambitious as ~~Brent is~~ we are, hiking was still in order first thing in the morning. My nostalgia had sort of worn off by then and it took every ounce of willpower to hold back the words, "Can we go find donuts?" as we started down the trail. I will admit, after a few minutes of inner sighing, I did find it quite beautiful.

Until I saw a sign much like this one:

And then it was on. Truce over. Nature wants to maim, claw, injure, and kill my child. Just like the tsunami. Not cool. Not cool, nature. "Let's turn back, it's not safe! The Mother Bear is going to eat Jackson!" I tried to warn Brent, but he was way ahead of me on the trail, pretending he had never met me before and/or didn't hear me. I spent the remainder of the walk to the beach clapping my hands over my head while shouting "Here we are, we are here, no surprises, we are not surprising you Mother Bear, no need to protect your cubs, no danger here, we are kind Oregonian humans who do not carry weapons!" Fortunately my technique worked because we made it to the beach fine.

However, Jackson promptly fell into a massive hole in the sand filled with three feet of water and after a few to-be-expected hysterics on my part, we were ready to go. I finally got a pastry and our trip was complete.

Not quite the same experiences as the camping trips I remember growing up, but close enough. What always catches me off guard as a new parent is the continuing realization that our old (young) selves come visiting time and time again as we hover at the edge of our kids’ childhood. It’s not ours. But we get to witness it. A childhood that is fresh and new, and all its own, but stitched together with the thread of a life already lived. We get to take the best of what we had, and offer it to our children. One generation to the next, we build a bridge between our lives. Raising a child makes me want to step outside my front door, outside my comfort zone, dive head first back into the mystery and joy and mistakes of childhood. Take a picture of every moment, so he'll have his own snapshots.

***

P.S.

Through no proactive searching of my own, what did I come home to when I opened up my Yahoo browser? A news article titled: Grizzly Bear Kills Yellowstone Hiker

When you’re right, you’re right. (That's my other mantra)

1987

Where's Dad? He's Working. Let's Go Visit Him...

2011-06-26T23:10:00.000-07:00

Conversations With a Two Year Old & How I Really Feel About Bill Cosby

2011-06-09T00:55:00.000-07:00

Jacksy-Wacksy (whoa there bad nick name HOLD ON) is starting to sound like he's auditioning for "Kids Say the Darndest Things". Somebody get me Bill Cosby's phone number. (After a long introduction, my voice mail for Cosby would go something like this: "I make that face while hatin' on Trump too! I do it all the time at work! We have so much in common! Call me! Oh yeah, and my kid should be on that show you hosted thirty years ago if time machines become real. I love you").

Pics of my cute kid & his mother. They're like, pretty outdated, thanks to my sister Teresa who reserved all the rights to her photos on FLICKR and I had to hack into her account to download them, jeez.

I want to write down EVERY SINGLE THING Jack has been saying lately. I'm in THAT place. Sick, twisted mommy love. Drooling adoration. Like, "OH MY GOD, you would not believe what my two year old said the other day let me impersonate him RIGHT NOW for you." Yeah, none of my co-workers will say hi to me in the halls anymore. That's cool. That's why I have this blog. I'd like to see my blog tell me to shut it. Not gonna happen. I told myself: "Put it in writing and print the evidence. Store safely in a small potpourri box. Never lose it. Read quotes aloud to myself AND roommate sixty years from now should a moment arise when I need to stab my heart with some small amount of joy after Jack's put me in a home."

Because, c'mon. After giving birth and stuff I pretty much own the right to be entertained by my son. He owes me that. A video would better capture the hilarity of his comments but he clams up whenever I film him. He pretends he doesn't KNOW HOW TO SING THE ENTIRE ALPHABET IN A MONSTER VOICE just like mommy taught him to.

Without the audio visual support, you'll have to read these quotes aloud in a toddler voice and kind of flip your hands around for full effect.

***

Me: (attempting to make small talk while driving Jack to Daycare because the car radio broke so no NPR) "Hey Jack. Mommy MADE YOU in her tummy. That's why you are in the world now."

Jack: "No, I made you in my tummy. I made you in my tummy. I made you in my car seat."

Me: "That's incorrect."

***

Jack: "I'm a girl and you're a girl and Daddy's a boy and Holme's a GIRL." (Holme is his Un-Grandma)

***

Jack: "Mommy, I WILL take care of you. Because the Dinosaur is coming."

***

Standing at the top of the stairs, next to all the family photos on the wall, refusing to come down:

Jack: "I can't come downstairs because the pictures are scaring me."

Me: "How are the pictures scaring you?"

Jack: "They're biting me."

Me: "It doesn't look like they are."

Jack: "They are."

***

Cuddling in bed on a Sunday morning

Jack: "What's that?" pointing to the freckles on my arms (these are no ordinary freckles, my arms are covered in pretty aggressive freakin' freckles and there's like a village of them).

Me: "Beauty marks."

Jack: "No. Those are owies. Those are owie brown coco dots!"

Me: "You mean polka dots?"

Jack: "Yeah. Coco dots."

Jack: "I'll kiss them and make it all better."

***

So here my kid is only two years old and according to what he's told me he is already:

1) The first male capable of giving birth (to his own mother, no less).
2) A gender specialist.
3) A dinosaur slayer.
4) Afraid of wall pictures.
5) A doctor who specializes in freckle reduction.

These are all super useful skills and personality traits. Obviously, I'm concerned about his irrational fear of family photos but given the context, it's not surprising. We are biters.

On second thought, I should probably print more than one copy of this post. I think his daycare teachers really need to read this. As his mother, it's my responsibility to make sure his talents are nurtured.

And I'll need another copy for Cosby.

Why Farmer's Markets Are Just Wrong

2011-05-19T16:20:00.000-07:00

I made it clear I would be covering this topic after I got done explaining Lutheranism to everyone. Technically, not everyone (and everyone, you know who you are) has read that post yet but I don’t have all day and a half to wait for everyone and their dog to find my dusty little URL so, in direct response to the repeated requests for me to provide some evidence on why Farmer’s Markets are so freaking lame, I’ll walk you through it ONCE. But then I’m done. I'm not brave enough to debate the Organic Veggie Lady any more than I have time to debate the Cat Lady about why I refuse to bring Philly into the vet yet again to have his balding fur issues treated.

Let's rip this off like a band-aid:

1) Nothing you can buy there tastes good.

2) Everything.

3) The stands are usually directly on top of parking spaces. That's really not helping anyone.

4) Safeway already sells produce.

5) The vendors will sometimes smile at you through their eyes and speak in a low gentle voice that renders one involuntarily calm and in need of a long hug.

6) They won't do the friendly-soothing-eye-staring-head-nodding thing if your child is eating a food item that is dripping in high fructose corn syrup (if it wasn't for toddlers, why does is say so on the package? Last time I checked, Target doesn't lie about their merchandise).

7) Someone forgot to put their dog on a leash. On purpose. Oh my God.

8) If your kid is in a stroller and someone else's kid is in a sling then you lose and they win. If I had known there was a handbook that explained all of this I would have read it, but it turns out a new Go Green(!) policy that was implemented last spring required all copies be turned into decorative wrapping paper for the welcome party they threw for the IFC Portlandia Crew when the seventh episode was filmed at the local parking lot farmer's market.

9) One time, I overheard the guy at the Huckleberry Roots Farm Booth declare you can tell a healthy eggplant if it appears to be 'sweating'. No one was in direct proximity when he bestowed this wisdom.

10) Farmer's Markets are usually outside.

The Usual Disclaimers:

I'm from Eugene, Oregon so I am WITHIN THE CIRCLE. My authenticity cannot be challenged. Rebellion is only natural.

This post is mild compared to next week's critique on natural childbirth.

It's not like I took on the new trend of having organic, locally grown vegetables delivered right to your front door. Because I could. I have A LOT of material.

The Real Housewives - Part 2

2011-05-18T22:30:00.000-07:00

If you have not read Part 1 that's okay. It didn't make a lot of sense and neither will Part 2. That's what they have in common! But if you are dying of curiosity, amnesia, or apathy I will remind you that I was pretending to be a housewife and the apathetic among you were pretending to care. The main thing that makes no sense, and I'll say it right upfront (if you consider Part 2 to be upfront) is that these posts don't read like a reality TV show. I'm not writing sentences like "...and then the camera did a close up to my face while playing this song as it should in all Teen Mom episodes especially when Jenelle is fighting with her Mom and then I squinted my eyes just so as I examined the expiration date on my Nutella jar....". But. And however. Due to my extreme loyalty to reality television AND Clackamas County AND my seven readers, I feel the need to combine these concepts and throw something together here. And even though the titles of these posts are lying (blame it on the al-al-alchohol*) about me being a housewife; I'm really not worried about any sanctions or penalties if I'm discovered by the Internet's Truth Police, mainly because they don't exist but also because of the grand liberties these shows take with the definition of a traditional housewife. Half of the women work (IE: design clothes and/or jewelry via approval of finished products) and the other half are divorced or are engaged/pre-divorced. So technically, being married and staying at home are not hard and fast requirements.

Excellent. Back to the plot line. We're headed to downtown Oregon City for a few errands. This is an important late afternoon Saturday ritual as it buys a good 2-3 hours before starting the weekend chores. The goal (if you time it right) is to arrive back at the house around 6pm. Because, gosh, that's dinner time. And honestly, I'm not going to NOT FEED MY CHILD just because some laundry needs to get done and the floors have 3 day old mac n cheese taking up residence in multiple rooms. Again, timing is everything. Bath follows dinner, then required simultaneous web surfing / tv watching follows bath and before we know it Sunday has arrived with no housework accomplished but the good news is we're having eggs for breakfast so the mac n cheese will have some company. Solutions are everywhere if you're willing to be an overachiever like me.

FYI -- I'm writing this post while watching 'Mob Wives', a brand new VH1 reality television show. Riveted would be an understatement.

How do we keep getting off the subject? It's unlike me to get side tracked. Right, we were headed to downtown Oregon City, home of the almost-Portlanders.

There is a lot to accomplish -- we need to get the car cleaned, window shop for area rugs at Bi-Mart, buy more forks at Goodwill (don't ask), and pick up kitty litter. If you're looking for a commercial break, just kick back and enjoy some pink wine, housewife style. because this ride is not over yet.

We pull into a sad car wash, the kind that sits on the edge of a strip mall and always looks closed even when its open. American Flag murals decorate the grey cement walls that separate the vacuum stations as if to pat you on the back and say "Good job for driving a car --- that's very American of you." I know a mural can't really talk, but that's what I feel like its saying. I think I would get extra points if I was driving a truck or an SUV but I'm not sure how it works. The only reason I'm cleaning my car in the first place is because, much like people who once broke their arm and now their elbow twinges when it's going to rain, so goes it for me but in my situation it's more like I hear a low buzzing and my eye starts twitching a few days before my car is about to break down. Hence, in case you are not following, the need to get my car cleaned out before a little trip to the mechanic.

I have a lot going on in my life so I can do without the added anxiety of envisioning the good ol' boys in the shop mocking my collection of 'Us Weekly' magazines shoved underneath the driver's seat (that I never read while driving, obviously). Nothing says "Bill me for an extra falangy* while fixing the whatever whatever cooling hose" like a bunch of guilty pleasure chic mags. My husband likes to tell me "Bekah, everything has it's place. So if you always put something back in its place, nothing will ever get messy." Let's have a moment of silence for that statement. Cause I murdered it. Correction: He liked to tell me this before he gave up on 'helping' me become a more organized person. I think he officially gave up about 6 years ago after he accidentally viewed a particularly frightening junk-drawer in my dresser while putting away laundry. No one else stores forks, forgotten Target receipts, and old hair in one place? It's called multi-tasking. Sorry I'm good at stuff, world. It's like he forgot that part of our first date when I carefully explained I'm the PRESIDENT of the "Association of the Self Righteously Disorganized Day Dreamer's Club". It's not easy to get all those lazy procrastinators to vote on election day. Hello!!??

And, I am a firm believer in things having their 'place'. It so happens that the floor of my car is home to a lot of useful things that would otherwise be transient and/or in the bottom of a garbage can. Call me an environmentalist but I'm just not that quick to throw away. For example, on any given day of the week you might peer inside the window of my 2005 Pontiac G6 and wave hello to a few dozen diet-pepsi bottles, un-touched gym clothes, several car chargers (a lot of phones have been lost in this battle, but I like to keep the chargers around in case any of them show up -- one cell hid under the windbreaker attachment thing-y on top of my car for several months and it ended up working fine), old muffins & gold fish crackers (Jackson is a young member of the ASRDDDC), 7,834 extra changes of toddler clothes, lipstick, and a stack of Union literature & authorization cards (it's important to be prepared, because it's always a good day to join the Union).

Nonetheless, today all of these items will either be thrown out, boxed up, or hidden in the glove compartment/trunk/under floor mats. I can be quite the compulsive cleaner when properly motivated. I do not, however, like the quiet observations of fellow Oregon City car-owning residents as they watch me from behind neighboring American Flag murals while I implement my unique tidying methods. These are probably 'regulars' who tediously sanitize their SUVS on Saturday afternoons. I am impressed by the intense lady to my left who whisks out her floor mats and shakes them vigorously in a rapid motion that I can only describe as memorized. Talk about premeditated cleaning. She's probably the President of the County's OCD committee. If I ever get my show, casting her would make for some good TV, as conflict is encouraged and yields higher ratings.

I could probably keep going, as there are about 452 painstaking minutes left to this particular event-filled day. But, as any die-hard fan of Reality TV knows: months are condensed into days and hours into minutes. And most importantly, at the end of an episode, you wonder why you gave up the last half hour of your life for such inconsequential dribble only to find yourself drawn back in the next Tuesday, at the same time, for just a little bit more.

Due to my ongoing duties as President of the aforementioned association, I may not have time to post again by the time next Tuesday rolls around. But if you stay tuned, I'll probably be back with some more dribble dribble later this month. You're welcome, you hopeless addicts.

*that was a rap song, in case, like, you didn't follow my reference.

*final episode of FRIENDS, Phoebe referred to a fictional airplane part,"the falangy" in an attempt to get Rachel off the plan so she could reunite with Ross. That's right.

The Real Housewives of Clackamas County

2011-05-18T22:25:00.000-07:00

Exits 6 through 14 off the 205, just a wee shy south of Portland, live some of the most fascinating, non-televised real housewives in the tri-county area....

Where I live, Multnomah County gets all the love. Of course, when I say 'Multnomah County' I mean the blocks that fall within 4 very specific square miles of progressive self love. But I'm not about to start uploading shiny pics of pink wine just to get sidetracked by a little chip on my shoulder called 'Hawthorne Street Insecurity'. No. We're here to talk about reality TV. So, let's get down to it.

Reality TV and I are besties. Reality TV and I have no boundaries. We have no secrets from one another. We're like this:

pastel colors and magic sparkles included

Let me make it crystal clear how serious I am. I have watched every episode of every season of every show listed below.*

Real World

Jersey Shore

Tori and Dean

Jon and Kate + Eight

Kate + Eight

17, 18, and 19 Kids and Counting

Sister Wives

The Bachelor (Brad Womack is such a jerk face)

Baby Story

Teen Mom

The Hills

Laguna Beach

Kendra

Girls Next Door

Holly's World

The Kardashians

Real Housewives of Orange County, Beverly Hills, New York, New Jersey, Miami, you name it...

I'm going to stop there before someone calls DHS on me. (It's called naptime, people). And on a personal note to one of my sisters -- watching TOP CHEF does not count as Reality TV. So, if you want to join the club you'll have to lower that brow and get down in the gutter with the rest of us.

Given my incredible dedication, I find it a bit surprising to wake up everyday and find no cameras in my house. What's up with that? I was out to pizza the other day with my family, cozied up next to a table of Seventh Day Adventists, watching my 2 year old son play a race-car video game-preview with no quarters in the slot and, as I was sprinkling parmesan cheese on the 'Local Canadian Bacon Delight' I thought to myself, "Somewhere out there in a parallel universe I am doing this exact same thing but....(wait for it)....ON TELEVISION! Broadcast on Oxygen, preferably. (Second choice: TLC, obviously).

Because the local networks and cable mega giants are not currently returning my calls (bad manners = bad karma = sucks for you when I become super duper famous as soon as Oprah's new OWN channel discovers me in Clackamas County -- please see above map for directions, Oprah) and because I'm nice and because I feel sorry for everyone who wishes they could watch me avoid housework and exercise from the comfort of their living rooms every night I WILL GRANT THE UNIVERSE A FAVOR and describe what a typical episode might look like if 'The Man' ever comes to his senses and sends a camera crew over here (please see above map for directions, Crew).

The following non-televised reality television show is titled "The Real Housewives of Clackamas County"

Starring: myself and.....remaining talent TBD.

Scene One: Early dawn morning, Saturday, approximately 10 am, I awake to the sound of procrastination and fear. Relief settles in as I realize my rise-at-5:00-am-ex-Marine husband has gotten our son out of bed and fed him. (See? Still no need to call DHS.) I climb out of bed and create a mental check list of 'to-dos' as I look around the room and notice seven immediate tasks. I'll get right on those after a bowl of cereal.

Scene Two: Jack and I proceed to engage in a little game called 'Opposite Cleaning' for a few hours, which consists of pretty much what that sounds like.

Scene Three: Now that it's nearing 4pm, I'm really starting to feel motivated to start some chores. Right after a quick trip to the store to get some things we need before we begin. Really need some window cleaner before I can dig in. We hop in the car and head to downtown Oregon City.

Like all good episodes...to be continued....pink wine and all.

*not intended to be a factual statement

Book Clubs, Lutherans, and Mommy Blogs

2011-04-08T20:33:00.000-07:00

I’ve reached a phase in my life where I need community and social networks to reaffirm this decade's decisions; which have led to the following reality slash non-dating website bio: 32 years old, married, career oriented, slightly neurotic, Mommy. I've gotten past the sleepless nights and the crippling anxiety that tells me it's logical to link my success as a mother to whether or not my son's nursery has matching furniture but I'm still trying to find that 'not hanging by a thread and a hostess cupcake' balance that I so desperately crave.

So, the only sane thing to do is acknowledge it's time to join a book club, find a progressive church I can force raise my family in without feeling like a hypocrite/traitor to all my lefty, inclusive politics, and lastly, get back in touch with my 'creative side' by reading and writing blogs (IE: find an 'outlet' for the all consuming crazy-mommy inner monologue that quite frankly, needs a new home, because my brain is getting a little tired).

But. You know. These are serious pursuits and take a lot of time to ponder, plan, and implement. And I don't have a lot of time because, in addition to parenting and working full-time, my Wednesday evenings are already booked with 'Teen Mom' and 'The Bachelor'. But despite these obstacles I seem to be on a roll. I am officially...

1) In a book club (attended 2 session, read 0 books, consumed a lot of wine. Check)

2) Contributing $2 dollars regularly into the pass-around-donation-basket at the ‘We Love Everybody Lutheran Church’. If that’s not commitment I don’t know what is. I even baked cookies for the Pastor (WHO IS A WOMAN!AS IN, NOT A MAN! MOM AND DAD, HOW WILL YOU EVER GET ME BACK TO THE CATHOLIC CHURCH NOW?!!) and signed up for the “Homosexuality and the Church” workshop. Basically, I’m to the point where I can comfortably make statements like, "Well, as a Lutheran we believe...." and pretty much piss off anyone standing next to me in the room. Mission accomplished. And I have somewhere to go on Easter.

3) Dutifully stalking reading a set of well known 'mommy bloggers' who I view, hypothetically, as part of my closest friend circle (they are unaware of this development). I can read their posts everyday during my lunch break or while ignoring my husband at home. Following these blogs helps me fine tune my best skills: secretly coveting other people's lives and, alternately, self righteously judging and condemning them in a very enthusiastic manner. In addition to the massive personal growth opportunities this activity provides, I've also won a year's supply of free toilet paper by being a regular commenter on Girls Gone Child. Nothing more to say there. Justification DONE.

I have some theories about my need to fill the scary black hole that consists of the universal questions we all struggle with everyday: What happens after we die? Am I a good mom? How did that bag of McDonald's get into my car? Why does my hair look like this? How does one end haunting nightmares about rotten bananas hiding everywhere? But, instead of exploring these important questions further (let's leave that for the therapist) I'll indulge in why I think Church, books I would never read if left to my own devices, and hip-bloggy-moms are FAR SUPERIOR (fighting words? I think so!) to some other Portlandia sanctioned lifestyle activities that I have neither the pretention, energy, or patience for:

FARMER'S MARKETS: I'm very anti-farmer's market (I'll post more on this later and get everyone really hopped up mad at me) so I can't spend my Saturdays filling a basket with beet greens and chard.

HIKING: Hiking is out. (It doesn't involve a lot of sitting around, so I don’t do it.)

POUNDING THE PAVEMENT IN A NORTHFACE FLEECE(say that three times fast!): I'm not joining a mommy-baby-jogger group. Not happening. Same reason listed for #2. Look it up.

PROTESTING: I already attend a lot of sign waving rallies for my job (YEAH!) So, that can't really count as a hobby. Although I do love me some good protesting. Not gonna lie. Getting arrested is just icing on the cupcake.

To summarize, can I just say this about the book club: I really believe the driving force for joining these things (every single one of my friends in their 30's is in one) is that none of us have read anything besides US Weekly since we were in college. And, like, we've built our whole life on being smart and intellectual and feminist and stuff. Hence the internal embarrassment we feel when trying to figure out our answer when asked, "What have you been reading lately?" at all the non-existent dinner parties we think we are going to be invited to or host.

The book club is our fail-safe.We can just say "Well, you know we are actually reading ___________ in Book Club right now. It wouldn't have been my choice, but I'm actually finding it quite interesting." My other motivation for joining a book club is to co-opt all the members and start a alternative one where we read trashy romance novels and/or just watch TV. And then, somewhere deep inside our hearts, we'll feel a little smug and safe. Which is what we all secretly crave. Right? That and beet greens.

Days of Our Lives Recap and Comments

2011-02-22T15:05:00.000-08:00

I was a die hard fan of Days of Our Lives for many, many years. To the point of video taping episodes if I missed them. Well, I'm sick today and as I'm sitting on the couch, blowing my nose, I DISCOVER that a little DOL is on! What? Fantastic! I'm behind, 8 years or so, but I'm pretty much able to follow along. After the show I hop on a recap website and check out the summaries. (Had a wee question about the evil twin plot line, and, on an interesting side note, the actor used to play a super cute hunky cop on Passions - my other favorite soap opera. Which has been cancelled. So sad.) Anyhoo, basically, the comments after the recap are priceless and the essentially the whole point of this post. Can anyone say 'Nurse Betty' for Poster #1? Holla!

Episode 11530 | Season 46 | 02/22/2011
Sami convinces Allie to go to the park with imposter Rafe. Imposter Rafe makes plans for Allie to be taken away, but Sami interrupts before they leave and says Lucas called. He wants Allie to visit him in Hong Kong and to leave tonight. Allie is desperate to go and tells Sami that Rafe was mean to her again. Sami doesn't believe that but agrees to let her visit her dad. Imposter Rafe fills in Stefano, who wonders if Sami is suspicious of him. Imposter Rafe says no but if that changes, he'll take care of her.

The real Rafe collapses and Stefano tells EJ he wants to move up the timetable for getting rid of him. EJ disagrees â€" he thinks Rafe is still useful. Stefano reluctantly backs down but says if the situation is ever out of control again... Rafe will be gone. Rafe starts to get better, determined to escape.

Taylor, thinking of EJ, spills coffee on herself and heads to the restroom just as EJ arrives at the Brady Pub. He sits down with Nicole, but is soon called away by Stefano. Taylor returns, just missing her mystery man. Nicole hopes the two of them will hit it off when they finally meet tomorrow at the wedding.

After talking to Johnny and Will, Chad tells EJ he'll be his best man at the wedding.

Chloe tells Philip she overheard Melanie telling someone that she's not fit to raise Parker. Melanie says Chloe is lying, and Philip believes Melanie. Distraught, Chloe runs off and tries to tell Nicole but she's distracted with wedding plans. A rattled Chloe says she can't be in the wedding. Meanwhile, Melanie tells Kate that Chloe is taking postpartum pills. Pleased, Kate is ready to take their plan to the next step and subtly convinces Chloe to throw out her postpartum medication.

Vivian finds out Brady stole Titan from Victor. She's thrilled and forces Brady to tell Philip. Philip is furious with Brady for betraying Victor while Vivian lords it over Victor, knowing his own flesh and blood has hurt and betrayed him more than she ever could.

COMMENTS

How funny it was to hear Kate call Chloe a ***** when Melanie is the actual *****. She slept with so many men who paid for her services. She should watch out for Aids or other STds. Why is it Kate is never found out. Chloe should return to her parents with her baby. Philip is stupid for believing the twit Melanie. She should have been gone from this show a long time ago, along with Carly. How can Daniel lose all love for Chloe, forgive Carly for something far worse, and not give Chloe another chance. She actually should go back to Brady who would take care of her. Oh by the way, if Allie is taken from Sami and given to others to raise her, I am done with this show. The same old story lines get repeated and repeated and Stefano is becoming crueler and crueler. Allie better get to her Dad's in Hong Kong, or it is bye, bye for me. Nicole and EJ and Kate and Stefano all should get their come uppance. What a dreadful theme for this show. Bring back the good actors, Marlena especially.

Jetman Tues. 2/22/11
February 22 - 2:09pm The actress portraying Ally is superb.

Cute little Ally
February 22 - 2:08pm PTIf anyone really buys it that Rafe being mean to Ally is a 'public service' topic, forget it. Take out some commercial air time to address the subject. Why are the children being portrayed as pawns who are kidnapped or have eyes cut out for instance.

Find something else
February 22 - 2:04pm PTChloe the adult is being bullied and abused by Kate. It didn't work the first time so guess she's going to get the job by making Chloe try to kill herself instead.

Guilt-less?
February 22 - 1:59pm PTI have to agree with people who commented on the horrific child abductions that have taken place in this country. It's one thing to address the subject but to focus on it so intensely more than once is a bit overdone. The poor little Allie character is so pathetic and sad reacting not unlike a child who is being abused.

Enough is enough
February 22 - 1:56pm PTWhat happened with the dinner set up between Daniel and Carly? Is that being dropped just like the pool table scene with Adrienne and Justin? Just when things were getting heated up with these two couplings, it vanishes into thin air in favor of Creepy plotline.

Give us the good stuff
February 22 - 1:51pm PT

One sentence at a time

2011-02-14T22:17:00.000-08:00

Jack is 2 years old and 3 months old and he has started talking in sentences. Very interesting sentences. I am quick to forget, so I need to write them down *quick* before I lose them!

"You NOT a tiger. You a Mommy!" (after my best tiger roar rendition)

"Dat kitty sitting on da airplane" (when I asked him to tell me what the kitty in the picture book is doing --the kitty is sitting on a window sill~)

I tried again, "What's the kitty doing?"

Answer: "Dat kitty is looking at daddy!"

The world through the eyes of a two year old: priceless...

http://www.flickr.com/photos/44906978@N05/4988930614/in/set-72157624945269848/

What Makes Me Happy

2010-09-06T21:36:00.000-07:00

1. Watching reality TV (we all knew that)
2. Sitting around & reading US Weekly, In Touch, Etc....
3. Chilling with one of my siblings or family
4. Everything Jackson
5. Sunday night procrastination

Baby Books, Scrap Booking, and The Fears That Keep Me Up at Night

2010-09-04T20:17:00.000-07:00

Was I supposed to label each photo album by month?

I don't have a picture of the first step! Or the first tooth.

Scrap booking for the first time can be a lot of pressure. I don't even know if you are supposed to put a space between scrap and booking.

If I do go forward on this mission, will I wake up tomorrow with a mini van out front and a zip code in the midwest? Will I need a scrapbooking room in the corner of the den? Will I get a den?

It's definetely a line that, once crossed, brings you into a shadowy world of unknown cliches.

What I really have to say is...

2010-05-28T21:58:00.000-07:00

...there's not a lot of point in blogging if you have lost your digital camera 4 months ago. Who wants to read a mommy blog when there are no awesome pictures attached of my son doing one of the following:

a) Walking around in circles with a steamer pot on top of his head (happened). Where did he get the pot? I don't know, I was in the bathroom when he procured it.

b) Hiding a gigantic glass measuring cup inside his high chair and secretly cuddling it with one arm like its his giant teddy bear / best friend when he thinks I'm not looking. (happened) Where did he get the measuring cup? I don't know, when I put him in the high chair, it was empty.

or

c) Talking on his 'cell phone' coaster. "Hewwo? Hewwo?" Where did he find the coaster? I don't know. We don't own any coasters.

All of these scenarios would be way cuter via snap shot. Sorry. I lose things a lot.

My son is really into kitchen utensils. That's our deal.

What are ya gonna do?

........

Sans digital camera - I have resorted to Facebook trolling to acquire some recent (ish) pics of the little dude:

IPOD Thoughts

2010-03-09T07:55:00.000-08:00

All around us, the Mighty have fallen.

Tiger Woods.

Toyota.

Heidi Montag.

It doesn't pay to cheat, lie, cut corners, or get too much face work.

15 months

2010-02-17T21:50:00.000-08:00

WORDS:

Whoa
Uh Oh
Wall
Baby
Mama
Dada
Go
Agitty Ca (Kitty Cat)
Oh
Hi! Hi!

ON COMMAND (if you ask nicely and only sometimes):

Claps Hands
Blows a kiss (if you're lucky)
Points
Pats Mama
Waves bye bye (and hi, if he feels like it)
Hugs (according to dad)
Touches everyone's nose
Follows the cats around
Says rainbow (bo bo!)

Birth Story - Part 3. The Final Frontier.

2010-02-06T22:05:00.000-08:00

Quick review (But lets be clear: If you haven't read the first two installments, it doesn't matter because they are grammatically challenged, long winded, and only really make sense to me).

So, to recap:

Election day 2008 (this birth story is quite dated as my son is over a year old now!), contractions, loss of "mommy plug", no baby, frantic crib shopping, adventures in getting locked out of the house in the middle of the night, weary put-upon husband, people telling me I look fat, lots of pizza, lots of peeing, water breaking in the bed which is perceived as more peeing by the put upon husband, emergency room Nurse who believes in me & wins my lifelong love and loyalty, and now we're all caught up.

At this point, I'm surrounded by all the books I forgot to read over the last 7 months (because I was busy eating and keeping my baby ALIVE through constant nourishment, thank you). I'm thumbing through them looking for information on how to tell if your water broke. They all say, like, duh - it's not that hard to figure out. But I don't know a lot of people who feel really smart and full of common sense in the third trimester. Cause your brain is too preoccupied with, 'What the blippety blip is going on INSIDE OF ME, DEAR GOD?!!!!!?'

Brent decides to humor me and we get in the car, leak leak leak, all the way to the hospital. We pack 'lightly' as I am halfway convinced I will be sent home immediately.

The hospital does 4 amniotic fluid tests on me, each one coming back negative. (As in, it's not amniotic fluid, (it must be PEE!) and my water has NOT broken)

"Hmm" the Doctor says.

"It really appears that your water HAS broken."

He stares down at his shoes, a shy damp from the puddled floor beneath my feet.

I stare at the ceiling of the hospital room. I'm lying on the crinkly white paper, holding Brent's hand, feeling humiliated. There are three people in a room trying to decide if we are all soaked in pee, or baby fluid.

"Yeah. So, what's happening here, am I just peeing continuously right now or.....?"

Doctor, "Well, the microscope is not picking up on any fern like images, which amniotic fluid resembles under the lens."

"Maybe my amniotic fluid looks more like a flower?"

The ultra sound is wheeled in to "take a peek" and sure enough, PLENTY OF AMNIOTIC FLUID STILL PACKED IN THERE!

"Well, this is just great. I'm going to have to go into work tomorrow then, because apparently I'm not in labor. I'll just put a tarp in my cubicle. No problem." This, along with the flower comment, is just my inner monologue, as I'm concentrating on my contractions which are growing stronger. I've also decided I'm not on speaking terms with anyone in the room, except the Nurse who rolls her eyes every time the Doctor leaves the room to take a test strip to his microscope. "Honey, I don't think you are going anywhere."

Drip, drip. "Thank you for believing me." I say, thinking of the old cliche that a woman's intuition is always right. I'm almost a mother. I know my baby is coming.

"Yep, yep. Here it is!" The Doctor charges into the room, with an 'I knew it!' look on his face, he's holding the test strip in the air. "Amniotic fluid!"

Time out for a quick prayer: Dear Lord, thank you for making me right and Brent wrong. I love my husband. But I knew I was not PEEING!

Brent and I stare at each other. It sinks in. We are not going home. The next time we go home, it will be with our baby. We are about to become parents. Any silly competitive teasing about who was right fades away. Our eyes lock. We exchange nervous smiles. We feel like kids.

"What's going to happen now?" he asks the Nurse.

"Well, we recalculated her due date (apparently they can do that?!) and it looks like she is 35 1/2 weeks along, not 34, so she can stay here. Otherwise we would have to transfer her to another hospital where they have a more intensive preemie unit."

I had not really believed my baby was going to be premature. I thought he would be late. He was coming more than 4 weeks early. My experience at 5 months, having my appendix removed, had been so painful and frightening, and now it was all coming back to me.

"Can I have my epidural now?"

The Doctor says I can have it anytime, now that my water has already broken. I break into song. (In my head, like before, with the flower comment) Think Wizard of Oz: Somewhere Over The Rainbow.

"Let's get you settled first."

"Okay."

We get checked into a labor and delivery room. It's about 1 am. We're told to try to get some sleep. My contractions are steady through the night, I pace the room. I try to shower to soothe the pain. I draw pictures of needles on the wet shower stall. I talk to my future epidural: "How are you? I'm fine. I love you. Please come to see me soon."

I check on my husband. He's snoring fitfully on a uncomfortable bed/bench that is up against the wall. I look at the clock. 5 am. More contractions. I am so tough, I think, I must be like 5 inches dilated. Or centimeters, or metric kilometers, whatever. I'm superwoman. Where is my epidural?

Around 7 am everyone comes to life. I'm texting everyone I know. Brent's on the phone with our families. They tell me I'm 1/2 centimeter dilated. I ask for narcotics.

"Just until, you know, the epidural. When is that happening again? I was told anytime I wanted, I could have it. I'm not anti-epidural. I don't believe in natural childbirth. I think it's self hatred. I think it's martyrdom. I think it's ridiculous. I know I live in Portland and I'm Liberal so you think I don't want drugs, but that is not the case. I can give you a few different midwives phone numbers who I have pissed off that can attest to this. Can I see your badge?"

My darling husband, "Sweetie, why don't we make it a goal to wait until 3 centimeters before the epidural?"

I have to stop typing now because there are no words to describe the rage I felt at that moment.

"We? We? Why don't we.........................???????????????????????????????????????"

"Okay, never mind, nope, just an idea, let's get the epidural. Whatever YOU need sweetie, I SUPPORT."

For the record, I could not have gotten through any contractions without him, I would hold onto him, ask him to help me breathe, and in slow motion, we would get through it together. No one else could have helped me get through that pain. Still, we? We?

By noon, I had done the tub, the walking, the peeing in the bed pan while strapped to the bed (let's not get into that part). I had 12 straight hours of contractions and 3 centimeters to show for it.

Needle time. Aaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhh. Bye bye contractions.

Peace. No pain. Love. More inward singing. I called everyone, "How you doing? I'm in labor. Feels good. Can't complain."

I watched my contractions dance up and down on the monitor. After a few hours I sent my sister to find the nurse, "Tell them the pain is coming back."

"Is it?" she asks.

"No, but if we want to get through birth PAIN FREE I'll need another round, because after this wears off, it may be too late to get another -- and then I will feel pain. Which is the opposite of my goal." (I set the goals around here, see?) This is MY BIRTH PLAN Y'ALL! Your welcome for saying it. (I warned you, end of post two, look it up).

2nd Epidural.

A minute later, 9 centimeters. Husband has ran home to 'clean' and pack a real hospital bag so the baby will have, like, clothes or something to come home in.

He makes it back just in time.

"Push!"

I push real hard. I feel the sensation of a squirmy hot dog coming out. No pain. I'm cheating child birth. Will I get in trouble? I stare at the Nurse. Will she yell at me? I'm not thinking straight. Is there a baby coming out of me? Brent and I look at each other, and in the sappiest moment known to mankind, I feel like we are one.

The magic of my birth story is this: Through all of it, I had never felt so connected to my husband in the eight years we had been together. The bond we felt as we became parents was surreal. Our world was the same, our minds and hearts crashed into each other, like a Dave Matthews song.

Never in my life had I shared a moment so completely with someone else. No one had told me about this. We were shaking, and so scared. Our whole life was about to change, all control was gone. We were at the mercy of the next moment. That moment was too big to understand, to feel, to comprehend. All I knew as they put my baby on my chest was that the magnitude of what was happening would not be fully realized for years. The love that was about to grow between me and Jackson had only just begun, what would it feel like when he was one? Two? Ten? Twenty years old and beyond? I couldn't grasp it fully.

I only knew that it was a love that was going to break me. What other kind of love is there between a mother and child? No other kind of love. A love that has no beginning and no end.

Birth Story - Part 2

2010-01-25T21:12:00.000-08:00

Where was I? Oh yes, rescued by the husband. Back in the house. Out of the basement. Wallowing in a state of heightened self pity and becoming more neurotic by the minute. 34 1/2 weeks pregnant, to be exact-ish. It was November 5th, my due date was Dec 16th. I'm not great at math, but it was not time to be a mommy yet, even though according to a lot of people who I am still not speaking to I was:

"Huge as a house!"

"Ready to POP!"

"Having triplets!"

"Looking very big!"

Now, I'm a very passive aggressive person, and will NEVER tell you to your face when I am annoyed, irritated, and thinking homicidal thoughts. But something about the combination of my third trimester and people cheerfully telling me I was fat inspired, shall we say, a certain directness in my demeanor.

"That is really rude. I cannot believe you just said that. What is wrong with you? Who raised you? You just totally pissed me off. What the he#@?"

From the offender(s) would come an awkward smile, "Oh, I just meant, umm, that you looked overdue, and like you had more than one baby inside of you. I didn't mean to upset you. Are you 11 months pregnant now? That must make you grumpy."

I'm not going to waste all your time by going into detail on what would come next. Let's just say the wilderness surrounding my home is a blessing.

Back to the pending birth of my little angel poo. A few days had passed since the election / urgent care / basement situation. A few contractions had come and gone. I was starting to feel silly for all the fuss I'd made. It was clearly a false alarm. We sort of got back to normal, which meant ordering pizza and watching late night TV. Diapers and breast pump purchases could wait, this baby still had a lot of cooking to do.

Before bed, I proceeded with my nightly ritual of checking for stretch marks. So far, none. Hah! Like a good pregnant lady, I'd been reading lots of baby books to prepare for impending motherhood googling "stretch mark images" for months now and then printing pictures to show anyone who came within a 7 foot radius. Brent was my main target. Nightly, I would turn the lab top in his direction before he could turn his head away,

Me: "Sweetie. Sweetie. Look at her stomach. Ichh! Yuck! Are you looking? What if my stomach looks like that? What will you think??!"

Brent: "Umm, yeah, I don't really want to look at that."

Not Mine

I felt sorry for those poor pregnant women who put pictures of their forever ruined stomachs up on Google for the whole world to see and judge. I had made it this far with not one hint of a stretch mark, so you can imagine my surprise when I saw facing me in the mirror that night what had not been there even hours earlier: an intricate spider web of angry red claw marks making their way up from my belly button, ready to reach out and pluck my eyeballs from my head. AAAAAAAAAAGHHHHHHH. Oh dear God. They had come for me. I was not be one of the lucky ones. The mark had come upon me.

They'll fade, I whispered into the dark as I lay in bed, rocking my tummy to sleep, comforting myself with the thought that it was all for the little one. He was beyond worth it. These would be my battle scars. A badge of honor. Oh glorious and stoic mother I would be, sacrificing and selfless.....zzzz.........

I awoke every three minutes around the clock to pee. Only one thimble full each trip. As everyone knows, The Law requires pregnant women to pee on a three minute rotation, one thimble full at a time. You can check it out yourself, it's right there in THE LAW, section 472, article 39: Pregnant woman of 22 weeks and beyond shall pee no no less than once every three minutes and distribute no more than one thimble full upon each trip to the bathroom. Any violation is punishable by a minimum fine of One Thousand Dollars, 60 Days in Jail, or Immediate Pregnancy Following Birth of Present Child Residing in Womb. *Per Judge's discretion. (Article 40: No woman, prior to first pregnancy, shall be warned of this Law or Consequences thereof)

Despite this constant interruption, I fell asleep pretty hard and then shot straight up at the sensation of a water balloon popping inside of me. This is A MOMENT, I thought to myself. My baby is coming. I ran to the bathroom. I stared at my stretch marks. I stared at the accumulating puddle on the floor. Was I in a sitcom? I ran back. I woke up Brent.

"I think my water just broke."

Brent pulled the pillow over his head, "You probably just peed your pants."

"Excuse me?"

"Remember, that story you told me about your friend's sister who peed her pants but thought her water broke and then she called the ambulance and went to the hospital and they sent her home because really she just lost bladder control?" He mumbled all this, sighed heavily, and then immediately got up to change the sheets.

I sat in the living room, pondered this, and then called Urgent Care. And because I'm good at multi-tasking, I continued to fill 20,000 thimbles with amniotic fluid / pee.

Me: "Umm, hi, I think my bladder, I mean water, just broke. What should I do?"

Nice, validating, understanding Nurse who believed me: "You should come to the Hospital right now."

Me: "Okay, I'll do that. If it turns out that my water hasn't broken and I just peed my pants, will you explain to my husband that YOU TOLD ME to come down?"

World's Best Nurse: "Yes."

......................

I acknowledge it's pretentious to have more than two parts to a birth story, but the silver lining is this: The next installment will make you so irritated with my approach to childbirth that you will have completely forgotten it took 3 blog postings to get you there.

......

Also, I wrote this entire story and then got so overly obsessed with clicking on the Not Mine link that I accidentally erased the entire thing and had to start from scratch. I wrote the first things that came to mind so that I would have some kind of outline to jog my memory:

poor pregnant women

multi tasking

thimble full

Birth Story - Part 1

2010-01-09T23:48:00.000-08:00

My own little family. November 9, 2008.

In the last post I mentioned telling his birth story when Jackson reaches five. If I was on top of it, I would have written it a few weeks after he was born, or on his first birthday. But today he is 14 months. And that seems like as good as time as any. Especially for an old fashioned procrastinator like me.

Jackson was due December 16th, a day before my own birthday. He had other plans.

It was Election night, Nov 4th 2008, and I was wandering around the Portland Convention Center, the results had just come in, and everyone was celebrating. My husband was in Florida for work, and though I was among co-workers and friends, I felt very pregnant and very alone. I was passing person after person with champagne glasses. I kept rubbing my stomach as a reminder that I had company. My Pepto Bismol colored "Another Mama For Obama" t-shirt was very tight across my belly.

I felt like a whale. I was tired from canvassing, er, waddling all day and I just wanted to be curled up on my couch, watching CNN, and drinking diet pepsi.

I could hardly think about heading home to get comfy, though, because all of a sudden I realized I was having a contraction. And another one. And another one. Every few minutes. Okay, party over, I decided to cut the evening short and head home. I made my way through the crowds of cheering people (who were not cheering for me, obviously) and walked in the dark a few blocks to my car. Everyone was in the streets now, cars were honking, arms were hanging out of windows, waving to each other in excitment. It was a surreal evening.

For those of you with a different political persuasion, don't worry, we're done with that part. Just wanted to set the background scene, because the energy of that night combined with the realization that I may be going into labor was a lot for me to absorb. And I thought it would be pretty cool if my kid made an entrance on such a momentous day. But it was not to be.

I was scared, and my husband was all the way across the country. My Doctor had warned me I was high risk for pre term labor because my appendix had been removed at 20 weeks. I wasn't due for another six weeks. I got home, convinced I was just having some early contractions, like lots of women do without going into labor. But when I went to the bathroom, I was startled to see I had lost my "mommy plug" (Sorry folks, this is a birth story, and you are lucky to be getting even that euphemism) and I was bleeding. I'm thinking, okay, holy crap, this baby is coming. Tonight. With my husband in another state, with twenty eight states between us, or however many there are between Oregon and Florida.

I drove to Urgent Care, feeling sorry for myself, and lamenting on the drab, unfinished state of the Nursery. There was no changing table, no diapers, no nothing! I was already messing up my child's life, and he wasn't even here yet. The room was four walls of wood paneling, hmm?

The nurse told me my contractions were real and coming 7 minutes apart. But I was not dilated and definetely not in labor. But it could start as early as the next day, or not for another 6 weeks. You just never know, she said. I left the hospital with more questions than answers.

Hormonal, crying wreck that I was, I called my husband to tell him the whole story, mommy plug loss and all. I told him to fly back right away because I would probably deliver tomorrow and the nursery wasn't ready and I wasn't ready and the baby wasn't ready and I had a lot of work to do this month, so this was not a good time. He was, shall we say, taking this news in stride, "I'm sure it's fine, you're not going to give birth tomorrow, it's just a false alarm." I think he was trying to calm me, but these statements made me completely LOSE IT and throwing away all logic and good sense, I became weirdly determined to have this baby indeed tomorrow. That will show him! (Did I mention I was hormonal and not thinking straight?)

I called my sister, who immediately got on board with Plan Freak Out and drove down first thing to help me construct baby furniture and prepare the nursery.

Before she arrived, I headed to Babies R Us to buy a crib and changing table. I already had one crib, but decided it was ugly and horrific and not good enough for my baby. So, this did not bode well for the very nice and helpful sales girl when she told me they did not have the changing table and crib I wanted in the SAME COLOR. "When are you due?", she asked. "Because maybe we can order one in the color you want." Choking back tears, I replied in a panicked voice, "I don't know, I don't know when I'm due. The baby may be coming right now! I really need this crib set today." She was a bit, uh, thrown back by my watery eyes and shaky voice. The Nesting Instinct had me in a choke hold and was not about to let go. I chose the medium-colored-wood changing table, settled for my crib at home, and moved on.

Because it seemed like the smart thing to do, I carried the 40 lb box myself across the parking lot and loaded it into my car. Carrying heavy furniture while trying to avoid pre-term labor. Check.

When I got home, my sister was pulling up, having driven straight from Washington. She started to assemble baby furniture on the spot. For some reason, this made me do three things:

1) Cry a lot, and thank her profusely for helping me.
2) Accuse her of doing it wrong and launch into a tirade about how I hoped she was prepared to take ALL RESPONSIBILITY for there being no place for my newborn child to be changed
3) Frantically apologize and beg forgiveness, and then start that cycle all over again.

I think I did this four times in a row, if I remember correctly.

At some point, I headed to the basement to do laundry. As I headed back up to the house, I saw my sister step outside onto the back porch with some recycling. Now, my basement can only be accessed by exiting the house, and going around to a door that leads to the basement. As her fingers turned the door knob shut, we were locked out. In the rain. At 9pm. With nothing but laundry and recycling. No cell phone. No keys to the car. We raced to each window, each door, trying to press, cajole, bang, break our way in. We finally sat on the front porch. My husband would be home in three hours, flying in from Florida. We would have to wait for him.

Wait a minute! We weren't locked out of the basement, and that at least was a roof over our heads, even if it was freezing and looked like the kind of place people are murdered and left to rot. We would make do! We sat on overturned boxes and huddled by the dryer for heat. We pulled warm towels out of it and draped them over our wet selves for warmth. My contractions had started again, and pretty painful. I needed to distract myself from worrying the baby would be born on this cold, cement floor. I remembered there was an old 13 inch TV somewhere among the items we never unpacked, and a box of VHS videos. We pulled out a dusty 'Royal Tenenbaums' and pressed play. Woo hoo! This had gone from nightmare to cozy girls night. A couple hours later, we heard stomping above us. Brent was home. Thank God! We ran up and banged on the door. I was never so happy to be in my home as that night.

Part 2 is coming. I promise. Not like that 'to be continued' situation on the Party Store post. (We all knew how that was going to end anyway).

Me and Jackson: 3 weeks old. (photo by the amazing Andy Utz)

New Years Day 2010 *This Blog Posting Makes No Sense

2010-01-01T11:25:00.000-08:00

With two weeks off work for the Holidays, an inch of snow, and a head cold that has consumed fourteen rolls of ~~toilet paper~~ tissue I am finding a lot of time to blog. Yes the snow has melted and I have child raising to keep me busy, but nap time yields an hour or so to kill. And deep thoughts + an aversion to housework = time to watch the Joy Behar show and reflect on life in 2010.

Well, so glad I did turn the channel to the HLN network because DOLLY PARTON was on!!!!!! Happy New Year to me! Now I am watching A Few Good Men which is kind of a buzz kill but I think we are going to pack it up and have a play date in a few minutes anyway. Before I go, here are a few choice quotes from Jack Nicholson, "We're in the business of saving lives, something something something..." Well, I can't type that fast so I kind of missed the end of the quote. Now Demi Moore is confronting Tom Cruise while he plays baseball - something about him not being fit to handle the defense. "You went to Harvard Law and then joined the Navy. Probably because that's what your father wanted you to do." This is a good movie! Lots of tension and driven dialogue.

Welcome to my holiday vacation. If you think this posting makes no sense it is because I have sneezed and coughed my brains out. I keep asking Brent if I should go to the hospital and he says, "No. You just have a cold." And I think, how can this be JUST a cold? But, maybe I think I am dying of a sniffly nose because I cannot stand being any level of discomfort. I don't like my feet to hurt. I don't like the temperature to be anything but slightly warm. My house is always a reliable 79 degrees, even if I have to take out a second mortgage on my first born son(!) to pay the $600 heat bill. I drive to the store even when it is a block away, because being outside even for a minute is such an unpleasant, slightly uncomfortable experience. I need to have the TV and computer on at the same time in case there is a commercial or slow internet connection and nothing is entertaining me for 30 seconds. I secretly wish I could de-claw my cats because there is the possibility that their claws could snag my arm. I lied to the nurses and got a second epidural like an hour after my first to ensure a pain free delivery. I. did. not. feel. any. pain. pushing. my. child. into. the. world. This is something I am DEEPLY proud of. Just thinking of natural childbirth makes me run into another room and scream. In fact, I didn't even want them to put Jack on my chest until he was cleaned off. (But I had enough sense to not articulate this and I did let them put his bloody, internal liquid-y covered body on mine. But I made an invisible OMGEWWYUCK face inside my head to get through it). Also they tried to make me put my hand on the top of his head as he was, you know, exiting AND they showed me the PLACENTA which I specifically did not want to see and can never remove that memory unless I get Alzheimer's which probably isn't worth it since that is a very scary and tragic disease I do not want. Probably filled with miles of discomfort. I'll just stoically avoid the image of the warm, fresh placenta dangling off the doctor's fingertips as she flayed it open like an accordion fan in front of our faces, cooing "It's the Tree Of Life." But, this is getting into the whole birth story post which I will not have the energy to write until he's five years old. After which reading you will all judge me a lot and say things like, how can she live on the West Coast? Is she really a Liberal? Poor Jackson.

I did make New Years Resolutions. They don't involve trying to improve my grammar, senseless rambling, or self involved speeches. They do involve being a NICER person. So, I'll let you know how that goes. Or maybe you will let me know.

If you want to see real images of a placenta you can go here or here.
But I wouldn't recommend it. I didn't take any pictures of mine. I didn't bury it in my backyard. I didn't eat it or make tea with it. I did, however, put it in my blog, so maybe that will provide a little nourishment, eh?

Let's Get A Few Things Straight

2009-12-26T21:35:00.000-08:00

"Dear Mom and Dad,
I hope you enjoy your present. You love me the most Mom and Dad. I love you Mom and Dad. Merry Christmas.
Love Joey"

Now, the truth is that my parent's love me, their youngest child of seven, the most. I have no idea why my brother Joe wrote such a thing. It must have been before I was born.

*Joe, as a lawyer, are you going to sue me for copyright infringement? Love you!

HAPPY NEW YEAR everyone.

Blue Eyes

2009-12-19T21:36:00.000-08:00

I think I'm going to keep him all to myself.

*photo by Andy Utz!

Thanksgiving is not funny.

2009-11-25T21:09:00.000-08:00

Well, obviously, Thankgsiving day is the breeding ground for all kinds of funny. Funny cooking stories. Funny family stories. Funny traffic stories. Funny scary turkey stories. But, the night before Thanksgiving is not funny - it's contemplative. And I am contemplating all that I am thankful for. So, if you like sappy, come along with me...

I was just reading my five favorite mommy blogs (Girls Gone Child, Dooce, Moms are for everyone, Straight from the Bottle, and Mamalogues) and noticed everyone was blogging their thanks. And even though I was planning to go straight into the kitchen and start cooking a pie and cornbread after finishing all the important blogs the blogs made me think I should record my thanks too. (That way I can make Jackson read my Thanksgiving blog aloud for all Thanksgivings to come for the rest of his life, as a tribute to me, his mother).

So I told Brent, who is sitting next to me, "I can't go cook right now because I have to write a Thankgiving blog and look on You Tube for musical videos that will capture my Thanksgiving spirit and thankfulness."

"And also, I may be procrastinating"

And Brent said, "That's so surprising" in a tone that was sarcastic and patient at THE SAME TIME. (like, simultaneously).

And then he said, "Its a holiday for you too babe".

And then I said, "Does that mean you think I SHOULD write a Thanksgiving blog even though I should be cooking?"

And he said, "Exactly" and kissed me on the head.

I am thankful for my husband who understands me and loves me.

I am thankful for my son. For my first year as a mother, for becoming a parent with my husband who is the best father in the world. After 30 years, you become all used to what love is. You take love for granted, it's like breathing, you've never been without it. And then you have a child, and you're like "Whoa, love" this is a whole new side of you. Love as a mom makes me think all kinds of new thoughts constantly. For example, I look at children differently now that I have one of my own - it's like I love all of them too. I realize how important they are, and I want to give all parents I see on the street a hug and say, I know. I know. (But, if I actually did that it would be really weird, like the word 'funny' in writing is weird to look at, but this is more weird with a side of creepy because imagine if someone came up to you in the grocery store and gave you a hug and said, "I know, I know." You would be thinking "CA-REEPY" not "Oh, that's so sweet" which is how I would have meant it). Okay, moving on----I am grateful for all the love my child has given me and how he makes me want to be a better person and more understanding, and more loving, and more empathetic. And how much he makes me believe in God and goodness and the enormity and power that each moment can hold.

I am thankful for all of my family and Brent's family and all our friends who are kinder and sweeter to us than we even deserve. And who helped us welcome our son into the world surrounded with love and open arms.

I'm thankful to our parents for not sleeping when we were babies and changing our diapers(!) and feeding us and teaching us how to walk and talk and laugh and hug and sing and picking us up when we fall.

I'm thankful to humor for getting us through difficult moments.

I'm thankful for my car so I don't have to walk (I hate walking, I wrote a post about it)

I'm thankful we have jobs in this recession and that we have a roof over our heads.

I'm thankful for Holidays which make us slow down, and think, and be with loved ones.

I'm thankful for this year, a year that has been life changing and difficult and has turned me inside out and upside down. A year I wouldn't trade for anything.

I'm thankful for music. For sad songs even when I'm happy. For children's songs which are the BEST, that make my baby bounce up and down and coo and communicate that he knows music, and loves it too. For songs that give me goosebumps. For songs that capture things I cannot describe.

I'm thankful for life.

Home Sweet Home

2009-11-03T21:51:00.001-08:00

I came home from Pendleton tonight. Two nights away from home. I walked in, still on the phone, still working. I buried my head in a tiny tummy covered by flannel monkeys. I ushered my husband out the door so he could go the Blazers game. Then me and the little one started our evening.

Me and Baby J's To Do List. Completed.

1) Dinner: veggies, rolls, chicken, applesauce
2) Bubble bath with 15 toys
3) PJs
4) Dance Contest
5) Read "Where's my belly button?" Book
6) Found kitty, played with kitty, lost kitty
7) Toys!!!!!!!!!!!!!
8) Warm bottle, snuggles in rocking chair
9) Night Night!

Would someone like to bring me a drink?

2009-10-12T20:12:00.000-07:00

I have not blogged in like 1000 years because I didn't want to bore you all with my drippy whining. If I've said it once, I've said it 7 times: I love my baby. I hate the side effects. Listen, I'm all amazed and stuff that my husband and I have made a PERSON out of our love. That's fantastically wierd and endlessly cool but it's also making me really tired. Like really really tired. I kind of want a trophy or a certificate or a pen that says my name on it. I'm so addicted to my kid I have a disturbing tendancy of actually enjoying it when he cries in the middle of the night, because I'm all "Yay, we get to play!!! I wonder what he'll do when he sees me come in the room? I'll bet he'll be excited to see me! My little angel doo doo goober star!!!!!"

He will never know his real name.

Also, there is this peson that shall remain un-nameless but they just had a baby and I gave him/her my understanding, full of pity "How ya doin?" look and asked, "Are you getting any sleep?" And she or he was all, "Actually, I have been getting sleep - my baby sleeps through the night." And then what happened after this clearly ridiculous statement was my eyes became all squinty, my brows met in the middle and my lips pursed together in a tight line to prevent myself from saying "YOU LIAR LIAR LYING LIAR!" Pause. And. Also. "You are getting NO SLEEP - don't lie to me you big liar that is lying right to my face. No moms are ever getting any sleep. The end. And don't pretend to be okay with it. Here, I made you a pen with your name on it, I AM SO SORRY you aren't getting any sleep." Disclaimer: I know aprox 8 people who meet the above he/really she description so if you think it's you that I'm calling a liar, that may or may not be true. Please just admit you are tired, that is all I want. On top of a small token of appreciation from the world as mentioned in the form of a pen, trophy, etc and a brimming cup of alcohol. Maybe in a sippy cup so my child won't knock it off the coffee table and spill it on the rug. Like my diet pepsi the other day.

It's really hot

2009-07-27T22:29:00.001-07:00

It's hot like childhood summers of sticky popsicles and lukewarm fans. Like upstairs rooms and sleeping without covers & wet rags stuck to your arms all night while you toss and turn and breathe in nothing but terrible August heat (in July!)

I spent 3 hours rocking Baby J no less than five inches away from two fans - one for his front and one for his back. He had the worst puppy dog eyes as he limply stared at the offensive air. "Why mommy, why?" Basically, son, because plug-in fans conquer heat like a thimble contains the ocean. Do you get my over dramatic, slightly mixed metaphor?

It all means one thing -- I will not go through another summer with children without air conditioning. I recognize I have a child, not children, but heat stroke is leaving me seeing double.

My Workly Week Plan -- Also, My Made Up Language & Foray into Flexible Grammar

2009-07-20T20:55:00.000-07:00

Okay, all my co-workers who read this will understand what I'm talking about (and I know at least 2.5 of my co-workers do occasionally meander across this link.)

I have a workly week plan. That's a good example of what sleep deprivation does to my grammar -- I mean, weekly work plan. Jeez. And I turn it in every Monday before I begin to tackle my TO DO list that without the restraints of a weekly work plan would turn into an angry monster who devours me alive and leaves Brent and Baby J into a widower and orphan, respectively. However, that will never happen because I diligently sit down and organize my work hours into very neat categories such as:

1. Goals
2. Tasks / Assignments needed to achieve Goals
3. Calendar - that's where I list all my meetings, tasks, assignments, schedule time to return the 68 calls the red message light is reminding me of on my office phone, etc...

So, as a result I think I'm pretty on top of my work and manage my time effectively. TYVM.

Now, it's beginning to occur to me I may need a similar work plan for my personal life/household on days that I notice the following:

1. I have no time to shower
2. Eighteen piles of laundry are leaving me 68 hate-messages on my voicemail describing in detail what a bad laundry do-er I am.
3. My child's toys are hiding from the chaos and have taken up residence under the sofa.
4. Dinner is a funny joke we heard about once in a fairy tale land.
5. The TV remote is missing for days on end (as opposed to minutes on end pre-baby world) because we are actually TOO BUSY to turn on the TV. Let's have a moment of silence and acknowledge the grief we feel in this statement (wait a minute, the baby's too cute to care! Hurrah for cute babies that cure us of TV addictions! However, I would like to watch a little Tori & Dean, just sayin' -- That's valid because there are babies on that show so it would be educational.)
6. The cats are buying their own cat food and cleaning the kitty litter box in a desperate and ineffective campaign to point out our neglect.

It's a toss up between applying the same dedication to managing my time at work to the rigors of running a household and raising a child OR following my mother's advice: If there is time to fold laundry, there is time to play with the baby. That was her motto -- and I gotta say, it has a nice ring to it.

P.S. -- Katie should probably read this. Katie - I won't print your last name on my blog because, trust me, you don't want to be attached to my crazy crazy BUT you should probably read this, is all. (In case I ever hire professional help! Not that kind, the other kind)

Also: The cat link is Teresa's fault. Teresa Sara Tobin's fault.

Facebook posting turned into spontaneous blog...

2009-07-11T22:45:00.001-07:00

Ok --- I'm so glad you asked. I was feeding Jack his bottle and I have this "soothing sounds" cd playing (I got it the dollar tree, don't ask) in the background. He's almost asleep and we are all curled up in the rocking chair. I'm chewing gum and I absentmindedly blew a big pink bubble and then it popped. Jackson's eyes fly open spits milk EVERYWHERE ---he is laughing sooo hard. (I have never heard him laugh like this) So I blow another bubble and he just goes into hysterics. We do this like 37 times on repeat. And then I fall to the floor exhausted with sheer joy. Then of course I posted on Facebook. To me -- very exciting. Too bad my video camera is dead. That is so like me. On a developing note, Jackson is now waking up every 10 minutes in sheer screaming fits like he's having the most terrifying nightmares ever, which I am worried are related to the bubble blowing episodes. I may have to copy and paste this on my blog b/c I'm writing a book here....

VIDEO TO COME

Babies are...

2009-07-06T21:40:00.000-07:00

Sticky fingers

Toothless smiles

Reaching for what they know they shouldn't

Too little to wear sunglasses but hate bright light

Opposed to safety straps

Dedicated to grabbing eye glasses, necklaces, earrings, hair...and not letting go

Unable to pet cats correctly

Messy eaters, happy eaters

Not afraid to put gross tasting things in their mouths, like shopping cart handles.

Bump in the Night...

2009-06-20T14:17:00.000-07:00

I was prompted to resurrect my blog after the following events unfolded last night at 11pm, 1 am, 3am, 3:45 am, etc..:

9pm: Brent heads to sleep early because he's been very sick and is leaving early in the morning for a work trip that will take him away for a week.

11pm: I decide to give up the ghost of reality TV (I mean, we won't really know what's going on with Jon and Kate until after the Monday night one-hour-special episode anyway...) As I go around turning the lights off, I realize the side door is open and one of our cats is still outside (we had to start letting them outside during the day time due to excessive bouncing off the walls, sitting on our baby's head, and kitty litter issues we won't discuss, you're welcome) As I call out "kitty, kitty" I am answered with extreme howling and the sounds of possible raccoon-on-cat mauling that chills my blood and I enter extreme 'my cat is dead' panic mode.

11:03 pm: Like a thoughtful wife, I immediately wake Brent up and started screaming that the cat has been mauled to death and we have to go save him but I'm scared of the blood and gore and he has to do it for me, I explain to the pillow he's holding tightly across his face in a feeble attempt to block me out. I tiptoe outside, BY MYSELF, and hear very faint meows coming from across the street. The cat has climbed the world's largest tree and is too terrified to come down.

11:10 pm: It's raining. It's pitch black. I drive my car across the street and turn the lights on so we can begin the process of extracting the cat from the tree. We are fearless. Brent is in flip flops and climbing the tree (which is on a slanted hill by the elementary school's playground. The cat is just beyond his reach. Brent's flip flops fall off. I offer to get his tennis shoes.

11:15pm: Brent is wielding an 11 food ladder and swinging it wildly in an attempt to land the right angle against the tree. I am being very helpful and giving direction and creative ideas for ideal ladder placement, Brent suggests I may be a person who "talks too much". A few minutes later he is gently cajoling our cat, Philly, into his arms and maneuvers his way down the ladder with the offender splayed across his back, claws dug in. I am convinced my husband is a hero who should be chronicled on local evening news: "West Linn Cat Owner Bravely Risks His Life Through Sickness and Extreme Weather to Save Pet Stuck in Huge Tree"

1 am: This is when the Cops arrive. I hear the door bell and think it's a dream. I go back to sleep. The door bell rings several time. I am convinced someone has come to murder us but is being polite enough to ring the doorbell first. I frantically wake Brent and steer him toward the door, there is no way I am opening the door myself. Outside is a baton wielding police officer who informs us a car is parked in the middle of the street with the lights on and he's wondering it it's our car, or someone trying to break into the elementary school across the street. We have no idea where the keys are so THAT search ensues, I move the car and turn the lights off. I stumble inside and search for sleep.

3am: The baby wakes up, I wake up, no problem, very routine. Back to bed.

3:45 am: The toilet is running. I open my eyes and see my hands in front of me, inside the toilet tank, unhooking a caught chain that is tangled beyond recognition. It seems to be taking a long time to fix. I'm not sure how I came to be here. I realize I have never tried to fix a toilet chain before, but I am doing it now, close to 4 am. I am determined not to wake Brent up again.

The rest of the night I have strange dreams and when I finally start my day I see that Brent is already awake, playing with Baby J. How will I make it the next seven nights without him? What if the doorbell rings?

First Giggles! (Or, Figgles: Giggles That Turn Into Frightened Crying)

2009-04-29T22:29:00.000-07:00

My husband wants me to blog about how bad the Raiders are.

2009-04-25T19:27:00.000-07:00

I don't want to though. I don't even watch football. Plus we have an entire drawer of Raiders onsies for baby J that I didn't order so somebody must be in a fight with their little best friend the Raiders. I'm staying out of it.

I could blog about the Swine Flu. Possible "Pandemic". I keep checking Yahoo News every 1/2 hour to see if it's reached Oregon yet.

How about the fact that cribs are in fact NOT the best place to put a sleeping child if you happen to have a pre-crawling baby who manages to wedge himself between two corners with this little arm sticking through the bars in a desperate attempt to reach freedom.

Or I could come clean and admit I don't have anything interesting, wise, funny, or shameful (see pantry post) to share but am blogging anyway because I am involved in an elaborate procrastination scheme that has taken so many twists and turns I may accidently end up doing exactly what I am avoiding: going to buy LAUNDRY SOAP so that I can continue the important task of washing clothes. Bleh.

Also, we need dishwasher soap. Bleh. Just kidding. We have a whole bin of it.

You may have already seen this on Facebook....

2009-04-19T22:41:00.000-07:00

(Yes, I breastfeed too! Calm down!)

I took this video late at night when a hungry baby surprised me by taking matters into his own hands, literally. As he finished his 3 am bottle but was still thirsting for more, he very determinedly (is that a word?) attempted to aim, cajole, gnaw at, and shove the bottle back into his mouth. This may not seem like anything very HOLD ON NASA, FUTURE ASTRONAUT RIGHT HERE IN WEST LINN, OREGON HE'LL BE READY IN 2 DECADES OR SO..., but to me, I was witnessing my baby do something new for the very first time -- and yes that thing was to, um, hold something and shake it around. I'm sorry, but I found it more thrilling than an episode of LOST. His first attempts always happens between 2 and 4 am. (I think it's a strategy of his to keep me awake: "Mom, do NOT fall asleep, I'm about to poop GREEN for the first time!!)

You often hear parents complaining about 3 am feedings (well, you often hear me complaining about them when I call you and describe them in detail for your listening pleasure). I do deliriously look forward to a full nights sleep but I also think maybe all parents, somewhere, between tired legs hitting the floor, tired arms reaching for crying baby, and tired hands patting his little back as you fumble through the dark to find whatever it is he needs (a diaper, a bottle, an electronic nasal aspirator(!), etc...) you settle into a rocking chair, look down, fall in love all over again, and by the time a feeding is finished, you are wide awake and witnessing a new discovery: the first smile, the first time his little hand reaches up to grab your hair, the first clutching of a bottle, the first nonsensical word or sound meant only for your ears.

It's not just watching his little eyebrows jump up in surprise after he realizes he just made something happen on his very own that turns me into mush. It's that I get to witness it. How often does anyone get to witness the very firsts of a humans life? I guess mothers do, parents do, people do who get up in the wee hours of the night and bring a child into the soft light and nourish them, comfort them, love them. It's like a little secret, hidden in the hard things of parenthood that we don't always want to do, right there in the center of a moment where all we can think is, "Aren't I done yet?" that suddenly becomes "Aren't I lucky?" to be right here, right now, and holding on tight.

Why Is My Pantry Doing This To Me?

2009-04-01T21:15:00.001-07:00

Nursery Rhymes, Cannibalism, and Awkward Exercise Poses...

2009-03-30T21:27:00.000-07:00

*Warning: This post may contain graphic nursery rhyme lyrics.

No, I am not so hungry from my new diet that I have resorted to eating other people. For the record, I am AGAINST cannibalism. Nursery rhymes, it turns out, are not so much against cannibalism. How did I find this out? Playing my SILLY SONGS CD (thanks mom!) for my very small & impressionable 3 month old child. Two months later, I am just now recovering from what I can only describe as a complete and utter shock to my fragile mommy senses, and quite frankly, a loss of innocence. (You have to understand the glee and excitment with which I started out when I carelessly tore off the plastic wrap and shoved the brightly colored CD into my car stereo, exclaiming: "Nursery Rhymes Baby J!!! They're the best!!!!") If only childhood nostalgia actually came with memories, we wouldn't need warning lables for childrens' songs. I feel compelled to share my findings so that you too, can be properly freaked out. And let me just say: it doesn't end with cannibalism. (If only it were that simple). So sit back, relax, and soak up the following darling lyrics that we've all been singing 'night night' to our children with for the past few hundred years:

We'll start with Found A Peanut (scroll down to the 'alternative version' for the whole picture). Sounds innocent right? Child finds a peanut, eats it, turns out to be rotton, no biggie, oh but wait, child then needs an operation and THEN:

Died anyway
Died anyway
Died anyway just now
Just now I died anyway
Died anyway just now.

And THEN:

Went to heaven, went to heaven...Wouldn't take me, wouldn't take me...
Just now Heaven wouldn't take me...Went the other way, went the other way.

Well, that's nice. Very comforting. Next up, more ways to perish! Here comes The Crocodile. This tune is set to an especially cheerful tune and it's easy to whistle to as the lyrics set in:

She sailed away on a sunny summer day
On the back of a crocodile
"You see," said she, "he's as tame as tame can be,
I'll ride him down the Nile."

The croc winked his eye as she bade them all goodbye
Wearing a happy smile
At the end of the ride, the lady was inside,
And the smile was on the crocodile!

Catchy, right? Perfectly fun and normal - being eaten up by a crocodile! No problem! Now that we are warmed up - we're on to the King of the Cannibal Islands

Once again the tune is so dripped in sugar and repetition that you will find yourself humming this happily to the gas attendant as he fills up your tank and throws concerned looks toward your drooling, babbling baby in the back seat:

Hokey pokey winkey wong
Parley magoo gagoo gagong
Handaree rangaree chingaree chong
The King of the Cannibal Islands

His kingdom stretched for miles and miles
Around about the neighboring isles,
His subjects sharpened their teeth with files
Like the King of the Cannibal Islands

After a long day of teaching Baby J about Monkeys who fall off beds, Yodeling Austrians, What to do when no one likes you (Eat Worms), and Camels who turn into horses when their humps are taken away, I like to bring it down a notch and end it southern style with Short'nin' Bread.

Mama's little baby loves short'nin', short'nin',
Mama's little baby loves short'nin' bread.

Three little children, lyin' in bed
Two were sick and the other 'most dead
Sent for the doctor and the doctor said,
"Give those children some short'nin' bread.

Yeah. So, how 'bout that. Let's have a moment of silence for the DEAD CHILDREN lying in bed while the other kids get a round of short'nin bread. That's fair.

In other news, I returned to the gym after a 14 month hiatus and discovered TVs are now attached directly to the treadmills!!!!! This new development alone almost completely makes up for tragic peanut/crocodile/cannibalistic/shortnin bread death songs! But, in all honesty those sassy little songs are not bad work-out music. Heck, a combination of Arigga Bamboo & Fooba Wooba John is enough to give me the energy to attempt PRONE STRAIGHT LEG LIFT WITH PUSH UP.

Goodbye Maternity Leave. Maternity Clothes: You're Staying.

2009-03-08T22:43:00.000-07:00

So, I am headed back to work next week. One. More. Week. That's it, then full time Mommy Duty is done. As much as I love my work (especially since it keeps me away from my couch and kitchen - two spots in the house I have gotten to know way too well over the past 4 months) I am worried about the following:

1) Who will observe Baby J's minute to minute changing facial expressions? There's more than I can count at this point, at least 18. He has 4 different takes on Confusion alone. As in: Mom, I am so confused about this, that, there, and up.

2) What if I have lost the ability to speak "Grown Up" and alienate co-workers with high pitched baby talk? "Who's little stapler is this? Is this mommy's little stapler? What sound does a stapler make? Clicky clicky clicky. Can you say clicky? Oh, who's the smartest little person standing in my cubicle about to staple my mouth shut? Clicky clicky cooooo....!"

3) How will I handle situations that involve people not wanting to peruse my digital camera to see for themselves the various expressions of my cool face making baby? For example, what if my boss doesn't think this should be on the agenda of my first day back to work check in meeting? Talk about tension, that would be really awkward.

4) All kidding aside, I don't want my little bugaboo (see, honestly I have no ability to talk normal) to sit for hours making confused faces that mean: Where is my mom? Where has she gone?

I truly believe every corny expression in the world was invented by parents. Because cliches just move in the second you bring a baby home. You think, I want to cherish every moment. I don't even use words like cherish. Well I do now, obviously.

I know this transition is going to be tough, especially at first. But I look forward to the times he will be able to tag along with me to various work events and have an understanding of what I do everyday when I leave him. He'll learn that he's been a part of my work before he was even born, when he was just a hope in my heart and a birthday wish as I blew out the candles, he was an inspiration to me to be someone that my children could be proud of. I want him to know I am taking time away from him for a few hours everyday (or even a lot of hours) because I am not only helping to put food on our table, I am also trying to dedicate my life to be in service to others, because I believe we have a responsibility to look out for one another, and to stand up and be counted not just for the big things in life, but everyday little by little we have to show up and say "I'm here, I'm ready to do my part". Because that's what my work is to me. That's what the Union means to me. It's my second family, and I love that J will be a part of that family too. One day I'll show him photo albums and say, "Look, you were in Mom's tummy then, you were with me when we worked to protect health care for kids" or "Here's you, a few months old, at the State Capital with me while we talked to State Senators" And as he grows older, he'll know exactly where I am when I'm not with him, I'm out there making a path for him - just like so many parents do, each in their own way.

For now, I'm going to savor, inhale, enjoy, extend, and cherish every single moment with him that I possibly can. I mean, just look at him:

PS -- I haven't written a post in awhile because I have not been able to upload video (I don't know how is the explanation for that) so I'm afraid of angry hate mail regarding my lack of Superman video I promised. I know, I know, I live in an imaginary world where people are obsessed with my blog and baby. This is not actually true but in any case, it's my rationale for not posting. Someday I will figure out how to upload video and then we can all sit back, sigh, and enjoy life, finally.

Don't Buy Today's Paper - It's a Trick

2009-02-16T23:20:00.000-08:00

I thought they hid all the good coupons in the daily paper while trying to trick us into believing the best coupons are only in the Sunday paper but it turns out there are NO good coupons, at all, in the Monday paper. Even though it's President's Day and everything.

It is impossible to turn back time so I won't be able to get yesterday's Sunday paper and now I only have expired coupons from last Sunday's paper. I spent 2 hours (or twenty minutes, or whatever) cutting out cat food, canned vegetables, and hot pocket coupons that all expired on Feb 14th. And I was all, I'm totally going to get to the store by then because that's 6 days from now. 8 days later, here we sit. Next to a big, fat, stuffed envelope of expired coupons.

Why do I even try to channel Oprah's advice and be The Best Version of Me when The Real Version of Me wins every time? Although, I gotta say, I have to be doing something right, because I received about 76 gorgeous grins from my most favorite little guy today, and that's better than all the coupons in the whole, wide world.

P.S. I totally would have posted a nauseatingly cute pic of little guy with evidence of said grins but I'm still working off a stolen lap top (See previous post)
HOWEVER - I am good for a video that I taped today of Baby J with two whole minutes of him having a conversation with the ceiling while I sang "Superman" over and over again off key. It's killer. Next week, I promise.

Computers Don't Grow On Trees, You Know

2009-02-11T22:35:00.000-08:00

My computer is broke, broke, broke (not recession broke, just wierd fuzzy white lines on the screen broke) so I am going to write this post in a hurry, before my husband wakes up and realizes I've hijacked his computer (which I am not technically allowed to use, because apparently I am a 'computer breaker' although really I think my cats are the 'computer breakers' but we don't have time to get into all of that)

Aside from the lab top betrayal, this has been a great week. I have been fairly productive and am extremely pleased that after 13 weeks and 3 days I have successfully completed the following activities:

1) Turned off Nancy Grace, CNN, and John & Kate plus 8 (Kate has been stressing me out) and turned my attention to crock pot experimentation (IE: my version of cooking).
2) Introduced Baby J to the world outside our living room: he visited Salem to visit some of my coworkers and got lots of hugs, went to OMSI with old friends (yay!), flirted with some cute 4 monthers at Baby & Me group, and chilled with Dad while I got to have a girls night out and see "He's Just Not That Into You".
3) Contemplated working out & ~~dieting anorexic style~~ eating healthy to lose post baby weight. (Yes, I said post baby, as in not gained during pregnancy weight)
4) Attempted to go on romantic dinner type date with hubby for his birthday (we left immediately after the food arrived, I'm guessing you can figure out why) Your welcome other diners who hate babies.

I'm looking forward to next week. I really, really, really do feel on the verge, on the cusp if you will, of ending my relationship with reality television long enough to begin a more serious relationship with WALKING and COOKING. But this is hard because I believe in my soul that walking, while good for me on countless levels, is eternally boring and really an insane activity (well, it makes me feel insane on account of how boring it is). I feel the same way about cooking, although that hardly needs to be stated because you can probably draw that conclusion yourself based on my bias against walking and since I put them both in all caps, they clearly go together (into the trash can). It should also go without saying that I have a lot of respect and admiration (not to mention jealousy and a little bit of bitterness) toward all the people who can walk and cook. I am inspired by these overachievers, truthfully, and often make the mental note to immediately become just like them. But then the 'Know Everything About Me' voice in my head says that to even work up the resolve to WALK and COOK I would have to, like, drink heavily beforehand. But I'm not really the drinking type, so that's out. (It's like I can never catch a break). Also, I have a car, so I don't really need to walk. And I have a microwave (I love you microwave, you are near the top of that "Things I love the Most" list that I will write someday) and a crockpot so I don't really need to cook either. I think I just thought I needed to do those things because I am not working right now and all this free time I have (except, hello, I'm raising a baby and following breaking news reports on Nancy Grace) puts pressure on me to be more of a walking and cooking type person. Whew. That was a whole journey of run on sentances that started off with the idea that tomorrow I'll start walking and cooking but by the end of the paragraph I'm all: No, I won't.

I wouldn't even be contemplating all this heavy stuff if my computer hadn't broken and I'd been without Perez, Facebook, and Yahoo Answers for the last 3 days. Thank goodness he is just that into me and I've got the stolen labtop & crazy blog to prove it.

Are you there Moms? It's me, Bekah...

2009-02-02T23:36:00.000-08:00

So, in my last post I wrote about recieving 'mom advice' from random nameless moms out there in the universe who approach me in the grocery store, doctor's office, red lights, etc....not so much my thing. HOWEVER, me loves some good advice from all my favorite moms out there who I actually KNOW & love!

In fact, as some of you may know, I am a tad obsessive about calling all of my mom friends and relatives at noon, 2 pm, or 2 am with all kinds of pressing & urgent questions (My baby only smiles at dawn, is that normal? Is it okay if Baby J stares at the wall all day instead of at me, his precious mother? Where do I find a camera with more memory?) in an effort to soak up your entire inventory of mom knowledge until you are forced to come up with a reason to get off the phone with me. (I kid, I kid, you all have put up with me quite well & with endless patience!)

So, here's a few Q's that I've been mulling over this week...please, impart your wisdom Mamas!

1) Sleeping: (Obviously, lets start with this one) Now that Baby J is semi-pseudo sleeping outside our bed, what tips do you have for keeping him feeling 'snuggled' in his crib? I'm not supposed to put blankets over him or lie him on his tummy but when I just lay him flat on his back he jerks his arms straight up and startles himself awake. I'm using those snuggler things that wrap his arms up but I think he's outgrowing them. Tips?

2) When did you start attempting a 'routine' (eating, sleeping, playing, reading, bath time, etc) with your little one or did you let the baby set his/her own routine?

3) If you could go back (or for your next one!) to the time when they are itty bitty, what would you do differently, or the same?

Okay, super moms, I'm depending on you (And so is Baby J, no pressure!)

Next week: Stay tuned for a special blog geared to all the non-moms in my life! Watch out, I've got your number!!

Mama Trauma at the Grocery Store

2009-01-31T23:46:00.000-08:00

Today I accidently made the mistake of thinking I could go grocery shopping. What?! Now, I've been at the store, pre-baby, minding my own beeswax but harmlessly noticing the panic stricken faces of moms trying to rein in screaming, red faced, frighteningly loud children & I've thought to myself in those instances one of three thoughts: 1) My children will never behave like that. I mean, really - I am one of 7 children and we never threw tantrums at the store. 2) Oh, that poor mom, she probably thinks we're all judging her. 3) This is definetely going to happen to me in the future.

So here's the thing, I thought crazy child ruckus in the grocery store started at like, age 2 +. Years. Not 2 + months. Hello future, welome to my life.

So after a three hour trip that yielded nothing more than 1/3 of the groceries on my list, 2 bags of pharmacudicals: twinkie style, and a sleep resistent baby I realize my experience is neither unique or especially high on the mommy stress level thermometer. I know this because I was sharing the diaper aisle with aprox. 4 other moms who returned my look of "Dear God, Help Me" with bored yawns. I guess the whole grocery shopping / baby crying / lots of stress outing is nothing new in a typical mom day but forgive me, I'm new, naive, and neurotic.

Baby J is almost 3 months old and up until last week, he happily dozed away in his car seat as it snugly sat atop the cart, while I took my time examining apples for the slightest bruise, contemplated frozen pizza selections, and made really important decisions regarding which magazine to buy: US Weekly, In Touch, or STAR (good pics but their stories ring false about 97% of the time in comparison to 48% of the time in the higher calibur celeb-trash options). Apparently my leisurely trips to the local Freddy's filled with day dreaming, aisle cruising, cell phone talking freedom is over with a capital O baby stop screaming.

Instead of leaving with my grocery list checked off, I left with this list:

-Crying baby due to hatred of car seat placement on grocery cart (all I have to say is: not all carts are made alike, clearly) If baby could talk, his point would be something like "It's not at the right ANGLE mom." CHECK.

-Fed baby horrible 'ready made' (ie: extra gross) formula out of cheapest bottle available, both of which had to be purchased about 7 minutes after entering the store. CHECK.

-Sat in depressing store cafeteria ready to launch into my, "Well, actually I am breastfeeding, TYVM, but I have all sorts of circumstances going on that make it necessary for me to feed my teenie tiny baby this chemical juice every once in awhile so back off" speech in case any Portland type moms approached me with a lecture on the benefits of breastfeeding. (I'm sorry but I left my nipple shield at home, hate nursing in public, baby cluster feeds so I've already had him at the boob for hour and a half before failed grocery outing, hence its formula or nothing, the list goes on...) CHECK.

-Recieved un-asked-for advice by other well meaning moms that I secretly found helpful but had to give them resentful, tepid thank yous because news flash: I actually don't want to engage with you for 10 minutes about my baby screaming WHILE MY BABY IS SCREAMING. CHECK.

-Mental note made, yes it is a good idea to drape blanket over car seat so baby is not blinded by supermarket lights. Other moms: 1 point. CHECK

-Fed baby J a second time. (1st time did not seem to calm screaming) This time in the more comfortable environment of the furniture section, fearfully feeding in a faux leather armchair, ready to defend my crisis in case I was yelled at for dripping formula. CHECK

-Attempted to fix 'angle issue' by placing car seat & baby in the actual cart thus having no room for groceries, subsequently piling bread, meat, and emergency junk food in baby's lap. Fear of judgment ensued, avoided making eye contact with other shoppers. CHECK

-Rehearsed sad story in my head to tell husband in detail about The time I tried to Grocery Shop (I knew I shouldn't have attempted to leave the house! Sob!) while he was off superbowling it up on the other side of the state, leaving me to imagine I am a single mom and very put upon for a whole Saturday and half of Sunday. CHECK

-Frantically started throwing crap off the shelves into the dwindling spaces tucked here and there in my shopping cart for fear I would never be able to return and hey, screw the list of meat loaf fixins, mama's gonna need a bottle of wine. CHECK

Post 1 - Beginning to Blog

2009-01-31T23:10:00.000-08:00

I'm starting this blog as a new mom who has been inspired & comforted by all the other 'mommy bloggers' out there. I like to write but have only written creatively very sporadically since I graduated from college (Semi pseudo graduated that is...) 10 odd years ago or so. I also need to stop watching tv 23 hours a day so maybe this will help. Why you should read this blog? I don't really have an answer. Maybe it will be interesting. We don't know. We will find out later.