Queens is the New Manhattan

Hello? Y'all?

2012-02-16T15:31:00.004-05:00

I've been away for what feels like eons. I don't know that I can pinpoint one reason. Is it the pregnancy, complete with hormonal bouts of the mean reds, nausea, and an alarming new muffin top? The demands of a ridiculously energetic and brilliant toddler, who counts complex sentences as his bitches and spends his days asking me for things like "a bit more milk?" The holiday season, complete with a two-week world tour of the greater Philadelphia region? The Advanced Stats course that began in earnest in January? The fact that I write on a blog called Queens is the New Manhattan, despite having not resided in New York City since - er - 2006? The fact that I can't get the italics to work in Blogger right now, and it is driving me MAD?

Lo, tis a devastating combination of all of these things. I am in desperate need of a rebranding (good thing I am also taking Marketing this semester, eh?), but I can't quite bear to leave all of my incoherent ramblings here behind. The time has come though, though the mama seems to have little time now that We or Oxygen or one of those dreadful women's channels runs complete seasons of America's Next Top Model every other day. And I am tired you guys: so, so tired. And drinking while pregnant is generally frowned upon, which is just incredibly unfortunate all around.

But never fear! Your HomeValley shall prevail in the second trimester, and we will - together - generate some great blog fodder. I just know it.

Happy Halloween It Was.

2011-11-03T08:21:00.006-04:00

Greetings, friends!

Let's catch up. When we last left the HomeValleyians, they had an adorable 16 month-old babe. Now, this babe is 17 months. Fear not: still totally adorable. Peep Yoda on Halloween.

Everyday is a new adventure with Hank. He very much enjoys "driving" the Altima. He hops in the front seat before you can catch him, makes himself comfortable, fiddles with the radio, and grins maniacally. Just try to remove him from that seat when it is actually time to drive somewhere. I dare you. The dude can thrash with the best of them.

When we finally wrangle him into his seat and get on the road, he controls the stream of music. He appreciates a lot of different genres, but especially loves Adele at the moment. When he hears her voice - any song of hers will do - he literally screams with delight. He also squeals for LMFAO, that bizarre song about partying on the rooftop even the white kids, and the Pumped Up Kicks tune.

Beware the wrath if he does not like the music however. He will yell and shout and kick until you change that station, goddamnit, and he can't be reasoned with. Toddlers are really irrational, you guys.

But what of his parents lately? Last week J took off on Thursday and Friday for our "Staycation". (Oh my God yes we actually called it that.) And like anyone trying to relax at home for a few days, we decided it would be the perfect time TO DO A CLEANSE.

Here is what I have learned about cleanses. The most important thing you can do is formulate an answer to the question: What is the purpose of this cleanse? If you cannot answer this question with any degree of convincing, you are ill-suited to do a cleanse ON YOUR VACATION, HOLY SHIT.

Even more humiliating, we chose a Dr. Oz cleanse. I liked that you could eat actual food (I would last about 6 seconds drinking a cayenne-pepper-maple-syrup concoction).

So what did we have for breakfast? Quinoa, with almond milk and prunes and GINGER. J got this down quite easily, but I struggled. I love ginger, but something about the combination of flavors... It's hard to think about, you guys. The trauma.

Lunch was a blueberry banana smoothie, which actually was delish. Dinner was a homemade cabbage soup with traditionally fermented sauerkraut and apples. At this point, our 48-hour cleanse became a 24-hour deal. And also, the fun-sized Snickers bars I had purchased for Halloween turned life-sized and started taunting us from the pantry.

Other takeaways? First: Mom and Pops are pretty addicted to food. To be sure, we normally eat pretty well; but deciding what to eat and when is a distinct pleasure. The absence of choice actually made me feel quite blue.

Second: We might be alcoholics.

Third: You will destroy ANY benefit of a VACATION CLEANSE the next day, when you will eat every Snickers bar in a five-mile radius and drink copious amounts of wine, celebrating the fact that you can eat anything your heart desires. In essence, a cleanse (deprivation) is completely counterproductive to good health. Periodic indulgences = good. Cabbage soup with mushrooms and a whole fennel bulb = bad.

Don't say I never learned you anything on this here blog.

Frazzled.

2011-10-25T18:17:00.003-04:00

I've spent the bulk of this nap period writing a piece about motherhood that I'm not sure is - and ever will be - fit to print. I need to prepare supper, scrub poop from diapers, finish chapter 7 in my accounting text, learn everything there is to know about Mosaic - the world's leading producer of phosphate and potash - update my budget, complete all of my Christmas shopping, and shower, preferably all at some point today. But I miss you and love you. Please to enjoy.

16 Months.

2011-10-07T09:29:00.009-04:00

I don't know where to start; how to capture you at 16 months.

You, my friend, are a marvel. Your dad and I tend to stare at you in rapt fascination. Did we really make him? Does his adorableness really know no bounds?

You are a pleasant, charming, gregarious little boy. You have been known to greet people by approaching them swiftly with your arms raised, so that they can pick you up and you can really investigate them.

You are focused, even serious, at this age. You concentrate on the task at hand, and you are driven. Last night, you helped me with the laundry. You systematically put each of your clean diapers back into the dryer after I had removed them. I didn't have the heart to tell you that that's not how it works. Thanks again for that, buddy.

You love planes and birds. When you hear either in the sky, your eyes widen and you point up, with your long inhale of breath sound of excitement and glee: "HUUUUUUUUUHHHHH!"

You are a man of few words; you prefer to screech. I have lots of videos of this, friend, and I will show future lady friends. You say mama, dada, Nonna, Mom-Mom, diaper, (deh duh), uh-oh, bye-bye, banana (NANA, always with enthusiasm), baby, star, milk (meh meh), and the like. The other day in the tub you said bubbles, and then, "Bubbles, mama!" and I screamed with delight and yelled for your dad who unfortunately was outside on a ladder and ran in panicked, thinking I had fallen again.

It was worth it.

Bubbles, mama.

You are a very happy kid, except when you are hungry or sleepy. When hungry, you whine until we realize what you're after. I think you are quite over our ineptitude though, and have taken to going to the pantry and retrieving the snack that you would like. This morning after breakfast, you brought me some apple sauce. "No, baby," I told you firmly. "You may have that for lunch."

I forgot about this until lunch time, when I asked you what you wanted to eat. You marched to the pantry and brought me the apple sauce. You got two servings; Mama was beyond impressed with your tenacity.

When sleepy, you literally collapse in a heap with woe, giant tears spilling from your big blue eyes, as if to say, Help me, parents. I just can't take any more of this; put me to bed immediately. We oblige.

You love sweeping, the vacuum (BAC! BAC!), and knocking over anything anyone builds ever. You prefer sifting through rocks and dirt to playgrounds. You are delighted by dogs and cats and when you see one, you either bark like a dog and run towards the animal, or SCREAM giddily and run towards the animal. Because of this, most dogs and cats find you very menacing. If only they realized the utter joy you feel upon recognizing them. Someday they will, baby.

You are confident. You are spirited. You march ahead, my intrepid explorer, rarely looking back for me. Sound is your kryptonite however; a Sing-a-ma-jig, a car alarm, even a baby's loud cry leaves you reeling, your lower lip protruding in the way that breaks my heart.

And your feet! Those toes! They are so scrumptious; I never stop talking about them. Only a mother can understand the true wonder of baby feet. Your big toe is a miracle, friend. Just trust me on this one.

Lately, you love to bounce around on Mama and Daddy's bed. You flip about, crashing into pillows and giggling. Then, you will jump on me, snuggle up, and coo, "Baaaby, baaaaby."

Yes, buddy. Always.

Adjusting.

2011-09-21T14:23:00.006-04:00

Things are a wee bit crazy on this end. I'm still adjusting to school (which is an inside joke with myself, because tonight we are going to talk about adjusting financial statements in accounting. Isn't accounting hilarious?)

(I kind of suck at accounting.)

(I'm not just saying that.)

In life, I believe that there is no problem I can't study my way out of... And so that is what I do now. I study. I wake up at 5 or 5:30, and I study. Baby napping? I study. Getting a pedicure? You know I've got that management book sprawled across my lap.

And still. I worry it's not enough.

Last week I bombed my first accounting quiz. I knew the material too; but the prof threw in revenues and expenses, and like, we totally hadn't covered them yet, and so I was completely thrown off OH LORD WHY DON'T I KNOW THIS ALL I DO IS STUDY and then I got nervous and failed miserably. (The entire class seemed to have been thrown; I did manage to get us an extra 2 points for the uncovered material.)

WITH that extra 2 points? I got a 5 out of 10. Failure, thy name is HomeValley.

We have our second quiz tonight. Hoping I can get the old confidence back. Mrs. Crane told me I would be president of a major corporation way back in the 7th grade, you guys, and I don't want to let her down. (Though, in fairness, she probably didn't know about my accounting ineptitude. Had she, she may have just shrugged and proclaimed me destined for middle-management.)

(Sidenote: I made a friend in last week's class. He introduced himself and thanked me for speaking up about the quiz. We chatted for a few minutes during break. As we were about to walk back into class, he said, "You know what has really been bothering me though? It stinks in there." Word, brother. Beware the SBDs.)

Terror, Explained.

2011-09-13T17:47:00.004-04:00

Absolutely worth a read, from Shoshana Hebshi at Stories from the Heartland blog. I also had to repost what commenter Ian said, because I couldn't agree more.

See, the purpose of terrorism is to cause exactly this. “Terrorism” isn’t about killing people — it’s about terrorizing. That’s why it’s called “terrorism” and not “killing-people-ism.”

Killing people is a means to an end. The end is to destroy a society, by breaking down the rule of law and social contract. And we do this better than any other nation on Earth. We’ve gone from a light unto the nations, a place which may not have always done the right thing, but was always on the right path, to a place that is an example of a police state, a cautionary tale to other nations. And why? Because we have reacted in exactly the way that al Qaeda was hoping.

In doing so, we’ve proven that we are a PERFECT target for terrorism. A terrorist who attacks the United States gets EXACTLY the goal they want: a repressive, over-zealous, fascist security force which destroys the freedom and liberty that this country once had.

Once upon a time, people thought that “freedom” was a thing that you were willing to risk your life to fight for. This country was founded on the notion that you had to risk your security to guarantee your freedom — and that that is a bargain well worth making.

Now? We trade in all our freedom for a tiny bit of security, the act of a craven coward. And we harm other people in the process.

I am ashamed to be a citizen of a country where three people could be detained like that, because someone was afraid. Terrorism requires people to be terrified.

And the people who are terrified are craven. And willing to harm their fellow citizens because of their own terror.

It was never more visceral for me than a train ride to DC shortly after the attacks. An Arab-looking gentleman was clutching a paper bag tightly in the row across from me. He went to the bathroom once, then again. The second time, he brought his carry-on bag, and was gone for far too long. I sat paralyzed - utterly terrified - because I was sure that he was going to emerge with a bomb strapped to his chest. I was sure it was the end.

I did nothing. I just waited there: unmoving, heart pounding.

He came out wearing more casual clothes. Then he pulled a slice of pizza from the brown paper bag.

So yes, indeed, Ian. In that respect, the terrorists have won.

Back to School

2011-09-13T07:28:00.006-04:00

I am not sure what my favorite moment from class was last night. Here are a few:

The BO? She is intense. Last night I had to dab perfume on my wrists, hold them conspicuously in front of my face all night, and simultaneous concentrate on retaining the information and breathing through my mouth. Also, guy who has mastered the Silent-But-Deadly fart in the row ahead of me? Kudos, brother; but you're killin' me.

Perhaps the moment when the professor was giving an example of coercive power, and yelled at the class to stand up? And she spotted a guy in the back row not standing, and she pointed at him and bellowed, "You! Get up! Why aren't you standing?!" And another student quietly informed her that he was physically unable to stand, what with that pesky wheelchair and all.

Or, when, with fifteen minutes left in class, a woman in the front row (who had the distinction of talking more than me this round) shouted out: "Hey! Weren't we supposed to have a quiz tonight?" I am surprised texts didn't fly at her head; the collective groan was deafening.

At one point, our instructor asked for an example of empathy. A man in the corner raised his hand and began," When my mother died in the earthquake in Haiti..." You could have heard a pin drop. I spent the rest of the class sending him psychic hugs.

Three weeks in, and nary a dull moment. I'll take it, business school. I just wish it smelled more like roses.

Meanwhile, do you remember this dude?

He's like, 15 now or something.

A New Season

2011-09-12T13:59:00.005-04:00

Recovering from my (fake) brush with death yesterday. My left temple is a lovely green shade and my shoulder and wrist are aching. Nothing a little light exercise and Management reading can't fix. And perhaps I should consider one of those benches in the shower, made specifically for seniors?

So what's new? I've started my grad school courses, though due to Hurricane Irene and Labor Day, I still haven't actually attended my Management class yet. I'm also taking Accounting, which I quite enjoy. All in all, a good semester thus far, a mere three weeks in.

Today marks Day 1 of half-marathon training. I intend to run the Dallas White Rock in early December; and thank Jesus, because I am quite jiggly these days. I managed to gain nearly FIVE pounds on our three-week sojourn through the Northeast (cheese fries, cheese nuggets, ice cream, Italian hoagies, cheesecakes, cupcakes, and the Dunkin Donuts drive-thru will do that to a gal), and I am currently trying to rid myself of the extra girth so I can button my pants again one day soon.

Oh! I found an old journal, one I've been missing for quite some time now. And this one is GOOD, y'all. It is juicy and sordid and paints a picture of a very self-centered lass from 1997 through 99, during which time I move to New York and mercifully gain some perspective and stop obsessing about boys a tiny fraction. As I was skimming, I came across an entry in which I divulge my weight - 10 full pounds less than I am now - and write, "I need to lose at least 10 - 12 pounds; starting to feel like a heifer!" And now I'd like to personally thank anyone who hung out with me in high school, because damn: I was annoying.

Finally, yesterday I hobbled along with my boys to a new friends' place to watch the Eagles game. (Fellow Birds fans: huzzah!) At one point I got down on the floor to color with Hendrik and their two young daughters. Later, back home, J and I were sitting on the couch when he started giggling and burst out, "How 'bout your plumber's crack today?" When I asked him why he didn't nudge me to pull up my jeans, he just laughed and replied: "I'm sure I'm the only one who noticed." Right, J: because no one ever picks up on a person's butt checks billowing out of the top of their pants.

Informal poll this Monday morning: Divorce?

Ten Years

2011-09-11T20:51:00.003-04:00

Today, I fell in the shower.

Let me explain. I got a pedicure yesterday, and because they are now somewhat few and far between, I decided that I would work tirelessly to sustain soft, lady-like heels. I slathered on Bliss Tough Love callous remover before bed, and again this morning. Hours later, I walked into the shower.

I completely lost my footing. My soles were practically oiled, causing me to slip backwards on the cultured marble floor. I landed on my left shoulder, and my head then made contact with the edge of the shower door. My arm tingling, head ringing, I yelled for J.

As he came into the bathroom, I lay hunched over the door frame. "I fell," I explained. "My arm tingles."

"Are you okay?" He asked, and as he reached me he did a sharp intake of breath.

"What?" I yelped. "Am I bleeding?"

"No, you just have a huge bump," he explained, gingerly touching my left temple.

I began to panic as my hand flew to my head. The bump was large, had appeared instaneously. "Let's get you to lie down," J said, wrapping me in a towel and guiding me to the bedroom. He quickly fetched an ice pack and put it to my temple.

"I'm going to die," I say with absolute certainty. "The date, J! I am going to die on the tenth anniversary of September 11th. I was supposed to die then, but I'll die today; just like Natasha Richardson did. The IRONY!" (Proof that nothing good comes from watching Final Destination. And also? Post-traumatic stress victim, party of one?)

I believed it too. I assumed that it was my fate: to die from a desire for soft heels and callous-free toes.

Fuck, you know? Just when you thought you were healed? You ain't healed. The wound becomes less pronounced, it ebbs and dulls. It becomes a scar; it fades, but it reserves the right to be ripped open at a moment's notice.

It also takes many forms, an insidious foe that you often don't recognize initially. Lately? It is a visceral fear of leaving my son. Not getting to see him grow; missing it all. It is a nervous, gnawing, vague anxiety, until I slip and land on my skull and see my life flash before my eyes.

Can I confess something? I've let myself delve more into 9/11 nostalgia this year than ever before. I read Lisa Beamer's memoir; I watched TLC's Heroes of the 88th Floor. I even picked up United 93 at my local library. Before I did, I searched You Tube for clips from the film. I came across a 911 call made from the 105th floor of the North Tower.

I listened to it.

This man had no idea what had just happened. He couldn't see through the thick black smoke. He begged the 911 dispatcher to send help. He was there with another man. They couldn't see. It was becoming difficult to breathe. A fireman came on the line and tried to calm him. "We're working our way up," he assured him. The dispatcher came on the line again. "I'm going to stay with you," she assured him. He replied weakly, seemingly realizing his fate: "You can say that: you're in an air-conditioned building."

I think perhaps this is the most devastating thing I have ever heard.

I don't have any words of wisdom on the tenth anniversary of the "day the world changed forever", or whatever sweeping, heart-string-tugging platitude the news channels can deliver. (On our way home this evening, a local radion station played this spot: "Where were you on 9/11? The day the world changed! 9.33 FM!")

I just ache for those who lost their lives; who missed out. I mourn with those who lost the people dear to them. And I pray that the survivors - all of us, really - find a lasting peace.

Perhaps someday, a bump on the head can be just that - a blip, an accident - and not a fatality; an epic catastrophe waiting to unfold.

I hope.

Things I Need To Complain About.

2011-08-04T17:43:00.003-04:00

Oh, you guys. You know how sometimes you just need to get it out there, so you can let it go? Please forgive me this bratty indulgence. But here are some things I need to complain about, so I can be my normal sunny self again.

The HEAT. My loves, it is about a million degrees in North Texas. I am not exaggerating. The HEAT is like another clingy, irritating family member, because all of your decisions need to be made according to the HEAT. When can we go for a walk? We have to get out early to beat the heat. Did you want to go out at 5 AM? It is only 90 degrees at 5 AM. That should be great. Can we go to this outdoor event this weekend? No, it is going to be 108 degrees, our baby's face will melt and his curly mullet will disintegrate; further, why does any rational person in Texas plan anything in July or August anyway? Are they insane?!? Can you run into the house to get me a beer as I sit in the 90 degree pool that feels incredibly refreshing? Sure, just let me make sure I put my flip flops under my chair... Damn, I didn't. I will have to wait three hours while they cool, so I can dash into the house without my feet catching fire. Oh, you guys. The HEAT. Last night, J laughingly told me the forecast for this week: 110, 109, 108, 107, 107... I grabbed my phone to see for myself, because surely, he must be joking. He wasn't. Mercy. Also? The other night? Our downstairs AC unit wouldn't turn on (we keep the upstairs unit at 78 all day, on the first floor we only use the AC at night). J was all: Well, you'll have to call the home warranty company tomorrow. I was all: OH MY EFFING GOD J THERE IS NO WAY WE SHAN'T SURVIVE WE MUST FIX THIS IMMEDIATELY FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY. Praise Jesus I was able to fix the problem. To sum up: HEAT.

Pediatricians. I miss our Philly docs. I had a very traumatic experience with our new pediatrician's office at Hendrik's 12-month visit (it involved a blood draw, a screaming baby, a mama instructed to get on top of the baby to hold him down, an inept medical assistant, and THREE separate employees who did not listen to the mother who told everyone HE DOES NOT NEED THIS TEST HE JUST HAD IT. You see? Trauma.) Feeling like the worst mother in North Texas, I vowed to find a new ped the old-fashioned way. (Remember being pregnant? Remember those awkward interviews?) I asked for recommendations in playgroup. Yesterday, I called the first doc. The receptionist acted like I was straight-up nuts when I asked if I could schedule an interview. Um, no, we don't do that. I mean, we do prenatal interviews. If you are pregnant. You can come in and like, get a pamphlet. I clarified: you mean, the doctor would meet with me if I was pregnant, but not with a child living outside of the womb? I called a second doc at 4:15, and the office was closed; the message mentioned that any after-hours call to a nurse cost $10, not billable to insurance. Wha?? So do they collect credit card information before a nurse will answer a question about diaper rash? In Philly, our nurse line was amazing. You could call at anytime, and they'd always ease the fears of a nervous first-time mom. Le sigh.

Health "insurance". This I won't belabor, but we switched to a high-deductible health plan. Shit is expensive, guys, and wellness is supposed to be covered. But then they apparently changed the definition of "wellness" to "nothing". So yeah. Pretty much nothing is covered. I think you were on to something, Michael Moore.

How do you all find a new doctor? Am I insane for wanting to meet? Are babies outside the uterus all chopped liver?

Uh oh. I did all that complaining and I don't feel better yet. Someone tell me something good.

Because It's Wednesday...

2011-07-27T17:26:00.002-04:00

And I am on hold with United Health Care, talking deductibles and labs and well-visits and, most specifically, why was this applied to the deductible, when clearly this is a routine lab part of a well-visit?

Some time later...

Well, if I worked for a major medical insurance company, and I had to tell my customer something they didn't want to hear, I too would blame "the universal health care reform". Well played, Mae. Well played.

Snippet time!

I love autocorrect. Seriously want to marry it. Today I got a text message from J as H and I were on our way to meet him at My Gym for some free play time. "On my way. Had to take a deep tour." Dirty!

Lo and behold, J's detour was to DFW airport - Granddad just happened to be bunking in Dallas for the night. Win for the whole fam! I also love random grandparent drop-ins. Hendrik was very excited as well.

The only time our kid will nap for two hours is when we actively need him to be awake because we are really, really famished on a Saturday afternoon and would like to be at the sushi restaurant immediately. On those days, Hank is Rumpelstiltskin. But when Mommy just wants to sit down and watch DVRed episodes of So You Think You Can Dance, you can be sure he pooped and needs to be changed post-haste and would also like to run around his bedroom and throw books at my head.

Finally, J is hiring peeps. A recruiter passed on a resume he thought J might like after he performed an initial candidate screen. J passed. The recruiter contacted the candidate to tell him J passed. His response? Ready?

(Are you sure you are really ready? It's good.)

"they why did you call me and email me in the first place. get your shit together."

Somebody hire this pragmatist ASAP.

Little Boy.

2011-07-26T12:02:00.016-04:00

Some more shots from our Colorado trip...

Who is this little boy? What has he done with my baby? And why is he giving me the stink-eye?

Just two dudes, being adorable. Born a mere 80 years apart.

His pensive mountain look.

Playground on Cheyenne Mountain. Shots taken before a very spirited two-year old knocked him in the head with a bucket. Boy's mama proceeded to put the bucket in time-out. Because it totally was the inanimate object's fault.

Now, let's smile for the camera, Hank:

Fourteen month-old boys are truly the bee's knees.

I'm Your Candy Girl

2011-07-26T07:46:00.004-04:00

I think we can all agree that the days of "relaxing" on a vacation are kaput once the babies arrive. The only breaks I had in Colorado were when little man was napping or asleep for the night. (Since J was not with us - he was at a conference in Seattle - I read. Oh, and it was glorious.)

But if I cannot relax on vacation as per usual, I can certainly reassess my life's goals, goddamnit. As with every sojourn away from home, I returned to Dallas with renewed purpose. This time, I decided to do something once and for all about my health.

Bob Greene (Oprah's "brother" and fitness guru) said earlier this year: "When you are motivated, you are out of excuses." Word, Bob. And when you have a young'un, you have a million excuses, not least of which is: I'm really fucking tired right now and I deserve this king-sized Snickers bar. Bitch.

I'm still about ten-ish pounds away from wedding weight, five pounds from pre-baby poundage. This is not the end of the world, and I feel pretty good. Unfortunately, my clothes are just ever-so-slightly too snug. You know the feeling? Oh for sure, I can button those jeans, but beware the muffin top. And I can squeeze into this sleeveless shirt from 09, but it is really pinching my wobbly arm bits.

We're a one-income family now, with a large mortgage and graduate school and an electricity bill that I opened a few days ago and said: "Wait. This must be two months of energy, right?" New clothes are just not an option right now, save the occasional top I buy at Target that falls apart after three washings.

So my mission: she is clear.

I have to get back to my fighting weight.

If there is one thing I love in this life, it is ~~vodka~~ ~~JJ Abrams~~ ~~Coach~~ ~~Oprah~~ ~~Snickers~~ sugar. And so I first decided to assess this addiction. I eat sweets constantly, particularly if I am feeling blue or bored or it's a day of the week. Recently, Hendrik and I ran out to Target and I returned home with a Snickers bar AND a Toblerone. I gobbled up the candy in 3 minutes flat. I did not feel good afterwards.

Lately, it's been ice cream and chocolate and caramel corn and chocolate and Heath bar on my Tasti D-Lite and chocolate. I have several frequent buyer cards stamped at the Marble Stone Creamery, and my mom left behind a wake of Twizzlers and M&Ms. In Colorado, my Far-Mor put sugar on fruit and fed me incredible pound cake and homemade whipped cream, as well as a steady supply of Dove chocolates.

Yet the scale hasn't budged. Imagine!

Aside from the L-Bs, I believe sugar may be a carcinogen. For sure, it causes a plethora of health issues (hello, diabetes). There is no nutritional value, only potential detriment. To this end, when someone tries to give it to Hank, I tend to react like they have offered him arsenic.

No, I am not cutting out all sugar (it's virtually impossible and I still want to have some fun), but I am looking very closely at my intake. I remembered hearing on one of those PBS infomercials that you should max out at 16g of sugar daily. To put this into perspective, my hazelnut coffee creamer has 9g in 2 tablespoons. One teaspoon of sugar = 4 grams.

I relaxed my standards a bit when I read that most docs recommend you do not exceed 32g daily, or 8 teaspoons.

Oh! And I rejoiced when I learned that most red wine has about .96g per 5 ounces. BOO YEAH.

It's been going well. I've been tracking my intake for a week now, and the highest I've gone is 34 grams. Most days I average 24. I dare you to start tracking your own intake. One tiny Nature's Path granola bar has 15 grams of sugar. This new focus is rocking my world.

My other health/fitness resolutions?

Get thee to the gym, at least 3 times per week. This is based on monetary concerns, because cash rules everything around me, y'all. I can't justify a $50 monthly expense unless I get my ass there. The fitness? Just a bonus. I've been taking Hendrik to the Kid's Club, which is wonderful for him. It gives him some independent time with other kids - and other adults - and he seems to really enjoy it. I've also been to several Sunday morning yoga classes, and I'm actually thrilled with the caliber of the practice there. I can't afford a studio right now, but I am very pleased with the instructors at LA Fitness. We've also been walking outside before 10 AM, at which time all Texans must be inside, lest your face melt off in the 120 degree temps. (Another post, my pets.)

Drink 64 ounces of water daily. I suck at this. But I am trying.

Cut out the booze. Did I tell you J got me a wine fridge? Slid it right into the kitchen where the trash compactor used to be. It is unspeakably awesome, yet lends itself to one to two glasses of pinot noir daily. For now, I'm saving vino for the weekends. So far, so good.

Take vitamins. Multi, calcium, D - what up??

Eat at least five servings of fruits and vegetables daily. You know when you really want a starchy carb or a pint of Ben and Jerry's? I have been reaching for cucumbers and celery with hummus instead. It sucks, and it makes me very cranky at first; but then I realize I am doing something good for my body, my health, and my son. And then it makes me only slightly less stabby.

Jada Pinkett Smith said in this month's Redbook (BTW, I don't remember subscribing to Redbook. It justs keeps coming every month and I keep reading. I think they just know I am over 30 and married with children and thus subscription is mandatory.) that for her, "food is fuel." I really like that. It forces me to ask myself what will nourish my body and make it work better? when all I long to do is curl up with a jar of Nutella and a spoon.

What about you all? Do you monitor your sugar intake? Any fitness resolutions this summer? And do you read and/or like Redbook? Do tell.

Blogger Woe - Need Guidance.

2011-07-22T12:31:00.002-04:00

Okay, friends: who among you is using Blogger? And does everyone have as much trouble as I do inserting photos? Each time I do, I spend 10 hours trying to reassemble my text into something coherent, and it rarely works (as evidenced below). HALP.

What am I doing wrong? What can I do to save time when posting pics? Any advice would be most appreciated. I have been blogging for FIVE years and I gots no clue.

Thanks, loves. Happy weekend.

Rocky Mountain Hiney

2011-07-22T12:27:00.003-04:00

First rides!

First solo ride. Look alive, Sadie!

Quality time with Far-Far.

Keeping it classy with mismatched socks at DIA.

Reunited.

Oh, dudes: the pure joy of traveling the friendly skies with a 14-month old! The thrills! The chills! The yogurt puffs!

Last night, when we finally arrived home at 10:30, I told J that when we have another child? I am just never going anywhere again. Ever. Mkay?

Overall, our trip to Colorado was fantastic. Our 1.5 hour flight on Saturday went very well. We had skipped his morning nap so by the time we taxied down the runway for takeoff at 11:30 AM, I was able to rock baby boy to sleep on my lap. He looked so sweetly serene snoozing there on my chest. I have also never been quite so grateful to read the completely inane People magazine. Score one for Mama Dukes.

Of course, he woke up after about 35 minutes, at which time I entertained him and other passengers with dramatic readings of I Love You All The Time and impassioned renditions of Itsy Bitsy Spider. Best mom ever.

The highlights?

The flesh-eating bacteria that threatened Hank's delicate booty. I finally had to admit to myself that all-natural Burt's Bees butt cream is totally ineffective. My boy needs maximum strength Desitin on his bits. Poor man finally started to heal as we headed home.

I bet none of you chickens realized that Santa actually lives in the foothills of Pike's Peak Suckers. Hendrik totally visited the North Pole, Santa's actual workshop tucked away in the mountains. We rode rides! And I even let Hendrik go on the boats by himself, entrusting a very questionable-looking 4 year-old to protect him from jumping ship.

My Far-Mor (that's Swedish for grandmother) getting a positive PET scan reading: no more cancer. We celebrated at the Old Country Buffet. (No, really.)

Hank spending quality time with his great-grandparents. He's got three of them! Lucky dude.

Watching The Bachelorette with my grandmother. We both agree Ben is super-sexy; and Ames really needed to go.

Have you guys seen Despicable Me? Tangled? Go forth and Netflix. Solid, solid films. I think I might only watch Pixar and Disney movies from here on out.

The flight home, on which one of us refused to sleep, though it was hours past bedtime. To fuck with me, he passed out as we the plane touched down. Waiting for our stroller on the jetway, every single person who passed exclaimed, "Finally asleep, huh?" One guy told me he was on the flight to Denver with us. "Man, he is hilarious! Nice set of lungs on him!" Indeed. And sorry, fellow passengers.

Headed West.

2011-07-15T12:03:00.003-04:00

Last night's orientation went well, especially when the instructor told us to please eat the refreshments located at the front of the lecture hall, and I dropped a slippery two-liter bottle of soda on the floor. Luckily, the bottle was closed, so I merely laughed and said sheepishly, "Nobody open that."

Smooth.

Today I am busy packing for our jaunt to Colorado tomorrow. Hank and I are off on another adventure together, and though I am dreading the flight (he's lap-riding, and he's very squirmy), I am packing 783 books, DVDs, and one new toy to keep him occupied for the two-hour duration. I'm hoping he sleeps (trying to delay his morning nap for the ride); but whatever happens, rest assured: I'll be drinking. Bring on the Bloody Marys, Flight Attendant.

I'm thrilled to be taking Hendrik to Colorado to visit his great-grandparents, who moved to the Mountain State 21 years ago. Twenty years ago, in the summer of 1991, my brother Mike and I journeyed there alone for our inaugural visit. How fast those last TWO decades flew! I've been lucky enough to travel to Colorado Springs about ten or so times over that long period. I've been to the summit of Pike's Peak many, many times.

I can't wait to take Snooze there. I can't wait to make another beautiful memory together.

We Ain't in Undergrad Anymore, Baby.

2011-07-14T17:15:00.004-04:00

Amidst a very hectic summer schedule of houseguests; travel (flying to Colorado on Saturday); playdates; a renewed gym membership; and furiously texting my sister Cat re: our slightly unhealthy So You Think You Can Dance obsession, I've got grad school orientation tonight, y'all!

I have been enthusiastically looking forward to this moment for months, ever since I learned I was accepted to business school. I am thrilled to be pursuing a graduate degree. I am overjoyed to have a serious adult outlet. I am approaching schooling as a new business venture. I've been waking at 5:30 AM to enjoy the peace of the morning and to indoctrinate myself into the ways of rousing early to complete coursework. (Squee! Coursework!) I feel invigorated that though there is a cost at present, I will eventually be contributing monetarily to our family again.

Most of all?

I am excited about the shoes.

Mah shoes, guys.

I have no cause to wear four-inch heels around the house, whilst I am chasing a rambunctious nearly-14 month-old babe. On weekends, it's about 567 degrees here, so even if J and I do score a night out sans babe, you will catch me in straight flats (oh, I will also rock the flops, but I try not to make a habit of that in the evenings. I am unspeakably fancy.)

I showered and blew dry my hair this morning. and then threw on a pair of ripped jeans and a black tank. I briefly wondered if these jeans would be appropriate for tonight's event. (This happens when it has been eons since you attended an event labeled "business casual".) And then: an epiphany!

My business clothes!

I am in business school. I am an adult. (I am 29, after all.) I own a home in a respectable suburb. Today I decided I would attempt to get involved in a community board, for fuck's sake.

I can wear my beautiful business clothes to business school. I can make like the other part-timers who are rushing to class from uber-demanding day jobs. No one has to know that my current occupation involves poop and My Gym and Mom's League.

Ladies and gents: HomeValley's back, and she's better than evah.

Now, where did I put my Spanx?

Trois Ans

2011-07-11T08:49:00.020-04:00

Three years ago today, we stood on a gorgeous, sweltering beach in Punta Cana, and promised to "Give it to each other every day." (We realized later that Maria, our translator, had said "Giveth." But either works, right?)

We danced wildly all night long. Everyone was soaked with sweat. It was an excellent party. (And I damn good playlist!)

We ordered pizza at 2 AM, and chatted drunkenly in our honeymoon suite. We had done it! Married at last! We were finally able to relax and enjoy a few more days of vacation with great friends and family.

When we decided to partner up, we agreed to never become complacent. To strive. To encourage. To keep reaching, bettering, becoming.

We saw the pyramids at Giza; the hidden city at Petra. We visited the final resting place of Eva Peron in Buenos Aires. We conquered the suspect "Barbeque for 2" at a Montevideo parilla. We lounged on the white sand beaches of Turks and Caicos.

On top of the (ancient) world.

You earned a Master's degree!

We conceived and birthed a babe, who has morphed into an energetic, constantly-dancing, book-lovin', curly mullet-headed little boy.

We made him! Well done!

Oh, and then there was that 1500-mile move to Texas! And living apart, and selling our home, and flying to and fro with a 9 month-old. And buying our first home together; and attempting to refurbish and furnish it, and create a whole new social network in the Southwest, whilst keeping in close touch with those we already know and love.

One job gained, one job lost. One Master's degree attained, one (possibly two) just getting under way. One child birthed. One house bought, one house sold. One huge move.

Do we know how to keep is fresh or what?

And here we are, and here we'll stay, cultivating happiness.

I love you, Kins.

(And since there is no video montage this year - because I just did one for Hank's birthday, and there are approximately two photographs of the two of us together this year, and I am chubby in both - here is a little look back, at thinner times.)

Year 1:

Create your own video slideshow at animoto.com.

Year 2:

Create your own video slideshow at animoto.com.

Pay It Forward.

2011-07-05T15:48:00.004-04:00

Hank and I took my mom to the airport. Her two-week stay ended today. Strange, but those two weeks went lightning-quick.

I get blue when our guests leave. The word blue is appropriate. I'm only the tiniest bit relieved that I no longer have to worry about feeding extended family. I am mostly sad that we live so far apart. That they get an intimate glimpse into our lives for so many days, and then that intimacy ends abruptly. I wonder how Hendrik feels. Is he bored to be alone with me again? Does he realize when they go away? I feel guilty that they will miss him. Even if he wasn't so goddamned charming: they will miss him, and his happy screaming, and his chubby little toes.

I decided to console myself with a cinnamon dolce latte at Starbucks, as you do. As I waited in the drive-thru line, I scanned my Facebook feed. There was only one thing everyone was talking about.

Casey Anthony. Not Guilty.

I hadn't closely followed the trial, but this verdict was unsurprising. No hard evidence. If the glove doesn't fit, you must acquit, etc. I'm not happy about it; but then, I don't know if she did it. All the prosecution proved is that she's an asshole. We already knew that.

Still, how heart-breaking. No matter the verdict, nothing will bring back that gorgeous little girl and the full life she was denied.

Reading status updates, I felt plain melancholy. I pulled up to the window and hastily ordered a morning bun. Only a morning bun could make it right.

"OK," said the man in the Starbuck's cap. "The person in the car in front of you decided to pay it forward, so you just owe me for the morning bun."

"Pay it forward?" I asked incredulously.

"Yeah, sometimes that happens here."

"Just like that?" I smiled. (Texas, you really confound me sometimes with your equal number churches and strip joints; your guns and your "Obama is a Socialist!" billboards. Huh.)

"Just like that," the man replied.

"Well, what did that car behind me order?" I asked. "I guess I'll buy that."

"Great! I like to see how far it goes. Sometimes people just say, 'awesome, thanks,' and keep on driving."

I thought: I'd like to see how far it goes too.

As I drove home, I thought of Caylee Anthony. I thought of the fury of my Facebook friends. I thought of the cries of injustice; the loss of faith in our justice system; the idea that the jurors should hire bodyguards.

I thought: what if that woman or man in the car in front of me had also just heard the verdict? And what if he or she thought: I am going to do something nice for Caylee, anonymously. In Caylee's name. So that something good can come out of evil. So that we won't forget her, or her suffering.

I know it was just a latte, guys. But it made me feel... hopeful.

We arrived home and I hugged my baby tightly, thankful for all that I have, and resigned to pick up the tab for a stranger a little more often.

Fifteen Things.

2011-06-14T10:20:00.003-04:00

Hi! I never blog anymore! And like three of you have asked me "wassup?" But it is just life, y'all. Life is long. And busy. And challenging. So! Here is what is new with me!

(Exclamation points!)

Hank turned one. You saw the video. He's awesome and charming and swell. More on that later.

Break out your backpack and Trapper Keeper: THIS GIRL will be attending University of Texas at Arlington in the fall. I will be getting my MBA, finally. (No, I am not sure yet what I am going to do with said MBA. But it will be mine - all mine!)

I am done with grad school applications and the humbling process of soliciting recommendations from former employers. Huzzah.

Visitors! J's mom, J's dad, J's sister and husband. Hosting is a blast but time-consuming. It's mostly just figuring out food: when we will eat? What will we eat? What will Hendrik eat? What time do we need to leave so that Hendrik is not hungry and/or sleepy? It is probably not acceptable to order pizza every night, but I may try it next week when my mom arrives for a TWO WEEK visit. Stay tuned.

I seriously wish I still had my Trapper Keeper. I would organize the hell out of those folders.

They still sell Caboodles make-up organizers, and nothing else, apparently. I just want an organizational caddy for my make-up that is not a bag that gets all gnarly from cracked blush cases and loose powder everywhere that doesn't make me feel like a twelve-year old girl and is not a clear plastic box that costs $20, Target. Get on this.

Where was I going with this?

The house is coming along quite nicely. Photos to come. Every surface has been painted; popcorn ceilings have been demolished (RIP early 90s); and many, many fixtures and bathrooms have been updated. We're loving this place.

We've been slathering on the 100 SPF and spending countless hours in the pool. Having a pool is alternately terrifying (babies!) and remarkably decadent. We enjoy.

It's seriously about 100 degrees here, everyday.

It really is the humidity.

The phone on my iPhone inexplicably stopped working last week, and after many attempts at troubleshooting, I have no choice but to schedule an appointment at the Apple "Genius" Bar. This frightens me; all of those people clamoring around all of that technology in that place! And yet, I still want an iPad. Go figure.

I have been meeting lots of nice mamas here through a mom's league. We've joined a playgroup and there is no shortage of fun (and often free) activities for the wee ones. We've hit up the Fort Worth zoo; the Southlake Library for story time; Safari Park; the Fort Worh Children's Museum; and several playgrounds. I have subsequently decided that this is the most child-friendly city in America. Win!

I've signed up for the Dallas White Rock Half-Marathon, because I don't have enough on my plate this year. But I seriously need to work on my fitness.

I've resolved to write more. And not necessarily on this here blog (though I would like to accomplish that task as well). I've been neglecting my pretty blue Eva Peron journal as well, and I've found that I need the catharsis of putting pen to paper daily. It makes me a happier person, whether I am creating to-do lists, listing all of the things that are currently making me STABBY, or detailing the things that make my heart swell with gratitude. Talk soon!

Twister!

2011-05-25T09:35:00.006-04:00

Last night Big Mama needed some ALONE time. J let me know that he was invited to attend the Mavs game tonight, so I asked if he would mind if I ran to Target for a few minutes. (Because Target is like an Hawaiian vacation on those days when your child whines incessantly and WILL NOT BE MOLLIFIED, even with a truckload of puffs and Elmo DVDs. Christ.)

So off to Target I went. I bought a latte and headed for the books. I selected a few and sat in an aisle. In Target. It was a silent 30 minutes, and I walked out refreshed.

Until the ferocious wind nearly knocked me down.

"J!" I call, as I wander back into our house. "I almost blew away out there."

And as if ON MOTHER EFFIN' CUE, the sirens blare.

Now, I've been in Texas long enough (er, 7 weeks?) to know that a tornado watch is NBD. They happen. They don't really touch down here. We even had a plan! Which consisted of me saying:

If it happens, we'll get in this closet.

To which J replied, No, the bathroom.

J, there are windows in the bathroom.

No, Snooze's bathroom.

J! That's on the second floor. You can't be on the second floor!

Obviously, a solid plan.

But I haven't heard the sirens yet, though we know they exist. So I pick up my phone, and find the Weather Center app.

"Shit!" I exclaim, my adrenaline beginning to pump. "We're under warning. That means it's been spotted somewhere."

J, only slightly interested at this point, grunts. I run upstairs to the playroom, site of the only TV we currently have up and running in the house.

And I learn that the twister's been spotted in Saginaw, and is headed due east.

Straight for us, y'all. Straight for us.

J starts to get serious in his try not to alarm the hysterical wife voice. "I'm just going to put my shoes on," he says nonchalantly. "Just in case I have to run out." (No, I don't know why he would be running out either, but it really is best to be prepared.)

We run through the house collecting flashlights and matches, and I wonder when I should grab our sleeping babe to bring him downstairs to our "safe" closet. I am also listening to the meteorologist beginning to panic, as she laments on camera: "If my neighbor is watching, please call me. Let me know my house is okay, let me know my dogs are okay." She lives in our small suburb.

"It's okay, babe," J assures me. But as he says this, things start to get darker outside. The wind picks up.

And a few minutes later, hysterical weather lady yelps, "Excuse me, I have to step out. I have to make a call. This thing is headed STRAIGHT for my house!"

I run to Hendrik's room, grab him as gingerly as possible, and run down the stairs. We huddle in the closet together, J standing guard at the door, ready to jump in if the windows start shattering. The wind howls outside, and we watch - through our picturesque floor to ceiling windows in the "great room" - our lawn chairs flying into our pool. Hail - golfball size - hammers our roof. Hendrik groggily lifts his head as I soothe him, rubbing his hair and telling him - and myself - it will be okay.

It has to be, right? I think. I DID NOT move to Texas to buy our dream house and die in the great room closet, dudes.

And almost as quickly as it started, the winds begin to cease. My heart continues to pump loudly. "Is it over?" I ask J repeatedly. "Is it over?"

From upstairs, I hear our now-composed meteorologist saying to the anchor, "The dogs are okay!" And I know that the worst is probably passed. Our electricity goes out shortly thereafter, and eventually I feel safe enough to put Hendrik back to bed. The storms continue throughout the evening, and I sleep fitfully, waking to check my phone to ensure that another twister isn't on its way to our once bucolic home.

Welcome to Texas, y'all. Eff me.

*Author's Note: I should have posted this last Wednesday, guys, I'm a jerk.

The Man Turns ONE.

2011-05-17T12:11:00.003-04:00

In an eerie coincidence, I just logged into Blogger and noticed that I have exactly 517 posts on QITNM. And we know what 5.17 is, right, y'all??

MAH BABY IS ONE!

First, let me apologize that the last post here, er, six weeks ago? Is titled "Boob Emergency". You guys deserve better than that. But rest assured, HomeValley is alive and thriving and as lovable as ever. I gots lots of details to share.

But today is not about us, guys. It's about the tiniest Lord of the Manor, Hendrik Hemdal Orlando, in all his ONE-ness.

He does this thing now, where he gets shy. He grins widely, turns away, rests his head on his outstretched arm, and waves, squeezing his little hand in a greeting. It's absolutely precious, and it's so him. I like that we have a little person in the house, with all of his quirks and mannerisms.

What a long, wonderful, agonizing, exhausting, euphoric, miraculous, turbulent, hilarious year, Hendrik. Our love for you knows no bounds.

Boob Emergency!

2011-03-26T14:52:00.002-04:00

Lactating Mothers of the Internet, I beseech you. We have an issue over here.

TEETH.

My little man has EIGHT teeth in his tiny little mouth. I am still nursing exclusively; and since my body has adjusted to Hendrik's feeding schedule - and since we are NEVER APART - I haven't been pumping at all. He nurses four times a day at present: twice in the morning, once in the afternoon, and once before bed.

He gives very distinct hunger cues these days - mainly, he becomes whiny, crawls into my lap, and grabs at my shirt. He's pretty direct. He nurses very quickly - maybe fifteen minutes total per day - so I thought we'd go on peacefully until 12 months, at which time we'd wean to cow's milk.

But now? HE WON'T. STOP. BITING. ME.

It's only been two days of this, but one bite is too many in my book. I've tried the standard: remove him, tell him sternly "NO BITING!" and repeat. And repeat. And repeat. He gets terribly upset (because I am terribly upset); but as soon as he calms down and we try again, he is biting me again.

Is he trying to tell me something? Is he ready to wean? He's always been a bit ahead of his time - could it be time to move to cow's milk at ten months and one week?

Any advice would be most appreciated, ladies! I've been giving him about three tries before I finally remove him and tell him his meal is over. I'm concerned he is not getting enough nutrition, but so far he seems unfazed. Help?

House to Home.

2011-03-23T19:39:00.018-04:00

I wasn't in the picture when J bought our current/very soon-to-be former home. I only know the transformation from photos, so it's hard for me to appreciate the sweat equity my husband put into this place. He's got a love/hate relationship with this gorgeous Manayunk rowhome; the magahony inlay, original hardwoods are second-to-none, but old houses have lots of baggage. And raccoons, apparently.

I've lived here for just over four years now, and each year I've fallen deeper and deeper in love with our home. But as J said to me recently, the conveniences she offered at ages 25 and 28 are vastly different than the ones we're in search of at 31 and 34. We need space; fresh air. Lord knows I feel a pang when I think of leaving Main Street behind, but we don't exactly frequent the bars and restaurants like we did in 2009; and frankly the Starbucks is just making us poor.

I wanted to share with you just HOW VAST the change was, and how much of a visionary my husband is. Consider what he purchased back in 2004:

The living room then.

And later.

And now.

The kitchen then.

And later.

And now.

The bathroom - my GOD, the bathroom - then.

And later.

And now.

I mean, don't you seriously want to marry him a little right now?

Everything's Bigger in Texas.

2011-03-16T20:30:00.005-04:00

JC, what am I doing with this nouveau blog design? I feel like I am in blog limbo. Blimbo, if you will indulge me. And in this blimbo, I must find my bloggy path, or perish trying.

Very dramatic, this blogging. Obvi.

So, we're back in Iladelph. Only it feels bizarre; this house isn't really ours anymore. Our new home really isn't ours yet. So we wait. I am trying to suck the joy out of every moment here in Manayunk. The last weeks of single parenthood before Hank and I become full-time Texans. Real life is also a little blimbo-y, but I feel remarkably calm about it all.

(Also? Mouse turds. I mean, like, three. And they could have been old. But still. If I was feeling sentimental about leaving, I just need to remember the horror of this day. Peace out, Yunk. Keep your damned raccoons/squirrels/mice and any other hybrid creature you might throw at me and let me be on my way to Big D.)

(Where, at our new home inspection, the exterminator told J that field mice were "HUGE" in Texas. Did you just picture rodents of unusual size? I did. But what he meant was "RAMPANT." Fuck me, I can't win this battle. I am waving the white flag, you cheeky little rodents. I might as well invite you to tea, you bastards.)

(See, everything is BIGGER in Texas.)

What else can I tell you? I used the spa gift card I received for Christmas today at this spa in Chestnut Hill. I adore a good Swedish massage. Consider the things we demand of our skin and bones; a professional rub-down is a necessary luxury in my book.

I indulge mostly on vacation, and perhaps once or twice a year at home. Through our travels, I've visited spas all over the world, as well as one very questionable backroom in Chiang Mai, Thailand that J and I still recall with abject terror. Laying on the table today, I felt grateful for each of those trips, and for my dimpled thighs. I wondered why I've been so hung up on my mangled-by-baby frame, because the things my body can do? Nothing short of miraculous! And to have my health... Well, it's downright disrespectful to worry about a few extra L-Bs and some cellulite.

(Of course, I did fit into my skinny jeans today. I managed to lose 6.5 pounds in the last 2.5 months through a very specific regime of Nutella on whole wheat mini-bagels and caramel macchiatos.)

And that's alls I got, kids. I'm off to snuggle up with a glass of vino and some HGTV, and to ponder the important existential questions in life, like what should my next blogging adventure entail?

Nine Months.

2011-03-14T14:57:00.011-04:00

I often wonder how I'll color the past - ten, twenty, thirty years from now.

What will I say about you, sweet boy?

Mom-Mom is notorious for her anecdotal tidbits about each of her kids. I was a genius - GENIUS! - who spoke at the tender age of six weeks. (More precisely, she said "Goo!" and then I said "Goo!", which may have been a grand and lucky coincidence; I have been labeled brilliant by your grandmother ever since.)

Of course, I was also kind of an asshole. I tossed your Uncle Mike out of his bassinet the very day he came home from the hospital. Nevermind that I was only fourteen months old; to hear Mom-Mom tell it, I was jealous and quite obviously scheming to annihilate this tiny usurper. Anything that has gone wrong in Uncle Mike's life can undoubtedly be tied to this moment in time.

Uncle Ryan - lest anyone ever forget - never crawled. One morning on a family trip to Colorado he stood in his crib; seconds later he was walking at just seven months old. Always quick, that Uncle Ry.

So as I watch you grow and think and overcome every day, I hear my future, impeccably smooth-skinned-sans-Botox self chirping about the aspects of your personality that just always existed.

It's no wonder he's got his own travel show on Discovery; he always wanted to move. Even when you picked him up, his legs were always kicking - in frustration, delight, amusement, what have you.

It's no wonder he's joined the air force; he was always fearless. Flying was in his bones. He was always a delight on planes.

It's no wonder he's an Olympic gold-medalist marathoner; that boy was born running.

Sweet baby Hank, this is the month you became an experienced air traveler (your second, third, and fourth flights!). This is the month you got your seventh and eighth teeth. This is the month you started saying "DADA," and then never shut up about that dude.

This is the month you stopped nursing overnight. (This is NOT the month you slept through the night. I will remind you of this forever.)

This is the month you called me "Nommy." This is the month you were upset as Dad changed your diaper, and you cried out for me; "Nommmyyy! Nommmyyy!"

This is the month you took your first steps. My God, son, you make us so proud.

This is the month we marvel at you from afar. I catch you walking tentatively across the room (six consecutive steps may be your personal record). We watch you meticulously remove every pot and pan and tupperware container from the cupboards. You do this so intently, we call it "work" for you and wonder what thoughts are percolating in that ever-expanding brain.

This is what they're talking about. They tell you it goes by in the blink of an eye, but mostly it seems to last forever. And then one day you realize you're holding a tiny little boy.

An adventurous, obstinate, curious, enthusiastic, athletic, brilliant, frustrating, gorgeous, miraculous little boy.

We love you so much our hearts may burst.

Love,

Mommy and Daddy

Countdown.

2011-03-14T14:31:00.003-04:00

The HomeValleyians are truly in transition. Right now Hendrik and I are splitting our time between Philadelphia and Las Colinas, Texas. We're staying in a warm, cozy corporate apartment about 15 minutes from J's new place of business. It's quite spacious: two bedrooms, two full baths, a separate dining room; a sunroom that doubles as our "office", even a veranda. Perhaps 900, 950 square feet?

It's lovely, really. It's easy to keep tidy (a cleaning lady helps that cause as well). The washer/ dryer is located in the kitchen, so it's no bother to throw in a load of laundry while Hendrik scales the furniture and chomps computer wiring. And just a few miles from here, MacArthur Boulevard offers a variety of restaurants, supermarkets, book stores, and DRIVE-THRU Starbucks. (Mecca, much?)

Despite J working anywhere between 60 -70 hours per week, Las Colinas feels like an extended vacation. There's a man-made lake a half-mile from here, where Hendrik and I sun ourselves on the waterfront. There's a basketball court and several small playgrounds where H can enjoy his wood chips. There's a community pool, though thankfully it's not quite hot enough to use it yet. (I don't think you're ready for this jelly, Texas.)

But most importantly, there's us. Our little family, having an adventure, making a life. Enjoying real quality time together. Feeling no pressure to be anywhere but in the present moment. Sure, we're stressed - simultaneous house-buying and selling will make even the most laid back among us STABBY - but we're happy.

We feel at home here. It doesn't negate the dread and deep sorrow I feel when I imagine walking through our Manayunk home that last time. Saying good-bye to Montel, Hendrik's monkey friend who adorns his nursery wall. Bidding farewell to grandparents that will no longer be able to casually drop by; swallowing the guilt knowing that months may pass before they hold their grand-baby again.

So we focus on the happy, the good, the new.

Change is a welcome, necessary bitch, eh?

Winning!

2011-03-11T10:08:00.005-05:00

Oh man, you guys.

Teeth. Still.

To sum up: Houses. Inspections. Starbucks. Packing dates. Loading dates. Moving dates. Plane tickets. Flights. Starbucks. Faux-first birthday parties. Graduate school applications and recommendations. Gymboree. Starbucks.

And snafus. There are also many, many snafus on a daily basis.

But mostly? Starbucks.

My baby walks! And talks! And disobeys! And is still the kid at Gymboree with lightning quickness and early onset ADD. Don't worry; I have vowed to him to post a Nine Month Update before he turns TEN MONTHS OLD - holy shit! - in six days.

He also eats computer cables, and computer batteries. They're delish! I've managed to capture the wheels turning in his head as Mean Mommy scolds him, bless his little heart. Disclaimer: the pouty lip in this video will melt your heart.

You've been warned.

Transitions.

2011-02-23T14:58:00.006-05:00

Hello, Lovers!

I ask you to bear with me as the HomeValleyians soldier on to Big D. We've got so much on our plates right now, what with living in different states and all. Oh, I didn't tell you that? I haven't been updating this blog regularly?

Stop looking at me like that. I know I am a sorry excuse for a blogger.

J moved to Texas on January 25th. For those playing along at home, this means we have been living apart for roughly a month, sans the ten-day sojourn Hendrik and I just took to the Lone Star state.

It's been... challenging? Enlightening? Heart-breaking? Empowering? Lonely? Chaotic? Exhausting?

Yes, on all counts.

So bear with me. I want to tell you all the dirty details of the move, but I've got an uber-demanding nine-month old who is TEETHING in the worst way. Teeth are bitches. They keep babies up moaning all night, and temporarily single mamas are kept awake growling and trying to remember why they love this little person, because for the love of Lionel Hank STOP SCREAMING.

I am also in dire need of a blog reno, but I fear the house reno will have to take precedence.

To sum up thus far:

J = Texas, houses, 100 hours of work per week

H = TEETH

HV = puffy eyes, IVs of caffeine, Skype with J, moving companies, budgets, Trulia, planes (so small we might as well be in the fucking cargo bin), HGTV

Manayunk House = SOLD

Dallas House = Under contract, pray God

Sidewalk in Front of Current Home = Torn up by gas company's jackhammer

Gas Company = ASSHOLES

And yet?

Life = Very, very Good

Snowed In.

2011-01-27T19:47:00.002-05:00

I mean, this is why you have kids.

All Good Things

2011-01-26T13:49:00.004-05:00

Obvs it's been a little loco here lately. We've been busy with house showings, moving preparations, social engagements, luncheons, Gymboree, and banging our heads on coffee tables (wait, no, that's just Hendrik).

(Hendrik, who is currently "napping" or, more precisely, "trying to scale the crib to make a break for it.")

(Ah, kids.)

Anyway, all of this beautiful chaos has led to some very definite resolution-keeping from your lady-friend over here in Iladelph.

Friends, this year's resolution was a simple/vague one: All Good Things.

I first came up with it at the mall food court, where every human being is in grave danger of casting aside healthful eating options for the deliciousness that is Chick-Fil-A. I thought: instead of depriving myself this year, I will make my mantra "All Good Things". All good things on my plate to nourish and care for my body; all good thoughts when it comes to family, friends, and those ever-present bothersome worries, the fruitless and frustrating and unproductive "what-if" scenarios.

So far, I think it's working.

Since my two-week Starbucks boycott, my weight is down about 4 pounds. I've got 10 more pounds to lose to be back to pre-baby body, fifteen if we want to get silly and return to the illusive Wedding Physique. So far, so mediocre, only because J and I eschewed exercise this month in the name of family togetherness. Now, it's time to get back to business. I've got a summer to prepare for. The name of the game is TONED.

Body-after-baby aside, the real makeover in 2011 thus far involves my mental clarity. Remember my tendency to become paralyzed by inactivity? It's a vicious cycle for me, and in order to avoid any dangerous missteps, I need to be organized. I mean, ORGANIZED.

This involves having our living environment neat and streamlined. But mainly? Mainly it involves lists and spreadsheets. I am having a love affair with lists and spreadsheets.

I decided at the turn of the year that if I am going to get an MBA this fall, I should practice by running our home like a business. It's not easy being a domestic engineer, y'all. There are many, many things to coordinate. I'm like an event planner that works 24 hours per day. I've got to think cash flow, budget, bills and savings accounts, meal plans, social events, diapering and nap schedules; not to mention the task of keeping the house sparkling and clean enough to be shown in 4 minutes flat. (Really, J called me one day as I was stepping into the shower to tell me that a prospective buyer wanted to see the house in FOUR minutes. I got dressed very quickly.)

Enter: my spreadsheets. I've got one for my budget, in which I list all of the expenses I cover, plus any incidentals that creep up. I've got an ultimate family travel/packing list, which details every item that each family member could possibly need before taking a trip (this one makes travel ever so much easier with a high-maintenace babe). I've got an Excel doc for grocery shopping, which is divided into weekly "staples" and "non-staples" and lists price per unit, so I can properly bargain hunt. (Whole Foods ain't cheap, yo.) I've also got lists of tasks that need to be accomplished before a house showing, and my ever evolving "to-do" list that lives in my Franklin Covey planner, a reliable faux-leather binder/friend.

I am positively Type-A, you guys. And I like it. I feel like I am learning to clean up the mental clutter, allowing me to really achieve my full potential, whatever that may be. (I've got some ideas percolating, my sweets.)

So now that I have finally regaled you with my New Year's resolutions on January 26th, pray tell, what are yours? Have you kept any? Any game-changers?

Of course, I wish you all good things, my friends.

Announcements

2011-01-12T17:10:00.004-05:00

Mah People:

Happy New Year! I am sorry I have been away for eons. I have been living the fabulous life of the blogless. Jealous?

So there was Christmas. It was lovely/chaotic/stressful/delicious. Then there was New Year's, and you didn't see a post from me. Surely you thought - this is not the Melissa P. HomeValley I know and love! She lives for New Year's resolutions! Where for art thou, HomeValley?

Well, I return to you bearing BIG news. I'se been busy, see, along with my cohorts here at the ranch.

We're moving.

Ever so slightly south of PA.

Texas, y'all.

We're moving to Texas.

*writer scratches head, wonders if she herself read that right*

Alas, it's true! J received a job offer from a rather prominent institution in Houston, and so on the day after Thanksgiving? We left Snooze with his grandparents and we dragged our turkey-stuffed booties to the airport at 4 AM. We flew to Houston for the day. (That's where we did this, by the by.)

It was a pleasant day. The flight was on-time and uneventful, except that we listed the states, and I listened to the song Black Sheep by Martin Sexton. I mean, really listened. I even jotted down the lyrics, as tears pricked my eyes. Here's a sampling:

Sitting in this lonely town
Wondering when things are gonna change
Dreaming my life away
It seems these dreams turn into a bunch of dust clouds

Get my nerve up
But my past has been pulling me down
Wondering how long this black sheep
Gonna stick around

I remember somebody told me once before
You can never go home again, once you leave
Say anything just to steer me away
From the truth of who I am and what I believe

So I thanked him for his two cents with a handshake, and some sympathy
And I packed up my blue jeans
And I headed for this big prize
Of my freedom.

Friends?

It was a moment.

The decision to move away from family is not an easy one, especially when you have a small child. Feelings are hurt. Loved ones are confounded/incredulous/doubtful.

In the end, of course, J and I had to be true to our hearts. And our hearts tell us that life is a gift; and that it is meant to be lived. I can't quell my adventurous spirit, and I don't want to.

Sometimes you just have to try that thing, scratch that itch.

All that said? We sipped our drinks in the Houston airport at the end of that day, and thought: We can do this. We're doing this.

And then, as the days passed... something didn't feel quite right.

I am going to yadda yadda you now, guys. You've probably got dinner plans.

Houston is hot - yadda yadda yadda - J got offered another fantastic position in Dallas.

The rest is history.

Now? We are in the throes of house selling/moving/job startin'/separating for a spell. Not the easiest few months ahead, but I love me a good challenge.

Life is meant to be lived, after all.

More to come. Until then: the stars at night, are big and bright.

xoxo,

HomeValley

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FAc9o6nN9ZI

(If you're not familiar with Martin, check him out. He's guaranteed to make you happy.)

SEVEN MONTHS

2010-12-17T13:25:00.008-05:00

I will never forget the first time you spit up.

I was alone in the house. You were just a few days old. You were sitting in your chair when a tiny bit of BRIGHT ORANGE goop spewed from your mouth.

I promptly freaked out.

No, really. I panicked and called your dad, then he eventually called the doctor, as I was too shaken to speak. Then a few of your great aunts and uncles came to visit, and I collapsed into tears. You were definitely dying. My child was sick with some horrible pestilence that made you puke neon-orange.

I saved the bile-in-question on your onesie and brought it to your doctor's appointment that week.

Since that day? Dude, you have thrown up, oh, 865 million times. Today, I think you have spit up about 268 times alone. I don't think you will ever stop spitting up. I think we will dance together on your wedding day, and you will spontaneously puke on me. Hopefully you don't continue to grin at me sheepishly and then play with your vomit. That would be embarrassing when you are 30, son.

Here are a few things that are awesome about you:

1. When you wake up in the morning, you play in your crib. When I finally drag myself out of bed to come and get you, you are sitting up. You grin at me. And I laugh because your face is swollen with sleep, and you've got Flock of Seagulls hair. (You're welcome, dude.)

2. You will not stop licking the floor. You will not be fooled by substitutes, either.

* OK, so I've been trying for 5 hours to upload an ADORABLE video here. But the dang thing won't budge. Just trust me: HILARIOUS.

3. It's like you know Big Brother is watching you.

You are so wonderful, Hendrik. Sometimes when we put you to sleep for the night? We miss you. Despite that you spit up constantly, and you don't sleep, and you are not really that great in restaurants.

I think we'll keep you anyway.

You have brought more joy to our lives than we can ever adequately express. We lose our minds when you use your hands to crawl, when we see your brain working, piecing together new bits of information. We yell and cheer for you. You're doing it, Snooze!

Just know that we'll always be here, cheering for you. Supporting you. Loving you.

Bullz 4 Life,

Mommy and Daddy

HomeValley Runs on Dunkin'

2010-12-10T10:48:00.002-05:00

For those of you keeping score at home, since my Starbucks boycott?

I have lost TWO pounds. In slightly over a week.

J will tell you I did not lose TWO pounds; that I can gain and lose two pounds in an hour depending on the size of the burrito I just housed... BUT: I have weighed myself twice, in the morning, and the scale has read two pounds lower than it has been for about three weeks.

AND!

I am wearing a pair of pre-prego jeans that I have not squeezed into in a year. To be sure, I am stuffed into them like an adorable sausage; but they zip and that is what matters in this life.

(Also? I have sworn off Dunkin' Donuts, as I am incapable of passing through their uber-convenient drive-through without ordering a vanilla creme donut.)

Hendrik and I are off to the mall. The last time I went shopping with this child, I called J and barked that if I ever DEIGNED to MENTION shopping with this child again, to slap me across my face and tell me to Wake up! Your kid is a terrible shopper! It is a suicide mission!

But I have bought approximately three gifts, and I'm getting a little nervous.

Merry Christmas, holy shit.

Book Club, Nerds!

2010-12-07T13:37:00.004-05:00

Have you all finished Freedom yet?

I do need to discuss this with you. I found the beginning of the novel thrilling; the second half less so, as it collapsed somewhat under the weight of unspeakable melancholy. (Sounds like a page-turner, eh?) It is well worth reading, however, for the commentary on our society alone.

I was very intrigued to see author Jonathan Franzen on Oprah yesterday, as I was much more interested in what he had to say than the piece that preceded him. (Michael Jackson spent time hiding out with a New Jersey family? Snoozefest.)

I can't wait to dig into the after-show, book club Q&A here, but Franzen did say something on the actual program that struck me. When O asked about his creative process, he said he went to a quiet, dark, cold office. In this hole he has no phone or Internet access, and he just allows himself to be. He tuned out the noise, and allowed himself time with his thoughts, and eventually - over a nine-year span - the great American novel was born.

Watching the clip, I exhaled.

Would be very nice to tune out the noise, indeed.

Nursing Hendrik these past six months, I find myself isolated quite a bit. I've always got my phone by my side, and I am obsessively checking Facebook and The Huffington Post, for lack of anything better to do. I notice - quite alarmingly - that I've almost no attention span of late. I can't even get through a twenty-two minute sitcom on our DVR without attempting to do three things at once (browse status updates, play Uno, etc.).

I know I'm not alone. We are a culture obsessed with snippets of information (*shakes fist angrily at Twitter*) that we devour like candy. Music, movies, popular media, entertainment news shows: they've all got an incredibly short shelf-life. And yet, I am paralyzed with fear that I might be left behind. That I might learn about something too late; how very different my life would have been, had I not learned of the Tony Parker/Eva Longoria "sexting" scandal the moment it broke!

Do I need to tell you where I'm going with this? This New Year's? I'm checking out, to check back in, ya dig? I'm going to strive to be more present in my own life, and not worry about what's going on in yours. Did you know that I dream in status updates? True story: a few weeks ago, I had a dream that I was on a non-stop flight to Paris when the plane had to take a detour to Mozambique. I got to swim in a crystal blue ocean with giant sea turtles (why sea turtles?) and all I could think about - in my DREAM - was how I would word the status update. And think of the comments that would roll in!

Er, I think we can all agree: it's time for me to unplug a bit.

That said, O chose her next book club selection yesterday, and how appropriate:

Dickens!

Like Oprah, I've never read Dickens. I am such a shitty intellectual, y'all. So this holiday season, I'll be curling up with some hot tea and some old school Chuck. (And continuing to blog my adventures, kids. This is a Facebook, other Internet-y things-specific boycott.)

Homevalley: out.

Far Better to Give Me Presents So I Will Shut Up Already.

2010-12-06T15:57:00.004-05:00

J: And as I understand it, we're not exchanging gifts this year?

HV: WHAT.

J: We're not getting anything for each other. This year.

HV, spinning: J! I returned the Coach bag, remember? I mean, you can get me something little, man! Something thoughtful?!? We don't have to spend any money... but like a freakin' 13.1 magnet for my car, or something like that? Jesus.

J: Of course! I mean, I am absolutely getting you something small and thoughtful. This year.

Beer Him.

2010-12-03T15:15:00.003-05:00

It took H and I FORTY-FIVE minutes in line to return a tote to the Coach Factory store today... It really serves me right for buying it - albeit $100 cheaper than listed at Amazon - along with another Coach bag last week at another Coach Factory store. Mommy got greedy breathing in all that intoxicating leather.

(It must be noted that there was a Starbucks directly across from the shop today. It took all of my will power, dudes.)

So let's all forget our troubles and our screaming, mucus-y babes for a moment to have a drink with a decidedly-less snotty, happier child, mmmkay?

Cheers, y'all!

Cold Turkey

2010-12-02T10:29:00.003-05:00

Remember when I ran that half-marathon, and I was running a shit-ton of miles each week training?

Well, apparently, training does not exactly melt the pounds away.

My weight is actually creeping back up... Five pounds up from my lowest point, to be specific. Unacceptable, guys. I have these really soft, supple, tailored designer jeans that I saw myself squeezing into again before 2011.

And now, ain't no way that's gonna happen. (I'll stop you right there: I don't think this is muscle-gain. Nothing is fitting better, and mah face! With the puffiness!)

I have made no secret of my ridiculous sweet-tooth... which only seems to intensify as the days grow shorter and the temperature cooler. Lately, however, I have been having a love affair with Starbucks.

Oh, Starbucks. I love everything about you. The aroma of fresh-brewed, overpriced espresso drinks. Your seasonal fare (the peppermint mocha! The peppermint white chocolate mocha! The caramel brulee!); your morning buns. Your decadent cranberry bliss bar, that is, in fact, blissful.

I love the atmosphere in our local Starbucks: the indie music playing softly above the din, the hipsters and business people alike typing furiously on their laptops, or perhaps just perusing a novel. It's so inviting - so relaxing - that I can't help but drift there when Hendrik and I are out for a morning walk, thereby negating our exercise, upping my caloric and sugar intake significantly, and denting our bank account.

Relaxing, indeed.

Even a tall, nonfat, decaf caramel brulee with no whip contains 240 calories, plus a whopping 38 grams of sugar. Combine that with a morning bun (350 calories and 19 grams of sugar) or a cranberry bliss bar (about 280 calories), and I've added nearly 600 calories and 60 grams of sugar to my diet before the day has even begun.

And if I spring for the nonfat peppermint white chocolate mocha with light whip and the iced lemon pound cake? 990 CALORIES and 124 GRAMS OF SUGAR.

If I visit an average of three times per week, I'm looking at an additional 1800 - 2970 calories per week - nearly one to two day's worth of calories!

I think we can all agree that Starbucks is making me chubby.

Monetarily, I probably spend an average of $7 per visit. That's $21 per week, $84 dollars per month, and $1008 per year.

Screw you, Starbucks, you diet-busting dark overlord of mocha-espresso goodness.

So here's the deal: I'm going to avoid Starbucks completely for the next two weeks, and see what it does to my waistline. I'm betting I'll lose a few L-Bs without doing anything else, and then I'll have to agree to get the unsweetened green tea on my infrequent visits. Sounds delicious, eh?

But imagine all of the mani-pedis a girl can get with an extra grand annually...

Birthday Boy

2010-12-01T15:19:00.004-05:00

Last week, J and I had the opportunity to get away together, just for a day.

On the road, I challenged him to name all of the states. I did the same. We each forgot two (he counted D.C.); we both missed Wisconsin. Obviously, we're a match made in heaven.

Then, I challenged J to name the state capitals. We played that lightning round together. We got 38, and made up a whole bunch.

We're stoopid.

But here is this man, y'all. This guy who humors my love for a good brain exercise now and again.

This man who drives his car at five miles per hour beside me as I run through the rough neighborhoods.

This man who surprises me with trips to Southeast Asia.

This man who squeezes my hand during turbulence.

This man who does the dishes.

This man who tries to use acronyms in Scrabble. (He also put down "Nam" during a recent match, claiming it was an important war, babe.)

This man who is one half this tiny boy we both adore, with the blonde hair and the blue eyes and the pitch-perfect J expressions.

This man who is the most self-possessed person I have ever met. I don't think he knows a thing about insecurities. (But I do think, this evening, he will ask me what "self-possessed" means. He has no qualms about asking for help with the unfamiliar.)

This man who told me recently: figure out what you want to be; then go be it.

I don't know what I did to deserve this profound happiness. I do know that we work at it, every day, and that at the end of every day, we will both here.

Working at it.

Happy birthday to my husband, the best decision I ever made.

Tramps Like Us

2010-11-22T21:46:00.002-05:00

And just like that?

Mama ran a half-marathon, chickens.

Ha! "Just like that." I saved y'all the details of my training. Some weeks were better than others. Some runs hurt like hell; others felt like I could have continued on for days.

When I started, I could barely jog a mile. I crawled around the local high school track, with J yelling, "Push yourself!"

"I AM!" I growled.

I was.

When I birthed Hendrik (really, I will tell you that story one day), I remember thinking: half-marathon? I can run an ULTRA-marathon! I am a fucking warrior.

And then I fought for every tenth of a mile, until it got easier.

The change is gradual. One day, your lungs feel like fire as you begin your fifth lap. The following week, you realize you've run several miles, unfazed.

One Sunday, your long run is an insurmountable THREE.

Another Sunday, weeks and weeks later, you run 10.2. And you don't die.

The half meant a lot to me. It was nearly six months to the day after I gave birth to my son. I am proud of the physical accomplishment. Running also became very spiritual for me; I would trot along Kelly Drive and tell myself: I run for the crunch of the gravel beneath my feet. I am so thankful that my legs are strong. I'd use the time to reflect. I thought. I wrote blog posts I never had the time to transcribe.

Most importantly: I finished something I started.

When Hendrik was born, I vowed to do better. To be better. And that begins with being a woman of my word.

I accomplished that on Sunday. And because of that, each of the 13.1 miles I ran were filled with joy. I was thinking: I'm doing this! Me!

I've never been an athlete. And I. Was. Runnnnnnnnnning!

I'd like to thank the Academy, but most importantly: my amazing husband. The one who encouraged me each day; who - thanks to road closures - dropped me in the more questionable neighborhoods in Philly, and followed me with his blinkers on until I reached safer ground so I could be sure to get my miles in. The man who forced my family to be there to share in my moment; the man who stood on the course by the finish line snapping my photograph; the man who didn't balk when I ordered the eggs benedict and the brioche french toast at brunch.

His selflessness humbles me. I am eternally grateful.

I did it, you guys. And I feel weightless.

What's next?

Five Months

2010-11-08T18:23:00.006-05:00

Last weekend, we braved the open road and took you to Aunt Eden's wedding in Bethel, Maine.

Oh, sweet baby. It did not go well.

I had spent so much time agonizing over the actual logistics of the car ride. I decided it was impossible for you to make the nearly ten-hour trip in one day; so we opted to split the trip on the way up (you seemed to enjoy White River Junction, VT), and on the way home (you were fairly indifferent to Plainville, CT).

The thing is? You did great in the car. You took looong naps. I read you my new favorite book, Chester's Way (a present from Nona about a charming little mouse with OCD), sang Parachute Express songs to you, and just generally entertained you as we careened along. I only spent half of the time in the backseat with you, and you only fussed minimally. You were thrilled to stretch your legs at rest stops, and were perhaps the cutest damn pumpkin in the history of the world in Kennebunkport, Maine.

But when we were there, at the gorgeous ten-room ski villa?

Really wasn't your idea of a good time.

Dad and I have noticed that despite your charming ways with new people - often a stranger's warm smile will stop a crying jag instantaneously - you do not enjoy large crowds. I think you get overstimulated very easily, and since you are so deliciously adorable, the masses are usually all up in your grill, cooing and clapping and doing everything they can to get you to giggle.

There comes a point, my man, when you have had ENOUGH. And you make it clear, in no uncertain terms, that you wish to be leaving. NOW. YESTERDAY. GET ME THE HELL OUT OF DODGE, PARENTS, FOR THE LOVE OF LIONEL.

And so it went on wedding day. (Another pleasant discovery on the trip was that you haven't a clue how to nap in a crib.) Dad and I took you on a two-hour car ride through Grafton State Park, and you slept for most of it. We congratulated ourselves that you had gotten plenty of shut-eye, and would thus be positively angelic by go-time at 4 PM.

We kept you sequestered in our room (calm was the order of the day), and at 3:20 you bestowed upon us a POOP so great - so spectacular, my son - that we could only laugh as we yelled and tossed you about and declared this POOpocalypse. You were finally placed in the tub for the second time that day; your onesie was cut off of you as if you were being prepped for emergency surgery, and the sheets and floor were subsequently sanitized.

Praise Jesus you were not yet in your wedding finery. There would have been no way on earth to save your three piece suit from that onslaught.

When we were finally all presentable - you fussing and whining like any reasonable five-month old in a strange place in a monkey suit - you puked on the altar. And I lost it a little. This is a nightmare, I declared, throwing up my proverbial hands.

Your granddad rushed over with a paper towel just then, and brought me back down to earth. "This is not a nightmare. A nightmare is a sick child..." I relaxed a bit, thanked God for a healthy baby, and settled in for the ceremony. "It's okay if he cries during," said my father-in-law. "He's our grandson."

Cry you did, Hendrik. Lucky for us, Aunt Margie took you in a back room, where only we could make out your siren-like wails as Dad and I read "The Art of Marriage" for Aunt Eden and new Uncle John.

Later, in your warm fleece PJs, you pulled it together so that I could enjoy the toasts and even dinner (thanks to a very kind caterer - it really does take a village). We danced and played, and you charmed the crowd until it was time for bed. At 8:30, I was back at the party, monitor in one hand, prosecco in the other.

By 9:30, you were wailing once again. Your dad went. Something about your cries, though, weren't run of the mill. Your second tooth was pushing through; perhaps it was the teething? The overall discombobulation? The constant stream of people and noise and newness?

We knew the wedding was over for us. Dad and I took turns holding you, rocking you through the worst of it. I finally booted up my laptop and put on Baby Einstein. By 11:30, you were finally asleep. We could hear the guests on the dance floor, shouting the words to Sweet Caroline.

And though I love me some Neil Diamond, kid? I love you and your dad just a little bit more.

Happy Five Months, Hendrik. I love you for saving me the hangover, for never letting me get complacent, and for making us a family.

M.I.A.

2010-11-05T14:00:00.003-04:00

Party people!

Here I am. It's been like a month. I don't know why. I am just settling into my new life, and pondering the existential ques-

And... my kid is up. This isn't me being cute. Hendrik refuses to nap at home, in his crib. He crazy. He wakes up the moment he's placed gingerly in his crib AND WAILS. The moment you pick him up to comfort him, he smiles at you, puts his hands on your cheeks, and attaches his mouth to your face like a mollusk, whilst cooing. It is wildly adorable, the cheeky bastard.

We're working on this.

And because I can't stomach the one-hand type, I bid you adieu for the moment. I leave you with this.

Aaaaannndddd... boom goes the dynamite.

Live to Tell.

2010-10-12T12:57:00.006-04:00

Oh. Oh, you guys.

I have. A tale. To tell.

You may want to sit down for this one.

Last Friday, Snooze and I hosted the Yoga Moms at our crib. You remember the Yoga Moms? I had a fantastic prenatal yoga experience; and I'm thrilled that we have formed our very own mama's club. We've gotten together as a group three times thus far; I've also gone walking and had coffee with a few of the ladies individually. It's nice that we're all in the trenches together.

On Thursday night, I cleaned and straightened the house. I even baked zucchini bread! Early the next morning, Hendrik and I dashed to Dunkin Donuts for some additional treats. I managed to have us both fed, bathed, dressed, and expertly coiffed before the first guest arrived promptly at 10 AM.

We hosted eight moms and nine babies, and the gathering was a smashing success. Our friends were gone by 1 PM, and I straightened up a bit before heading out for a walk on the glorious fall afternoon. H and I ended up at Starbucks (as we do), and my little man napped throughout. Back at home, I fed the babe and he drifted peacefully back to sleep (a banner nap, indeed!), and I let him snooze on the Boppy, eagerly picking up Freedom again and feeling sublimely content.

AND THEN.

I saw something out of the corner of my eye. A flutter of movement. I looked up, suspecting a stink bug, as I'd seen quite a few in the past several weeks.

WHAT I SAW?

A tiny gray mouse. MEANDERING across the fucking living room. As if he owned the place. He didn't even have the common decency to scurry. Feival just walked casually to the corner to my left, unaware (or smugly satisfied?) that he had terrified me to MY VERY CORE.

Hendrik was still dozing peacefully - I'd had the good sense not to scream and traumatize the both of us - and I deftly lifted him, shooting out the front door via the couch faster than you can say FEMALE CLICHE.

And there we sat, we two. He woke up happy and playful as my heart spasmed in my chest. And there we sat, for about 35 minutes, when J finally arrived home and I bombarded him with the devastating news.

He was none too happy to deal with an hysterical wife immediately upon getting home from work. Annoyed, he stood in the kitchen as I lingered in the doorway (I had no shoes on, for the love of Pete!) and shouted: "I can't lie to you."

"You knew?" I stage-whispered.

"My parents saw something a month ago. But how could I tell you? I can't even put a trap where you can see it!"

Devastated, I attempted to process my new reality.

A mouse. Walking freely about our home. Whizzing past our baby as he rolls around the floor. A fresh wave of horror as I thought: what if he's not alone?

I know, you guys. The drama, right? But I've been afraid of rodents for as long as I can remember. My grandparents had three cats when I was a little girl, as well as an expansive backyard. There was always a dead mouse waiting at the front door to welcome us home. My grandfather - not squeamish - would grab the vermin by the tail, swing it once for good measure, and plop it in a clear plastic baggie. He laughed maniacally while performing this task, chasing me around the foyer. At least, that's how I remember it.

Then there was the time I sat in my very own apartment - the first and only time I lived blissfully alone - and heard them in the kitchen. Eating my Tostitos. I called the landlord to tell her, and then never set foot in my kitchen again. That's not really an exaggeration; I would go into the fridge, but never cooked or opened a cabinet until I could get the hell out of there.

And now: a thirty year-old wife and mother, run out of her home by a mouse.

The three of us ventured out that night (stopping for traps of course), and when we arrived home, I felt slightly less sick. "You have to continue to live," J told me seriously, as if I had been diagnosed with a terminal illness.

When Hendrik was asleep, we cracked open a bottle of red and settled in to watch the Phillies game. I was babbling about something when I saw J's eyes flicker towards the kitchen.

"Uh huh," he said in response to my last statement. "Hey, I hate to tell you this, but your friend is in the kitchen right now."

Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuucccccccccccccccckkkkkkkkkkkkkkk.

"Oh my God, J!" I screeched, standing on the couch. "Is this the BALLSIEST mouse you have ever encountered?!?"

All of the lights were on. J and I were talking loudly. The television was blaring.

And that arrogant fucker just trotted around our kitchen. LIKE HE OWNS THE JOINT!

I wondered how I might continue to live. I mean: seriously.

On Saturday night, I arrived home from my sister-in-law's fabulous bachelorette party around 12:30. LIKE I WENT INTO THE KITCHEN, DUDES. I got upstairs as fast as my heels would allow, and then I heard a distinctive snap. I assumed it had come from the basement, but honestly; I don't want to know.

The next day, J confirmed that we had caught a mouse. The mouse? It is not for me to know.

What I do know? I have vaccuumed TWICE in the last three days, which is probably more than I have vaccuumed in the last three months. This house will remain spotless. Also? Hendrik and I announce ourselves before walking into any room. Typically by stomping my feet, and yelling, "VERMIN! DO NOT TRIFLE WITH HENDRIK AND ME! WE WILL DESTROY YOU!" in a clipped English accent, which H seems to enjoy. (A yoga mom pointed out that I may be teaching my son that this is the proper way to enter a room, which is very hilarious.)

And I know you might think me crazy, Internet, but perhaps there is a reason for this. What kind of woman do I want my son to know? A frazzled, frayed lady, afraid of a mouse? Or a ballsy mama, who - when J is away for an evening in the very near future - will don a hazmat suit, goggles, and Dad's work boots to annihilate these mofos! Or, at least be able to pick up a trap and put it in a plastic baggie.

And maybe even swing it once - laughing maniacally - for good measure.

Stay Tuned.

2010-10-11T19:31:00.005-04:00

Dudes!

Hey.

I know, I know. Where have we been?

Busy. Just look:

We have also done a bit of this:

And then, there was the time we did this:

How am I supposed to write in the midst of all this foot-chomping adorableness?

As you may suspect, I have also been Thinking. Major self-introspection. And why? Nobody wins when I think. It's especially taxing pour moi.

Hank and I will fill you in tomorrow; for now, it's Baby Einstein and bed. This dude's got a tooth to push through his tender little gums this eve, and we're all mentally preparing for the onslaught.

Snoozer Takes Manhattan!

2010-09-27T21:07:00.012-04:00

New York!

Shit, NYC is DIFFICULT with a baby.

But we had a lovely time, thank you.

The Snooze humors his mama for a brief face pic at Taco Taco on the East Side.

Damn! This city is loud. But I will do my best to be heard over the din, y'all.

We took Hendrik to the park where we got engaged.

M. Gell-Mann. Please forgive the typo, M.

The exact scene of the crime. (I was ridiculously excited, btw.)

Koos's store on Madison Avenue. (Shout out!)

My boys.

Extra!

Fin.

BAB Blah Blah BlazZZZzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

2010-09-21T07:13:00.004-04:00

Hendrik, Overlord of the Manor. Will destroy you nomnomnom.

Remember when I told you the Body after Baby Project would continue?

Dudes, I lied.

Not intentionally or anything, but lo, I am so, so tired.

So very tired.

It's 7:13 AM. Can I paint you a picture of my night?

Babe went to bed early-ish, at 7:30 PM.

That dude was up at 10:30, 12:30, 3:30, 5, and finally 6:30, when I brought him into bed with me and put on Sesame Street. Sesame Street! There was a time when my children were going to watch no television. I don't even know who I am anymore.

Um, so? The BAB project? It is totally still happening over here, but I can't update you with any regularity. Most people hated it anyway, and the blogger who began the deal? She quit like 8 weeks ago. None of us can hack it because we're all so sleep-deprived.

What else? I am running. Trying to run. I am achy though. My limbs hurt. My shoulders ache. I continue, even though my runs often morph into run/walks.

I fell down my front steps the other day. My pride and my pedicure were severely damaged, but no insomniac four-month old babes were injured.

Hendrik? He's watching Baby Van Gogh in his Rainforest Jumperoo. He loves this shit. He squeals with delight at Vincent Van Goat and all of his colors. I pray he is actually learning, because Sweet Jesus, this child is high-maintenance. A mama has to put you down once in a while, little one.

Finally, J - did I spill beer on your laptop? Or was that you? It smells a little like a frat house. I love you, by the way.

We're going to New York this weekend. H's first foray into Manhattan! I hope I can stay awake for it.

Four Months: Partners in Crime

2010-09-17T08:06:00.006-04:00

Yesterday, I took you to your first Gymboree class. Oddly enough, I'd actually been to Gymboree before. It was 2006, and I was in Syracuse on business. An associate and I had just finished up lunch at Bangkok Thai when he informed me his wife and new baby were next door taking a class. We entered to say hello and we observed women dancing around with their babies, singing goofy songs and shaking them on a giant parachute.

I thought: what the fuck?

In 2010, I think very differently.

Yesterday, I couldn't find the Gymboree. The class is actually in a church basement, and we got very, very lost. I finally located the Armenian Catholic building, and we dashed inside, about 15 minutes late for a 45-minute class.

"Ah well, man," I said to you as you sat mumbling in the back seat. "Thirty minutes of Gymboree is better than nothing, right?"

And so we walked into a class already in progress, and I yanked you out of your car seat and ran in to join. I gave the instructor a sheepish smile, and quietly apologized for our tardiness. She asked our names, and then: 'Do you have a blanket for him?"

I ran back across the room where I had thrown the diaper bag, and praise Jesus I pulled out a receiving blanket.

We ran back to join the crowd again, when I noticed suddenly that I was the only mama with bare feet.

"Oh - are we supposed to have socks on?" I whispered to a kind-looking mom next to me. She nodded. "They're in the back."

And so we ran back to where the car seat and the diaper bag where strewn, and grabbed the goddamn socks. The kind-looking mom offered to hold you while I clumsily put them on and then attempted to smooth out your blanket on the mat.

I didn't know any of the songs or procedures at Gymboree. I self-consciously eyed up the other mothers, looking for cues. At one point our instructor pulled out a giant mirror and placed it in the middle of the floor for tummy time, and you promptly spit up all over it. "Not cool, buddy," I whispered, giggling. I had no burp cloth to clean you up with, so I removed your bib to do the job. You didn't really stop spitting up, though, and eventually your blanket was covered in spew.

Oh man, kid: I am sorry to have embarrassed you on your first day of school. I swear I will be better-prepared when you start kindergarten.

But despite all my fumbling? You giggled and laughed the entire class. You gaped at the other babies, and you grinned wildly as I pretended to know the words to the songs, and waved Gymbo, the scary-ass puppet clown in your tiny face.

And I laughed right along with you, and didn't mind that I was making a fool of myself, or that 26 year-old me would have been mortified on my behalf. You and me, H. Partners in crime. You jump, I jump, ya dig?

Happy Four Month Birthday, sweet, sweet boy.

O.P.R.A.H.

2010-09-14T14:38:00.006-04:00

Citizens of the Internet, as you are well-aware, my love for Oprah knows no bounds.

And yesterday, as I watched the first episode of the farewell season, I decided that starting today (or, yesterday, but you get it), I will live like OPRAH.

Consider it my new mission in life.

O danced onstage with John Travolta (who looked a little like a wax figure, but we will forgive him that since he is effortlessly charming and adorable), and early on in the hour a woman in the audience discussed how a moment on the show changed her life. John T. had given a heartfelt toast on O's 50th birthday, in which he said something akin to: the world is better because you are in it, and this woman decided in that moment that she wanted people to say the same of her. So she went to Africa and volunteered and built impoverished African babies a home.

And watching this moment, about that moment, I thought:

Me too.

I want the world to be better because I am in it. I like to think that my work as a mother is moving me towards that goal (Ambassador Hendrik, anyone?), but there needs to be more.

I'm still cogitating, but during Oprah's farewell season, I will become a better HomeValley.

And now, here is my baby:

Believe you me: he's awesome.

He's also 14 pounds, 15 ounces, and 26 inches long. Dang!

99 Problems

2010-09-03T16:26:00.004-04:00

J took off from work today, so last night he relegated me to the guest bedroom. His plan was to take care of the babe all night, and allow me to get the first full night sleep I've had... well, since Hendrik was born.

I was touched by his offer, and immediately agreed, only to have second thoughts at bedtime.

"It's fine," I told him. "I'll sleep in the room with you, and you can just take care of him when he cries."

"Absolutely not," sayeth J. "Get lost."

And then: I cried.

I don't know why I cried. I wasn't sure I could renege my motherly duties, I s'pose. I wasn't going far (just a floor above my boys). But despite my continued histrionics, J finally closed our bedroom door in my face and I crept begrudgingly to my quarters for the night, where I read and played on my brand new iPhone, and finally - at 11 - fell asleep.

I woke at five to pump. By seven my baby was wailing for his mama. Such is life.

But if you are tired of my belly-aching, saddle up for some of Hank's. This boy's got it tough some days as well.

Happy Friday,y'all.

The Front Porch and A Time Machine

2010-09-01T11:45:00.006-04:00

Most days, H and I spend a lot of time on our front porch. Always the outdoorsman, Hendrik is comforted by the heat and the sounds of the neighborhood. He delights in the trash trucks and the dogs barking; even our plum-colored address placard makes him giggle. I love the time we spend out there.

I tell Hendrik lots of stories, usually about different adventures J and I have had. I'll describe Hagia Sophia in Turkey; or how terrified I was driving through the Jordanian desert after nightfall. I've got to talk to the kid about something, right? Plus, talking about past trips is oddly comforting. I tell myself that soon, we'll all travel again.

Yesterday morning, I regaled my little man with tales from Mama's old job. I told him that I used to wake before Dad - usually around 4:30 - and in no time I'd be off to the airport, streamlined luggage and computer bag and purse in hands. I told him what it was like to be a frequent flyer, and about the different cities I'd visit. The hotels I frequented; and the room service! Oh, the room service was exquisite, my dear boy. And mama would be deliciously self-indulgent, reading books and sipping wine and watching dreadful reality TV.

Suddenly, I was terribly sad.

I realized I'll never have that kind of freedom again. I've swapped one life for another, and now I am a different version of myself. A patient, more selfless version, yes. But also? A woman who is largely stationary.

I'm not used to staying still. I'm adjusting.

I'm officially unemployed next week. As I'm wrapping things up at work, I had to review my old credit card statements to make sure my expenses were in order.

Old AMEX statements, guys? They are actually a time machine.

I relived my life beginning at age 25, which, incidentally, included LOADS of Starbucks, Avis rental cars, Marriott hotels, US Airways flights from LaGuardia (you beautiful, dilapidated airport, you), and Hoyt Cab cars all around NYC.

There were other recurring charges too: Bangkok Thai Restaurant in Syracuse, NY, where the congenial owner comes out each afternoon to greet patrons: "Hello! Rock and Roll!"; Acapulco's in Beverly, Massachusetts, my favorite Mexican spot; Bully's in Manhattan, across the street from my old office at 44th and 3rd; several fabulous restaurants in Providence; beachside bars in Newport, Rhode Island. A few errant charges from Go Wasabi, my sushi joint in Astoria. And a million Amtrak tickets, destinations beginning and ending throughout much of the Northeast.

It feels like a million years and a different woman ago.

It's difficult for me to say good-bye to my job for many reasons; not least of which is bidding a fond farewell to the habitual wanderer I once was. And if I was going back, y'all? I'd likely be kicking and screaming, bemoaning leaving my baby when he needs me so much, when he's still up four times in the night, when each and every nap is still a battle.

I'm focusing on the positive, not least of which is sitting on our front porch, telling stories to my little boy.

BAB Project: Week 10 - SAB. O. TAGE.

2010-08-30T16:11:00.008-04:00

There is nothing like feeling fancy about your weight-loss and then promptly eating a floppity-jillion calories in a week, all: Look at me! I can lose weight! I should probably polish off this Nutella and then have a date night with J in which I consume THREE alcoholic beverages and garlic bread and fried green tomatoes and pasta with seafood in a rich pesto sauce and espresso and almond cheesecake! I am sure this will help the pounds melt off!

Ugh. I want to bitch-slap myself.

On Monday, I weighed 153.2. If you are playinga along at home, that's a one-pound gain. This morning I weighed in at 151.6, but then after breakfast weighed 152.8 (damn you, Honey Nut Cheerios). So, in summary: still chubby. This week was a wash.

I've been thinking a lot about my relationship to food these days. Why do I eat more than I need? Why do I crave sugar? It struck me that food is one of the only remaining pleasures I have these days... that is, something just for me. I can't really drink much; even if I am dumping my milk, you can't be hammered when you're responsible for a tiny nugget. I can't flit off to the bookstore and luxuriate in the stacks for endless hours. I can't hop on a flight to Colorado, just because. I can't blare the radio in my car; when H and I roll about town, we're typically listening to the sound of a vaccuum on blast. I can't even just pop out to the mailbox anymore. Popping out - when J is at work - requires very careful planning around naptimes and nursing.

So what can I do? In the evenings, when H is sound asleep - gearing up to wake FOUR TIMES A NIGHT BUT THAT IS ANOTHER POST CHRIST ALMIGHTY - I can eat. I can smother Nutella on everything. I can polish off my trail mix and my strawberries and my dried mango slices, and then head back to the fridge for some frozen, chocolate-covered coconut milk bars.

It strikes me that this relationship has surreptitiously crossed into unhealthy terrain. Suddenly, food is like a no-good ex-flame, only texting me for late-night booty calls. It's really time to re-read my copy of He's Just Not That Into You and pump the brakes on this harmful new habit. Ya dig?

My mother came over on Monday afternoon, just returned from a three-week vacation in Florida. "You look good, Melis," she said to me, and my mother doesn't say anything she does not mean. "You've lost weight."

"I haven't," I said, rolling my eyes. "I'm still 15 pounds away from where I started, which isn't even my ideal weight."

"Well, I never got back to my pre-pregnancy weight after having you."

GAH!

"Noooooooooooo," I moan. "I won't allow myself to not get back."

And the REAL work begins.

Half-marathon training began this week. Lord have mercy. I also tried the 30-Day Shred, which I found surprisingly easy. (Anyone can handle 3 minutes of abs, right?) I'm also trying to get out and walk with Hendrik as much as possible.

Determination, thy name is HomeValley.

Emmys Dis Lost, But Look at Me Liking Jimmy Fallon!

2010-08-30T11:31:00.005-04:00

Admittedly, I am tearing up watching Modern Family accept the Emmy for Best Comedy Series. It's a seriously phenomenal show; and did you see Manny's outfit? That little man is sharp.

A few notes:

Stop nominating The Office, Academy. Let them work for it again, for JC's sake. This last season reeked.

I am sure Mad Men is a fantastic show. I bet it's smart, sexy, and cleverly-written. (I also bet it's extremely misogynistic, but I've never seen it, so I must withhold judgment.) And? This Jon Hamm person is incredibly rugged and handsome. But... how could you shun Lost, Academy? What did Damon and Carlton ever do to you? Has any show in the history of television garnered such a voracious and loyal fan-base? This is a show that seeped into the hearts and minds of viewers. It was stunning, and you did the actors (Matthew Fox, Terry O'Quinn, and Michael Emerson) a grave disservice. For shame.

Glee! And best opening for any awards show ever? Or was that just me? (I deduct points for Kate Gosselin's involvement. Sweet Jesus, that woman has no comedic chops. I wish Tina Fey would have sucker-punched her. Now that's funny!)

Betty White! A friend of a friend believes that with every Golden Girl passing, Betty just gets that much stronger. That woman is a force, y'all. I want to be that relevant at 88.

Ricky. Gervais.

I am done with True Blood, but Alexander Skarsgard is delicious. (And a Swede! This makes him my new boyfriend.)

I do love me some Jim Parsons. Bazinga. J and I are forever trying to convince people to watch The Big Bang Theory. I don't know anyone who does, but it is certainly a great time.

Did y'all watch? Thoughts? Anyone want to consider writing a pilot with me? I think we should be there next year. If Kate Gosselin gets to go? I want in.

Let Me See That Hendrik Roll

2010-08-26T13:55:00.003-04:00

This child is a rollin' fool, y'all. He also decided two weeks ago that he will only sleep for 2 - 3 hour stretches through the night, which just goes to show you: never boast about your son's superior sleeping habits. The sleep gods will smite you.

So herezzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

So here is a video of mah little nugget rolling over. He is very nimble and athletic. And his mama is very high-pitched about milestones, so please to turn down your volume.

Kisses,

HV

BAB Project: Week 9 - Schwimmer and Me.

2010-08-23T11:54:00.003-04:00

This week I had a sex dream about David Schwimmer.

I don't know. I have no excuse for this.

And really - we didn't get too far. I was actually Jennifer Aniston in the dream, and Schwim and I were dating in real life. The reason I disclose this at all is because we were about to get at it, when Schwim took off his shirt to reveal spectacularly-sculpted washboard abs.

"Whoa!" I exclaimed, as Jennifer Aniston. "Dave - how did you get that body?"

To which David Schwimmer replied: "I cut out sugar."

Methinks this is quite possibly the most boring "sex" dream of all time. (Though I am eyeing Ross appreciatively on TBS since. Meow!)

Yep, I am obsessed with fitness, but that didn't stop me from ordering a rootbeer float yesterday at brunch. (For real: how good does that sound right now?)
.
This morning I weighed 152.2! I've lost 6.2 pounds so far. Still not eating any meat (save fish), and changes I've noticed in two weeks? My skin looks better. I can't directly correlate this with our new diet (I have been using Lumene night cream for a few weeks now), but my skin is clearer and noticeably less red and ruddy. To wit: I didn't use foundation on Friday, and I wasn't horrifying to gaze upon. So there you go.

I've been slowly easing back into running, but let me tell you, it's a grueling slog around the hills of Manayunk. The humidity is unpleasant, and the fifteen extra pounds on my frame likely add to my discomfort.

But I'm out there. At least I'm getting out there.

I invested in some new workout gear from Target. I only had two sports bras that fit, and I figured I could use a few more to avoid having to wash every other day.

The real athlete in the family though? Hendrik, who learned how to roll over from back to tummy this week, and now does it all the DAMN time. With the milestones, buddy!

BAB Project: Week 8 - We Don't Eat No Meat.

2010-08-19T12:35:00.003-04:00

This week, HV is weighing in at a blistering 153 pounds! I've lost 5.4 L-Bs to date.

And I've got some goals now, people. Hear me out.

Must be in the 140s by September 4th. This means I must lose at least 3.1 pounds by that date. Burrito-free for 17 days. The sacrifices I make.
Must begin half-marathon training. To that end, I shall bore you all with weekly progress updates. The half is scheduled for November 21st. I know an adorably chubby blogger who has a looonnngg way to go.
STOP EATING SO MUCH GODDAMN SUGAR.
Continue new vegetarianism. For us, it works.
Drink more water.

Cutting out poultry, pig, and cow has been a complete non-issue for J and me, which strengthens our conviction that we actually didn't eat a lot of meat, and can essentially take it or leave it. Further strengthening my resolve? I watched Food Inc. this week. YOWZA. (Aside: Netflix streaming video is the greatest invention since Netflix. Get on this, kids.)

So our meals consists of lots of fish and tofu and pasta and salad and beans. As I write this, I'm polishing off last night's leftovers (turbot, asparagus, and curry cous-cous). It hasn't been a challenge to plan meals yet, and I don't foresee it will be. There are many vegetarian and seafood options out there we haven't explored yet. (Tonight, for instance, I am making falafel.)

I took H for a long walk/jog this morning at Wissahickon Park. I do my best thinking when I'm exercising, and I do my best exercising when I am outside. Hendrik also loves his stroller; so I've got a wonderful work-out buddy these days. I feel like I've got my weight under control, and now I am just looking forward to the sweet day when I can fit into my jeans again.

Inside the Brain Of HomeValley. Be Afraid.

2010-08-19T12:17:00.003-04:00

I think you all may be incredulous to learn how much mental energy I actually expend on this blog, as my most brilliant and hilarious posts rarely get published here. They’re mostly written in my mind; when Hendrik and I are strolling about town, or when I’m driving in the car. I make lists in my Evita journal about interesting topics as well, but they’ve often got a short shelf-life and soon become irrelevant, and there is always a load of cloth diapers that needs to be put in the washer, or taken out of the dryer, for that matter. (I really cannot stress enough how much I really, really miss procrastinating.)

I worry about site traffic, and followers. I worry about comments received and comments given. I fret about popularity and grammatical errors. I ponder fresh ideas – is this too personal? Not personal enough? Will this topic resonate? Is this funny? Am I funny? Have I lost the will to be funny? (Man, I was funny in 2008. You should totally read those archives.)

I compare myself to other bloggers. Constantly. I berate myself when a fellow writer’s post resonates, or if she makes me laugh aloud: damn, that’s good. I'll think. Why didn’t I come up with that?

And Twitter. Man, fuck Twitter. The pressure on that bitch is suffocating. Okay, I’ll begin. I’ve got 140 characters to share something funny. And in my mind?

Crickets.

(I also worry about the crickets.)

It occurred to me on Monday night that all of this? The constant BARRAGE of WORRY?

Unhealthy. And Unnecessary.

Because frankly, not that many of you are reading.

I don’t want to sound ungrateful. I cherish each and every man and woman that comes to this site, whether you visit every day, several times a day, or bi-annually. This is my corner of the Interwebs, and the fact that you are reading it? Brilliant. I thank you for that. Let's make out.

What I mean is… this is a really small corner of the Interwebs. Yet somehow, QITNM takes up MASSIVE residence in mah brain. And let me tell you: I do NOT have that much brain capacity to begin with. Plus, I think I am actually getting dumber by the day. Motherhood and vodka will do that a girl.

(Oh, and I am totally rebelling and am all – fuck you, blog! I will end a sentence with a preposition if I feel like it; and I REFUSE to feel bad about that too.)

I suppose what I am saying is just this: I need a little distance. Mental distance. I don’t want to shut down the blog. I don’t even want to stop posting regularly.

What I want is freedom from anxiety. My blog is making me anxious. It’s giving me the stink-eye from across the bar, silently judging every grammatically-incorrect sentence I type. It’s wondering where the funny is, and whispering that maybe I’ve lost it…

Or maybe that’s just me.

To sum up - rather anticlimactically, since none of you bitches are actually inside this brain (spoiler alert? Images of burritos, So You Think You Can Dance, and toned thighs abound) - I am giving myself permission to just write for moi. No more pressure. No more posturing.

I’ll just write what I know, and I hope you’ll like it. Hell, I hope you comment all day long, but I am no longer going to hit publish and wait anxiously for a windfall of comments. I’ve been waiting for that windfall for four years, and still it eludes me.

I’m just going to write openly, honestly; and attempt to fill my brain with other pursuits, like a half-marathon; a new career path; a Masters; and a beautiful family that could use a little more mental energy expended on actually writing grocery lists instead of forgetting the parmesan cheese EVERY DAMN TIME, and maybe sweeping the porch every once in a while.

Three Months Later

2010-08-17T08:55:00.005-04:00

I blinked, and you were three months old.

This morning, you indulged me. You let me cradle you in my arms like a tiny baby (unheard of for months), and sing to you. (You really enjoy the Growing Pains theme, btw.)

We've come a long way, the three of us. The first time you spit up? I cried, then made Dad call the pediatrician because I was too shaken to speak. Then, I remembered that I had given you red-colored vitamins earlier that day, and you probably weren't spitting up blood.

Still, that's when I realized it.

I am going to worry about you - every day - for the rest of my life.

You should know that upfront. And, like I always remind you as we bounce along, singing songs and talking about your new world: please, just call me once a week when you are in college. Because I will be at home, with your dad, worrying.

Just... remember that.

Other things? You're hilarious, child. You won't go down in history as an "easy" baby, but that's why we like you, kid. If I had to predict your personality, based on traits you've already exhibited?

Strong-willed. Enthusiastic. Passionate. Inquisitive. Energetic. Excitable. Adventurous. Angry if you are not fed IMMEDIATELY.

How can I begrudge you these qualities? They are us.

J + HV = You.

Your eyes are exquisite - big as saucers and blue as the ocean, before BP. They dance when you smile and gurgle and coo. Your hair is dirty blonde, and thankfully you get more of it every day. Your brown mullet is still prominent. Your toes are your dad's. Everything else seems to be an interesting combination of the two of us. One moment you giggle and look exactly like me; the next, you furrow your brow and you are the spitting image of your father. You're a chameleon, little lord. And possibly a loner, Dottie. A rebel.

It is fantastic to see you learning, making sense of this place. You can grab things! You can roll over! You can gnaw on your fists and drowl with the best of them! (I am betting you'll have a tooth between four and five months.) You sing with me, and you have totally already said "mommy" and "I love you," but for some reason, no one believes your dad and me when we tell them this. Go figure.

Parenting is exhausting, man. We never eat a meal together anymore, as one of us is typically bouncing you. We don't get out alone anymore; we barely sit, ever.

But? This is precisely what we signed up for. The three of us. A team. An unstoppable rebel force. Every day with you is a gift, and we can't wait for the firsts yet to come: our first real vacation; your first foray into Manhattan. Your first words; your first steps; the first time you hug us and say "I love you."

We love you, H. More than we could have ever imagined. Happy birthday, sweet boy.

Things I Threw Away Today

2010-08-15T20:12:00.002-04:00

J and I cleaned out my office today. Oh and cleaning? No easy feat with the Snooze Face. (Public Service Announcement to the Childless: You are not busy. You have never been busy. Please, don't think me an asshole. Just consider yourself warned. Now pour yourself a goddamn glass of chardonnay and get your ass on that couch. Watch Mad Men, for the love of Lionel. Just do it now, because if you ever have a child, YOU WILL NEVER SIT ON YOUR COUCH AGAIN. Love, HV )

(Oh, and True Blood sucks. Just take my word on that.)

Ahem.

Where was I?

A list, for my tired-of-jiggling-fussy-babies-and-shushing-them-loudly-in-their-ears soul.

Things I Threw Away Today, by HomeValley:

Photos of kids who played orphans in our sophomore year production of Annie. Seriously, who the fuck were these kids? Why did I take so many useless pictures of them? Also? They are between ages 20 and 25 now. I hate those fucking kids.
All of the letters from my senior year spiritual retreat. After about the fifth letter by some lovely girl I didn't remember, I tossed them. (Though not before reading a cheerful and succinct note from my algebra dance buddy. Shout out, Sarah K!)
My old cell phones, after I stared at them in disbelief like Wha? I can't receive email on you? You are from the Stone Age, phones. Alas, one ancient Verizon flip-phone contained dirty text messages from J and a floppity jillion photos of Jesse Malin shows, plus J and me on our adventures in Manhattan and Queens. And then I was all Wha? J and I used to do it, and go to late-night underground rock shows? Again, I beseech you, childless people: get laid, attend concerts, and for God's sake - GET ON THAT COUCH.
Floppy. Disks.
73889 playbills, though it pained me to do it. But J yelled at me when I threw the Titanic book in the save pile. And he's right, you know. That show had some balls having all those poor drowning third class folks singing about how they couldn't wait to make it to America.
A lone cigarette in a burgundy pack from Italy. (But I totally need this! I whined to J. No, J said. You're a grown-up. You don't need to save smokes from your 1998 trip to Rome. DON'T I?!?!)
A flyer from senior year of college in which - as Resident Assistant - I asked my homies to write me their "elevator horror stories" to make a case for repair to Resident Life. Then I remembered that people were always almost dying in our elevators, which what the fuck, Pace University?
A flyer from a TKE frat party that claimed to be "the HOTEST party of the SEMSTER." Ahahahaha. Adorable, TKE.
A note from my first grade teacher to my mother, claiming I was often "distracting" in class, not paying attention and scribbling notes during lessons. Shut up, First Grade Teacher.

Lessons learned? I am completely and utterly sentimental, and kind of a pack-rat. But as J reminded me: we're moving forward now.

Quite.

BAB Project: Week 7 - Fluctuation Nation.

2010-08-10T17:15:00.004-04:00

Evening, chickens!

Where in the world has I been? H and I have been all over the place: the Jersey shore, Georgetown, and Clarksburg, MD. We're just such social butterflies these days - today we took a trip to dad's office for lunch, in which H wooed all the ladies - I haven't had a moment to write.

Don't worry though: I still find time to eat. (Modo Mio, I'm lookin' at you.)

So weight-wise, I stepped on the scale yesterday morning, and I weighed 153.8. Cheers! After a hearty dinner of whole wheat pasta and a tofu-zucchini-onion tomato sauce, I weighed 158.4. You might remember that weight from such numbers as THE BEGINNING OF THIS MOTHER EFFIN' PROJECT HOLY CHRIST.

The scale is lower today, but... dudes, I gots no idea.

Here's what's new this week:

J and I are vegetarians this month, except for fish. I'll let you know how that goes.

I registered for the Philly Half-Marathon. This means I better start training right quick.

I am deep in the world of Fidelity investments and Roth IRAs and rollovers and conversions. It has nothing to do with weight loss, but it blows just the same.

It's hot as hell in Philadelphia. I am THIS CLOSE to updating my Facebook status to reflect this fact. You know it must be serious.

Still on the fence with Twitter. It hurts my heart.

More tomorrow, loves.

BAB Project Week 6 - I Totally Have 2 Week Fours. Meh.

2010-08-03T14:51:00.007-04:00

First, what you are all really clamoring to hear about: MouseWatch 2010.

Guys?

Six.

We've caught six of those motherfuckers. I am in denial that so many could have been actually living here; we live in a row home, and J and I think they are just gallivanting from home to home, cheeky little buggers. Each day, I hope and pray this horror will cease, that someday I shall be able to remove the yellow post-it note, and run the dishwasher again. (The detergent is under the sick. Blast!)

The silver lining is that they really can't get to our food, which is stashed in the higher cabinets. They seem to reside only under the sink and the drawer below the oven, which is REALLY a shame for the organic banana-walnut muffins I baked and devoured last week using a muffin tin housed BELOW THE OVEN.

Mmm... mouse turd muffins. Delish!

Oh! Before this rodent assault, J moved the toaster from a high cabinet to the lazy susan cabinet located between the sink and the oven. J is under the false impression that I will use this toaster EVER AGAIN IN LIFE.

Mmm... mouse hair English muffins!

Okay, this post is revolting. Apologies.

Moving on, I've lost a grand total of: .2 pounds this week! (Lo: I am stressed.) I am down 4.2 pounds in 6 weeks (the first post was actually the start of week one, blahbleenoonecares), and I'm okay with that. My BMI is currently 24.1, which is good. But according to Self magazine, a BMI between 18.5 and 22.9 means you may be 2.5 times more likely to age free of disease. So sign me up.

This week, I am going to register for the Philly Half-Marathon. I've been trying to run again, but it's difficult in this heat, and I loathe running on the treadmill. But hardcore training for the race will begin in a few weeks, and I am confident that the fitness boost will finally get my weight in check and I will see consistent results.

In the meantime, I am embracing my temporary curves. It's actually quite fun to shop in my own closet (I haven't seen these things in a year(s)), and make the larger-sized pieces work together. It is also fun to color-coordinate with H:

Preparing mah boy for a career in fashion, I also make him sit in his chair and help me sort through my closet. Sometimes he giggles, but lots of things are so tight on me he has to spit-up in distaste.

The one thing I really need help with is crushing my sugar addiction. Any advice - or clever sugar substitutes - for a mama?

Egads!

2010-07-30T16:10:00.006-04:00

Another spectacular new development this week: mouse turds. Spectacular.

I don't think I can justly articulate my all-consuming fear and loathing of tiny furry creatures, mice and rats in particular. Those tiny bug-eyed vermin strike terror in my soul, and so it went yesterday when I opened the cabinet beneath the kitchen sink to find three errant poops.

J was in the living room cleaning in preparation for his parents' arrival. I beckoned him wordlessly into the kitchen.

That MFer wasn't even surprised, you guys. Yeah, he said. I thought I saw some last week.

(!!!)

So he set the traps we keep in the cupboard (we've had a mice or two before, well in the past), and I shook my head at the universe. I mean, that is one straight-up fucking genius way to keep my ample ass out of the kitchen.

Around 8 last night, H feel asleep on my lap and J meandered into the kitchen. And he didn't return for a few minutes. When I crept towards the room he smiled guility.

What? he asked, grinning.

One down.

This morning, H was up bright and early, and he went downstairs with dad as I was throwing on my sweats.

You stay here, I heard J say to him. Daddy has to take care of something.

That's two.

And so we wait. In the meantime, I have this handy post-it placed strategically in front of the sink.

Remember.

As in, remember not to open this door lest you see horror beyond your comprehension that haunts you for all eternity.

Broken

2010-07-29T13:38:00.003-04:00

I had a dream last night I was running a 5K... Only I began the race wearing my orange flats.

"I can't do it!" I wailed to J as lithe runners breezed by me. "I forgot my sneakers!" I couldn't bear to look at his face, he was so disappointed in me. For me.

I was angry with myself. In the dream, I wondered if I will ever manage to finish what I start.

I woke up resolved.

***************************************************************************

Remember, back earlier this week, when I told you I was a parenting genius?

I'm a jackass.

Last night, it was J's turn for a night with the boys. We're both completely committed to keeping our sanity as we navigate first-time parenthood, so time away - alone or with friends - is of the utmost importance. We strive to make sure the other's solitude is well-guarded, which is actually a passage from Rilke that J's sister read at our wedding:

The point of marriage is not to create a quick commonality by tearing down all boundaries; on the contrary, a good marriage is one in which each partner appoints the other to be the guardian of their solitude, and thus they show each other the greatest possible trust.

So where was I? J = out.

"I'll be home by 8:30," he told me, reluctant to leave us.

"No - stay out until at least nine. H'll be asleep by 8:30, and I'll be on this couch with a glass of wine when you get back."

Ha. Haaaaaaaaaaaaaa.

Hendrik was extremely agitated last night. Nothing I did worked. He wanted to nurse or scream. There was no middle ground. I could barely eat my sad little dinner (pasta with jarred spaghetti sauce) as the poor child would not stay calm.

So I rocked him, and I nursed him, and I shushed him. I swaddled him and I nursed him and I shushed him. I put him on my chest facing the TV, thinking he might like to watch So You Think You Can Dance with me, but he was seemingly as horrified by Mia Michaels critiques as his mama. I turned off the television - thinking it too distracting - and rocked him. When I went to nurse him for the FLOPPITY-JILLIONITH time, he clamped down on my left nipple so hard I groaned from the searing pain.

It was a groan born of frustration and hurt and exasperation. It was louder than I anticipated.

And my baby pulled away from me, pouted his lower lip, and began to sob.

When J arrived home, he wordlessly took a dozing H from my arms and commenced rocking him.

"Go," he whispered. "I've got him."

I brushed my teeth. It was 9:15, and I had not done that yet all day.

I showered, and when J came into the bathroom a few moments later - babe tucked peacefully in his bassinet - I cried.

"I scared our baby! I've traumatized him for sure."

And J told me that of course I had not traumatized him. I dried my tears and we went downstairs like a real-live married couple and I poured myself a VAT of wine. And we had an actual conversation - about my old job, about my career prospects, about Master's degrees - and suddenly I started to feel better. I admitted to J that I might be a little depressed. Not clinically depressed... just sad. I've been in a relationship with my company for over 6 years; severing ties will take some getting used to, as any break-up would.

HomeValley circa 2000 could handle a break-up. There were the requisite tears; the long, self-indulgent diatribes to good girlfriends; the pensive walks - discman and Britney Spears "Stronger" in hand - around Manhattan. The new haircut, the more svelte physique, the 4.0 GPA. A break-up is a wonderful excuse to be self-indulgent; to recommit to myself, to reinvent myself, to learn from past mistakes and resolve to be better.

And so that's my mission. I choose to accept it.

A very wise woman once said:

"The hardest part of moving forward... is never looking back."
- Sally from Felicity

I'm ten years older, ten years wiser; but some things never change.

New Developments

2010-07-28T14:24:00.005-04:00

I had a dream the other night that I met that loud Italian dude from TLC's Cake Boss (I've only ever seen promos for the show), and I couldn't wait to update my Facebook status. In my dream.

When I woke, I promptly decided to abandon social networking.

Because: come ON.

I'm steering clear of Facebook and Twitter for at least seven full days. Facebook and I will likely work it out. Twitter and I are quite possibly breaking up for good. Twitter assaults my senses. It may give me a stroke if I don't learn how to use it properly.

Today is Day 3, and I feel better. Clearer. This morning I baked muffins, for JC's sake.

Plus, I've got a lot to mull over this week.

I was laid off last week. That is, my position was eliminated.

As a family, we're grappling with a lot right now. But in lieu of focusing on the negatives (LACK OF INCOME HOLY SHIT), I am looking forward.

I'm an accidental stay-at-home mom.

And right at this moment, I'm looking at my sleeping boy in my arms, and I'm thinking: this happened for a reason.

Perhaps he needs me more.

BAB Project Week 5: Mmm. Cake.

2010-07-27T17:07:00.004-04:00

Imma - seriously, I don't think there is currently any non-phrase/word I hate more than "Imma." - but for emphasis, Imma switch up the BAB Project postings from here on out.

Starting weight: 158.2

Current Weight: 154.2

Total L-Bs lost: Four, chickens! I'll still take it.

And that's yer update, folks. Fitness-wise, I've been doing okay. I've been running a bit since my back finally healed; I've been going for long, sweaty walks with H in the morn. Nutrition-wise, I seriously almost had a nervous breakdown at my grandfather's on Sunday because I promised J we would leave at 4:30, and by 5 we still hadn't eaten the ice cream cake. I nearly killed a few family members to get to those sweet, sweet crunchies.

But the scale is still moving in the right direction. I am going to pull out my old copy of Spent this week in an effort to will myself out of my sugar addiction. This might also be the week I break out the ole P90X again. Might.

Annnddd.. the little lord is screaming his face off. Night, y'all.

Hap-hap-happiest Baby Since Bing Crosby Tapdanced With Danny Effing Kaye.

2010-07-27T12:30:00.004-04:00

Am parenting GENIUS.

H is a fabulous night-time sleeper - I am talking AMAZING here, folks - and so, I shall never, EVER complain.

However, he doesn't typically nap during the day... AT ALL. Now remember me, all not complaining? Totally not complaining, but his 15-minute cat-naps make it very difficult to accomplish much during the day. Like showering. And I think we can all agree, personal hygiene is important. (Man, I remember the days when I really couldn't muster the energy to shower. Now a shower on J's baby-watch is an effing Caribbean vacation.)

Last night, Hendrik didn't sleep as well as normal (he did a six-hour stint and then a three-hour; are you playing your tiny violin for me?)... And I could tell the Snooze was a wee-bit sleepy this afternoon. I hadn't showered since Sunday, which is harmful to innocent bystanders. Baby would fall asleep easily enough in my arms, but when I placed him gingerly in his crib - twice - disaster. The second time, I was actually lathering up when I heard him scream. I dashed into the nursery sopping wet, and picked up my cranky baby.

I reasoned with him: "Mama needs to shower, Hendrik. Please, let Mama shower, baby."

When that didn't work, I put him in his vibrating chair, which only momentarily distracting him, before he wailed again.

And then: a brainstorm!

I ran into the bedroom and grabbed my hair dryer. I plugged it in close to H, put it on cool blast, and he was immediately silent. He loved the loud whooshing sound, and within minutes, he drifted off into a deep sleep. (We're working on 40 minutes here. I'm wearing deodorant! Win!).

Alas, I can't take credit for these tricks. New parents, do yourself a favor: buy this book. Dr. Karp isn't saying anything you haven't heard, but he's reinforcing those tactics you learned about in your birthing class but promptly discarded - as we did. Today, we live and die by the swaddle, the shushing, and the white noise. I can't recommend this book enough; it's now our go-to gift for new parents. (J also ran into a dad at work who randomly recommended the book a few days after I picked it up, wondering why I was sucking at keeping my child calm.) It's the ultimate newborn guide, and an immediate confidence-booster.

Godspeed, mamas.

An Old Friend Returns...

2010-07-19T14:11:00.004-04:00

Get a life lift? Don't mind if I do!

I've just subscribed to O Magazine again after a long absence. Welcome home, old friend. How I've missed your sage advice!

Do y'all read O? You'd be wise to pick up a copy. It's therapy in crisp, colorful pages; at 4.50 an issue, it's a bargain. Plus, this month is the "deals" issue. Oprah be giving you Vizio TVs at 30% off; AND there are over $200,000 worth of prizes to win! Oh, O. Would that we could meet and be best friends, and would that I thought of this.

At the end of the magazine, Ms. Winfrey regales us with what she knows for sure.

Here's what Ms. HomeValley knows for sure, in no particular order.

Our wedding reception playlist? Hands down the greatest wedding playlist you could ever conceive. It will blow your mind and knock your socks off and then slap you in the face. I will sell it to you at a discount rate. It only had one flaw, which we can remedy for you: we didn't end the evening with H to the Izzo, by Hova. I mean, that would have been RIDICULOUS.

I am really overthinking Twitter. I have nightmares about hashtags, and no, I still don't really understand what the fuck that means, damnit. I am at the crossroads of information overload; and I need to decide if I will stay or if I will go. (Unfollowing Roger Ebert helped. Lord, that man tweeted about every three seconds. No lie.)

My son is an absolute joy. How did we get along without him for so long? Brother sleeps nearly nine consecutive hours in the night, and then takes a three-hour morning nap. His mama is very, very blessed.

All women should have ONE YEAR at home with their babies, PERIOD. Six weeks short-term disability, plus another six weeks of unpaidFMLA - if you qualify? Shame on you, United States government. Shame. On. You.

I need to get my ass in gear and get moving. In career, fitness, and domestic life. Stay tuned...

Body After Baby Week 4: Panera Brownies = Weight Loss. Science, y'all.

2010-07-19T14:07:00.005-04:00

Starting weight: 158.2

Current Weight: 154.4

Total L-Bs lost: 3.8! The scale is my bitch.

Number of gym visits this week: 2, plus one family exercise outing at Wissahickon Park. Didn't make the two-mile run this week, as my back is still smarting. I don't know what I did to it... Maybe it has something to do with my 11.5 pound meatloaf baby?

Other physical activity: Volleyball in Grandpop's pool wearing a maternity swimsuit. At least the bottoms were a bit loose.

Most triumphant moment this week: The scale finally budges! I think one pound a week is about all that can be expected during breastfeeding. I have no idea how long I'll breastfeed... I'd like to make it to one year, but for now I'll say: as long as the girls allow.

Most soul-crushing moment this week: My entire wardrobe is from Old Navy. I'm a 13 year-old girl.

What's motivating me this week: Strong, muscular legs that take me through my first half-marathon this November. Also, how about Courteney Cox? That woman looks damn good for 45.
Things that would make Jillian Michaels weep this week: Panera. Voted healthiest fast food, though.

This week's mini-goal: Same as last week: 3 gym visits, another two-mile run, two days of strength training.

This week's reward: Mani/pedi. I live for you, Cinderella Nails.

Drik's a Rock Star. Respect.

2010-07-15T14:00:00.007-04:00

Happier times.

The l'il man was proclaimed "perfect" today at his two-month check-up. I've been saying it for weeks, but we finally have validation from an MD!

He weighs 11 pounds, 4.6 ounces. He's also 1 foot, 11.25 inches, which is just a hilarious way to put it. He's 1'11". Mah boy is tall and lean and thriving. I don't want to admit this for fear that my milk will spontaneously dry up, but I'm proud that he's exclusively breastfed. I don't know if I ever believed I had it in me, but somehow the girls are able to sustain life. It's a pretty powerful thing, and it makes me give thanks for my new body, pencil skirts be damned.

Of course, the two-month visit meant SHOTS, holy fuck. I felt so duplicitous, trying to distract him with a pacifier, looking into his serene baby blues, and then BAM! The needle is thrust into his tiny thigh... He was momentarily stunned, and then his face turned deep crimson and he screamed in silence. Lord, that silent cry shatters my soul.

Mama's sorry, baby. But this way, you won't get pertussis. Someday, you'll thank me.

Jacob 4 Eva

2010-07-13T11:06:00.003-04:00

Two Fridays ago was my first bonafide night out, sans baby and husband. Liberation!

Of course, I went to see Eclipse. And I got all dolled up for the occasion, and didn't even bother to wear my new Daisy Fuentes "slimming panel" tank. It sent a very clear message: this mushy pooch is your future, tweens.

But I actually felt fantastic. I met the ladies at the theater, ordered up my small popcorn with butta, and mah Sweettarts, and it was ON.

Oh, Bella.

So here are a few observations about the film:

I AM TEAM JACOB. I hate proclaiming a "team," but come ON, girls. The abs. Can I get a witness? But really, Ed just doesn't do it for me. Maybe it's all the "protection" bullshit. Maybe it's the fact that he's completely humorless. Maybe it's the overall codependent relationship between the two star-crossed lovers. Either way, I will take the warm-blooded Native American any day. His only flaw? His incredulous infatuation with -

BELLA. Lord, Bella. First, you assault my eyes with that ATROCIOUS wig. Then, you crush my feminist soul with your complete lack of ambition, save to have sex with your boyfriend and be with him for all eternity. Did you seriously just offer to go to college ALL SO HE WOULD hit that? Sister, wise up.

I really dig Anna Kendrick.

The man seated behind me gave a running commentary throughout the entire movie. "God, that's cheesy!" He'd proclaim to his lady friend about every three minutes. "Ugh, so cheesy." We get it, dude. Your girlfriend dragged you to the show. You're not a homosexual. It's not Citizen Kane. Now please shut your big yapper. Damn.

Who saw it? What say you, friends?

Week 4: Can I Lose the Weight Whilst Eating Sweettarts, Please?

2010-07-12T15:25:00.004-04:00

Starting weight: 158.2

Current Weight: 157

Total L-Bs lost: A whooping 1.2, But I'll take what I can get, y'all.

Number of gym visits this week: 3, plus one track visit. Didn't make the two-mile run this week, as my back has been aching.

Other physical activity: A walk with H to calm him down. My man loves to be in motion, which is a good way to amp up my activity level.

Most triumphant moment this week: The dirty Grey Goose martini at Buddakan. J and I went out on Saturday night for an anniversary celebration, and that ice cold drink was so good I nearly wept with joy. The martini has nothing to do with weight loss, I know; but sitting in a trendy Philadelphia restaurant with my husband, sans baby, talking about things other than my nipples and breast milk? Heavenly.

Most soul-crushing moment this week: I'm breaking out. So that extra 20 lbs, no make-up, no shower, no wardrobe, PLUS pimples? You've got yourself a recipe for a very teary lady. The chocolate bento box at Buddakan totally helped though.

What's motivating me this week: A world without cellulite.

Things that would make Jillian Michaels weep this week: The Mcdonald's I picked up in desperation, dealing with a very fussy little man.

This week's mini-goal: 3 gym visits, another two-mile run, two days of strength training.

This week's reward: Pride.

Year Two in Review

2010-07-12T12:55:00.001-04:00

It's been quite a year.

Happy Anniversary, Kins. We love you.

Week Three - The Good, The Bad, and The BBQs.

2010-07-05T15:02:00.002-04:00

Eh, Week Two. Until Friday, I ate pretty impeccably. I also got some good workouts in, and accomplished my goal of running two miles. I didn't get to the gym 4 times, but I got to the gym once, and the track three times, so I guess that counts?

Either way, there were BBQs. And cupcakes. And brownies. And banana-chocolate-strawberry shortcakes, for the love of PETE.

This week, we start anew.

Starting weight: 158.2

Current Weight: 158.4 (I was 156.2 at my doc appointment this week though! Efffff.)

Total L-Bs lost: Go to hell.

Number of gym visits this week: 1, plus 3 trips to the track.

Other physical activity: Again, 3 walks with Hendrik in the heat.

Most triumphant moment this week: Two-mile run! I'm back, baby.

Most soul-crushing moment this week: Gaining .2 pounds. And not having the will power to avoid ANY of the sweet treats.

What's motivating me this week: Jennifer Aniston. Her body is slammin'.

Things that would make Jillian Michaels weep this week: Oh Em Gee, Jillian's head would explode if she witnessed what I ate at Grandpop's picnic yesterday.

This week's mini-goal: 3 gym visits, and another two-mile run.

This week's reward: Will finally put that Sephora gift card to good use, because I don't feel that deserving after this weekend's antics.

Slow and steady, y'all.

For the Love of Cloth

2010-07-05T14:06:00.003-04:00

Last night as we hauled Snoozer home from another fun-filled family BBQ, I asked J if he wouldn't mind giving me a few solid hours in my office today, to write and organize and budget. J loves budgeting so much that he's offered me FIVE child-free hours, and here I am, plunked in front of the comp...

I think I'd rather be napping.

Which is disconcerting, to a lady who claims to want to be a writer. But we shall power through - albeit sleepily - to discuss: CLOTH DIAPERS.

More specifically, my love for cloth diapers. Yes, friends (and naysayers), cloth is a beautiful thing.

To be sure, there is poop. Then there is more poop. And sometimes, some serious POOP. But since Snooze is exclusively breast-fed, the poo is always the same consistency. So at least we know what to expect.

Right now, we've got 16 diaps: some FuzziBunz, some bumGenius. I can't say I have a preference at this point, though I am going to order four more diapers this week (likely two of each) to lengthen the amount of time between washings.

So here's how it all goes down:

Diaper babe.

Babe pees and poos.

Change babe as you would a disposable wearin' kid. We store our diapers in the bottom drawer of his dresser for easy access during changings.

We haven't graduated to cloth wipes yet, so we toss used wipes in a trash can placed next to the changing table/bureau.

I toss the dirty diaper aside. Sometimes for longer than my husband would prefer. (Just the charm of me!)

Once I do get around to rinsing the soiled adorableness, I do so in the sink in our laundry room, which is conveniently located on our second floor, next to Hendrik's nursery. I separate the outer diapers from the inserts, then rinse and wring out; finally, I toss them into a dry pail next to the washer. And done! Nothin' to it, I tell yous.

When it comes time to wash the diaps (usually when H is down to two), I simply toss the contents of the dry pail in the washer, along with the machine-washable bag.

Cold soak and a hot rinse, then low heat in the dryer.

Once dry, I stuff the inserts back into the outer pants, and restock the diaper drawer. Fin.

We even travel with cloth! We spent all weekend on the go, and when we're out on the town I store the dirty diapers in a FuzziBunz tote specifically designed for this purpose.

We've done the math, too, and we figured your average diaper costs about 29 cents. (Huggies and Seventh Generation seem to be right here.) We probably go through 10 diapers a day, but we said for the sake of argument that we'd average 8 per day each year. That equates to 847 bucks annually. If we assume we'll be diapering for three full years, the investment is roughly $2500 per baby.

Our investment? About 400 dollars at his point. There may be a minimal bump in water usage, but you can't really deny the cost savings, in addition to the environmental impact (that's nearly 9000 diapers per child not ending up in a landfill).

Sure, there are a few extra steps, but admittedly... I think cloth is fun. Not because I particularly like being wrist-deep in my precious's poop, but because cloth diapering feels decidedly old-school and... purposeful. I quite enjoy the process, which makes me unspeakably weird. And I'm okay with that.

Oh! And! Cloth diapering means little-to-no diaper rash, and early potty-training! I mean: WIN.

And there you have it friends: a cloth diaperin' diatribe, brought to you by your best good friend HomeValley, who used to talk about drunken nights spent in VIP rooms in Atlantic City and Manhattan and trips to South America. This is not lost on me either. Until tomorrow!

Week Two - Surprised to Not be Perfectly Thin Yet.

2010-06-29T13:59:00.005-04:00

Made it through Week 1, and there are still things I need to tweak. Overall, though, I am pleased with my resolve. I've started eating salads for lunch instead of delicious organic pot pies and pizzas, which should help a bit, no? I also avoided chocolate and candy, but I did notice troublesome sugar intake elsewhere, like my lattes, strawberry preserves, and the two fruit drinks I gulped at Arts Fest because they were just ridiculously good.

Here goes:

Starting weight: 158.2

Current Weight: 157.8 (Amazing, right? I am just pleased the scale is moving in the right direction.)

Total L-Bs lost: .4! Boo yeah!

Number of gym visits this week: 3

Other physical activity: 3 walks with Hendrik in the punishing heat

Most triumphant moment this week: I reached last week's goal and avoided all chocolate and candy! And that spa pedicure was sweet, y'all.

Most soul-crushing moment this week: Not dropping 10 pounds. Looks like this is going to be challenging, huh?

What's motivating me this week: A very fit fellow mama, who told me in no uncertain terms recently that staying fit and losing weight after kids? Is hard. But she does it with will power, and by tossing those chocolate chip cookies I voraciously devour. Sometimes you just need to hear there is no magic bullet.

Things that would make Jillian Michaels weep this week: Grande decaf non-fat caramel macchiato. All those empty calories! Fail, HV. Fail.

This week's mini-goal: 4 gym visits, and one two-mile run.

This week's reward: Will finally put that Sephora gift card to good use.

At this rate I will be bikini-ready next summer. Hooray!

They Call it The J.

2010-06-24T11:04:00.004-04:00

I really, really LIKE my husband.

Yesterday was a bad day. Hendrik was UNHAPPY. Nothing I did was working. I felt like a bad mother, which I know is melodramatic. He's a babe. I can't read his mind. I just want to be able to comfort him when his screams escalate to epic proportions, his tears flowing and his yellow eye goop oozing angrily.

J came home with a giant bouquet of lilies, and a proposition: let's get out of this house.

It sounds a bit counterintuitive, what with a SCREAMING child and all, but Hendrik always comes through in the clutch. He remained quiet and content on the way to the restaurant, lost his shit in the car once we parked, nursed, and was placid for the next 45 minutes, allowing us to enjoy our meal. It's like he knows how far he can go.

As we settled into the car for the ride home, J burst out into song:

"They call it the J!" Then: "Why am I singing the Frasier theme?"

Suddenly, a duet: "Oh baby I hear the blues are callin' tossed salad and scrambled eggs!"

Then, giggling, because the baby's screaming has sent us over the edge, and what the fuck does the Frasier theme song MEAN?

"But I don't know what to do with this tossed salad and scrambled eggs! They call it the J."

It was just enough flowers, turkey sandwiches on foccacia, and theme-song singin' to revitalize a mama.

Thanks, babe.

Body After Baby - The Inaugural Post

2010-06-21T20:20:00.007-04:00

Supporting his mama with adorableness.

So lo and behold - I write about my desire to get back into shape, and look what I find on Sarah's blog! The gods, they are smiling.

So this is my inaugural post, in which I tell you that my goal is to drop 25 pounds (Yep, I've tacked on a few extra for good measure) by October 1.

And hey! I went back to the gym this past weekend, only to find out I'd mysteriously been kicked out of my Healthy Lifestyles program (inactivity?), and that yep, I'm out of shape. Whilst on the elliptical on Saturday, I had imaginary conversations with Jillian Michaels in my head to keep me motivated.

HomeValley: I can't do it!

Jillian: YES YOU CAN! Do you wanna be fat forever? Do you WANT to lose this baby weight or NOT?!?

HV: Yes... But I can't go on, Jillian! It's too hard!

JM: DO YOU WANNA WEAR A PENCIL SKIRT AGAIN, HOMEVALLEY?

HV: Yes!

JM: I SAID - DO YOU WANT TO WEAR A FUCKING PENCIL SKIRT?!?

HV: YEEESSSS! *breaks down into heaving sobs*

JM: *softly* Why is this so hard? Why is it so difficult for you to give up the chocolate chip cookies?

Obviously, I need to develop a better playlist.

So here goes... On Sunday, I banished chocolate and processed sugar from my diet. So far, so good, including when J remembered his secret pregnancy stash of Snickers bars for moi, and devoured that satisfying conglomeration of chocolate, nuts, and caramel in front of me.

I suppose this is how we'll track this:

Starting weight: 158.2

Current Weight: Talk to you in a week!

Total L-Bs lost: 24 since H was born. So that's cool. Unfortunately, we're starting here at 0.

Number of gym visits this week: 2, thus far

Other physical activity: 1 walk with Hendrik, thus far

Most triumphant moment this week: Snickers avoidance, y'all.

Most soul-crushing moment this week: SNICKERS. YUM.

What's motivating me this week: My son. Putting healthful things into my body, drinking more water, and avoiding sugar mean Hendrik reaps the breast milk benefits. Also? A shopping trip to Kohl's. The jeans I purchased are two sizes bigger than normal, and holy hell FLORESCENT LIGHTS. Jiggly bits.

Things that would make Jillian Michaels weep this week: All of the chocolate and sugar I ate on Saturday in preparation for Sunday's start date. And I enjoyed every calorie-laden morsel.

This week's mini-goal: No chocolate, no candy. Really, really challenging for me.

This week's reward: A trip to the nail salon.

Let's DO THIS!

DENIAL: Thy Name is HomeValley.

2010-06-18T15:16:00.004-04:00

A medium? She CRAZY!

On Sunday we ran errands, which is always interesting with our little buddy. (Now, all errands generally involve a diaper blow-out, because I think Hendrik just enjoys effing with his parents.)

J waited in the car with the babe whilst I ran into Target. I had only a few items to pick up:

a digital scale

a one-piece swimsuit

a cover-up, Jesus Christ cellulite jiggly bits

We needed a scale, as our old-school Ikea one was falling apart, and desperately inaccurate. I figured it would help me get back on track, and bonus: we can weigh the boy, which helps with my piece of mind.

I am not sure why I needed the suit. I was thinking I was going to finally swim in the pool at the gym. Honestly? I am frightened of the pool at the gym. I mean, I am just not a very strong swimmer (I have no form), and there are typically a lot of elderly people wearing swim caps in that pool. Also, I haven't been to the gym in five months. Still. I have plans, people.

I grabbed a MEDIUM, non-descript, brown one-piece, made sure it was returnable, and brought it home to try on (there is no time to try on a swimsuit with a 4 week-old infant pooping in the car). Also, Target lets you return bathing suits. Gross, Target.

Dudes: I grabbed a MEDIUM. The size I mostly wore pre-pregnancy. When I was about 22 pounds lighter.

Stuffed sausage, party of one.

"Oh," I mumbled to J as I waddled into the bathroom to get a good look at my form. "I guess it will be awhile before I wear this, huh?"

"Why did you buy that? Because you are a mom now, you need to wear a one-piece?"

(Aside: maybe. I mean, because I am a mom now, I understand reverse mullets, y'all. They must be damn convenient. I have blown dry my hair once since May 15th.)

"No, J! I had to buy it on account of my pooch!"

Oh, my pooch.

I mean, I know I gained a ridiculous amount of weight during my pregnancy. I am thankful to be down 23 pounds or so. Alas! Would that this pooch would just melt away on its own! Then I could continue to eat copious amounts of chocolate chip cookies and pizza and cheeseburgers, and have my old flat belly and wear pencil skirts. I need to wear pencil skirts! What about the PENCIL SKIRTS?!?

Sigh.

Apparently, I think I can carry around an extra 22 L-Bs and still maintain my old size. I also believe that my pre-prego jeans should fit, as I torture myself by trying them on periodically. They don't make it past my KNEES! Gah!

(PENCIL SKIRTS!)

I am going to have to get serious, for the love of Bob Harper. My problem? I am not sure how to this whilst breastfeeding. My initial inclination is to cut out chocolate (which is also a win for my gassy, reflux-y offspring), and processed sugars. To stick with fruits, veggies, and whole grains.

Easier said than done when you're caring for a tiny infant, and all you want to do is eat all of the M&Ms. (Crap - what did I do with those M&Ms?)

And so we begin, folks. I am saying this: in two months time, I would like to be down at least 16 pounds. I feel like 2 pounds per week is realistic for nursing, though I know I can't do any major calorie-restriction, I can amp up my diet and haul my ass to the gym.

Also? I need to buy some new pants. I can't live in maternity jeans for the next 2 months. It's uncivilized. I am sure I will hyperventilate when I learn my new non-pregnant size, but thems the breaks. Hendrik is well-worth the body woes, y'know?

(Oh, here's a charming little anecdote to start your weekend. Last Saturday, J and I got all dressed up and took Hendrik to dinner on Main Street. I was wearing this dress, and I asked J, "So, how pregnant do I look now?" He gave me the once-over, and said, "Well, you didn't start showing until month 4... so I'd say... Like, 25 weeks pregnant?" Me at 25 weeks pregnant. LORD.)

One Month

2010-06-17T14:52:00.004-04:00

One month old today, and already a little world-weary.

Back to the doc's today, this time we left with a prescription for Zantac. Hendrik is over this reflux. Eff you, reflux. Leave mah precious belly alone.

Me? I am having one of those days. The woe-is-my-mushy-pooch-formerly-known-as-my-abdomen days. I've been googling "how to lose weight while breastfeeding" and feeling just a bit low. Meanwhile, I am trying to remember to stay in the moment... It seems I am always fighting to temper my anxiety, and to stop imagining every single thing that could possibly go wrong. I'm concerned about the future of my career, and what lies in store professionally.

Also? I am trying to cut out sugar. What am I: Superwoman?

My boy? At one month, he is glorious. He is growing (nine pounds, 5.8 ounces this morning, up from nine pounds 1.4 ounces on Monday)... He is focusing. He loves music (very partial to Jack Johnson and our wedding CD), the outdoors, and moving, whether he's swinging, driving, or strolling around the Yunk in his ginormous Bob Revolution. Oh, he LOVES his nursery. The orange wall soothes him. He's also fascinated by the lion we created, affectionately dubbed Lionel Richie.

Dislikes? Diaper changes, the end of feedings, and when Dad lectures Mom about cleaning and organization. (True story.)

Most nights we look at him, and still can't believe he came from us. Or that 32 days have gone by.

Happy one-month birthday, Hendrik. We adore you, son.

Stenosis Schmenosis

2010-06-15T12:40:00.006-04:00

Totally zen about this whole thing. Calm down Mama OMG.

We're currently keeping my little nugget upright, at a 45-degree angle, post-feeding. Child has got some issues. He's been spitting up quite a bit, almost to the point of projectile vomiting Exorcist-style. Yesterday, I called the pediatrician and I brought him in for a weight check and a once-over, figuring he was dealing with Saturday's choco-chip cookie overdose.

After a few hours of Internet research, I was ill-prepared for the potential diagnosis. Have you dudes ever heard of "pyloric stenosis?"

Within a few minutes of examining him, the ped gave me the 411 on PS. She then said though she didn't feel the "olive" in his belly, she'd like him to get an ultrasound. At the children's hospital. Immediately.

Oh, and if he does have this condition? He'll need surgery. Immediately.

Um, to reiterate, I took my kid in for spit-up. I was told he might need surgery within hours?

Imagine how composed I was, sitting in the office there, feeding my screaming, starving baby. We were both sobbing. The ped gave me a hug, and told me that H could have no liquids after 12 PM. I finished up his feeding in the exam room, composed myself, and hurried to the car to call J.

At which point I lost my shit again.

J came home and we cuddled a pleasant, satiated Snoozer. We then packed about 17 bags for the trip to the hospital, just in case. (Clothes, breast pump, toiletries, magazines, etc.)

I prayed all the way there, whilst examining my child for signs of this mysterious condition.

"Does he look yellow to you? He looks a little yellow to me."

"Stop," J said.

Hendrik was a champion during his ultrasound. He whined a bit at first, but then seemed to think Meh and went back to sleep. Within a few moments, we were told that the results were negative. I could have wept with joy. We were elated.

And so we still have a spit-up issue, though it is lessening. The doc thinks it was possibly a little bit of a stomach bug, perhaps combined with reflux, so if you are coming within 20 feet of my child? PLEASE WASH YOUR HANDS. I mean, please wash your hands within 20 feet of any small infant and toddler. If I am ever around your baby, I will make a big show of washing my hands and slathering on the organic hand sanitizer, because dude. Nobody needs projectile-vomiting infants getting ultrasounds of their tiny bellies up in here.

Tidbits

2010-06-11T10:35:00.004-04:00

I'm having trouble writing Hendrik's birth story. The words get jumbled and I can't seem to get coherent thoughts on paper. It's still a work in progress, I s'pose. To distract you, some delightful tidbits:

Fucking soft spots. I am TERRIFIED of soft spots. The other night, Hendrik's head was dented. Seriously! And it was also kind of pulsating. So I did what any new mother would do: I burst into tears, nudged J - who was sleeping placidly next to me in bed - and wailed that our son was brain-damaged - I have RUINED him! And J looked at him and said: "He's fine." By the next morning, H's skull had regenerated and healed itself with Ninja-like prowess. Fucking soft spots.

Michael Jackson won the Ninja Baby Pool. That's... er... creepy.

I have discovered the secret to my own happy marriage is keeping the kitchen sink empty. There is nothing that will piss my husband off more than when he needs to use the sink for a manly-man task, and my dishes are piled there, "soaking." I told J my brilliant theory the other day, and he stared at me, bemused. "Sure, but maybe you could expand the cleaning a little bit?" Quite.

Pretty sure the raccoon is long gone. The pest guys need to come and remove the expulsion trap and close up the hole. They canceled on me Wednesday (due to weather) and then last night they showed up at 5:30 PM. They said it would take them about an hour and a half to do the job, which for these dudes I estimated to mean about six hours. I told them it wasn't a good time, and blamed H. Because you can do that when you have babies.

A raccoon tryin' to come into MY house? Not on my watch, Mama.

McSnoozer

2010-06-09T12:34:00.004-04:00

Every day is a little bit different.

J's back to work, and so Hendrik and I are adjusting to our new life together, sans dad. On Monday, we went grocery shopping and bought stamps at the Post Office. Yesterday, we went for a long walk, enjoying the gorgeous weather together. We stopped at CVS, and even made it to the coffee shop for a quick decaf latte. I picked up Self and Women's Health magazines, and wondered (via Facebook), if it might be possible to lose 20 pounds by the Fourth of July? (Oh, I have already lost 25 pounds. I'll let you dudes do the math there. And let's never mention it again, mmmkay?)

Hendrik is just over three weeks old. Just when I think I know his patterns, he confounds me again. He is gaining weight steadily, and his cheeks are getting ever so slightly chubbier. He loves light; put him in front of a window, or step out onto the porch, and he is mesmorized. His tiny mouth forms an O, and his eyes get very wide. They sometimes cross when he is really attempting to focus.

He also loves to be in motion. He screams when we attempt to strap him into his car seat, but as soon as he is moving, he settles down.

Oh, and much to our delight, he adores his orange wall. He lights up when he's in his nursery, and he stares at the wall in wonderment.

He's got amazing head and neck control. He is also a champion "rooter." If he is ever so slightly hungry when I lay him on my chest, he lifts his head and bobs it ferociously up and down, eventually finding his way to a breast. He's no slouch, my kid.

Tummy time really pisses him off. He prefers to be on his back. He spits up about 78636 times a day. Just this week, he has decided that he would like to eat, thankyouverymuch, Lady with the boobs. And eat. Even if it takes six hours and two bottles of pumped breast milk. I fear he has inherited his parents' appetites.

We call him Snoozer, although we're making a conscience effort to say his name more. (Occasionally, we'll refer to him as Ninj.) He had the great misfortune of being born when the MacGruber movie was coming out; so he gets "Macgruber!" shouted at him a lot, or often: "McSnoozer!"

He has this face, too. He does it when he's waking, and sometimes when he is milk-drunk and settling down to sleep. He tilts his head back, scrunches his tiny brow, purses his lips, and stretches his arms out to his sides. It seriously makes us melt and guffaw at the same time.

Yes, we'll keep him. Even if he frustrates his mama with his insatiable appetite, or pees and poops and spits up on his father within a span of 3 minutes when he arrives home from work. He only needs to make the Snoozer face. He owns us.

Oh Em Gee ClusterFEEDING.

2010-06-08T21:07:00.004-04:00

Hey, y'all.

Very little time to chat, as this child is permanently attached to my jubblies.

I am hoping to finish the birth story this week.

To distract you from my sorry blogging of late:

Perhaps he wants out of this laundry basket his parents have cruelly placed him in? Or perhaps he has heard too much of the Glee soundtrack this week and is channeling Lea Michele?

You decide.

Labor, In Painstaking Detail. Please to Enjoy. Part 1.

2010-06-01T16:33:00.006-04:00

You'll have to forgive me this painfully-detailed account, but I don't want to forget a minute of it.

On Saturday, May 15th, J and I planned a DAY. You know: breakfast at our favorite spot; a walk on the Wissahickon Trail; a quiet afternoon spent sunning ourselves and reading in the backyard; and finally a romantic date on Main Street.

"This could be our last weekend," I said happily to my husband over a bacon-and-egg omelette that morning. "But really? I don't think it is. I think we have at least two more weekends."

HA!

On the trail, we ran into another very pregnant mama. "We've got the same idea," she yelled to me. "Walking these babies out!"

I wonder if her walk was as effective.

At home, I spent some cherished hours with my beloved Kindle, reading a book of short stories. My mom called.

"We've got a nice little Saturday planned," I told her. "It could be our last weekend, you know. Not that I think it is... I have no signs of labor. None. I'm going to be pregnant until June. Cheers."

HA! HA.

We eventually showered and dressed, and I felt pleased with my pregnant form. I waddled down to Main Street on my husband's arm, and we ended up at the Italian place. I ordered an NA Coors. We talked. It was lovely.

When we arrived home, we sank into our respective couches and watched the making of Planet Earth. We were engrossed in the filming of the snow leopard chase (never before filmed, y'all), when I started to feel... something.

Crampy.

"I'm feeling crampy," I announced to J. "It's probably nothing."

As the night wore on, however, it got increasingly uncomfortable. But I was totally handling it. Am labor champ! We went to sleep. Occasionally, a cramp would wake me. At 1 AM, I had to pee.

And here is where it gets interesting. Because I peed. I was done peeing. I stood up and flushed. I washed my hands. I walked towards the bathroom door, when suddenly -

A GUSH.

I mean, not a torrential downpour, but a gush of fluid coming from me, tinged pink, on the floor. (Hey male readers!)

I started to tremble.

And much to my delight, I got to TV sitcom-it into the bedroom, and say:

"Babe - I think my water just broke. It's TIME." (Fantastic, right?!)

(HA! HA. Meh.)

Hendrik's Due Date

2010-05-27T09:59:00.003-04:00

Hey, y'all.

So, we're a bit sleepy over here at the HomeValley Ranch. We're surviving the sore nipples, the all-nighters, the diaper changes, the baby blues, and the milestones. (His cord has fell off last night. He's getting so old!)

We've got another pediatrician appointment today, and I'm hopeful that our long, lean boy has gained some weight. He lost 12 ounces initially, which left me reeling with mommy-guilt, as my milk took it's sweet time coming in. It finally appeared on Saturday; so far I haven't had to supplement with formula, and I am confident we won't have to go that route.

But, I am learning that parenthood is one giant, humbling lesson in flexibility.

In the meantime, we have the sweetest baby boy who was ever birthed. Not that I'm biased; but this kid brings the awesome.

More to come as I attempt to regain brain functioning and my sense of humor. I do miss sleep.

Deliriously Happy.

2010-05-21T10:21:00.001-04:00

SERIOUSLY?

Every cliche about the love for your child is true, btw. This boy has us whipped.

Cue "Circle of Life"

2010-05-20T15:20:00.002-04:00

The Ninja has finally revealed his true identity!

It's a boy. We have a son.

His name is Hendrik. He was born on Monday, May 17th, at 1:48 PM. He weighed seven pounds and 13 ounces and is 21 inches long.

Oh, and he is spectacular.

MUCH more to come on this little guy as I slowly rejoin the human race. I can't wait to tell you all about labor and delivery. (Spoiler alert: it HURTS.)

For now, we're home and getting used to being a family. One of isn't too fond of his bassinet, and thus did not sleep a wink last night. But I won't name any names.

38 Weeks: An Epic Retrospection of Absolute Insanity.

2010-05-13T16:01:00.006-04:00

Thirty-eight week check-up was smashing! I lost 2.5 pounds! Babies heart rate is remaining in the 120s! (Totally a boy rate, according to Old Wifey. Stop messing with me, child.) Head is low! No internal! Boo Yeah.

I feel pretty good this week, all told. I am busy tying up loose ends at work; still trying to find the right pediatrician; researching breast pumps (news to me: it is unsanitary to share, even if swapping out the attachments); buying industrial-strength foundation for the hospital pics; and ordering a new camcorder charger. (My world almost imploded last night when I couldn't find the damn thing anywhere in our home. SMOKEY!)

Feeling a bit nostalgic, I opened an old Word doc I started when The Ninja was but a fantasy: this, ladies, and gents, is my fertility saga. I called it: Space Baby. And oh, the DRAMA. The absolute crushing disappointment of not getting pregnant on the very first try.

(I was really very annoying about this whole thing. Apologies, husband.)

August 26, 2009 (Home Office)

Where were we?

Ah, yes – most certainly NOT pregnant.

And it was ultimately a relief, as we journeyed to Montevideo and Buenos Aires, and ohhh – the malbec. And mojitos. And Torrontes. So there you go. I was wishing and hoping and simultaneously thinking I was making my baby retarded. I erroneously predicted that my period was due on Saturday, August 15th. When it didn’t come, we were very excited. We took the red-eye home on Saturday night, and I raced to CVS as soon as we arrived back in the Yunk.

Negative.

Boo. To add insult to injury (those tests are expensive, y’all), I checked my day planner and my period wasn’t scheduled to arrive until Monday, August 17th.

I spoke to Koos and gave her a full report. She yelped when I told her I wasn’t with period yet. I told her about the pregnancy test, and she exclaimed that of course I could still be pregnant – she had a negative test with baby #2! I didn’t want to get my hopes up, but I started to wonder…

When my period still hadn’t arrived on Tuesday evening, I allowed myself to get excited again. At 8 PM, I dashed to the closest pharmacy in Newton, MA, then eagerly peed on the stick and waited.

Negative.

Of course, the next morning I woke up crampy. I got my period that morning, pushing me out to a 30-day cycle. Since abruptly stopping the pill in April, my cycles have been 30, 29, and 28 days, respectively, so I figured I was settling into a nice, normal 28-day ride.

No such luck. Now I must make sure that J and I baby-mate from days 10 – 17, just to be safe. I have managed to rearrange my work schedule so we will only miss one full day of love (probably ovulation day), but we’ll just have to hope we can get it done another day.

I guess we have officially been trying for one month. I hope that this doesn’t take too long. K, baby? We are eagerly awaiting your conception, so let’s do this!

September 1, 2009

I have been snooping around that damn book again.

I just have a few questions, you know? Like, about cervical mucus. Who can I ask about cervical mucus, I beseech you?

This morning I went to Web MD to calculate when I may be ovulating. As I suspected, the Internet indicates tomorrow. It says my fertile period began on August 28th, and I should ovulate on the 2nd.

I did fairly well predicting that this month.

*I go on here to list the dates J and I baby-mated. Oh Em Gee, I will spare you. Let me just say, that once I decided to get knocked up, I approached it with all the vigor and precision and meticulousness of an army drill sergeant.

September 14, 2009

In the end, it was Drew Barrymore who tipped me off.

I was in the midst of a surprisingly vivid dream. Drew and I were best friends – naturally – and I was on set of a new film starring that Gilles guy with the penis from the Sex and the City movie. Apparently, Drew was banned from being on set, as she had offended the director more than once. She was in love with Gilles, and kept calling me, asking me to watch him for her. She wanted updates on his behavior. I kept trying to assuage her fears, good friend that I am.

In the dream, I realized I had to pee, and that my stomach was acting weird. I rolled over and fumbled for my glasses. I stumbled out of bed and headed towards the bathroom, where I found the last EPT test in the drawer. What the hell, I thought, as I ripped open the packaging. I’ll take this, it will be negative, and I will just wait for my period to start this week.

I peed on the stick, replaced the cap, and laid the test on the floor in front of me. I watched as the negative line popped up in the window, and I shook my head. I told myself not to be discouraged – this is only month two, you asshole. You’ll get there.

But wait.

Is that?

No.

I started laughing. Really laughing. And saying no. No. No! No way.

A second line. Faint, but not even very faint.

Pregnant.

I finally got off of the toilet and crept back into the bedroom, test in hand.

“Are you awake?” I asked.

J nodded, and I laughed again, and was all, “I have something to show you!”

I thrust the stick in his face.

“This says I’m pregnant!”

J was skeptical. But it’s not as dark as the other line, he said. I pulled out my copy of What to Expect Before You’re Expecting, and read aloud:

Q: I took a pregnancy test and it was positive, but the line was very faint. Could I be pregnant?

A: Get ready to faint: from excitement!

Of course, the next question caused some brief panic:

Q: I took a pregnancy test and it was positive; then I took two more and they were negative. What’s happening?

A: Chemical pregnancy, better luck next time.

“Well, that’s no fun, huh?” I said to my husband, who hugged me but cautioned me not to get too excited.

As. If.

After calculating my due date online, and quickly getting dressed, I headed to Whole Foods and Border’s, and, of course, CVS. I resolved not to pee for at least 5 hours. I made it to 6, and then took a second test.

Pregnant.

And this time, no faint line. I dragged J into the bathroom to show him.

“Well, there’s no mistaking that one is there?”

I left the two tests on the bathroom sink, side-by-side. I can’t stop checking on them. As if they are my baby. Our baby. I creep into the bathroom at least once an hour, and I stare.

This morning, despite peeing twice in the night, I took another test.

Pregnant.

And there the three tests sit, in our bathroom. Lined up in solidarity, shouting:

PREGNANT.

I made my first prenatal appointment today, which won’t be until October 19th! How can we wait that long? I asked the receptionist the same question.

“Then that’s safe? For my baby? I am so new… That’s okay?”

She assured me it was perfectly normal. When we go in, we’ll have a check-up, an ultrasound, and we’ll get to hear the heartbeat.

Heart. Beat.

I sent J an Outlook invitation to this appointment. I don’t think he wants to believe this yet. He’s afraid, probably more for me than himself. “Don’t get too excited yet, babe. Anything could happen.”

“It’s not going to hurt any less if I try to ignore it,” I tell him softly.

I don’t want to jinx it, but I think Ninja is strong.

September 15, 2009

Today – unbelievably – the world did not stop turning, and I had to work. I am in Bethesda, Maryland. Starting tomorrow, I am going to eat properly. Today I had hash browns, bacon, a few bites of scrambled eggs; pizza, and an Asian chicken salad, complete with a side of liguini carbonara. One measly salad does not a healthy diet make, and so tomorrow (and here on out) I will strive for the proper amount of fruits, vegetables, and proteins.

I went to Border’s and returned The Girlfriend’s Guide to Pregnancy (because: dumb) and settled on the oft-maligned What to Expect When You’re Expecting. It is straightforward advice and material that I need, and so far it has put me at ease.

Reading the book though, I got immediately panicky; suspect that Ninja had disappeared. As soon as I got back to the hotel, I took a pregnancy test (my FOURTH). POSITIVE. And now the test sits on the bathroom sink, where I can go in and stare at it when I need to be reminded.

I. AM. PREGNANT.

I cannot fathom that I won’t get to see AN ACTUAL DOCTOR until October 19th, more than A MONTH AWAY.

“How will I believe I am still pregnant?!?” I begged of Koos yesterday. “I will have to take a test like once a week!”

I am hoping I can get in earlier; the receptionist mentioned that there may be a cancellation in the meantime.

In other news, I finally ran again today. An easy two-miles, after which I felt great, and not like I killed Ninja. I weighed myself as well: 135.1. I was alarmed to think that I might weigh 160 before this is over. *ha. HAHAHAHAHAHA. Ha.

But really, Ninja, just stay healthy. We lurve you. (And also, I suspect you are a girl.)

Tomorrow: More craziness ensues. Stay tuned!

Banish-ED.

2010-05-13T11:18:00.003-04:00

And now, a dramatic reenactment, from fair Manayunk, where we lay our scene.

Smokey the Raccoon: Ha! banishment! be merciful, say ‘death;’ For exile hath more terror in his look, Much more than death: do not say ‘banishment.’

HV: Hence from The HomeValley home art thou banished. Be patient, Smokey, for the world is broad and wide.

Smokey: There is no world without HomeValley's walls, But purgatory, torture, hell itself.
Hence banished is banish’d from the world, And world’s exile is death; then ‘banished,’
Is death mis-term’d. Calling death ‘banished,’ Thou cutt’st my head off with a golden axe,
And smil’st upon the stroke that murders me.

Can you believe Smokey's histrionics? (He nailed this scene though. He is the Sir Laurence Olivier of the raccoon set.) But, friends, we do believe Smokey has been banish-ed.

We think we heard him emerge from his fortress on Tuesday night; and since, I have not heard him plodding about the ceiling.

Has fortune smiled upon us?

In other news: damn, I love me some Bill Shakespeare.

It LIVES.

2010-05-11T09:31:00.005-04:00

The raccoon is still residing merrily in the ceiling. Did you know that the raccoon's closest animal relative is the bear? Are you as reassured as I am?

The pest guys came yesterday at 3 PM. The neighbors were surprisingly friendly about this whole debacle... Yes, they'd heard the raccoon. Yes, they'd like us to take care of it. Yes, they'll pay for half.

As one of the guys helpfully pointed out: See? That bird shit was good luck.

Indeed.

The pest guys left at 9 PM.

SIX HOURS to set an expulsion trap. In case you had any doubts? This raccoon owns us all.

At one point, the owner of the company popped outside to grab something from his truck. "I'll be right back," he said, and drove off. He returned an hour later with little explanation, and some wire to create a better trap. That was super.

And the cheeky raccoon bastard is still plodding about in the ceiling. The idea is, when he/she gets hungry enough, he/she will venture out through the explusion trap. The beast can easily get out, but - pray God - can't get back in. Once we know it is out for sure, the guys will come back and seal up our neighbor's home.

J, after the guys finally left: I'm 50/50 that this scheme will work.

I should just buy a tiny raccoon bed for the nursery and call it a day. Maybe Ninja would enjoy a raccoon brother or sister.

In other news: I bought cellulite firming gel yesterday to cheer myself up.

We may have reached a new low, kids.

But I am looking forward to better days, and a beautiful baby Ninja.

Busty HV and Jim Eisenreich, of the '93 Phils.

FRENZY

2010-05-07T14:30:00.006-04:00

Oh HOLY FUCK exterminator came and identified entry point for RACCOON on neighbor's side and neighbor not home so cannot do any work until neighbor signs off and by the way in the back they have squirrels and INSULATION and ELECTRICAL and FIRE HAZARD and some birds' nests for good measure and looked up to see entry point and bird SHIT IN MY EYE.

Fin.

Water, Water Everywhere... And I'm Retaining it All.

2010-05-07T08:01:00.004-04:00

37 week check-up yesterday... no signs that The Ninja will reveal its true identity any time in the foreseeable future. I am coming to terms with an early June baby, listening to a lot of Glee and Jesse Malin to pass the time, and calling it a day.

You know what I am having more trouble coming to terms with? The fact that, if I am pregnant for another 4 weeks?

I will be even fatter. And honestly, I can't take anymore weight gain. I can't control it, and maybe this is a big FAT lesson in humility, but for the love of Lionel... ENOUGH.

I am not going to tell you how much weight I've gained overall. I refused to tell J, even, as my weight is threatening to eclipse his own.

I will tell you that I gained another 6 pounds. THIS week.

So after stepping off of the scale, peeing in a cup (sidebar - that is FUCKING impossible now. Pee = everywhere), I sat in the exam room yesterday, waiting for the doc, and I cried.

Then I got annoyed with myself for wallowing, so I tried meditating... But when I repeated a yoga mantra - I am beautiful, I am bountiful, I am blissful - my internal monologue insisted: OH HELL YES YOU ARE BOUNTIFUL. FATTY.

So I just breathed instead. And examined my swollen feet and ankles.

When the kindest OB in all the lands finally entered, he asked how I was feeling.

"Defeated," I said.

"Why - the weight gain? I wasn't even going to mention it."

(You see? He is the most fantastic man.)

He told me that it happens... I've been healthy my entire life, and this is just my body on pregnancy. He said - though admitted it was anecdotal - that he finds fit women who gain excessive weight during pregnancy will return to their pre-pregnancy form relatively easily.

And he told me not to be so hard on myself.

Sniffle.

And so I'll calm down, until I see a new doc next week, who may or not be as kind.

A Nursery Fit For A Ninja!

2010-05-05T07:37:00.018-04:00

Presenting... The Ninja Nursery. Enjoy. There are lots of little nerdy tidbits I need to tell you about.

So this is a wall. We painted it bright orange. It was inspired by our trip to Argentina. We stayed at the BoBo Hotel in Buenos Aires and we loved the Pop room. We thought our baby could use a little Warhol-esque splash of color, no?

And this is an amazing piece of stained glass, which J recovered from a construction site at work. His dad then worked a little magic with the frame, and voila! Gorgeous bright pastels that work for boy and girl babies. Win! (We've actually had this piece for quite some time. Like many things we've collected, it just seamlessly works here, ya know?)

I love a finely crafted wooden toy juxtaposed with a mummified pharoah figurine from a Cairo market; and thus, our child will too.

And here are just a few special books from the Ninja library: I've tried desperately to find a good children's book in every country we've visited... Alas, often kids' books are hard to come by. I managed to collect England, Argentina, Thailand, and Egypt. Not too shabby for a start.

The built-in shelf, which is a lovely feature of our 110 year-old home. Perfect for fun baby tchochkes.

And here is another wall, complete with three buddha cards matted and framed. We picked these up as extras in Thailand, and again, we thought they'd be perfect for the zen baby who is really into Eastern philosophy.

One of my absolute favorite pieces in the nursery is this quilt/playmat, made custom for Ninj by Poppy and Bean. The artist uses remnants of furniture upholstery to whip up these stunning creations, at a very reasonable price. It's totally our taste, and we love it. And I realize that The Ninja will likely just drool and spit-up all over it during tummy time, but it's machine-washable! Again: win.

OMG THIS CHAIR. HEAVENLY.

And the friendly lion, which we recreated on canvas, based on a gift bag we received from one of my favorite co-workers. I saw the bag and knew we had to paint this; J came up with the idea for the lavish frame. I was skeptical for about a minute; but folks? I adore this piece. I mean, that lion is goddamn adorable.

And the crib, which is overseen by a vinyl monkey, who is awesome and smiley and fun-loving. Also, check out that organic cotton sheet! Yeah, our bumper doesn't work in the crib. So I paid a whole helluva lot of cash for two organic cotton sheets and a crib skirt. Such is life.

And now, we just need a Ninja to put in this room. So, we wait.

What do you think?

37 Weeks - Wherefore art thou, HomeValley?

2010-05-04T10:32:00.003-04:00

It seems my husband has a point, you guys: I really can't sit still. I can't stop planning things. I was like this before baby; I am like this pregnant with baby. J has already warned me that I am not to plan like a madwoman whilst on my maternity leave. To which I say to myself: good luck.

This past week hasn't left me with a spare moment to update! Last Monday, we had my mother over for dinner. I roasted a chicken as she checked out the nursery, then J and I tried desperately to teach her how to use her new iPod touch. Have you tried downloading music with your parents yet? I highly recommend. My mom loves Prince and The Moody Blues, apparently.

Tuesday night we had a pediatrician lecture as part of our prenatal class schedule. Would you assume that I am the lass who asked the question about vaccination links to autism, sending the seasoned doctor on a ten minute diatribe? If so, then you know me too well. Let's grab a cup of coffee together soon. I'll get my planner.

Wednesday evening I journeyed to the Lehigh Valley to see my extraordinarily talented cousin Anthony in this musical. He's fabulous, by the way.

Thursday I had Koos and her delightful boys over for lunch. This just in: kids are a lot of work. Especially at lunch time. I should make a note of that in my day planner or something. But they are truly adorable children, and I finally had some toys (eh - books) for them to play with, and we read a lot about the fish of the ocean. I could get used to reading books all day about aquatic life.

After lunch, whilst juggling work, I headed to the hair salon to prepare for my baby-birthing close-ups. I met my mother-in-law there (I love that we share a stylist); and she gifted me with an animal trap.

Thursday night? The HomeValleys went huntin'.

Oh yeah - the vermin? Definitely a raccoon. (Spoiler alert: we still haven't caught it yet. Tis a brazen, illusive little fucker.)

Friday we exercised at the track (read: I walked really slowly and chugged gatorade). My memory is foggy, but I think we actually stayed in! Our actual home! And possibly we tried to watch Fringe but passed out around 9 PM. Is it any wonder?

Saturday we did brunch and a cloth diaper run. Holy Lord, I love these diaps. Now no naysayer can bring down my cloth diaper high! We also went to Lowe's and bought flowers, and I gardened! Which was super-fun, until I got sleepy and needed to rest and drink iced tea as J did what it is you do with mulch.

Sunday morning I woke early, dressed in my workout gear, and headed to the Art Museum - by way of Grace's - for the MS Walk. Mr. Patterson's Misfits were a force to be reckoned with: when all was said and done, we raised over 12,000 bucks! Yours truly was responsible for quite a small portion of that, but there's always next year. It was a fabulous day in support of a fabulous woman.

And yesterday? Mama worked about 14 hours, though don't feel too bad for me. I spent my night in a luxury suite at the Phils game, rubbing elbows with Jim Eisenreich and gorging on Chickie's and Pete's crab fries.

Oh! And last night? While at the game, trying to select a tee-shirt size for a co-worker? I described her as thin but "busty."

"Well, what size are you normally?" the sales clerk asked me. "You're pretty chesty as well."

Seriously, you guys? There has never been a time in my life where ANYONE could deign to call me CHESTY.

Thanks, Ninj.

Are you guys as tired reading this as I am jotting it all down for posterity?

I know, I know. Tomorrow we'll get back to our regularly scheduled pregnancy tales of neuroses. Like, how I am obsessed with the firmness of my crib mattress? How I yelled at J on Sunday night (before breaking down into heaving sobs) that I am NINE MONTHS pregnant! And for the next 3 weeks, anything I say GOES, buddy! You just listen to me! That is your job!

And: the nursery. Which, J and I can't seem to pass without sneaking into and sitting down in the heavenly glider. I don't think either of us can quite believe that there will be a baby here in a few short weeks. So we sit and we rock and we stare. And sometimes we read books to Ninj, and J talks in this extremely high-pitched voice because one day I told him I read that babies respond better to high voices.

Oh, Ninj. You are going to just love your extremely geeky parents.

Sexy, Pretty, or Cute?

2010-04-27T12:58:00.005-04:00

My husband, J - you all have heard me mention him once or twice - is forever checking out the ladies.

Blatantly.

It doesn't bother me until he is slamming on the brakes on the 76 on-ramp, craning his neck to see a female driver coming from the opposite direction.

"What the hell, man?" I ask, as Ninja's tiny body ricochets through my rib cage.

"Sorry," he says sheepishly. "I was checking out that chick."

Eh. At least he's honest.

It never bugs me. J's never given me any reason to be jealous, and as long as he keeps checking me out as well - and oh, nine months prego me is unspeakably sexy, what with the flatulence and the incessant grunting each time I attempt to turn over in bed - we're cool. I won't begrudge him a little eye candy, and besides, this is a two-way street. I am a notorious flirt.

Gah - what was I saying?

Oh yes. So last night! How I Met Your Mother was a rerun, and you couldn't pay me to watch David Spade smarm about on that abysmal Rules of Engagement show.

So I did as you do: I flipped to Dancing with the Stars.

"I want to see that hot guy that dances with Erin Andrews," I explain, as soon as J starts whining for me to change the channel already.

"Erin Andrews - she's HOT." (Emphasis: J.)

"Really?" I ask. "I mean she doesn't really have the body type you generally like." Read: huge ass.

"She's just BEAUTIFUL," my husband tells me. "She's not sexy or cute."

Damnit. She is beautiful. Shut up, J.

So here we have it, kids. My beloved believes that all "hot" women can fall into any one of three categories:

Sexy.

Pretty/BEAUTIFUL like Erin Andrews.

Cute.

For the last five years, I have fallen into all three of these categories, which, my H explains, is why I am such a catch. Aw.

So imagine my CONSTERNATION (emphasis: HomeValley) when last night, watching Niecy Nash jiggle her jubblies, my husband said to me:

"Yeah... You're not cute anymore."

"J! You're a bastard. How can you say such things to your wife who is 36 weeks pregnant? Take it back!"

The man just laughs. And goes on to explain that in my extremely pregnant state, I am somewhat: harsh.

Perhaps irritable? Stabby? Murderous?

"Whatever, J," I sulk. "Take it back!"

"Maybe... It depends on how cute you are when you write about this incident tomorrow on your blog."

"Haaaaaaaaaaaa. I am going to annihilate you, J."

Shocking, no?

How does one respond to such vicious attacks on one's inherent - if currently concealed - adorableness? I am thinking some creative sentencing: like forcing him to watch Jon and Kate Plus Eight marathons, or any show on TLC for that matter?

Any day now (please?) my tiny tenant will be evicted, and order will be restored to the universe.

Scratchy, Plodding, Whimpering Vermin. Happy Monday!

2010-04-26T12:00:00.004-04:00

There is some creature living in my fucking wall.

Conveniently, the creature lives in the wall of my office.

So that's not annoying at all.

I have taken to throwing things at this creature when it starts its plodding. And also yelling, "SHUT UP!" when it moves, which often coincides to the times I am taking business calls. Classy.

It plods and scratches and sometimes - I swear to Lionel - it whimpers.

What the FUCK are you, creature?

If I were not 36 weeks pregnant, I would be on the roof with a machete prepared to annihilate you.

Obvs, I am all sunshine and light over here.

35 Weeks, Yes, But Almost 36 Weeks... Almost.

2010-04-23T11:37:00.004-04:00

So, we've officially reached the state of pregnancy that goes something like this:

I'm done. Thanks for the memories, kid. Now, let's get this show on the road.

Unfortunately? I still have 4 more weeks.

Which makes me very, very tired.

I am achy. And tired. And sleep - though it comes easy - is restless. It's difficult to switch positions. There is much grunting involved. There is strategic pillow placement. And Lord, there are multiple trips to the bathroom.

And then there is Ninja, who is awake. All the time. Mah precious kept me up from 3 AM to 4 AM doing some crazy aerobic exercises. Yes, it is still totally heart-warming when his/her feet and tiny bum are stretching out of my abdomen. But seriously, baby? Aren't you sleepy yet?

(Which reminds me, I read somewhere that third trimester babies may already be crying within the womb. Doesn't that just break your heart?)

I finally uploaded the photos from the shower, but they are all the way downstairs on J's computer. And I am all the way up here on the third floor. And I walk these steps many, many times per day. And I am so tired.

Will cease whining and upload photos soon.

Tales of Woe and Car Seat Installations

2010-04-20T11:31:00.007-04:00

"You are really emotional. You need to get a hold of yourself."

Aw. I am really going to miss my husband.

That said, he's totally right.

Am in a very weepy place right now. We had our baby shower on Sunday (photos and recap to follow!) and we received so many wonderful gifts for Ninj. As soon as we got home, I reviewed everything and made a list for thank you cards. At one point, I pulled out a book that Koos had given the baby.

It's called Whoever You Are, and okay, seriously? Here are the first few pages:

Little one, whoever you are,
Wherever you are,
There are little ones just like you all over the world.
Their skin may be different than yours, and their homes may be different than yours...
But inside, their hearts are just like yours.

Annnnddd... blubbering! "This is exactly what I want to teach our babies!" I sobbed to J, as I tossed him the book. "But I can't read the rest right now. I can't get through it."

In my continued heightened emotional state, I fretted about the shower. "I shouldn't have asked everyone to buy organic, natural items," I told my husband. "I feel like a brat." (Although, it was somewhat worth it to have my mother announce to the ladies present: "As most of you know, Melissa is 'green.'")

Yesterday, we had an interview with a pediatrician. I'm not sure how that went. Most of her answers were vague. (Taking a cue from Modern Family, I asked what her thoughts were on "Ferberizing" babies. I am not sure I can tell you what she said.) We didn't fall in love with her, but then, she could be a brilliant doctor. How do you know? I asked her how many vaccinations a child would receive over the years, and she couldn't tell us. But she did have a website we could visit. So... there's that. There are four other doctors in this practice. Do I now make appointments with the rest of them, or just hope that one of them is more our style?

Yes, I am probably overthinking this.

On the way home from the doc's, J and I decided to stop by the fire station to have the guys there take a look at our car seat.

How many firemen does it take to install an infant Graco Snugride? Three, apparently. And it takes awhile. These three gentlemen were very kind to help us, but at one point, seat installed completely improperly, they told us that we should probably by a new one. (Our car seat is a few years old. We got it from my aunt and uncle, who's baby is two now.)

I think my engineer husband actually figured it out... Which, he could have totally done anyway. But at least it is now fire safety approved.

So there's that.

When we finally arrived home, I bugged J to go online and figure out if this particular seat had ever been recalled.

"Do you want to just buy a new one?" he asked me, ever so slightly exasperated.

"What, J? I am not supposed to be concerned that our infant car seat works properly? You just want me to forget about it?"

"You're right," he said.

"You know, I just need to be alone right now," I huffed. I retreated upstairs with my O magazine.

So, yeah. Just a tad touchy over here. I am confident we'll weather this influx of hormones. Good luck, J.

In other news: pregnant Brazilian waxes? TRAUMA.

34 Weeks - But I only really want to discuss Glee.

2010-04-16T14:00:00.004-04:00

I mean, honestly: we don't need to sugarcoat it. Yes, this chick's adorable. But she also looks like she could have delivered last week. That baby is LARGE, yo.

But I only really want to discuss Glee this week.

Darling baby sisters bought the DVDs on our NYC trip in February, and we watched one episode together before I took off for yoga class - begrudgingly. Because sweet Lord, I love this show.

I happened to catch the cast on Oprah a few weeks ago. And I cried. Tears of unimaginable JOY.

Where did this show come from??

There are people spontaneously bursting into song!

And they are supremely talented!

So, having only seen one show and then Oprah, I watched the first episode of the new season the other night whilst I was holed up in my Gaithersburg, MD hotel room.

And as if the show wasn't spectacular enough, they go and bring in IDINA MENZEL.

This is the stuff that musical theatre nerd dreams are made of, y'all.

Also, as if my heart wasn't bursting with joy already, I have found one friend who is committed to using cloth diapers! His wife is due just days before me. And here is a direct quote:

"I am so committed to using cloth diapers... I've stopped wearing underpants."

I smell a new tagline.

Enjoy your weekend, kids. Stay classy out there.

The Complete Idiot's Guide To Birthin' Babies

2010-04-13T11:38:00.003-04:00

J and I attended all day birthin' class on Saturday, which was a rare treat. Our instructor was a bubbly lactation nurse named Jen, and she did a fantastic job with the material.

We learned a whole hell of a lot, and some things I have chosen to disregard completely. (I'm lookin' at you, Group B Strep test. LORD.) And one HI-larious thing I learned was that J and I? We've got identical classroom dispositions.

We're uber-nerds.

Yes, friends, not surprisingly, we are the geeky kids in class. (Although we did not have the opportunity to learn, if J - like me - chooses to sit at the head of the class. I think not, but only because his vision is so good.)

Neither of us is shy (nay, we are extreme extroverts), so we asked questions. Many questions. And shared. A lot. But come on, guys! You all paid good money for this class! Let's get all of our burning questions about pooping during delivery out in the open here! (For the record, I did not ask that question. Someone else brought it up.)

At one point, my loving husband raised his hand and said, "My wife thinks she is blogging during labor. Is there WiFi?"

Real funny, J. The class chuckled, and I shrugged sheepishly. "Not during delivery," I mumbled.

(For the record, there is wireless. Score!)

So now we know how to swaddle, how to comfort, and how to diaper the Ninja, plus, you know, the ideal birth process. They even had doulas come in and talk to the class about relaxation techniques, which warmed my little urban hippie heart.

6 more weeks.

Wit's End

2010-04-12T12:49:00.003-04:00

On my birthday (back in February), J's parents and Pop-Pop came over for dinner. We ordered burritos (have I mentioned that every time they come over on a weeknight, we're ordering take-out? Dead-beat daughter-in-law, I know.)

That night we talked pretty openly about parenting. I love these conversations with J's mom and dad. I adore how thoughtful they are about parenting and parent-child relationships. Sure, everyone makes mistakes; but they have certain convictions that I agree with today. It certainly helps that they are delightfully liberal, loving people; when we have conversations like this, I get the distinct feeling that though they had their babies 30+ years ago, the chasm that separate the generations is not so vast.

I wish I could say the same for my side of the family. Sometimes? When I talk to my mom? I feel like we were raised on different planets, and that no matter how delicately I phrase things, we'll never cross that divide.

I have always been fiercely independent. I suppose that's putting it mildly. The bottom line is: I trust myself. I trust that I know what is right for me, and what is wrong for me. With my advancing years, I've also learned to forgive myself. Sometimes I make bad decisions. I choose to learn from those mistakes. I never blame anyone else for them (well, sometimes these days I'll blame J when I forget something that he never reminded me to do, but that's totally justified. PREGNANCY BRAIN, y'all. Do not fuck with it.)

J and I make a lot of choices that, I think, confound people. Like, we get on our sustainability high horse, and we talk about our decision to eat organically. To buy organic items for our Ninja. To use low VOC paints in the Ninja nursery. To use - wait for it - cloth diapers.

There is not one, single solitary person that I have spoken with that understands our decision to use cloth diapers. Most people wrinkle their noses and tell us we are nuts. That we'll change our minds.

And other than my mild exasperation at this thinking, I suppose what confounds people the most about us? Is that most of the time, we just don't care what other people think. We make decisions that work best for our family. And we make them together. We talk through them. And when our decisions feel good, we feel good; and then we hold hands while we walk down the street and giggle at our good fortune in this life. Seriously, we are pretty happy people. Why you tryin' to bring us down?

I just wonder... on the cusp of parenthood... if you had one wish for your children - what would that be?

I ask myself that question everyday, and I always come back to this. I want the Ninja to be sublimely happy in life.

If that means that the Ninja needs to move to Equador to build orphanages, and J and I only see him/her once a year? That's what it means, y'all. That doesn't mean that we don't secretly want the Ninja to live next door to us for the rest of our lives, but we want our baby to do what makes him/her happy (you know, as long as that is not selling meth from a trailer park, or serial killing).

So since I am no meth-dealing, serial killer living in a trailer park, and am sublimely happy most of the time, I wonder... why isn't the one who raised me happy for me? Why isn't she somewhere sighing with contentment that she raised a daughter who is confident and clear-headed (except for the pregnancy brain)?

I wonder.