The Top Three Reasons Moxie Captivates Me

1. She frequently sleeps with her hands over her eyes.


2. Her fingers are so small and seemingly fragile they are translucent.


3. She stubbornly believes that no solid surface can exist directly under her back and insists she is falling when placed upon it, waving her arms frantically and shaking her head back and forth as though searching for something to grasp in her terrifying, non-existent freefall.


Tallulah has her own list.

Escapism, fun for the whole family

I've been watching movies relentlessly, using breastfeeding as an excuse. I felt guilty about it-- why do I need to escape into movies? why can't I enjoy my new baby and growing family? But my head, my emotions, my nerves-- everything is just over-full right now.

And then I noticed that I wasn't the only one. Kent, the day Moxie was born, decided to clear an overgrown area of our yard. Immediately. We live in Florida and the overgrowth is made up of years, maybe decades, of pepper tree shoots and potato vines. If you've never had the joy of battling these things, let me fill you in: pepper trees cannot be killed and they grow at the speed of sound. So as fast as you can say, "I cut that pepper tree DOWN!" it's already grown back. And potato vines are the glue that hold Florida together. If you pull them long enough, you will actually detach florida from the rest of the united states. We have been battling this area for the six years we've lived at our house. But Kent has found new purpose in the battle. Can't stop the baby crying, but dammit, I can cut the shit out of those pepper trees. And to his credit, he is making amazing progress.

Tallulah is getting into the escapist game, too. Kent and I, a few months ago, watched a couple episodes of Big Love, the polygamy Mormon show. We didn't stick with the show, but it caused quite a few conversation beginning with "if we added another wife/husband from the people we know, who would you want it to be?"

I know you know these conversations. When you're dating, the conversation is "If we had a threesome..." then when you're newleyweds, it's "if money were no object, what kind of house would you want?" I imagine in another decade or so it'll be, "when the kids move out/go to college..."

But Tallulah is getting into it at age four. She's been starting conversations with, "if I had two mommies, I would want them to be..." Or, "If I had three mommies and two daddies..." No, she's not planning adoption by lesbians. She's choosing the adults in her life who would make better parents than us. Or, to be fair, she's imagining what her life would be in other families. Which is not quite the same as telling us our friends are better parents. I think it's just the same escapism Kent and I are experiencing. Because adjusting to life with a baby is difficult and we're all feeling the effects. Not just that we have a new baby who cries a lot and has more needs than the rest of us put together. What none of us realized is that our family of three has to crumble apart like an overcooked cookie before we can build it back up into a family of four. Everything is different now. Our bedtime routines, our hanging out time, the way we communicate with each other-- EVERYTHING. It's disorienting and hard and overwhelming and the only thing any of us can do is watch movies, attack pepper trees, and imagine life in another family.

The only one who isn't mentally escaping from our new circus of four is Moxie. She is alert to any sign of dissatisfaction. "I'm sorry, were you going to put me down?" she says. "I DON"T THINK SO!!!! "

Speaking of....gotta go.

our first experiments in fashion

see the hair clips? Isn't that why she was born with lots of hair? Why isn't she thrilled?

Pizza face Bonifield

Yesterday I ate a hamburger and fries from McDonald's. This morning Moxie woke up with pimples all over her face.

Cause, meet effect.

The connection between my eating habits and my babies' behavior/appearance is, thankfully, an obvious one. Well, obvious NOW, now that Tallulah taught me all about it with her babyhood. Tallulah had an allergy to dairy that made her scream for hours on end and could only be assuaged with constant nursing. The allergy went undiagnosed for ten months because her doctor and everyone else said, "Babies cry." And because I spent 20 hours a day with my nipple in her mouth so no one realized the extent of the problem.

Poor Tallulah. She was my Starter Baby. Like the car you learn to drive stick shift in but would never own because you know at any minute the transmission is going to just fall off from the mistakes you made.

But Moxie, now Moxie is going to have a blissful life. Dairy? Off the diet. McDonald's hamburgers? No more! Mommy's diet? Limited, but damn is mommy going to be hot. This baby weight is going to fly off. And isn't that what really matters?

Birthday celebrations-- already

How is it possible? Moxie is officially two weeks old today. Where did those two weeks go?

Hmm. Well, I could say that it passed in a sleep deprivation haze. That would be true, but only partially. The whole truth is that I have been avoiding my life with a vicious cocktail of Leonardo Dicaprio (I know he's a total douche, but I just watched The Departed-- twice-- and he's an amazing actor. And his topless scenes didn't hurt the film's watchability, either.) and 4am doses of Canada's Next Top Model (for real, there is no better escapism than goofy canadian girls saying things like, "I don't think I did very well, I'm not good at walking"). Because

A.) Tallulah's enthusiasm for Moxie stresses my already shot nervous system and revolves around these three phrases:
"stop touching the baby, she's sleeping"
"don't climb on me, the baby's nursing." and, the one where I feel like the very best parent in the world,
"What did I say? Stop that! Now!"

B.) Moxie has no predictability yet. Which is fine because, hello, newborn. But I can't tell whether the next feeding is going to end with blissful sleeping or a crying jag. And it wouldn't matter so much except for Tallulah needing me to pay attention to her, feed her, take her to school, or any of those other little 'duties' four year olds require.

C.)The last week has established one predictable pattern for Moxie: she hates evenings. This is kind of common for babies and not much of a surprise, but my management technique involves lots of nursing, carrying, bouncing, swinging and pacifier use. But her breastfeeding latch hasn't been great and my nipples have been sore, cracked and bleeding. So marathon nursing was out and pacifiers are out until she gets a better latch. And she hasn't developed a love for any mechanical movement machines like swings or bouncy chairs yet. Which leaves me with carrying, walking, singing, and jumping in the bath with her. Oh, and passing her off to daddy.

D.) Tallulah climbs in bed with us in the middle of the night. She can't go to sleep until she pets Moxie, tells me how cute she is, pets me, snuggles up to both of us, pats my breasts, rubs my stomach, rubs Moxie's head, flings a leg over my hip, steals my covers, and takes over my pillow until I threaten her with eviction at which point she rolls over and does some combination of that to daddy. By this time, Moxie is awake and needs to nurse. Although I do fall asleep while nursing Moxie in bed and I know bed sharing is actually guaranteeing more sleep than most new moms have, I feel like I am always on duty.

Glamorous, right?

All right, my life may not be glamorous, but neither are the lives of goofy canadian girls trying to be 'top models'. And I get to eat chocolate.

Turns out, I'm not going to be pregnant forever.

Moxie Grey was born November 28th, at 8:53 am.

Everybody is healthy and relatively happy, attempting to settle in to life on the outside/life as a family of four. Details to follow.

Still pregnant

Yesterday I spent the entire day contracting painfully about ten minutes apart. In the morning I was at Tallulah's preschool being "an owl in the tree" which meant I was observing the class. During storytime I was squirming more than the 3-5 year olds. Should I stay? Should I pull Tallulah early? Is this real labor or just more Braxton-Hicks? If I wait to know for sure its real labor, will I be able to drive myself and Tallulah home safely?

I'm in this weird mind-space where every day I contract regularly and I think, "Is this a good day to go into labor?" I think about where Kent will be, where Grandma is (she's taking Tallulah when labor happens), where my midwife is, whether I've gotten enough rest, etc...

A lot of this is Tallulah. She needs to go places like the park and school and I want to spend quality time with her, but I don't want to be too far away from home since we have to get Tallulah to her grandma's (by 'we' I mean Kent or Grandma will come pick her up.) I don't want to be in hard labor with Tallulah around. I don't want to worry about how she'll react to me in labor. What I want is for the baby's arrival to be joyous and exciting for her, not a realization of the pain mommy goes through.

It's hard to even think about the reality of a BABY because I'm so busy in my head thinking about the timing and the logistics.

Yesterday, in the evening when I was still contracting we shipped Tallulah off to Grandma's and I thought, "ok, this is perfect. The perfect time to go into labor." And then I didn't.

Disequilibrium

Tallulah is four. I realize that she actually turned four a month ago, but now she is waist deep in the maelstrom of four.

For the past few months we've been having this honeymoon period of calm happiness, but in the back of my mind I kept reminding myself, every two years, every two years. Because all of the parenting books say that every two years, children go through a period of disequilibrium. This is where the phrase 'terrible two's' comes from. In theory, the 'terrible' bit happens every two years as kids move in and out of comfort with their limitations and abilities.

Tallulah's terrible two's started at 18 months and lasted until two and a half years-- she was practically following the textbooks! She needed constant control and limits-- I couldn't say, don't touch that. I had to get up, help her put down the Faberge Egg or whatever it was she was holding with the intent of throwing through the nearest window, and re-direct with a more appropriate activity. And usually take her to the wall for timeout when she threw down with rage.

So I was expecting the fearsome fours or whatever it is they call this stage of disequilibrium. I just wasn't sure what they entailed. By the time four rolls around, most kids have developed their own weird eccentricities so the parenting books aren't as clear about them as they are aout terrible two's.

Let me tell you about four:
Picture a hummingbird in love with one particular flower. It may look motionless, it may refuse to budge from the flower, but it is still in constant motion. This is four.

Here's an example:
Yesterday we go to the park and it's time to leave. As we are walking to the car, Tallulah finds the perfect rock to throw in the pond. "Ok," I say, "one rock and then we have to go."
Unfortunately, the rock goes in a very unsatisfying direction and Tallulah needs to throw a second rock, but better. This rock almost hits some weird garbage in the water and now Tallulah needs to throw another rock to actually hit the weird garbage in the water. This, of course, takes not one rock, but five rocks, at which point mommy is thoroughly tired of waiting for the rock throwing to come to a satisfactory conclusion.
"But mommy, what is that thing in the water?"
"I don't know. Just some garbage."
"Why is that garbage in the water?"
"Um, maybe someone threw it in there. Or someone threw it on the ground and it blew in the water. That's why we always put our garbage in the garbage can."
"Why do we put our garbage in the garbage can?"
"So it doesn't get in the water"
"But that garbage is in the water."
"Because someone didn't put their garbage in the garbage can."
"Why didn't someone put their garbage in the garbage can?"
"Can we go to the car now?"
"One more rock, mommy."

But I can't rush the process because this rock throwing-- and every other excruciatingly time consuming thing that grabs Tallulah's attention-- is Very Important Business. Huge. I think I get important phone calls every now and then, but it is nothing compared to the business of whatever-is-drawing-Tallulah's-attention-this-minute. And if I try to grab her up and move her bodily away from the activity, I no longer get the tantrum or the hissy fit or whatever else she does that I've learned to ignore. I get the lecture.
"Mommy, that wasn't very nice."
"I told you it was time to go."
"Pushing me around is not very nice."
"Not doing what mommy tells you is not very nice either."
"Yes, but you need to be nice and tell me nice things and not push me around."
"Sometimes mommy isn't nice. Deal."
"Yes, mommy, I know. And that isn't good. You need to be nice."

And the thing is, she's not wrong. I do need to be patient with her and let her explore and all that. And being pregnant has helped with it because I can't just scoop her up bodily and whisk her away. But it's so slooooow. I think preschool time may be harder to deal with than toddler time. At least with toddler time I knew she was making a good faith effort to move in the appropriate direction, it just took a long time and she had to do it herself. Now Tallulah has every intention of doing what I want her to do, but after she checks this out. And asks questions about that. Oh, and that reminds her of this other thing she was going to do. And how come this isn't here?

Aah, four.

Sludge Water

Five Times! I steam-cleaned Tallulah's carpet FIVE TIMES in the past two days and I am still getting thick gray water.

Actually, I take that back. At what point can you no longer call something water? Because I went beyond that. I'm still getting sludge sucked up by the steam cleaner.

Housecleaning for me is generally a comedy of errors. The first time I steam-cleaned Tallulah's room, I borrowed a steam cleaner that a friend had bought at a garage sale.
"I bought it from my neighbor. They assured me it works great. No, I haven't used it, but it'll be fine," I was told.
So I used it. And the first couple of minutes, I thought the black streaks it was leaving behind were just part of the cleaning process. By the time I had gone over the entire room, it was zebra striped with dirt. I had to rent a different machine to get the stripes up, but the carpet has never really recovered.

Tallulah's room is the only carpeted room in the entire house. It's possible that I have no idea how to maintain a carpet because no one I know has this type of problem with stains and dirt stripes and ever-regenerating steam cleaner sludge. In fact, a friend of mine who has wall to wall carpeting has a philosophy of "I'll clean it when I tear up the carpet to refinish the terrazzo." She could not pick out a steam cleaner from a line up. And yet, does her carpet have stains all over it like mine does? Can you see the most common traffic pattern written in dirt? No. My carpet might as well say "Walk here" in dirt, it's so obvious.

This non-carpet cleaning friend is an extreme. At the other end of the extreme is my friend who regularly gets on her hands and knees to scrub the floor with a baby wipe at other people's homes. (usually the non-carpet cleaning friend's home) I know everybody has different cleaning tolerances. We all feel like we straddle the line between "everything's pretty acceptable" and "I can't believe we live like this." I like to think I'm a moderate in the housekeeping category. Sure, when Tallulah first started crawling, I had a hard time deciding who ended up with more cat hair at the end of the day, her or the cat. And I made jokes about making her a onesie and matching knee pads out of swiffer sheets. But then I cleaned up. I vaccuumed and mopped on a semi-regular basis.

So renting the steam cleaner to clean the carpet of the room I'll be putting my new, pristine baby in-- this is normal. But when I started getting sludge, I felt a bit manic.
"I'm going to keep steam cleaning until the water comes up clear!" I declared to my husband. And usually my husband would be the voice of reason and say something like, "Well, why don't you do it a few more times and then see how you feel. You are 36 weeks pregnant, after all. You may not need to steam clean for the next three weeks."

But Kent has an odd fascination with the grossness of life. For instance, sometimes we use ear candles. Ear candles are for ear wax and buildup removal. They're cones: you stick one end in your ear and light the other end on fire. It creates a gentle vaccuum that sucks the crap out of your ear. You extinguish the fire when the candles is still about three inches long and then-- this is the part Kent loves-- you can unroll the candle and look at all the gunk that got yanked out of your ear. It really is fascinating. He loves to see just how much gunk he can get in one sitting. And he got the same way about the steam cleaner.
"You should totally see how long it takes to get clear water! Look at all that dirt!"

After the fifth round-- sixth on the high traffic areas-- I got really tired. And instead of feeling tough and determined when I was dumping the sludge, I started getting weepy.
"Why, why is our house so gross?" I asked my husband, sobbing, as we surveyed the slowly drying, still stained carpet.
"I don't know, baby. What's that smell?"

That smell? The one getting stronger as I type? That would be the smell of mildew. I am never cleaning anything again.

New development: Weekly posts

Ok, here's why I only made one post last week:

Kent got an ear infection and was a miserable wreck because boys and pain? The opposite of chocolate and peant butter.

Then, I started contracting and continued for two days at ten minutes apart. They weren't terribly bad, but after two days, my whole body was sore. Imagine doing a set of crunches every ten minutes for two days. I totally deserve six pack abs.

Then, I was feeling better and Kent was still feeling crummy so I took Tallulah to a birthday party. All I did was stand around and eat and by the time I got home, my entire body was screaming with pain. Contractions? Tight and tired muscles? Fallout from the previous contractions? I don't know, but my now-patented cocktail and a heating pad remedy was only minimally helpful.

So here I am, behind in my posts, my emails and to-do lists piling up and all I want to do is lay in bed with my heating pad and alternate between reading really trashy romance novels and US Weekly. I don't know why these two forms of entertainment are so appealing-- maybe because they're at the opposite ends of the same spectrum. One is ridiculous and always ends in a happy and fulfilling marriage and the other is ridiculous and always ends in an unhappy marriage (or rehab clinic or shockingly bad couture).

It's possible that the lethargy I'm experiencing is purely because of the shitty week I just had. It's also possible that, as I enter my 35th week of pregnancy, this is how I'll be feeling for the next five weeks.

In honor of my lethargy, I'm proposing weekly posts. Say, on wednesday. I know the pressure will be on to make those weekly posts really great and scintillating, but let's not all get carried away with visions of wit and humor. I'm a little distracted right now.

See you Wednesday!

New study on depression doesn't look good for Mommy

I just read a report about which jobs have the highest rate of depression. Basically the results show that
A. women have higher rates of depression than men.
B. personal care workers (like child care) in general have higher rates of depression than most other industries. And
C. the highest rates of depression are felt by the unemployed.

So what does this mean for me, a stay-at-home (i.e. unemployed) woman whose primary responsibility is caring for children?

I think this Halloween we should have a candy bowl for the kids and a Prozac bowl for the mommies.

Want to read the report?

We win [laziest] Parents of the Year!

Tallulah has been in the forty pound range for about eight months. During that time her body has done that weird kid-thing where it totally shifts, morphs, and changes from a toddler body to a kid body. She's leaner and tougher and generally much larger at her four year old 40 pounds than she was at her three and a quarter 40 pounds.

Over the last eight months, Kent and I have often commented that
A.) we should move the straps up to the highest setting and
B.) we should get her a new chair.

Since we agreed that getting a new, 40 pounds and up sized car seat was a smart move for our rapidly growing 40 pounder and moving car seat straps involves a highly complex combination of calculus (to figure out how the straps are supposed to align after being used as twist ties, a straitjacket, and a teether for two years) and calisthenics to get the straps out of the current position and into the new position, we decided to skip the intermediate step of moving the straps and just rush right out and get a new seat.

Fast forward to eight months later: "Rushing right out" has morphed into a comical exchange of "when are you going to get that new carseat?" in a bid between Kent and I to be voted Laziest Parent.

Meanwhile, at sharp turns, Tallulah's seat tilts ever-so-slightly as her 40 pounds gets elongated in the seat. Now, Tallulah, at 40 pounds and four years old, is in the 75% of weight. But, because she is the daughter of a 6'8 father and 6'0 mother, her 43.5 inches puts her off the charts in height and a poor candidate for pushing the 'how far can this car seat take us' limits.

Last night we were taking a drive and Kent took a particularly sharp turn. A couple seconds later, we hear from the backseat, "Daddy, I think I need a new seat."
We look back and see Tallulah and her carseat riding at a 45 degree angle. The buckles and seat belt were holding everything together nicely, but sideways. We pushed the seat back into place and assured Tallulah not to worry, we would get her a new seat.

We're going to rush right out.

I'm a dumbass OR Cussing, part three

This is how I discovered that my most common cussword is 'dumbass':

Recently at the dinner table while Kent and I talked and Tallulah stared off into space thinking her private thoughts (which I always assume are "Candy. Great big lollipops with the swirly colors all twirled in, purple gummi bears with pink spots....), Tallulah started to whisper "Du...dum...dummie...dumb...dumbass.." then loudly, triumphantly, "Dumbass!"

Forks froze. "Excuse me?"

"Dumbass"

"Where did you hear that?"

"Dumbass"

"Did mom...." "Did Dad..." mutual glaring between the parents.

"Dumbass"

"Ok, ok, that's enough."

"Dumbass." giggle giggle.

Well shit. So we give our patented "hurtful words" speech and spend the rest of the evening hearing about how "somebody else" said dumbass. This is Tallulah's favorite way to get away with bad words. She accuses everyone in the world of saying the word, meanwhile saying the word a few more times.

"Boogey (our dog) called me dumbass! Dumbass Dumbass! He called me Dumbass!"

You smell like pee pee OR Cussing, part two

Its hard for me to make the cussing rules stick. Its because I find cussing to be an integral part of life. I mean, who the fuck doesn't?

And cussing rules are so arbitrary for kids because they have no concept of social mores. "Its ok to say a computer is stupid, but not to say your friend is stupid." Huh? So we have the Big List of Unacceptable Words. They are as follows:
pee pee
poo poo
stupid
dumb
dumbass (my fault-- apparently this is my most common cuss word. Tallulah picked it up over all others!)

But outlawing these words leaves some questionable social situations. For instance, telling a friend he smells like pee pee is rude, right? But what about when he really does? Poor Tallulah has faced this dilemma. Although I tell her that the appropriate response is to pull her friend aside and whisper, "You're smelling a little not-so-fresh down there. Why don't you ask your mommy to help you with that?" She insists on yelling, "You smell like pee pee! Ha! Pee pee, pee pee, pee pee! I smell pee pee!"

And I have a hard time sticking to the Unacceptable Words List. Have you ever noticed how many times you say stupid in a day? I have a personal auditor now.
"Mommy, you said stupid."
"I did? When"
"Just now on the phone. You said, 'stupid goddamn crap.' You're not supposed to say stupid."
"You're right, baby. I'm sorry."

Does Elmo look like a bitch?

Saturday Tallulah asked to watch Potty Elmo, a dvd we got when she was two to help with potty training. She hasn't seen it in about a year and, in the meantime, potty words have had big discussion in our house. We've relegated potty words like pee pee and poo poo to the bathroom (as well as hurtful kid-words like stupid and dumb) which means that many times Tallulah enters the bathroom merely to shout out her 'cuss words.'
She's such a badass rebel.

Now, in the Elmo movie, potty words are used A LOT because they're talking about actually going potty. There's even a ten minute segment where a bunch of kids use all of their different words for the acts. So they're yelling, "Pee pee!" "Poopy!" "Doo Doo!"... you get the idea.

But by the way Tallulah's face showed surprise, then shock, then glee, watching this movie was the equivalent to watching Pulp Fiction for the first time. To a parental ear, the movie says "Lets put pee pee and poo poo in the potty!" To Tallulah, they might as well have been saying, "Does Marsalis Wallace look like a bitch? Then why are you trying to fuck him like one?"

Which is funny because 'real' cusswords don't register with her at all. I was at a friend's house and she was showing me something in the bathroom when her baby and Tallulah followed us into the bathroom. We didn't notice until we heard the splashing-- baby was playing with toilet water.

"FUCK!" my friend yells as she grabs the baby before hand can connect with mouth. Tallulah doesn't flinch. And when my friend apologizes a minute later to her for using a bad word, Tallulah looks quizzically at her and asks, "Did you say 'stupid'?"

my rookie parenting mistake

I made a rookie mistake. The other day when I received a toy catalog in the mail, I handed it over to a panting Tallulah. She loves toy catalogs the way I love my Ikea catalog—we can often be found on opposite ends of the couch, studying the pages of our respective catalogs meticulously. Any day now, Tallulah will demand yellow stickies to mark her pages, too.

But this catalog came in September, just before her birthday and while I was trying to do some pre-second baby Christmas shopping. My typical holiday shopping technique is to wait until the week before Christmas and then frantically pull all-nighters with my computer and my credit card. But my baby is due at the end of November and it seemed sensible to attempt this whole “planning ahead” thing I’ve heard so much about. So I casually told Tallulah that if she saw anything she really liked in the catalog, to let me know.

Why didn’t anyone tell me to never say something like that? Or is this a commonsense bit of parenting? Because as soon as I said those magic words to Tallulah, she began her litany of gimmes.

“Mommy, look at this dolly. I like this dolly.”
“Oh, and this playhouse. I like this playhouse.”
“Oh, Mommy. Did you see these barbies? I love these barbies.”
“Mommy, I think these horses should be my presents.”

Twenty minutes later we were still on the first three pages.

“Tallulah, sweetie, how about you narrow it down to the best five toys in the catalog?”
“Ok, mommy. Ooh, here’s one. And this one, this one is two.”

I took a five minute potty break when we got to choice number four and by the time I exited the bathroom, my husband was rolling his eyes.

“She’s up to eleven picks. Great game you started, mommy!”

Finally I sat down with her to really look at the items catching her eyes. After all, I have been known to have the same response to J.Crew and Pottery Barn catalogs. Not to mention the love of my life, Ikea.

“You like this dolly, Tallulah? What do you like about it?”
“Oh, she’s so cute. And look at her hair!”
“Yes, she is cute. She looks like a big baby! What else do you like about her?”

Pretty soon, Tallulah was enthusiastically and poetically describing the positive attributes of all the toys within the pages of the catalog. We got chatting about the merits of toys in general and what she finds particularly exciting about different toys and which toys she could really live without-- namely blocks, trucks, and other ‘boy-ish’ toys. Break a feminist momma’s heart, Tallulah! After a twenty minute conversation, Tallulah seemed to have exhausted her toy enthusiasm. She put down the catalog and started playing with the toys at hand and I left for other, more adult pursuits. (Ok, I went to my room to read the Ikea catalog again. I never said I was immune to commercialism.)

My disappointing bellybutton

Here I am, 32 weeks pregnant and has my bellybutton popped out? Do I have a cutie outie? No. And its never going to happen. Tallulah was 9pounds, 3ounces and my belly button remained a dark hallway to my soul. What would it take for me to get an outie? A 15 pound baby?

I want my body to be cute and charming: a button nose, ringlet curls, a light sprinkling of freckles. Pregnancy was my LAST chance for adorable foibles. But I am not adorable. I am dark, deep, and mysterious.

In my bellybutton.

Its Fall!

Its officially Florida fall because there is a cool breeze blowing and we've opened all of our windows to enjoy it. After my big belly, sweaty summer I'm feeling this weather change profoundly. Its actually not cool enough to have the windows open AND do anything so I'm taking this opportunity to lay around catching up on my favorite radio program, Wait Wait, Don't Tell Me while Kent cusses under his breath and cleans house. (Yes, ladies, my husband cleans house while I lay on my bed listening to his Ipod. AND he's making me sushi for dinner tonight. AND he's a sexy beast. Fair warning, though: my pregnancy hormones are in such an advanced state that if you look at his ass, I'll pop your head off using just my thumbs.)

I probably shouldn't end this entry with such a silly threat. I mean, I'm a six foot, 200+ pound pregnant woman. My ability to respond to familial threats with the ferocity of a rhino should be kind of apparent, right? Its like crossing the street or parking lot. I don't worry anymore about how fast I waddle into Publix. There's no excuse for a car to hit me.
"Um, I didn't see her!"
"You didn't see the 6 foot, 200+ pound pregnant woman waddling across the parking lot? Turn around so I can get the handcuffs on you."

I should, instead, write about celebrating Tallulah's birthday yesterday and how cute she was, including a charming anecdote about how she got so excited when we were singing 'Happy Birthday' to her that she turned to me and hugged me-- like she just had to do SOMETHING with her excitement level. Or how she said her favorite part of the day was playing on the playground with her friends and cousin, as though she doesn't play with her friends on at least a weekly basis (and opposed to the annual event of cake+presents+singing+balloons)

But I'm getting overheated with all this typing. Its FLORIDA fall, after all. Its still 85 degrees.

In the third trimester, I'm far from nausea

I'm being led around by my stomach. Besides the obviousness of my huge stomach preceding me into rooms and around corners, its also guiding all my actions.

Today I was preparing for Tallulah's fourth birthday. She wants a ladybug birthday so I thought I'd go get some real ladybugs-- I'd seen them at Home Depot awhile back. So I go to Home Depot and I ask if they have ladybugs. No, they say. We stopped carrying them a couple months ago. Oh, well, I'll just take a hot dog from the hot dog stand, then.

They suggested I try Target's garden center across the road.
Do you have ladybugs? I ask the garden center.
No.
Oh. Are those soda flavored jelly belly jellybeans?

And they were. Root Beer, 7-Up, Orange Crush, Grape Soda, and Dr. Pepper flavored. Um, yes, please. They are awesome. Of course, pregnancy for no rational reason makes me appreciate soda in ways I never do when non-pregnant. I LOOOOVE Dr. Pepper with this pregnancy. But I don't want a flipper baby so I try to stifle my urge to chug 2 liters daily.

Another amazing candy discovery with this pregnancy? Cherry cordial flavored hershey's kisses. I think I will love these even when I'm not pregnant. Unlike the Dr. Pepper. I usually hate Dr. Pepper-- its a beverage Kent gets when he doesn't want to share with me.

So, a hot dog and bag of jelly bellies later, I'm leaving Target and I have to pass by a Pizza Hut kiosk next to the exit. Ooh, they have little personal pan pizzas all made up, ready for me. No, no, I tell myself. You must resist! And I do. But don't feel too proud of me. I was only able to resist because I knew I had a frozen pizza waiting for me at home for lunch.

So this is nesting

I don't want to write or think or read. You may have noticed by the way I've successfully avoided this blog for the past few days.

What I want to do is clean my house and do dumb art projects with Tallulah. I haven't been actually cleaning my house for awhile because the cleaners we use have been making me nauseous and lightheaded since I got pregnant. I haven't been complaining since my husband has been catching the slack (Yay, Kent!) but lately I've been getting this urge to have sparkly clean surfaces throughout my house.

So yesterday, I gave away our noxious cleaners and made my own natural cleaners with baking soda, lemon juice, and grapefruit essential oil. Then I wiped down a bunch of surfaces, washed the dishes, did a few loads of laundry, organized more baby hand-me-downs, and made ladybug hats with Tallulah. This is nesting, right? Because if I had written about this type of day before being pregnant it would have been titled "Oh my God, Kill me now." But I'm feeling kind of smug and content with my projects.

Tallulah's future

He still has crazy

I am sick and pathetic.

I have a cold and I feel ten times worse because I'm pregnant and sneezing makes me pee a little bit and I can't run for the tissues when I feel the snot coming and my back hurts times two because of baby pressure AND sickly aches. And Tallulah wants to cuddle, but then I sneeze and snot gets on her head.

And my husband's going to leave me.

Being sick always makes me suspect this because I realize how gross I am and why would anyone want to spend a lifetime with a snotty, sneezy, complain-y whiner? And then being pregnant makes me suspect this because I'm huge and complain-y and unable to do anything fun like drink too many White Russians and sing ridiculous versions of Bryan Adams songs at karaoke.

So I spend a lot of time moping around the house giving my husband sad eyes because any minute now he'll start packing his stuff even though I tell him it'll make him a bad person when he leaves me for a younger, hotter, non-pregnant, non-sickly, non-insane woman. And I'll be fine because I'll form an undefineable friendship with a middle aged woman and solve crime and learn horticulture and he'll still be a bad person for leaving me. (I rented the BBC series Rosemary and Thyme which is basically a British 'Murder She Wrote' with two middle aged women who run a horticulture business and oh, just happen to solve murders. Its sweet and charming, but I may be a little impressionable right now.)

And he, when he notices my mopey expression or my teary eyes, says, "I'm not going to leave you for being pregnant and sick." Which is smart because it reminds me that these things are not permanent and my feelings are just a response to hormones and illness. Also, it doesn't rope him into too big of a promise. Because notice he doesn't say, "I won't leave you for being crazy."

Weirdo Mom Alert

I have the opportunity to share car-pooling with another mom to my daughter's preschool. The preschool is 20 minutes away on a good day and this mom lives just a few streets away from me. The other mom has suggested I drive the girls to school and she, her husband, or her nanny will drive them home after. But I'm not down with the plan.

Oh, you're thinking, since the title of this blog entry is weirdo mom alert, you must be about to tell a funny story about this mom's idiosyncracies which keep you from wanting your child in a car wih her.

No, no. I"M the weirdo mom. I can't stand the thought of
A. missing out on Tallulah's face when she sees me come to pick her up. It gives me a little synopsis of her day-- generally joyous. She just lights up.

B. missing out on a chance to get a little taste of her day from her teacher. Her teacher walks the kids out one by one to the parents and gives them a little chat about how the day went. From these chats I've learned about Tallulah's favorite kids, favorite activities, and first meltdown-- I wouldn't have known any of this otherwise.

C.missing out on the 20 minute ride home which doesn't generally give me any information (see previous entry) but I hold out hope. At the least I get to hear Tallulah sing songs from the day.

And D., the one that positively makes me a weirdo mom, I can't stand the thought of twenty extra minutes without her, especially 20 minutes of her being in a car in traffic. This has nothing to do with the driving abilities of the other mom, her husband, or her nanny. This has to do with a completely irrational need for any car accidents Tallulah is involved in to also involve me. If she's going to be bleeding at the side of the road, dammit, I want to be right there bleeding with her.

I'm pretty sure the last one is a pregnancy induced irrationality and once the baby is here not only will I not think about car accidents anymore, but I will beg the homeless people in the park behind our house to please take my car and go pick up my daughter from school so I can get an extra 20 minutes of sleep.

I'm going to go ahead and run with my inner weirdo, though. I've actually regretted it when I've tried to ignore her in the past. Its only happened twice: Once at the pediatric dentist when they wanted two year old Tallulah to get her final fluoride treatment without me (hello, she's two! Why would you even WANT to be in a two year old's mouth without a parent around?) and again during a swim class when her best friend was crying hysterically out of fear and the instructors kept expecting Tallulah to ignore it and keep swimming. That was awesome because Tallulah began resisting the instructors and crying during class out of solidarity for Grace. But both times my inner mom weirdo said, who cares if this is standard practice? THIS DOES NOT FEEL RIGHT!

I tried to ignore this feeling. Stop it, you weirdo, I told myself. Obviously this is how it works. People are going to realize you are weird if you make a fuss. And then afterwards I kicked myself. Sure, the nurse was in with the dentist, but what if he was a pedophile? Tallulah wasn't even verbal enough to tell me anything. And besides that, I didn't get a chance to see the dentist and ask any questions (which I think was the actual point.) And I tell Tallulah to be caring towards her friends and pay attention to them if they feel bad or are hurt. Why would the rules change in swim class?

Shit, my inner weirdo was right! Which of course means that I'm trying to listen to my instincts. It also means at some point I will do something truly weird in the name of good parenting. Probably something extremely embarassing for both myself and my children.

I can't wait. And more importantly, neither can Tallulah.

The passage of time

I'm closing in on 30 weeks and reaching that big, awkward, mouth breathing, 'huff and puff if I move too quickly to the freezer for some ice cream' stage.

This pregnancy is so weird in the way time passes. First of all, I've lost the ability to do math. I've been counting by the week because it started out as a coping technique for my early-ish nausea (twelve weeks, if I can only get to twelve weeks, I'll stop puking constantly and be ok. All right, 24 weeks, if I can only get to 24 weeks I'll stop puking constantly and everything will be ok. And so on....) And then the week thing stuck. But real people don't care about weeks, they ask how many months. I find myself just spitting out ridiculous numbers because I absolutely cannot do the weeks to months conversion without a pen, paper, and a nap. How far along are you? Umm, six months. No, eight months. Five. Months. Weeks, Minutes. Shut up!

This came to a head recently at Whole Foods when a chatty checkout girl asked me how much longer. Six weeks, I blurted out. Oh, so when are you due? she asks innocently. Mm, November 30th, I say. And I see her expression change as she does the math in her own minimum wage head and gives me the 'I'm about to totally screw up your change and you won't even know it' look. Just give me my vegan chocolate chip cookie and stop asking me questions, Miss Nosy Pants!

The other way this pregnancy is passing differently from my pregnancy with Tallulah is my celebration of milestones. With Tallulah, I was working in Labor and Delivery as a nurse and I had all of these odd nurse-y celebrations. Like 20 weeks is when pregnant women are allowed to go up to the labor and delivery unit if they have to go to the hospital. So at 20 weeks I was like, woo hoo! If I have to go to the ER, my baby will be monitored!

Then at 24 weeks, woo hoo! Viable! If I deliver my baby after 24 weeks, I'll have a choice to try to keep the plucked chicken baby alive!

28 weeks, viability with lowered risk of neurological damage!

32 weeks, possibility of no long term neurological and sensory damage!

34 weeks, possibility of short term stay in the NICU!

36 weeks, possibility of completely perfect baby!

37 weeks, full term!

With this pregnancy, I'm far enough out of the hospital mindset that I can randomly think about her development without immediately worrying about what ifs. Which is lovely and makes me feel much more sane and calm and zen momma-like. But it reminds me of this story:

I loved my charge nurse at the hospital and had invited her to my baby shower even though I had been on midwife recommended work-leave for a couple months. The day of the shower came and went without my charge nurse showing up, however, and I wasn't surprised by the message I received on my answering machine explaining why she hadn't been able to attend. ON MY ANSWERING MACHINE (keep in mind, I am 33 or 34 weeks pregnant at this point) she explains that she hadn't been able to make it because there had been a maternal mortality that night and she was stuck at the hospital with all the paperwork and red tape.

Maternal mortality, you ask. Why that sounds like somebody....
Yep. That's right. Dead momma. She dead-momma'd a pregnant woman's answering machine to excuse herself from a baby shower. And the thing is, I know she was just upset and not thinking clearly. Dead mommas are a VERY RARE occurrance in labor and delivery. But still.

Tallulah is torturing me

Today when I pick Tallulah up from school she hugs her teacher, waves goodbye to two friends, hugs a third friend, recites the s-words she learned with her teacher (and they aren't the s-words she picks up when hanging around with me, thank goodness!), and skips to the car humming a new song.

Then we get in the car for the 20 minute ride home and this is the conversation:
"What did you do today, Tallulah?"
"I don't want to tell you right now."
"Um, ok. Who did you play with?"
"I said, I don't want to tell you right now."

a few minutes later...
"So, what did you play with today?"
"Nothing"
"You didn't play with any toys?"
"Nope"
"Did you play outside?"
"I don't know"
"What friends did you play with?" Lilly? Brooke? Vincent?
"Nope. Nobody."
"You sat all by yourself, not playing with anybody or anything?"
"Why you keep asking me?"

She's THREE!! How can anyone torture their mother this badly at age THREE? Now, I know she's having fun at school because she's happy to go and affectionate with her teacher and classmates, but I want to know what she's doing! Her teacher tells me things are fine and Tallulah is fitting in nicely, but I want to know all sorts of things-- who does she gravitate towards? what kind of activities? Is she outgoing? Friendly? Well-liked? Is she the kid who sits in the corner picking and eating her boogers while the other kids groan and complain? Because my kid could easily go either way.

Tallulah's future alma mater, part deux

Today's signage reads: Succeeding with Determination
I know I'm reading too much into this, but come on. Its high school. Failing takes a certain amount of determination. Some of my friends had to burn serious brain cells in back of the gym huffing and smoking random chemicals to achieve failure. Meanwhile the rest of us coasted by, succeeding without a helluva lot of effort.

Plus, last week's sign also discussed determination. Perhaps I should place a thesaurus next to the sign writer's gin-laced coffee.

Booker High School gives me a bad attitude. With Determination.

SubText

At the grocery store Sunday....
Me: Hey, we need some cereal. Wanna get Golden Grahams?
Him: I hate Golden Grahams.
Me: You do not. We get Golden Grahams all the time.
Him: I only pretended to like Golden Grahams because you were putting out. Now that you're not putting out... I hate Golden Grahams.
Me: Weirdo.


Later that day....
Me: Mmm, I should have gotten the Golden Grahams.
Him: Golden Grahams? I love Golden Grahams.

Owl Love

Last night as I was going to sleep, I heard a hooting sound and freaked out.

Backstory: Our house is on the edge of an Old Florida natural park. Its dense with trees and walking paths and has a frizbee golf course and a little play area. Its lovely. BUT, with so much development downtown, the downtown crime has been squished up into our neighborhood like toothpaste so as not to bother all the rich people. In the political gameshow of the city, we've won parting gifts of
*two middle aged, frizzy haired prostitutes who keep returning no matter how many times the cops pick them up (I guess that's not the only people picking them up). They apparently have found friendship and a home here. Aww.
*Random homeless guys living in the underbrush of the park. They're ok since they keep to themselves. Well, unless they start a fire in the dry season.
*Crackheads. Or, as I like to call them, the zombie contingent. They stumble around the park like extras from Shaun of the Dead or 28 Days Later, making the park uninhabitable by the living until the afternoon when the potheads come out to play frizbee golf.
*and most recently, gang activity. I haven't actually seen any gang activity, but they've tagged all the signs in the neighborhood.

So when I heard hooting sounds loud and close by our windows, I was sure it was some human messing around and I got MAD. Kent got annoyed because he was ready to sleep.
"Will you please let me sleep? Its just owls."
"Listen to that." I yelled. "Those are the fakest owl calls I ever heard. What owl really says, hoo hoo? Damn gangsters should do calls they're good at like barking or meowing."
"Meowing? Are gangsters good at meowing?"
"You know what I mean. Sounds that really happen in a neighborhood."

So I turned on all the outside lights and flashed my flashlight out the window, at which point the sounds got really loud with a weird growly sound interposed underneath. So I was really sure it was gangsters and they could see me in the windows until I looked up into our pine tree and saw.....huge wings flitting from one branch to the other. Then another pair of huge wings follow.

Kent and I run outside to check it out. We probably saw this guy and he looked like this

I feel much better about our neighborhood. I love that we have loud mating owls in our trees. The same trees that house giant woodpeckers, scrub and blue jays, cardinals, and robins. Of course, we've also got snakes, rats, humongous skinks, raccoons, and these weird little beetles that like to play dead in our driveway and then waddle away when they think we're not looking. But its neat to live in the middle of a city and have a bit of nature with us. Maybe that's why the crackheads love our neighborhood, too. And really, who can blame them?

Tallulah's future alma mater

Today, driving past Booker High School, the marquis read "Determined to Make the Grade." Its just vague enough to be a goal, isn't it? We're determined to make... you know, a grade. Maybe something in a 'D'.
A 'D' is nice.

I might be a little sensitive to the signage at Booker, since Tallulah is zoned to go there for high school. And since they're the people whose marquis brought us gems like "Degenerate" and "Melancholy" for their "word of the week". Maybe before Tallulah starts high school, I'll go over and slip some Zoloft in the gin-laced coffee cup of whoever makes the marquis decisions.

On the other hand, it does make all those schools that talk about 'excellence' and 'achievement' seem a bit overzealous.

A Factoid about my Husband

I've brightened up my life. Literally. Well, Tallulah's life.

The bamboo blinds in Tallulah's room snapped their up-and-down string ages ago. Today we hung some light colored curtains that I MADE (oh yeah, that's right, I made something. But don't look too closely at the hems!) to combat the cavelike feel of the room. Apparently, I don't mind making Tallulah play mole or bat-like in her room, but I'm starting fresh with this new baby! Fresh air, natural light, yep, this baby's gonna get the world!

However. In the process of hanging these curtains I made an observation about my husband. Some of the screws in the hanging hardware for the blinds were stripped and I asked him to help me. He did, but when he was done he left the screwdriver, wrench, and leftover screws and stuff on the windowsill next to Tallulah's bed. Not to mention the drywall dust that fell in her bed and on the windowsill which he didn't remove. So I take the tools and put them on the desk in his work area, then go throw away the old hardware. On the way back to her room I notice he had PUT AWAY THE TOOLS. In the five seconds since I put them down in his work area.

Huh, I think to myself. Is this a fluke or are things consistently put away when they end up in his area? Because this could create a whole new style of housecleaning on my part. Clean laundry? Put it on his desk. Dirty dishes? His desk. Ooh, the possibilities.

Of course, I needed the tools again (Hello, that's why I didn't put them away in the first place!) so I go into the tool storage and get the stuff I need, but then I discover another stripped screw. Hmm, the chance for a little experiment.

When he's done using the tools, he places them on the windowsill and goes off to do..whatever and I take the tools and put them in his work area and wait.

And wait.

My experiment failed. Apparently, the clearing of the work area caught him in the midst of his system of cleaning (more on that later-- its very intricate) and was not a new excuse for me to put random dirty items on his desk. Damn.

The windows, however, look fantastic. You don't even notice the hems, its so bright in there!

Block 'O' Cookie, part 2

Tallulah made it through half the block 'o' cookie which is, what? The eqivalent of 12 graham crackers? Before giving up and setting the block on the table to "leave it for the bugs."

Block 'O' Cookie

Sundays, Kent, Tallulah, and I go out to breakfast and then do our weekly grocery shopping but today we were all party hungover from a Tallulah's friend, Owen's, birthday party. Tallulah had been so excited from the party she didn't sleep until 11pm and I think I was dehydrated from the heat of the park and Kent stayed up late reading his D&D manuals, so this morning we just had breakfast at home and stumbled to the grocery store around 10.

We started this whole breakfast-and-groceries thing when Tallulah was going through her "I won't sit still in the grocery cart and I want to pull every item off them shelves" phase as a sanity preserver for me, the primary shopper. Its evolved into a nice little ritual. But this morning, Tallulah was still sleep deprived and making outrageous demands like "I want that bouquet of Spongebob balloons!" and "Lets get lots of donuts and eat them forever!" After her third round at the apple pie samples, the free cookie at the bakery, the corned beef slice from the deli, and a few temper tantrums in between, Daddy decided her naptime should begin immediately upon returning home. Which I was cool with-- it obviously needed to happen-- but by the time I put away the groceries, had a snack and settled down for my own nap, it was almost seconds before Tallulah was up with her normal bright and shiny, "entertain me" demeanor. Grrr.

So here I am, stumbling around for the rest of the day, sleep deprived, crampy with back aches and Braxton Hicks contractions, and counting the minutes to bedtime.

Which brings me to today's nomination for Worst Mom of the Year Award.

So I'm trying to figure out a relatively healthy, extremely easy meal to make for my crew when Tallulah discovers a centuries old box of graham crackers. "I have these, mommy?" Sure, why not. So I hand her one of the rectangled packages of cookies thinking she'd spend some time figuring out how to open it, grab a couple, and be satiated until dinner. Hah.

I look over at her a few minutes later and she has chewed a hole into the wax packaging and is gnawing at the cookie crumbs within. I take the package from her, open them, and hand them back without comment.

Which leads to this:


The best part is, she doesn't want the crumbs, she wants the satisfaction of chomping into block 'o' cookie, so after every bite, she shakes the crumb destruction left over from her bite onto the floor.
Don't bother asking if I stopped her or took away the block'o'cookie. You know I didn't.

I want to SHOP

In an oh-my-god-my-third-trimester-is-rapidly-approaching haze, I decided to wander around Babies-R-Us daydreaming about baby stuff while Tallulah was in school monday instead of doing anything on my long To-Do list.

Here's my conclusion: except for big ticket items like strollers which are conveniently set up so I can race them around the store taking hard corners like an Indy 500 driver on crack, Babies-R-Us is filled with crap. I wanted to buy baby Moxie a toy so I could imagine her pudgy little hands clutching it, her drooly little mouth gumming it to death, the adorable way she'll fling it at my head...But the toys were all plastic and China-made or a weird man-made fabric chemicalized to be stain, drool, and boredom resistant. Now, I'm not a very granola or earth friendly person. I know that Moxie will be in this world for about two minutes before I am giving her ANYTHING she wants to gum on if it'll keep her content. But right now I'm daydreaming and fantasizing about my sweet, pure, chemical and lead free child. I would like to buy her at least one German crafted, overpriced, underdecorated object for her to ignore in favor of a cardboard box or bowl of dog water.

I know better baby stuff exists than what is shown in Babies-R-Us because one of my procrastination techniques has been to google different baby toys. Ooh, I've found good stuff! It all started because I was looking for a sling. I had been given one when Tallulah was born and we used it CONSTANTLY. She was colicky and wanted to be in my arms and/or on my boob all the time. The sling was the only reason I was able to leave the house. But it was the ugliest sling known to motherhood. It was a blue plaid with lots of padding. Plaid. And the thing about a sling is, you always wonder how long it will last. How long will my kid really want to be cooped up in this hammock-like straitjacket? So you keep wearing the plaid sling despite the fact that you look like a drunk scotsman who got his kilt tied wrong. And the sling phase lasts until your toddler turns two. Two years of plaid. There isn't enough gin in the world to dull the pain.

So I started googling slings early and I found not only the prettiest sling in the world, but I got it on sale! So then I had to get Kent a more manly version and Tallulah a sling for her dolls.


But it started this mania in me. What other cool baby stuff is out there that I never knew about?
I found nursing bracelets that help track the last time you nursed and which side.




I found the coolest cloth diapers known to mankind. Really. I was on the fence about cloth diapers because I'm a super crappy housekeeper and I don't want my house to smell like poop all the time, but these diapers have convinced me. They are as easy to use as disposable-- they use a velcro closure and are all in one which means no weird pins and clasps-- and the best part is, they are size adjustable. One size fits all because of a unique snap system that makes it small for the bitty babies and grows as baby grows. I saw a mom around town using them and I attacked her with questions. They are as easy as they sound and cute, too!

And then, of course, there's this site which has the funniest baby stuff ever. Check out this onesie:


Who doesn't need a gentle reminder?

just stick a bow on it

It amazes me that sex and baby making have anything to do with one another because there is nothing sexy about this stage of pregnancy for me.

I woke up from my THREE HOUR NAP to find a cranky husband.
"what's going on, cranky husband?"
"I didn't get to nap."
"I'm sorry. How come?"
"You were snoring. I couldn't sleep through the racket."
"Huh."

And not only was I snoring, but my own nap had been interrupted in the middle by my drooling. I had been drooling so much that midway through my THREE HOUR NAP, the puddle of drool reached my face and woke me up.

I'm harping on the fact that I had a THREE HOUR NAP, not to make you totally jealous-- which you are--but because I'm dreading the third trimester with its constant sleepiness and apathy. I mean, where can I go from a THREE HOUR NAP? A five hour nap? Brief interludes of consciousness?

But back to my insane sexiness. After my three hour respite of drooling and snoring, Kent noticed an errant hair growing from my chin. It apparently was trying to reach the other hairs on my head because it was growing long and fast.
"Let me get it," says my oh-so-helpful husband.
"No way. I've already reached my quota of activites designed to turn my husband off forever today."
"Oh come on. Its calling me."
"Really? This one stray hair-- of all my body parts-- is begging for your attention? I am such a sexy beast. Fine, pull it."

Friday evening my husband and I had a date to meet up with some friends of his for a birthday dinner. This was a big deal because we haven't been going anywhere in the evenings together due to my extreme nausea and sleepiness after five pm. So I decide to look, as Lola from charlie and lola says, extra specially special. I pulled out a maternity dress handed down to me from a friend that I'd been especially excited to wear. It is a deep pink color with a great batik-type print. Lovely. But when I put it on, I looked like a ten year old with a thyroid problem. Why? Well, the designers decided to place a fat brown sash under the breast portion of the dress to highlight the requisite maternity empire waist. Apparently, there is a commandment in maternity design that says, "Thou must have an empire waist."

But this sash, instead of hugging my new voluptuous curves, slopes downward at the sides, emphasizing my non-existent waist. AND the v-neck stays high enough that not even a hint of cleavage peeks out. What the hell?

To add insult to injury, the designers stick little bows at random spots on the dress-- at the v-neck, at the sleeves, low on the sides. It reminds me of my Christmas wrapping strategy: I look at the crinkled mess I've made of whatever gift I'm wrapping and say, "I'll just stick a bow on it. It'll be fine." This, apparently, is the same strategy used by maternity dress designers. I can imagine the conversation:
"Um, why does that model look like a ten year old with a thyroid problem?"
"Well, she's pregnant."
"Yeah, which implies that she has working female parts. Why do we not see any proof of them?"
"Well, she's pregnant. She's not supposed to have any sex appeal."
"Then you have achieved your goal admirably. But can't we pretty it up somehow?"
"Sure, we'll stick some bows on it."
"Great!"

Hast thou forsaken me, irony?

Oh my god. I just re-read my last three posts and I am seriously in a weird pregnancy hormone induced delirium. What is up with all of this positivity? This optimism? This warped sense of well-being?

I have been firmly entrenched in Tallulahland, blissed out on her lovely, almost-four-year-old honeymoon phase and my own mid-pregnancy delusions of peacefulness. But no worries! Soon I'll be Waddles, the mouth-breathing breeder and Tallulah is doing her part with the initial phase of a guerilla warfare campaign against sleep. The campaign involves hallucinating "in-biz-able" bugs and demanding multiple stuffed animals (which only mommy or daddy can fetch from the shelf despite her ability to scale walls if a forbidden item is placed out of reach) only to find them unsatisfactory.

The looming sleep deprivation bodes well for ending this ghastly episode of Pollyanna-like behavior.

The Perfect Parenting Day

I have had a PERFECT PARENTING DAY. That's right, today I have been the perfect parent. I have been calm, reasonable, and loving. I have not lost my cool.

We spent time today with Tallulah's friends, Grace and Jack, and with every conflict (and there were many, oh yes) I acknowledged the emotions ("Your face looks angry when Grace takes the toy you are playing with") I directed an appropriate response ("Tell Grace, 'Don't take my toy. Its my turn'") and I negotiated compromises ("Grace looks like she really needs a turn right now. What can you play with until your turn?")

I kept it up for HOURS! When the kids screamed their refusal to allow groceries in their bitty carts at Whole Foods, was I flappable? No, I did not flap! When they ran under the feet of yuppies at the hot food bar of Whole Foods and parked their bitty carts in the aisle, blocking off men in suits, did I respond angrily to the hostility and vicious looks directed at me from those yuppies? Nope. Although, let me say here, Please people! They are children. They have a right to yuppy organic, overpriced convenience health foods just like you. And believe me, yuppies are not guilt free in the 'blocking of aisles' department.

But I digress.

How did I keep my cool all day, you ask. Well, I don't really know, but I have a couple of theories.

1. Tallulah started preschool. I have two whole days with large chunks of time all to myself. Its wonderful, and really gives me the clarity to enjoy Tallulah when she is around. I've said this before: parenting would be awesome if we could just put the kids on pause or in a holding pattern for a couple hours a day. Or, apparently, in school for two days a week.

2. I'm hormonal. I've been having this beautiful hormonal surge of good feelings lately. I feel calm and settled and affectionate towards everyone in my life. I really really want to bottle this hormone because after Tallulah was born I had months of the opposite hormone-- the one that made me angry and bitchy and short tempered. And I much prefer this hormone, the loving, easygoing one. I'm pretty sure my family agrees.

Anyway, for whatever reason, the stars aligned and today was perfection. All due to my perfect parenting. Yay me.

Tallulah has, just this week, begun drawing humanoids. Ok, you can say it, my daughter is an artistic genius. I mean, look at this painting. Admit it, it moves you.

Notice the brown blobs in the left hand area of the humanoids; according to Tallulah these are Bags of Candy. Apparently, humanoids are incomplete without their requisite bags of candy because, since this first picture, she has drawn multiple other humanoids and they all have their bags of candy.

I think Tallulah is onto something. Wouldn't all great art be made even greater with bags of candy? The Mona Lisa's mysterious smile would be understandable-- she's contemplating jolly ranchers. The farmers in American Gothic would be less sullen-- perky even--, Whistler's Mother would seem less distant... really, this could change the face of modern art.

It also makes me want to take Tallulah to a candy store and let her pick out bags of candy just to watch her eyes light up. Forget for the moment that candy turns her into the Tasmanian Devil from old Looney Tunes cartoons. I want to give her that total luxury, the childish decadence of unlimited candy. I remember seeing those huge swirly lollipops as a kid, the kind that have a circumference of a dinner plate, and thinking, that must be the best tasting candy in the history of sugar.

Mmm, candy.

Late night Heroism

When I picked up Tallulah from school, her glowy, happy shiny smiling face came running to greet me.
"I have the most beautiful, shiny child in the world!" I thought in amazement, looking around at all the other little kids greeeting their parents. Then I saw the parents faces and realized they thought the same thing about their children.

But I was right.

Last night I was reading in bed while after Tallulah was supposedly tucked into bed (which last night meant she was on the floor with her pillow and blanket 'camping out') when I heard this:
Smack smack smack smack smack (little feet running down the hallway to the bathroom)
Bathroom door opening, then closing and
smack smack smack smack (little feet running immediately back to the bedroom)
Sob Sob, sniffle, sob.

The sobbing was intense: the sound of a 14 year old's broken heart, an ice cream scoop disconnecting from its cone and hittting pavement, a favorite toy misplaced. It was the sound of tragedy.

"What's wrong, baby," I asked, scooping her up into my arms. Her arms and legs wrapped vise-like around me. Sob, sob, full body shudder, sob. I moved down the hallway carrying my bundle of sorrow. I suspected what the problem was and, as I walked down the increasingly darker hallway, opened the door to the bathroom, and saw the complete, cavernous dark of the bathroom, my suspicions were confirmed.

"Was the bathroom too dark? Did the darkness scare you?" A tiny head nod.

I helped Tallulah onto the potty and waited as she did her business, eyes closed, tears drying on her cheeks. When she was done she pointed, eyes still closed, in the direction of the toilet paper.

"You want me to wipe?" Head nod.

Then, as I was flushing and washing my hands, my daughter, sad sack no more, smack smack smack'ed her little feet back to bed, tucked herself in, and fell fast asleep.

I had solved the problem. Crisis averted, tragedy postponed. I felt like Superman surveying a restful Metropolis. I love my job.

Emotion induced nausea. Or, Tallulah's first day of school

After losing the car argument the other day, I ended up winning which meant we had to take the Focus to Jeff, our mechanic who now loves Focuses (Foci?) and I've spent the last two days ferrying around my crew trying to get everything on our to-do lists done and in a timely manner with one mode of transportation. Last night, when I had fifteen minutes before passing into a pregnancy induced sleep coma, I could have made a blog entry, but instead decided to take a look at Catherine Newman's Dalai Mama blog for inspiration. The problem with reading for inspiration is that I need my inspiration to be semi-crappy so I can envision my writing filling the crappy-writing void with delicious and scintillating musings. Instead, Newman made me feel like my writing and observations are
A. trite
B. Boring
C.did I say trite? How about repetitious?

So I had to spend ten more minutes on go fug yourself (www.gofugyourself.typepad.com) to make myself feel better than poorly dressed B list celebrities. Yes, I'm shallow, but in a bitchy mean spirited way. Maybe its just the shallow bitchy side going into fug yourself overdrive, but am I the only person who pictures the writer of that blog as an overweight man who lives with his mother, has hair in surprising and unfortunate places, and smells strongly of ham? Is it just me?

Anyway, I dropped Tallulah off this morning at her first day of preschool. Ever. I have all of these big emotions bubbling over that I don't know what to do with.

Tallulah is amazing. She enters the classroom like a little ball of sunshine, approaching everything with ferocious excitement.
"You see my new lunch bag, Mrs. Leonetti? This is my school bag, I have snacks in it."
"Look, momma, my new friend has yellow hair like me. Hi! You have yellow hair and me, too!"
"Hi, I'm Tallulah. You have a pink skirt on. What your name?"

She stops at one point to stomp her feet and growl, overwhelmed with the pleasure of the day. We give kisses and hugs and say goodbye-- I make it quick so she can concentrate on school rather than my leaving, but once out the door I'm filled with misgivings. Did I ever tell her that school happens without mommy? Does she know that Mrs. Leonetti is her go-to adult? I didn't show her where the bathroom is. I packed a crappy lunch. Maybe the day will be too long-- 2 pm!-- and she'll get tired and crabby.

I turn back. Mrs. Leonetti is at the door greeting another parent and child. I see Tallulah peek around her leg, spot me and wave. Mrs. Leonetti leans down and gives Tallulah a big hug.
"We're going to play and meet new kids, Tallulah. Then we'll have storytime and lunchtime and soon after that Mommy will be back to pick you up."
Tallulah looks up at Mrs. Leonetti, concerned. "Aren't we going to play on the playground?"

How did I get this confident, self-possessed child?

I remember being in tears-- so tired, so frustrated, wanting to put Tallulah down, wanting to give her away, let her cry while I locked myself in the bathroom, while we tried to do attachment parenting with its constant holding, constant breastfeeding, constant attention, constant PARENTING. Until age two she refused to be separated from me without a major fight. And it was HARD.

I don't think any style of parenting really makes a difference with this-- babies and toddlers want and crave constant parental love-- but attachment parenting added a dimension of unescapability to it. It wasn't ok to let her 'cry it out' or put her on a schedule. And most days I loved it, loved the closeness, loved the cuddling, loved her affection for me. But on the days it was hard.... So now, Kent and I like to congratulate ourselves that we loved her up into confidence.

But I don't think that's really true. I think it was just time. That all the cuddling and attachment parenting was really for me-- to be able to really enjoy the dependancy for what it was-- a fleeting moment in the life of this amazing person. And now she's ready to experience more, to learn more, to do more. Its the beginning of her life separate from, but, if I'm lucky, shared with me. And I have this sense of excitement and loss and ennui.

I want one of those pens from Harry Potter that Professor Umbridge had-- the pens that carve words into your own flesh. I need it to carve a reminder into my head, my heart, my hand....Patience. I need it for Tallulah's future as she grows into awkwardness and rebellion and aloofness and I need it for soon to be born Baby Moxie, so I remember to cuddle her every moment that's available.

I have to stop thinking about all of this and go clean my house because the emotion is making my pregnant-self nauseous.

Crisis Averted

Kent was right, fluid solved the problem. I still hate that car.

Holy Billowing Smoke!!!

The Argument: What to do when your car billows smoke.
His side: Its just low on fluids. I'll add some fluids, it'll be fine.
My side: You only drove two miles, it shouldn't have overheated in two miles regardless of what your fuids are like. We need to call AAA, tow it to our mechanic, and get it fixed so we don't lose time getting stuck with one car between us.

The Backstory: This goddamn motherfucking car is a piece of shit lemon giving us trouble since day one I fucking hate this car and its slimepit of misery!!!!!

The more coherent Backstory: This car has been in and out of the shop since we got it-- payment free-- from Kent's parents. Payment free is a big deal, but we've probably spent as much as payments on another car would be in repair, from the dealership when it was still under warranty, yet always cost us a boatload, to the wonderful mechanic, Mike, who knows us by name and recognizes my voice on the phone when I call him with news of yet another visit. The good thing is, Mike's kids are going to college this year and we are doing our part.

The compromise: Kent is RIGHT THIS MINUTE at the store getting coolant to put in the engine-- the engine was bone dry. If all goes well, problem solved. More later.....

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Tallulah's sick and I'm working on getting sick. When Tallulah was a baby, the routine was simple: I make myself comfortable on the couch with plenty of snacks, videos, and beverages within arms reach and settle in for a nurse-a-thon. Tallulah would literally nurse until she got healthy, sometimes days in a row.

Usually it would be a one to two day event and then she would be healthy enough to be crabby, but for one or two days I had a mini vacation. I actually enjoyed it, once I figured out the time involvement and cancelled anything I had planned. It was kind of a lovely way to reconnect with my very active baby, then later, toddler. She was sweet and cuddly and I got to watch hours of romantic comedies-- win-win! And since she only weaned last fall (yes, she was three when she finally decided to give up the tits. I know, gasp! horror! But she just loved them. More than anyone in my life has ever loved them-- including me-- I just couldn't say no. Lately she's had some reservations about that hasty decision, but more on that later...) this is the first big illness since the tits stopped working.

Its a whole new world.

She still wants the closeness of cuddles and attention, but since I don't have to be physically attached, I'm not as happy on the couch. Maybe its the hugeness of my belly and her not so insubstantial size-- we don't fit as comfortably as we used to-- or maybe its just that its harder to put down my to-do list when the physical imperative of nursing isn't there.

Other changes:
*I have to take her temperature. My nipple used to work as a thermometer-- I could tell when a fever was coming.

*I have to worry about dehydration. Before, staying hydrated was a side effect of the oh-so-comforting boobies.

*I worry about immunity boosting supplements. I always gave her some kind of echinacea or vitamin c, but it was a failsafe-- I knew she was getting nutrients and immunities from my milk. Now if she complains or resists, have to really work on changing her mnd.

*She gets to watch her movies. It probably would have happened at a certain age anyway, but when she nursed, that was her primary entertainment and focus. Now we've got Blues Clues playing all day instead of When Harry Met Sally.

I've got to admit, this kind of parenting is making me feel like a mom. I hover, I fuss, I feel the forehead and push fluids. I tuck blankets around her little feet and respond quickly to each demand of "Mama, I need you!" Its how I was taken care of when I was a child and what I always crave when I feel under the weather. Its a pain in the ass-- definitely more time and energy consuming than nursing all day-- but it feels nice to so actively take care of my baby.

Marriage and Divorce, Three year old style

Me: Hey, husband, could you make me an ice cream cone?
Kent rolls his eyes and heads for the refrigerator.
Tallulah: Mommy, why you call daddy 'husband'? And sometimes you call him 'daddy'?

Shit. All I wanted was an ice cream cone. Tallulah is lately trying to figure out the concept of marriage, so I explain titles and names as best as I can while Kent sniggers and makes comments about calling each other 'mommy' and 'daddy' during sexy time. Which we don't!

But Tallulah finds our family dynamic fascinating. When she was younger, probably two or so, everything was the family triad: Mommy, Daddy, Baby. All her toys needed to have the three-- if we got her a toy elephant, she better have a mommy and daddy! When we went to the toystore, she lined up animals in groups of three, identifying the who's who of the family and charming random store workers. Watching animal specials, she needed an explanation of where the daddy or mommy was if there weren't all three and Shock! and Horror! if a baby was shown without her parents or if a parent was shown being gnawed on by a lion or group of hyenas.

Now she is working on marriage with the help of Disney. She pores through our wedding photos, talking excitedly about Princess Mommy! and Prince Charming Daddy! and Look at that pretty cake! Apparently 'bride' and 'groom' are too pedestrian for her.

I'm not a big fan of the disney princess thing-- the ultra femme, waiting for a prince to come mentality permeating the movies. So I've quizzed her often on what it is thats so fascinating about the princesses. And for Tallulah, its very simple. Princesses wear dresses and sing and dance a lot. Which is basically Tallulah's life. So I guess its ok. Besides, yesterday she demonstrated a clear understanding of the concept of divorce.

Playing wth her elephants, she roped a bracelet around both ther trunks, obviously to symbolize the rings, and they played married for awhile. Pretty soon, her girl/princess/mommy elephant grew dissatisfied with married life. The elephants had this exchange:

"Pease I not be married you anymore?"
"Ok."
"Good. I find 'nother Prince Charming."
"Ok."

In control of her own destiny, that's my princess.

Breakdancing Baby

Last night I was lying in bed feeling Moxie's afterhours dance of joy. She likes to wait until I actually turn out the light and get comfortable before starting this dance. First she starts with a little kick, kick. Then she adds a kick, kick, punch. Then its punch, wriggle wriggle, two foot kick! and a flutter. Sometimes she spins around on her head so she can face the back of me and do her choreography all over again.

She's my in utero breakdancer.

Anyway, last night I'm feeling her dance and smiling to myself when all of a sudden one of her kicks ends up in a sharp pain in my abdomen and complete stillness from her. Panicked, I get up on my hands and knees in the dark and massage the place that hurts. Did she kick the placenta? Get her foot stuck in an abdominal mucle fold? Tangle herself in her cord?

I'm totally freaking out for two reasons.

Reason #1: Tallulah never moved this much. She was completely happy just cuddling up inside me and every now and then stretching out a foot or arm in a languid, isn't this the life? type movement. At the time I worried about feeling enough movement, but every day at some point, she would stretch out so I could feel it as though to say, Still here!

Reason #2: In another lifetime I was a labor and delivery nurse and one of the worst things that happened was full term cord accidents. Ok, don't panic like me-- they are very rare. But I did see one-- the mom had been scheduled for an induction two days later, but wasn't feeling the baby move so she stopped in to the hospital to get checked out and...no baby. Of course, I also saw babies with ridiculous multiple knots in their cords deliver perfectly and healthily, but still. Its that one cord accident baby I see every time Moxie's dance number ends in complete stillness.

Because there is nothing you can do about it. I mean, I know my placenta is fat and healthy because I eat right, take my vitamins, and have good iron levels. And I continue to do all those good things so baby is getting what she needs. Also, I exercise-- sometimes-- so I know there's good oxygen flow and circulation. My midwife monitors me for my blood pressure and my sugar levels-- if things were off, I could change my diet or adapt somehow to make life optimal for Moxie. But a cord accident?

I have no control over where her breakdancing leads her. I suppose I could take this as a life lesson on the limitations of what I as her mother can protect her from, but I don't. Every night I lie in bed and feel her dance; reassured and fearful.

happily ever after includes pajamas and morning breath

Last week when Kent found me sobbing in the kitchen, it could have gone the way it did when I was pregnant the first time with Tallulah:
"You're crying because there are dirty dishes in the sink?"
"Ye-es" sob sob.
"That's kind of dramatic, isn't it?"
"You ju-ust don't un-un-un-un derstand!!"
"Oh, so this is my fault?"

Ahh, how life has changed.

Last week the conversation went like this:
"You're crying because there are dirty dishes in the sink?"
"Ye-es" sob sob.
"Go sit down, I'll make your breakfast."

And then this morning, he got up early-- usually I get up with Tallulah in the morning-- specifically because he hadn't washed the dishes last night and he didn't want me to see the dirty dishes in the sink before my breakfast again.

Tallulah has lately been looking at our wedding pictures and talking about the day I was a princess and married Daddy Prince Charming. So true, Tallulah, so true.

Don't wake the baby. Ever. Again.

Tallulah is completely excited about the new baby. I explain to her that this baby is going to take a LONG time to get here-- I'm pretty sure Tallulah hears that as 'the baby won't be here until tomorrow'.

She likes to feel my stomach for kicks. Which led to this exchange this morning:
"Mommy, I feel the baby kicking?"
"Umm, I don't think she's moving right now."
"She's sleeping?"
"Uh-huh, I think so."
"I wake her up!" And SMACK! She got me right in the gut.

Pregnancy Guilt

The difference between this pregnancy and my first is the guilt. I was just as sickly with my first pregnancy-- more maybe...more puking anyway-- but when I wasn't working, I was laying around, reading trashy magazines, and going to movies. This time, I'm chasing Tallulah, taking her places so she doesn't flip out with boredom, and cooking meals pretty much constantly since the entire family has joined me in the hourly eating.

The worst part is when I'm feeling crappy and Tallulah desparately wants some mommy love-- this usually happens in the evening when Kent gets home and I'm so grateful to have someone to tagteam, I get in bed with plans of not getting up 'til morning. Last night, when I was in bed at 7pm, Tallulah comes crawling in with me all cuddly and sweet. And something about her proximity or her smell or something made me completely nauseous and I was running for the bathroom. But I didn't actually throw up so when I came back to bed and she crawled in with me again, the same thing happened. So I begged her to leave and Kent came in and took her away. She immediately began crying hysterically, "mommy! mommy! I want mommy!" I would have gotten up, but a new wave of guilt induced nausea hit me (strong emotion makes me nauseous. Try being pregnant without having any strong emotions) and I stayed in bed until-- eventually-- her cries quieted down.

Kent filled me in this morning. The evening went like this:
"Mommy, I want mommy!"
"She's sick, baby."
"I sick, too." Tallulah's 'illness' progressed until Kent allowed her to stay up past her bedtime looking up animals on the computer-- her favorite pastime. Nearly every animal has multiple websites devoted to pictures, live webcams, habitat information, and sounds. Tallulah's favorite animal right now is the owl. But my favorite is KittenWars which is much less educational and totally fun! Voting on which kitten is the cutest-- how genius is that? Plus there's a page where you can see all the loser kittens.

So owl fun was had until the wee hours of 9:30pm when Kent gave T. the five minute warning. Tallulah's response:
"Daddy, if I go back to my room I think I'm going to be sick again."
Luckily, on the way to her room, shoulders hunched and lower lip projected past believability, Tallulah spotted her shark tent still up from the day's play and decided that would be a lovely place to sleep. For five minutes. Until she realized she was Sleeping In A Shark! and demanded that it be banished from her room.

Week 20, according to Babycenter.com

Well, I've hit week 20 of this pregnancy-- yay me!-- and according to babycenter.com I "likely have gained ten pounds." But somehow, in the magical math that is my body, I've managed to be nauseous daily, throw up at least weekly since week 15 (and much much more often than that prior to 15 weeks), and still gain 16 pounds.

My face and body is doing this really lovely circle thing-- if you were to draw me, you'd just have to draw circles sitting on circles. Like the Michelin Man. The best part is that my stomach doesn't really poke out too much so I just look puffy for no reason. I am so totally hot.