Category Archives: Pregnancy

Polishing a turd

I have a weakness for talking animal movies. Babe. Dr Dolittle. Beverly Hills Chihuahua (that might be the most embarrassing thing I have admitted here.) I suppose I watched either too much or not enough Mr. Ed as a kid.

Emily has inherited this love of mine. Together we were watching Racing Stripes, a plucky little film about a zebra named Stripes that thinks he is a race horse and the young girl that believes in him!

I was doing situps while watching this fine film and entertaining Lucy as she lolled about on the floor.

“You’ve been training Stripes haven’t you?” said the TV.

I started to laugh. Why yes, yes, I have, how kind of you to notice. I have been training Stripes. If by training Stripes you mean trying to embrace my wicked stretch marks and do something about the dangly skin they occupy. Progress has been slow. I know, I know, it took nine months to stretch the skin it will take at least that long for it to tighten up. But the greater truth? I have never exactly had anything resembling abdominal muscles. I’m not aiming for a six pack. I don’t expect to be able to sit down and not have pudge. I am 36. I have two kids. And I love beer, wine and peanut M&Ms. But it would be nice if my stomach didn’t hang over my jeans while I was standing up. That is a realistic goal, no?

And this friends, is how you polish a turd. Urban Dictionary defines turd polishing as “The act of trying to make something hopelessly weak and unattractive appear strong and appealing. An impossible process that usually results in a larger, uglier turd.”

I beg to differ. I think you can polish a turd.

Exhibit A: The Turd

Note the stretch marks, the muffin top and the beloved elastic waist maternity jeans. I know I should retire them. But they are so damn tasty, those jeans. And they love me so. It is my hope that in writing this I will shame myself in to letting them join their friends in the giant box of maternity clothes in my attic.

Exhibit B: The Bright & Shiny Turd

Lucy shall henceforth be named The Turd Polisher. It’s really all about your point of view. As she approaches six month’s old in July I am reminded that I will have ninety days to make good on the old “It took nine months to gain it, it will take nine months to lose it” rule.

I took the first picture yesterday. I was going to write about my progress towards accepting my post-second baby body. Yesterday, in my maternity jeans and feeling hard on myself I didn’t feel like I had made much progress at all.

This morning as I dressed to go for a jog Emily said “You know you could just wear that bra, it is like a running bra, so it is okay to not wear a shirt.” And I looked in the mirror with Lucy on my hip and I thought maybe she was on to something.

I think I am gonna ditch those jeans. And I am getting dangerously close to being the lady at the pool with all the tattoos that pees in the shower and wears a bikini even when she probably shouldn’t. If you can’t tone it, tan it.

The one where we buried the placenta…

My husband is a scientist. He labels everything. He once asked me if we could talk about keeping the refrigerator more organized. He volunteered to make labels. Dairy. Vegetables. Condiments. We had only just moved in together so I bit a hole in my lip and smiled and said “if you’d like to take on that project I will try really hard to put things back.”

It was never mentioned again.

That having been said there is  no placenta shelf in our freezer. Just a ziplock bag with the tell tale biohazard bag inside crammed in the back of the freezer.

For four months and nineteen days. Lucy is four months and twenty one days old. The nurse practitioner that stopped at our house to see us when Lucy was two says old brought it to us. We left it on the counter when we headed home four hours after Lucy’s birth.

Some people leave their purse. Or their cell phone charger. We forgot our placenta.

I was lucky. I did not experience post-partum depression after Emily was born. So I elected not to dehydrate and encapsulate my placenta. But I liked the idea of doing something with it.

Different cultures do different things. We decided we would bury it under a plant or shrub (I can’t bring myself to say bush, although the comedic possibility is enticing.)

We decided to plant a gardenia. When we were picking out flowers for our wedding we considered gardenias. I imagine opening my front door next spring and smelling them for the first time of the season. Lucy will be walking by then.

Emily chose a hydrangea for her plant. I am hopeful that our soil will produce blue flowers as that was what helped her make up her mind. The September birth stone is the sapphire and she favors the blue sapphire. Not to be confused with her mother’s favorite gin, Bombay Blue Sapphire.

I’ve said it before. I am smitten with my husband. Married a little over fourteen months and he still makes me smile. He hollers up to me as I stand on the deck out of the rain “get a picture! You’ll never see your home again, Lucy!!”

I hope our plants survive. But the benefit of being a mom the second time around? Our kids will make it. Of this much I am certain.

Word to the Wise: “call before you dig” is no joke. We spent our first weekday of summer without cable television or the Internet. MQD wisely elected to not put the plants or the placenta in the hole until after the cable guy came lest he accidentally dig it back up.

It meant we put our plants in during a gentle rain shower on Monday evening instead of on Sunday afternoon. And MQD looks totally hot in wet blue jeans and a tshirt, I mean… our plants were well hydrated and the rain had some kind of poetic symbolism and…. Yeah.

Lucy and I supervised.  And Emily?  Well, the cable guy came about thirty minutes before MQD got home from work.  She established that a placenta looks like a brain and then she decided she’d had enough.  There was tv to watch.  It’s Summertime.

Baby’s Got Sauce

The last night of our honeymoon, May 7th, 2011

A long, long time ago I can still remember how that … BOOZE … used to make me smile….  So maybe that is not exactly how the song goes, but I was humming this tune last night.

On May 8th, 2011 we returned home from our honeymoon. Later that week we took a pregnancy test. You know how that turned out. MQD, always up for a challenge, opted to give up the sauce with me. It was more than a kind gesture. It was the perfect way to kick off what was destined to be a mind-bending year.

Wedding. Baby. New house. A clear head seemed the only way to survive.

When Lucy was born late January I wondered if MQD might take a flying leap off the wagon. Nope. He was in it to win it. Might as well make it a full year.

My birthday came and went. I had two gin and tonics in the middle of the afternoon. MQD drove. The following day was his year of sobriety.

Last night we had cocktails. Two each. One on our back deck together, just the two of us, well, three of us.  . He changed a shitty diaper between sips on his Campari and Soda. Why you’d want to drink a cocktail that tastes like bowling ball cleaner and makes your mouth feel like you’ve been licking pennies, I do not know. Ask him.

I told Em we were going outside just the two of us for a few minutes.  “Will you Cheers?” she asked me.  You bet your ass we will, we’ve got quite a bit to be grateful for.

We had dinner outside. Our friends joined us for cocktail hour and we threw the big kids outside amidst complaints of “they never let us inside!” while the babies checked each other out on the floor in the living room.

The second drink went down a little faster than the first. But just a little faster.

“How do you feel?” I asked him.


Loose isn’t too bad for a guy who got himself a wife, two kids and a mortgage in a years time.

Vodka & Tonic for the lady. Campari and Soda for the man. Yes, I am married to the only person in the world that drinks Campari.

The best day

While we were out to lunch on our anniversary I asked you what was the best day from the last year. Without a lot of hesitation you said it was the day after our wedding, the day we left for our honeymoon. I wore my fabulous hat from our wedding day to the airport and the white dress I had left our reception in on the plane. At least a dozen people asked us if we’d been to the royal wedding. It was high hat season.

I asked you why that was the best day and you said it was because I looked so happy. I don’t think there is a better way to explain what a sweet man you really are.

My best day was also on our honeymoon. The day before we came home was my birthday. You had a red velvet cake sent to our room.  I wore my hat and my white dress again.  We went out for sushi.  We laughed a tremendous amount that evening.  And we were headed home to our sweet girl that very next day.

Months before our wedding, before we were even engaged I tearfully told you that I wanted to have a baby before I turned 36.  I confessed that I was terribly afraid of not being able to get pregnant.  Always the problem solver you said “So we get married next Spring.”  The rest was just implied.  We would get married and have a baby.  Simple.

And so we did.

And now I am 36.  Today, in fact.  And damn if I don’t have that baby.

Our family, you guys are my best thing….


Perfectly Normal at Night!

I woke this morning and felt like a B movie actress in an old-school Skinemax flick. My bed has been more Slip and Slide than Soft Core in the last three months. Now would be a good time for my male readers (in particular those to whom I am related) to just move along.

My post partum bleeding was average. But my hyper focus on doing and being everything to everyone meant it came back for round two. “You’re doing too much,” said the midwife. But I have a six year old and an infant and a husband and I am trying to justify in my own mind why I do not have much of an income anymore!! So that means I need to spread mulch and clean my ceiling fans, right?

And then I decided that jogging at 6 weeks post partum was important to my sanity. And the post partum bleeding came back again.

If that weren’t enough fun… my period returned at 9 weeks in spite of my frequent night nursing and the voracious day time appetite of my nursling. Lucky girl, right? Exclusive breastfeeding is supposed to postpone the return of your fertility.

I have a three month old baby this week and will be celebrating my one year wedding anniversary on April 30th. Do the math. I am plenty fertile. We may actually have gotten pregnant at the altar. So back to the midwive’s office I went for a new IUD.

In spite of my issues with my last one there is no better non-hormonal way to prevent pregnancy. Unless you count infant-induced abstinence. The new IUD brought with it the week long “spotting.” Have all the sex you want, just ignore the bleeding, right?

So that about sums up the leaking in the southern regions. Upstairs? My side of the bed has smelled like sweetened condensed milk for the last three months. If you’ve not ever been or loved a lactating woman perhaps you are unaware of this fun fact – milk does not let down only from the boob to which the baby is attached. Boobs are on or off. There is no fade. No balance, like the car stereo. Nursing pads have been my constant companion. And one must hold them in place with something. So add to the equation a sports bra, a nursing tank, something. All. the. time.

Add it all up. The exercise, the hair cut, the positive outlook, the husband and the newlywed status (for three more days!) and I still didn’t really feel like a Woman. Contrary to any kind of logic, all of this very female leaking does not magnify my Womanliness in my own mind.

But this morning I woke up feeling like a capital letter W Woman. I still had a wiggly baby to my right. And a bed rail. And a towel I had stuffed down my shirt next to the opposite boob and dark circles under my eyes because a certain someone woke up four times last night to eat (thank you very much three month growth spurt.) So why did I wake feeling more Miss Universe and less Mother of the Year?

I went to bed last night in black underwear and no nursing bra and a black tank top with easy access (for the kiddo! don’t get excited.) And I woke up dry.
Unencumbered by leak-catchers of any sort.

And damn if I didn’t feel smokin’. Who knew the absence of my own bodily fluids is all it would take? Sitting right now with my laptop perched on the arm of the rocking chair,drool running down my arm, in the clothes I was wearing yesterday I threw on so I could peel myself out of bed to pack lunch for school… I still feel unstoppable.

I snapped a picture this morning to remind me who I am under all of this Mom-ness. My stomach may only be flat when I lie down. And my stretch marks are still visible, even in the early morning light. But there is a hip bone under there. And a bare shoulder. And they need some attention.


* Shout out to Keller Williams for the title. All morning I have been singing Freeker by the Speaker to myself. Subbing out “Leaker” for Freeker and tweaker. Try it. It’s catchy. “Leaker! Right by the speaker, never seem to get enough. Priceless expression when space is possession. Like yeah, that’s the stuff…”

I just might bust out a windmill or a backspin at the grocery store today.

Just Do It

Part of the struggle of motherhood is the lack of control. So much of what I do is reactive not proactive.  When you are reactive you are always behind the gun. Never caught up.   Time and again realizing you have missed a step, requiring you to double back and repeat a step.

 A proactive approach to anything makes me feel like I am on top of things. The trouble with being proactive is that it is hard. But I have recently established that I can do impossibly hard things. 

Yesterday I did three proactive things. For me. For my health. Not for my children, although they certainly benefit from my good health.  And today, one day later, I am already feeling better than I did yesterday as a result.

I slept. I got up and said goodbye to Em and MQD and back to bed I went. For just a minute, I thought. I’ll snuggle with Lucy,  get her back  to sleep. Those few minutes became
two hours of blissful sleep. Sleeping harder than I have in months.  Recently my lack of sleep has begun to …. show in my attitude.  Enough so that when I asked MQD what I can get done for him the other day he said he’d make me a list.  That’s it pictured on the left.  Message received, dear.  And accomplished.

When I woke it was nearly 9:30.  Thus began the second impossibly hard thing. I excel at creating exercise plans for myself, I do not always succeed with the follow through, much like many of us.  There is almost always a good reason.  Lately I have had a nasty cold and the windy and intermittently cold weather was not helping matters.  So I decided to take it a little easier than I had planned.  But when I looked at my phone and it read 9:30 I knew I had to leave at 9:35 to make the 10:00 exercise class I had planned to attend.

With the extra oomph my nap provided I peeled myself out of bed and jumped in to some exercise duds and was out the door.  Lucy had been tanking up at the drive through breakfast bar all morning so she was nice and sleepy.  I think we were 45 minutes in to getting our sweat on before she knew what hit her.  Second impossibly hard thing, done.  I had the good old “never wake a sleeping baby” rule on my side had I decided to stay in the sack with my kiddo.  And the list of things to do provided by my husband.  And, still, up and out the door I went.
Thing number three is not so fun.  At my initial prenatal visit to the midwife  I got some less than pleasant news.
More than 50% of sexually active adults in America carry the human papilloma  virus (HPV) at some point in their lives.  1 out of 4 women with HPV have one of the strains that can lead to cervical cancer.  But now that more and more women are educated and getting an annual pap smear only 1 out of 1000 of those cases will develop in to cervical cancer.

Mid June of last year I had been married for less than two months.  I had been pregnant for  nearly the same amount of time.  I was anxious to have my first prenatal visit, hear a heartbeat, so I could relax.  As I have said so many times before I get nervous when everything goes my way, always waiting for the other shoe to drop.  And in my 35 years I had never felt so on top of the world, so it would be a long fall from there.  The call from the midwive’s office was not a suprise.  Something had to give. “Your pap smear came back abnormal, ASCUS.  We won’t do anything now, but the positive HPV test means we will want to get a closer look after your pregnancy.”

Somewhere in the back of my mind I thought my appointment yesterday afternoon would be the day that the bottom fell out.  (There is an awful joke in there somewhere, I mean if the nine pound plus baby didn’t make the bottom fall out a high powered microscope, a speculum and a light sure wasn’t gonna do it.) I have been dreading this appointment.

Standard procedure following an abnormal pap smear with high risk HPV is a colposcopy.  Essentially a doctor takes a good look with a microscope and a light at your cervix and determines whether or not a biopsy is required.  Vinegar is applied to the cervix, causing the “color to come out” in any abnormal cervical cells.  This amuses me, as vinegar is also used to get brighter Easter eggs.  This procedure is subjective to some degree.  And this was worrying me.  Even after a doctor said “I don’t see anything to worry about” I’d be left wondering, but what did you see?  Exactly.
And yesterday afternoon, because UNC is a teaching hospital, I had the pleasure of seeing something most women never do.  There, on a television screen so the doctors could discuss what they were seeing was my cervix.  “Look, Lucy, does that look familiar, there’s your home, baby girl!  Your door in to the world, where you made your big debut!” It was like taking Julie Andrews to the London Hippodrome and saying “This.  Here. You first felt the spotlight here, this is where it all began.”

Not everyone gets to bring a pal to a gynecological exam.

Everything both doctors could see, I could see, too.  And there was nothing to see, nothing abnormal.  I will spare you the description, but it was truly amazing to see how quickly the human body puts itself all back together again.  I’d certainly not have guessed my big baby had peeked out that hole only weeks before.
I was nervous.  And now I am not.  “I don’t think we will need to do a biopsy at all.  Seems your pap smear may have just detected an abnormality triggered by your pregnancy.  So, make sure you get a pap smear in a year and take care of that baby.  You can put your pants on and let yourself out.”
In a different context  that last sentence could break a woman’s heart but it was music to my ears.

Three things.  Sleep.  Exercise.  And medical follow up.  Just do it.  You’ll be glad you did.


Everyone tells a new mother “Make sure to take time for you!” and  “Take care of yourself, you can’t take care of your family if you are not taking care of you.” And unlike so much of what “everyone” tells you, it’s not bullshit.  So this go round, I am doing the very best I can to do just that.

Yesterday was a damn near perfect day.  I had my second post-partum trip to the chiropractor.  One more and I am cleared for  take off.  It is hard to believe it was only a year ago I drank the Kool-Aid but I am convinced that my chiropractic care is somewhat to credit for my bouncing back so quickly after this labor and delivery.

In the same building, I had the pleasure of participating in my very first activity that starts with the words “Mommy &.”  And believe it or not, after I got past the initial “I can’t fucking believe I am doing this” feeling it was wonderful.

Mommy & Me Yoga.  Check that off the bucket list.  I had this idea that somehow it would be guided rolling around the floor with my youngin’ which I had trouble wrapping my mind around.  Around the why you’d need someone to show you how to do that and how I was going to get through it without peeing in my pants (not from lack of Kegel exercises during and post pregnancy, but from hysterics.)

Turns out Mommy & Me Yoga is regular yoga where your baby can loll around on a blanket (hopefully sleeping) and if they should wake you can pop out a boob in child’s pose or do the Mommy sway in the back of a room and no one will give you the glare.  The glare that says “really, a baby?  A baby?  How dare you bring  a BABY here!?”

There is one more thing a new mother needs to do.  “Get out of your house!” the well meaning advice givers say.  This is easier said than done for some, but I don’t have any trouble getting out.  I was, after all, at work seven days after Lucy was born. But I was out of the house twice this week, socially.  Much harder for me.  I had lunch with an old friend one day this week.  Not a huge accomplishment for some, but slightly more cause for celebration because I initiated this meet up.  And the second time?  With a new friend.

It makes me nervous to say that.  A new friend.  You may recall that I sought acupuncture treatment towards the very end of my pregnancy.  I have since been back twice.  Because I really like the practitioner.  She’s neat.  And cool. In that “I wonder if I am cool enough to kick it with this girl” way.  Can women that have TWO kids even “kick it” at all?

I did the hard thing.  The hard thing that frequently eludes me.  That I had dared myself to do in November in this upcoming year.  I stuck my neck out and tried to make a friend.  Making friends is awkward under normal circumstances, but when you have bullshitted with a gal  a handful of times and at the end you hand them your Visa card it is especially daunting to say “So, I was thinking maybe we could hang out, and maybe I’d not pay you.  Whatcha think?”   But I did it.  And it paid off.

I had the last of my pre-paid sessions yesterday.  And I am certain I will see her when she gets back from her trip to Austin.  Because she likes me, too, guys.  Even though I have TWO kids and am rapidly heading towards having NO job.    And get this.  She has ZERO kids.  Like maybe we could talk about something besides breeding.  Or breastfeeding or how much sleep we got.  There is a place for all that.  A huge place.  I did just finish mentioning that I secretly LOVED Mommy & Me Yoga afterall… but music and tattoos and books and funny stories from your twenties, this is some good shit that deserves some attention, too.

Quite a few of my friends, friends that have known me since Emily was little and before,  have recently sent me an email or a text message along a common theme.  “How are you doing? Really?” And to each of them I have said the same thing, “I’m good, I think.  I feel really good.”

I am typing this in my “running” clothes.  Clothes that will really be walking with a VERY tiny bit of jogging clothes until I have had one  more visit with the chiropractor and am closer to six weeks postpartum.  It isn’t noteworthy that I am writing and wearing pants with a forgiving waist band.  But these clothes are already sweaty.  (Tell me that is not gross? I  wear exercise clothes more than once unless I wear them to a Bikram Yoga class.  I don’t really care if I already smell if I am heading out the door to sweat.)

Day one of a 5K training program was completed day before yesterday.  And I am headed out the door to do day two as soon as I hit Publish.

So, to answer the question, how am I doing, really?  Awesome.  Really, really good.  I am taking care of myself.  And I drank a Heineken while I cleaned out the fridge after Em told me she did not have a boyfriend.  Yet.  I got this.  It’s gonna be cool.

Marital Relations in Three Easy Steps

Jeans come in a lot of varieties.  Unfortunately for me the only pairs of mine that fit in a manner that will allow for me to both stand up and sit down were first trimester maternity jeans.  Their elastic waist band and relative stretchiness are fantastic for the gal that is not interested in wearing them ten days in a row.  By mid afternoon I can’t keep them up and nothing says “these pants don’t really fit me” like constantly tugging at them.  I can forget all about the second day.  And by day three? They are like clown pants by then.

So, I was left with two options.  Squeeze in to my pre-pregnancy “fat jeans” (the jeans I wear right before I get my period, to events that require heavy eating or when I am planning on napping in my clothes) or buy a new pair in a larger size than I care to admit.

I chose option two.  I’d rather wear large, unattractive jeans than feel like a sausage.    The dreaded Mom jean, capable of making your perfectly round ass look completely flat or  the “boyfriend jean” a fancy way to say completely unflattering on everyone that is not 85 pounds or has any hips whatsofuckingever were on sale the day that I decided I’d take the plunge.  I was not, I repeat, not paying full price for jeans I only planned on wearing for a short time.

The Mom Jeans won.  I thought I’d be fine.  So what if they made my ass look like the broad side of a truck?  Stacy London has informed me that  Lee Riders will be instantly slimming, and that it will be “easy to look and feel my best.”  And they’re cheap.  Less than twenty bucks cheap.

Four days.  My Lee Riders and their slimming tummy control.  We made it for four days before I decided that when you have no abs whatsoever and you wear a nursing bra or  a shelf bra tank top that smashes your girls in to pancakes, albeit gigantic pancakes that give you armpit boob and cleavage all at once it is not wise to wear jeans that come up to said armpits and completely disguise your ass.  My ass is is the only place that twenty extra pounds comes in handy.  What was I thinking?  I needed ass-friendly cheap jeans.  STAT.

Old Navy coupon – you and me.  It was on.  It took six pairs of jeans.  One friend.  One dressing room.  Zero cocktails or tears.  And The Diva Skinny Jeans and I have made friends.  I intend to wear them every day for at least the next month.  And at thirty bucks that is still only a dollar a day.

And when you have two more weeks before you get, ahem, back in the saddle (post partum six week check up and a brand new IUD on February 28th, hollaaa!   Leap year will be memorable this year!) it is important to start early.  Prepping yourself mentally.  For the Big Event known as “resuming marital relations.”

Here’s my guide.  Three easy steps.

Step 1.  Get a pair of jeans that make you feel like a girl.  A regular, good looking, “might some day retire the ginormous full coverage cotton panties in favor of the fancy grown up lady knickers” girl.

Step 2.  Start trying to be less critical.  See yourself as others see you.  Not as your slightly Body Dysmorphic Disorder-ish self views you.  Step 2 is easy if you have a little loverboy living across the street.  This weekend Em’s buddy, Kellan, breezed through the living room and stopped dead in his tracks.  “HOW DID YOU GET SO SKINNY SO FAST??”  and he hugged me.  He said I was cute.  He’s six.  But I don’t care. I told MQD if he ever comes home to a Dear John letter explaining that I need to feel beautiful, go find Kellan.  I’ll be with him.

*source unknown

Step 3.  Make peace with the “tiger stripes.”   Last week MQD sent me this image.  He had seen it on a clever how to be a good dad blog.  I’ve since seen it in several places around the internetz.  It would be a hell of a lot easier to make friends with my “tiger stripes” if I had abs of ummm… not even steel.  What is a slightly less strong metal?  Abs of brass?  Shit, I’d settle for abs of cottage cheese if I could just have a visible waist.  I digress.

Step 3 ain’t easy.  But then neither is pimpin’.  And neither is just getting the fuck over yourself I have discovered.  But it seems the most direct path towards acceptance for me is to spill it. The truth.  My big deep, dark secrets spilled out in front of everyone.  A couple of weeks ago I posted a picture of my post-partum self.  I received a lot of kind comments and emails.  But it still sucked.
And it still sucks today.  But I am making progress.  Because if I have to be totally honest with myself I am more inclined to want to photoshop out the toothpaste on my bathroom mirror than the armpit boob or the stretch marks.  Now I can’t guarantee that is forward progress.  But it has to count for something.


Lucy, the Perfect Sweater

Have you ever had a sweater that was the Perfect Sweater? As hard as you try you couldn’t find anything wrong with it. You can wear it with everything, blue jeans, sweatpants and a dress.   It is precisely the right temperature no matter what it is like outside.  You show this sweater a lot of love.  Adding to its perfection – it never seems dirty.  No matter what has spilled on it, it smells fresh and clean and remains unwrinkled.

And then one day you decide you should wash it. It’s not even dirty you just feel like you should wash it. So you’re really careful.  No Woolite, no fancy detergent.  Just water for this Perfect Sweater.  No dryer, no washing machine.  Wash that sucker by hand in the sink.

Then after you wash it it’s just never the same.  It is like a kleenex.  Little bits just fall right off.  It’s a disaster.  If someone saw you in your favorite sweater they’d ask you “What did you do to that sweater?”

And if you were say, overtired you might reply “I just fucking WASHED it, okay?  I had been wearing it every day for two weeks, I just thought I should wash it.  I was trying to do the right thing!!!”

Yeah, that’s what I did to my baby.  Lucy is the Perfect Sweater.

Babies have dry skin. Babies have sensitive skin and I know that. And it would not be a problem if it wasn’t that I am psychotic.  I’d just lube her up with olive oil and not bathe her again for a week. 
But I am psychotic.  And I did have The Talk with my boss last Friday.  Not “The Talk” because that kind of chatter has no place in the workplace unless you are a Sex Ed teacher, but the one where I said “I think business is too slow to justify me being full time, so I kind of think you should lay me off.” And he said “okay” and by the first of march I will be a stay at home mom.  That talk.
The same talk that was slightly less terrifying because of another talk MQD and I had before we bought our house.  That one was about how we shouldn’t buy a house while we were pregnant unless we knew we would be okay if we had a baby that needed me full time, a baby that was not perfectly healthy.  Because we were dealing with 35 year old eggs after all.
And so now I am stuck in this awful moment in time where the only way to get unscared is to look for the monster under the bed. Which for me is to say it out loud.  I am scared that since I quit my job to stay at home Lucy will get sick and it will be all my fault.   Breathe.  See?  It is slightly less scary now since I can see how crazy that sounds.
Intellectually, I know there is no reason to google “infant dry skin symptom of deadly illness.”
So, last Monday I had a job and a baby that had new baby smell with milky white skin and a Perfect Sweater.
This week?  I will have no job very shortly, Lucy’s face is rotting off and she smells like old noodles… but I am not ever going to wash this sweater.
Stay tuned for the saga of the stay at home mother and her epic battle against dry skin and what will eventually be a foul milk smelling sweater.

...and the baby, ashamed of her flesh eating disorder.

The Square Root of 49 is a PRIZE!!

Gee whiz!!  You spill your guts on the internet and you get a prize, guys!!  My birth story and my postpartum post had a zillion more page views than my ordinary posts (although perhaps it was the pictures that did it, I am fairly certain there is a stray nipple in there somewhere!) and I thought that was prize enough.  While I certainly do not write with the intent of generating traffic it is a pleasant surprise when something that I questioned posting at all is a hit.

Last week I received the 7×7 link award from The Waiting.  She is an Emily, but a pregnant one!!  She is also in the Cackalackey so we have that in common as well.  I enjoy her pregnancy related tales, but suspect I’d have enjoyed her tales prior to this shared  experience as well.    Go.  Read her.  She is smart and funny.  That’s Win Win.

The rules are simple – list seven of my own my favorite posts and then nominate seven other bloggers for the award .

My favorite seven posts

Security – This is an all time favorite because it is the beginning of what has become a valued friendship with my friend Karen.  And the first time I realized that barfing my feelings on the internet really makes me feel better about my Universe.

When I Grow Up  – another post that was prompted by a question from an old friend.  The answer to the question of why I didn’t grow up to be an actress.

A Test of Patience – Sometimes I need to remember that I have come a long, long way.  And I have been patient.  Occasionally it would serve me to be a little less so.

How Symmetrical is Your Face – I miss This Book Will Change Your Life.  I need to get back on the horse.

Express Your Views – Alternately titled “I Told The Internet About my Abortion” – a tough one to write.  But impossible not to.

The Post Where I Coined One of my All Time F avorite PhrasesAnd in what I declare a moment of genius told her that “our hearts are like earthworms. We have endless regenerative powers.”  Hillary is a tough cookie.  And when I didn’t hear from her I assumed that she was toughing it out.  Her earthworm heart mending itself in time to be torn in two for perhaps the gazillionth time, but all in all, no worse for the wear.

And a couple bonus entries to make you laugh….

Magic 8 Ball of Crazy – Pregnant and Bat Shit Crazy –

How My Monday Was Like a Primus Song – Why  I love the DMV

Have You Met My Wife – another reason I love MQD

And now 7 blogs I enjoy!!

Toulouse & Tonic: –  Read her.  Comment.  Be engaging and witty.    This delightful gal is on bedrest and needs you to entertain her.

Xanax or Running Shoes – Jeanna has an amazing gift for  telling a story.  She is engaging and funny even in trying times.

Squatch Makes Three – A DADDDY to be blog!  He is clever and a fine representation of a real dad to be.

I’ll Sleep When They’re Grown – She is newly pregnant again and a good time.  Another good sense of humor.  Are you detecting a trend?

Great Big Question Mark – Kim.  Kim is a real life person.  She was an internet person and made the leap.  Kim held my hand through some of my darkest days and it was her sarcasm, her kindness, her smarts… that more than once saved my ass.  Kim is smart.  And the only really short person I have ever truly loved.

Real Life Homes – Karen had a genius of an idea.  Send her pictures of your real life home so we can all stop feeling like rotten homemakers when we look through catalogues.  I ruined the curve when I sent her pics of my pregnancy induced nesting home.  

The Adventures of the Family Pants – Collen and I have never met but we will.  She is a delight, she makes me cry and laugh and makes me want to squeeze her kids and make up songs and pay and wear a lot of glitter.  She is good people.

And a bonus nominee because I can’t say enough how you should really read Karen’s blog.  She is a hundred times smarter than me.  And her kids are way cute.  And even her husband has won me over.  Uncomfortably Honest & Honestly Uncomfortable.  


Muchas gracias, my blog friends.  I promise I will get my shit together and get back to more regular posting.  I am trying to give the Facebook page a little love, bonus pictures and the like in the meantime.  So, come on,  Like me!  Heh.