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.