March Madness

I swear: I just wrote last week. But alas, the days seem to move more quickly now. Life with a toddler is INTENSE, y'all. One moment that kid is rubbing my shoulders and picking me flowers; the next, he is throwing "amby-truck" at me in a fit of rage and collapsing in tears of fury.

In. Tense.

Plus, there's that whole second pregnancy thing. I'm 18 weeks now! Huzzah! I am in the sweet spot where I am actually feeling semi-human, and also eating all of the ice cream in sight. So naturally, I'm packing on the pounds, but I'm still hopeful that I can reign it in soon. Enjoying my third bowl of Breyer's last night, I did tell J I should probably stop buying this stuff. Probably.

Li'l Wanya (hereby christened after I met Boyz II Men last week at the House of Blues), is doing great. I've got another highly-mobile baby, but all looks healthy and strong. And, a little secret between friends: methinks this is a lady-child. Something about this pregnancy feels different. I know, dudes, they are all different. But if I were a betting woman, my money would be on lass. We've got our 20-week ultrasound on April 3rd, but of course we are waiting til Li'l Wanya makes his/her painless and joyful arrival sometime in mid-August. Stay tuned.

What else? We're planning a trip to Los Angeles in a few months, shortly after H's 2nd birthday. I've also got to plan his birthday party, which is bittersweet. Our little boy is growing up so quickly; I wish our close family and friends could help us celebrate. Alas, we will celebrate with them in spirit, with a whole lotta candy and Elmo and trucks and cars up in here.

The blessed child is now awake and we've got to run to the Nissan dealership and then dinner and then I'm out into an adult world known as marketing class. The fun never stops, y'all! I'm just totally producing endless blog fodder these days, like did you want to discuss how I'm now freaked out by microwaves and I'm heating up leftovers on the stove and in the oven all damn day? We'll talk. I'm interesting!

We Ain't in Undergrad Anymore, Baby.

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?

Fifteen Things.

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!)

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




2. 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!)




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




4. 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.




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




6. 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.




7. Where was I going with this?




8. 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.




9. 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.




10. It's seriously about 100 degrees here, everyday.




11. It really is the humidity.




12. 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.




13. 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!




14. 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.




15. 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!

All Good Things

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.

Tramps Like Us

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?

O.P.R.A.H.

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!

For the Love of Cloth

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:

1. Diaper babe.


2. Babe pees and poos.


3. 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.


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


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


6. 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.


7. 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.


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


9. 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!

HomeValley's Happy Marriage, and Other Things

I find myself frequently wishing for more hours in the day.

There is just so. Much. To. Do. And Ninja's birthday is looming. LOOMING! If the impact of this child's startling kicks are any indication, he/she is already five pounds. If this baby makes it to 40 weeks (oh my God, or BEYOND), it will be 6'8" at the time of delivery.

Mercy.

I started The Happiness Project this weekend. Have you heard of it? The author, Gretchen Rubin, spent a year trying to make herself happier, with a new focus each month. It's interesting, and often enlightening. On Sunday afternoon I spent some time reading paragraphs about marriage aloud to J.

"Oh, we should be hugging for at least 6 seconds, babe. That 'is the minimum time necessary to promote the flow of oxytocin and seratonin, mood-boosting chemicals that promote bonding.'"

"Who are you talking to?" my husband asks. J lurves hugging. We would hug all day, everyday, if it were up to him. At least now I have a goal: hug husband for at least six seconds for optimum success.

"Well, marriage expert John Gottman calls these behaviors the 'Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse:' stonewalling, defensiveness, criticism, and contempt. Hmm. What is stonewalling?"

"Don't know - shutting people out?"

"Do we do that?"

Silence.

Ha!

"Well, we are never guilty of contempt," I mutter gratefully.

"Oh no!" I continue. "Apparently marital satisfaction drops substantially after the first child arrives. Ninja!" I look down at my bulbous belly. "Why are you going to ruin EVERYTHING?"

The truth is, I am utterly fascinated by the idea of self-improvement. And so I embark AGAIN on making sure I take each and every resolution seriously this year. J gives me credit; he says I am improving in most facets of domestic life.

But I am an overachiever. So come on, y'all. You know I am going to write more lists. I live for lists. I pull out my yellow legal pad.

1. List all of my "nagging" tasks (those shitty, thankless jobs that I avoid like the plague). Now DO them. (Yes, my first point on my list is to make another list. I'm awesome.)
2. Begin reading that blogging book I bought months ago.
3. 14 nights sans TV at bedtime. In hotels as well! This is an experiment. (Two nights down!)
4. One-minute rule (courtesy of author Rubin): if it will take under a minute, put it away.
5. Ten minutes of tidying each night (courtesy of Rubin) before bed. (I mean, if I learned nothing else from Danny Tanner? A clean home is a happy home.)
6. Unless I am in the middle of a project and have BANNED all interruptions, I cannot screen two consecutive calls.
7. 14 days of 1 hour of television per day (Two days down!)
8. Recommit to exercise through remainder of pregnancy (have you seen your cellulite OHMYGOD). At least 20 minutes of walking per day, 6 days per week. (One day down!)
9. 14 days of journaling, every day. (Two days down!)

I must say, I have felt awfully tired these last few days, but perhaps that is just the third trimester. I am also a little blue about being in Pittsburgh through Thursday, when I really want my own bed, my own cozy home and husband.

But I try to remember that I will not always travel, and when I don't? I'll ache for it.

So what say you, audience? I am the only one compulsively making lists and compiling pages and pages of tasks to get done all inf the name of self-actualization? Or am I - gasp - "nesting?"

The 30th Rager That Rivaled Pauly Shore's.

Ah, the illustrious celebrities I share a birth date with: Sherman Helmsley; Joy Philbin; and my man Pauly Shore.

Yes, yes, we all wish we were Pauly Shore; or at least had his career trajectory. But I ask you: does Pauly Shore have parties as awesome as this? I think not.

Ain't no party like a Manayunk party cause a Manayunk party don't stop.

My husband brings the awesomeness, everyday.


Party people look to the prego to get things underway.

Hotness: Vanessa and Grace.

"The Melissa Mango Martini," virgin-style. I actually started a tab with these babies, and once I yelled to the barkeep: "Put it on mah virgin tab!" To which my mother-in-law replied, eyeing my swollen belly: "Oh honey, I am not buying it!" Snap!

We're due a week apart. Shut up.

With the ladies who raised me to be such a party animal: Gina and mom.

The adorable Tina Marie, cousin extraordinaire and honorary Vanessa.

And then we apparently stopped taking pictures, as we do. I swear to Lionel, we are the worst photogs. We bring our camera along everywhere and then neglect to take it out. We are trying to remedy this for Ninja by buying a fancy SLR in the upcoming months. Cripes.

But happy birthday to me! It was a lovely evening filled with all the people I love in this world (minus a few who got sidetracked by the snow). Hey! Did you know that it snowed on my birthday party night, and on my Lost party night, and there's fixin' to be a Nor'easter on the morning we're set to fly to Turks and Caicos?

Such is life, my friends. Such is life.

Resolutionary

So I am in Dallas, living the dream. I'm at a conference here, and I have to tell you, I am completely committed to my work in 2010. It's strange; Ninja will be here in less than 5 months, and my only instinct is to be better at EVERYTHING. To be a fantastic, calm mom, of course; but also to rock standardized tests. To get into a good Master's program. To be amazing at my job; so damn phenomenal that I kill it around bonus time. I figure, that way my company has every reason to accommodate me when I am just too madly in love with mah baby to board a plane come late August.


I confess: I sneak up to my room during breaks to take a peak at baby photos. I only brought two of the 7839 ulrasound pictures our tech was kind enough to provide us, but these shots are exquisite. Have you seen my baby's ears? His/her shoulder? It's all so real now. Ninj is no longer just a tiny little bean with a microscopic beating heart. Miraculously (and holy shit, this is the most spectacular miracle), Ninja has functioning kidneys. And a big old heart with four whole chambers. Eyes. Lungs. A perfect spine. I wanted to kiss the doctor when she came in to thoroughly examine the ultrasound screen.


"Looks great, guys!" She said, and was on her way.


"We're so lucky," I said to J as we hustled back to the parking garage. "How did we get so lucky?"


The second ultrasound pic I have tucked in my planner is a regular 2D (3D?) profile shot of the entire baby. I promise I'll scan it tomorrow night when I get home, because y'all have to see this. Ninj has the most precious chin; a tiny mouth that is upturned in the slightest smile; and a miniature button nose. It's surreal, but the baby looks like J, which makes me imagine I have a little boy dancing around my placenta. But either sex is fine by me. A cliche, yes, but all I want is a healthy child.


So, so lucky.


Now, I will stop staring at Ninj for three minutes to recap my resolutions for 2010. I have never felt more equipped to handle all that is on this list, which I almost hate to admit. I worry that if I gush to much about how wonderful life is, some horrible malady will inevitably befall me. So:



1. LESS WORRYING. In my book, 100 Ways to Motivate Yourself, the author contends that once you become an adult, the only time you engage your imagination is to concoct worst-case scenarios. Ha! That's, like, the most true statement ever in the history of the world. I suspect this only gets worse as you become a parent. So I have decided to tell my worst-case scenario imagination to fuck off this year. Every time a bad thought creeps in (Oh man, my ankle hurts. I am obviously dying of cancer.) I am going to think something positive and life-affirming instead. That's right: fuck off, imagination. I shall now only use you for good.



2. MORE EXERCISING. Oh, original. But also: I been lazy. Time to be a truly hot mama. Rawr.



3. LESS PHONE SCREENING. I keep trying, guys. We shall overcome.



4. MORE GREEN-ING OF ENVIRONMENT. I am starting small: organic cottons for Ninj. A reusable coffee mug for Dunkin' Donuts. A reusable water bottle for the gym. More water and energy conservation. Plants. Also, maybe vacuum and dust a tad more.



5. MORE SEX. Apologize if you are blushing, gentle readers, but the H and I are still young, and we're having a baby. I am preemptively putting this high on the priority list for 2010. (J: You're welcome.)



6. LESS ROAD RAGE.



7. NO TEXTING WHILE DRIVING.



8. MORE STANDARDIZED TESTS. Setting a date for the GREs ASAP.



9. MORE WRITING. Ugh, I hate listing that one. But year after year, I need to make writing a higher priority. I mean, I love you guys. And I probably should write a novel one of these days.



10. MORE HEALTHY COOKING. Mmm, organics.



11. LESS PROCESSED FOODS. I won't go on a diatribe here. In summary: processed foods are evil and so delicious. Cutting back.



12. MORE QUALITY READING. I thoroughly enjoyed Belly Laughs by Jenny McCarthy, but I don't think it made me any smarter.



13. LESS TELEVISION. Shut up, talking picture box.



14. MORE AWESOME. Just that. Bringing the awesome.



15. MORE GRATITUDE. To everyone. For everything. It is ultimately a lovely world.



16. MORE WATER. I totally don't drink enough of it. J thinks Ninja's home will dry up or something.



17. LESS TECHNOLOGY. Says the girl with the new Kindle and iPod Touch. But still.



18. MORE COMMENTING. I read so many amazing blogs, and then get shy when it comes to joining the discussion. That ends now.



19. MORE CALLS. To friends and family. Maybe even some enemies. I just need to stop communicating solely on Facebook. Real interaction is neat.



20. MORE (okay, first) BlogHer convention.

And there you have it, kids: a nice, round number of things that will make a better HomeValley. Pray tell, what will you do differently in 2010?

17 Weeks. Seriously, My Back Really Hurts You Guys.

Wait a minute; what happened to 16 weeks?

16th week recap: For two consecutive blissful nights, I didn't wake up at 2 AM to pee. The end.

17 weeks? Yes, still with the peeing. And my back is killing me. But I won't bore you with my grievances. Nay, I shall tell you that I had a doc's appointment this week, and Ninja is still glorious. Heart rate is about 155, though the N was very squirmy. The doctor found the heartbeat right away, but then she'd lose it. "The baby is really moving around in there," she said. "You hear that noise?" she asked, referring to a strange, muted, underwatery, sounding motion. (Amazing description! You should be a writer!) "That's a hand or foot moving through the amniotic fluid."

Well, go Ninja, with your stealth kung fu. Bad. Ass. (Or maybe he is a dancer, J!)

(Oh, I said he. I have to stop that, but honestly, I am convinced I am cooking a boy.)

OK, so the ten of you (and my new son or daughter) don't really want to hear about all of this, do you? I mean babies are adorable and chubby and snuggly, but still, I have something BETTER. Oh my. Something, insanely delicious. Are you ready?

You must know that J and I journeyed to my mother's for some eats on Sunday. My stepfather, Bucky (not a pseudonym) mentioned he was cleaning out the basement. "I have a bunch of your stuff down there," he added. "I'm going to throw it out if you don't go through it."

(As if! They have been threatening me like this for ten years.)

But later, Buck came upstairs carrying a ginormous box filled with mother-effing TREASURES.

Where to begin? There were sketches. Sketches of my EIGHT future kids. (Judd says: Oh HAHA! "Victoria Leslie" was born in 2002. Loser.) And there names were awesome and regal. And then I also maybe sketched their rooms. And then maybe some fabulous designer fashions. And maybe I wrote a song entitled "Nice and Naughty." Oh, oh yes I did.

Verse 1
Some say I 'm nice
Some say I'm naughty
Some say I'm perfect
Some say I oughta be PUT AWAY

Verse 2
Some say they like me!
Some say they don't
Some say they'll learn to
Some say they won't

Refrain
OHH! Someday I'll just be me! But for now I'll settle for nice and naughty!
(nice-nice-nice-nice and naughty! HOO!)

(I was going to stop there, but the song actually has one more verse which is just too good not to share.)

Verse 3
Some say they love me
Some say they hate me!
Some say they'll be my boyfriend!
Some say they'll date me!

(REPEAT REFRAIN)

You guys? I was like 17 when I wrote this.

Okay, I kid. I was 11. Back in the days when I was just content to settle for nice and naughty, man.

(David Foster: Call me!)

Oh em gee - there were also all kinds of stories! "The Grandmother's Secret" and "Snow" and "A Mysterious Disappearance."

There was a newspaper, the cover of which bears the headline: "Michael Jackson's Split Personality!" That story?

Michael Jackson, a popular musical singer, and former member of the Jackson 5, was admitted to the psychiatric ward of Newberry Hospital today after it was found by millions of Japanese fans that he does, in fact, have a split personality - a sister, Janet.

It appears that after a long period of loneliness Michael created the woman we know as Janet Jackson. She was also made a star.

"He came out on stage and scared the fans by changing his voice back and forth," says fan Ching Heng.

"We were shocked at Michael's mental instability," says Janet.

"No we weren't, says Michael.

(The Onion: Call me!)

There was a stirring poem:

Melissa
Stubborn and sweet,
Messy and neat.
Funny, crazy,
Sometimes lazy.
Addicted to junk food,
Usually in a good mood.

(Judd says: Oh HAHAHA! Nothing has changed at ALL! At least you were always self-aware.)

(Present-day HomeValley says: Wow. That description is on point. Shit.)

Oh hey, Cuzzy?? Did you think you escaped my biting commentary?

Here is your poem, my love:

Tough; boy-crazy,
sometimes lazy.
Messy, messy, messy!
Always beats up on Jessie.
Usually has a smile on,
Will always be in love with John.

(Who is John, 9 year-old cuzzy?)
(Wait, I just remembered. HA!)

Oh, and amongst various entrepreneurial start-ups (read: The Babysitter's Club), I also found the time to publish a magazine. I give you: Girls, Etc.

October 1992 Cover

Time to Grow Up: Should You Make Your Own Decisions?

Preteen Problems: Junior High Blues

Peer Pressure: How to Deal

Test: Boys Before Books (Are you boy-crazy?)

Joining the Bandwagon: What's In and Out for Fall

(For the love of GOD Oprah: CALL ME!)

I think one thing we've all re-learned today, is that I am awesome. Or, that at one time, I was incredibly creative. It is a damn good thing blogging came about, lest I still be sitting in my room, listening to my Electric Youth album, composing songs about how people say they either hate me, or might possibly LEARN to LIKE me.

I take the GMATs tomorrow, kids. After that, it's on.

Things I Covet.

Okay, so I totally want this tee-shirt. Only because at a girls' dinner eons ago, our waiter told us he owned it. And I was drunk, and thought it was HI-larious.

I also love the way they are selling these bad boys. How about this guy? He's unkempt. His tee is wrinkled. The lesson? These babies sell themselves.


(This reminds me: I hate those new Windows 7 commercials. Have you seen them? They're fairly ubiquitous, and each one features an average-looking person having an epiphany about some feature of the new operating system. But each time they have this brainstorm, they envision themselves as much thinner and better-looking. And that makes me sad. What kind of commentary are you making here, Gates?)


(By the by, Windows 7 was my idea.)


P.S. Are you following me yet, chickens? I love you so much, and yet you do not follow. It's so easy! Try it! You'll see. Perhaps if I get 30 new followers by Christmas, I will auction this tee-shirt! Imagine how awesome you would look in that bad boy. Perhaps as awesome as the model?

I love you all, so very much.

And Now, A Very Special Episode of QITNM.

Gentlemen, I am going to ask you to leave the room. I need to speak to the ladies. In private. We'll wait.

*waiting*

Girls, I want to talk about bikini waxes.

Or, more specifically, French/Brazilian hybrid waxes. Like the one I had today.

I have little patience for many things lately. I long to simplify my life. So I make lists. And I cross of to-do items. And I take care of my business. I also firmly believe that anything I can do, I can hire someone to do better. Like just the other night, I was talking about hiring a doula, to help me with my drug-free, natural childbirth. And J rolled his eyes and said, "Sure. Sounds good. Maybe you can just hire someone to go through the labor for you."

Oh, J. If only that were a real possibility. I am sure there is someone out there in God's green goodness that could labor way better than moi.

So, a few weeks ago, I decided I was done with shaving my lady bits. That's it, I cried to my razor. This is over! Shaving sucks. It's overrated. It's tedious. And the hair? It grows right back. And honestly, if I can't be bothered to shower regularly, how can I be expected to maintain my nether regions?

Surely, I thought, surely someone out there can do this better than me.

And so I hung up the razor for more weeks than I care to admit a few days. And I called the local salon. And yesterday I scoured the Internet for info on waxing etiquette. (I have only ever had one bikini wax ever, right before my wedding.) And I decided on the French Wax, which really is the Brazilian Light. I shan't elaborate. I am a lady.

I was up in the middle of the night, dreading the ordeal.

Dreading a wax, when just a few days ago I decided I was going to have a natural delivery.

(Am. Crazy.)

In lieu of a glass of wine, I resolved to pop a few Tylenol before the appointment. Only, I got a business call just a few minutes before I needed to leave, and I rushed out the door without my pain meds.

And so it seemed, I would have to have this wax naturally. Without drugs.

So it was my fate.

You can do this, I assured myself. You are strong. Breathe. You have taken two prenatal yoga classes; you are a zen goddess. Visualize the end result.

It was: unpleasant. To put it mildly. I did okay at managing the pain at first, but towards the end I got a little squirmy. I might have exclaimed: "Kelly Clarkson!" I dont know. I think I blacked out.

But I survived it. I was exuberant. You see? If I can do natural waxing, I can absolutely handle natural childbirth.

Right?

Oh, and...

...I'm pretty sure I sauntered up to my old boss (the regional VP) last night at the hotel bar in Boston, wrapped an arm around him, and demanded he sing karaoke with me (despite no karaoke machine anywhere to be found). Using my Miller Lite as a mic, I proceeded to sing a few bars of Journey's "Don't Stop Believin'". I was reassured this morning that he really enjoyed my performance.

The moral of the story?

I'm awesome.

Ballin', but Greasy.

Was it my gorgeous, greasy hair? Was it my bloodshot eyes, bedazzled by gray, puffy circles, thanks to an utter lack of sleep? (Shot bolt right up in bed last night about 1:30, and, wide awake, finished the third Sookie Stackhouse novel) (Addicted!) (Digression.)

Whatever it was, there was something about the way I sashayed into the Columbus Northwest Marriott this eve that screamed: baller. The young man at the front desk took heed! He looked me over and then stated plainly: “I’m gonna hook you up.” He told me I’d be on the top floor (“use your key to get up in the elevator”), and, with a wink, warned me: “Don’t get lost in your room.”

Ballin’.

And so I greet you from the the concierge floor, which is really quite a snoozefest without my sidekick J (though the tub is divine) AND the real concern here is mah greasy hair. My. Greasy. Hair. Do you know how celebrity stylists are constantly berating us to skip the shampoo? That our hair will be so much more manageable and lovely if we go a few days between washings?

Lo, I am not that girl.

For shame!

Sexy greasy!

Does not do Grease justice.

It's really such a terrible, oily tragedy, just one day sans washing. Do not let this happen to you! Lather-rinse-repeat, as needed. Indeed.

In other non-news, I could get used to nonsense blogging!