Ailie Eden

I started this post on the morning of the 16th:

Ugh.

Just: ugh.

I had my 39 week prenatal on Tuesday.  As I suspected: nothing doing.  Cervix completely closed, no dilation.  I mentioned to my doctor that I still sometimes suspect that Newbie's head is creeping up on my right side.  

When my doc examined me, she couldn't even FEEL the head, it was so high.  This was new.  She ordered an ultrasound on the spot to see if baby was in position.  I texted J that we were obviously having a headless child.  

Luckily, Newbs head is down, though where the hell is it in there?  I know I have a long torso; but damn, child - how high could you possibly be?  

Still feeling fine, the ultrasound tech of doom said, "Whoa!  I have the baby at NINE POUNDS AND THIRTEEN OUNCES."  

Two weeks ago, she clocked Newbie at 7-13.  

One would assume baby's head is so high because it is so ENORMOUS there is nowhere else for it to be.  

I left the room.  I was put in the hall so I could reconvene with the doc.  I promptly commenced crying.  

How am I supposed to deliver you, Newbs?

So my doctor and I discussed my options.  My due date was 8/19, and with no signs of labor AT ALL, plus the baby's position, she didn't believe an induction would be successful.  Factor in the projected size of our beloved, and terms like "shoulder dystocia" were tossed about.  I cried some more.

My doc assured me that sonograms were notoriously wrong when attempting to predict the baby's size, but she still thought Newbie was at least 8 1/2 pounds by now.  She assured me my baby was safe and sound, and that if I wanted to wait for labor to begin, I could.  But she didn't want me to wait too long.  I could schedule a c-section for Thursday (8/16) or Monday (8/20).  I'm still a bit flummoxed that a c-section is so easy to schedule.  Welp, this kid might be pretty large.  Slice me open!  

I struggled.  My first baby was 7 lbs, 13 ounces.  He was 10 days early, but still.  What was going on with this new kid?  What was the right thing to do?

After much thought and discussions with J, my mom, my sister-in-law, and Koos, I decided that I would wait until my due date to go into labor, but schedule the c-section for the following week in the meantime.  I scheduled my 40-week prenatal for Monday, 8/20, and the c-section for 8/21.  I reasoned that even if I didn't go into labor, my body would start working its magic by Monday's appointment, and I hoped an induction would then be possible.  (Even though in some respects, induction makes me more nervous than surgery.)

As I was working all of this out on Thursday morning, I noticed some changes had happened overnight.  I felt a telltale heaviness in my belly that hadn't been there the day before.  I told J about it that AM.  We were both pleased that I was making some progress.

The morning wore on, and as I was getting ready to hop in the pool with H and my brother Ry (who got into town the previous Saturday), another labor sign miraculously appeared, of the - forgive me, squeamish readers - mucus variety.

I was ridiculously excited!  I called Koos, who gently reminded me that it could still be a few days to weeks. Undeterred, I was sure that the two signs together meant baby was on the way.

WAS.  SHE.  EVER.

Around noon, I started timing the contractions.  Just for fun, as they weren't yet painful.  At first they were 20 minutes apart, then 10.  They started to get uncomfortable.  I put H down for his afternoon nap, and then escaped to the bathroom to shower and get dolled up.  I knew it was time, and I wanted to ensure I looked good.  That could help, right?

I took one last belly pic.  I texted J that things were getting very "labor-y" over here, but I didn't even call him.  My first labor and delivery lasted 40 hours (seriously, you guys), so I figured I had plenty of time.  Ry and I retreated to the playroom and watched the end of Cinderella Man.  I kept timing contractions, and they were less than 10 minutes apart now.  Still, not quite painful.  I called J, as he hadn't responded to my text.  As it turns out, he hadn't seen it.  He told me he was on his way home.  I told him to be sure to pick up pizzas; I was going to want to eat before we left.

And then, at 3 PM, it turned.  It had happened like that with Hendrik.  With H, I had been having contractions since 10 PM on Saturday night, and at 3 PM on Sunday it got REAL.

I called J.  I needed him to get home quickly, to help me.  By this time, H was awake, and Ry was distracting him in the playroom.  I was laboring in our bedroom, crouching and moving and trying to find a comfortable position to tolerate the painful spasms.  By 4, I called J again.  "Get home," I said through gritted teeth.  "We're leaving as soon as you walk in the door."  The contractions were 5 minutes apart.

An excited J walked in the door soon after.  H and Ry came downstairs, and he swept up our toddler to tell him "Mommy is having a baby today!"  H was unimpressed.  I was moaning in a ball on the couch.

We made it to the hospital around 5, and after the roughest cervical check I have ever encountered, a nurse determined I was ONE centimeter dilated.  ONE.  So they thought I was a fraud, as they do.  Did I mention my doctor was out of town?  Yes, she had a one-day conference, and she had told me she was leaving town on Thursday night.  The doctor on-call told me to walk.  For an hour or two.  And then they would check me again.

You guys? I couldn't IMAGINE being sent home.  I couldn't imagine that I could be in so much pain for a measly one centimeter.  I labored at home with H (after being sent home initially, most decidedly not in active labor, but contracting calmly) until 4 centimeters, and the pain was not this great.

So J tried to get me to walk, as I tried not to murder him.  I begged him to tell them that this baby was huge, it was going to rip through my abdomen and thus I needed a c-section.  He tried to talk me down, but after about an hour I was wild with pain.  He went to get the nurse to check my cervix.

Four centimeters.  Finally, they began to take me seriously, and ordered my epidural.

The anesthesiologist, the aptly-named Dr. Fox (who was a breath of fresh air for both his drug-giving abilities and his resemblance to Dermot Mulroney) arrived soon after, as everyone tried to get the epidural ball rolling.  In the midst of this, my screams of pain and the fast and furious contractions probably enticed them to do another check.

Seven centimeters.  In about two hours.

Oh, friends: the epidural at seven.  It just wasn't my friend.  It took an hour for it to begin to work on the pain.  I tried to breathe, and failed spectacularly.  They had to administer so much that my legs were completely numb, which made me panicky.  Eventually I calmed, and I surmise I enjoyed just under two hours of a working epidural.  I floated in and out of consciousness at first.  Then, J and I had a nice chat and confirmed the spelling of our girl's name.  I spoke to Koos and Gina (I think) and my mom on the phone.  J kept everyone up to date via texts and calls.  (He was almost killed once when he texted during a contraction.)

Before 11, my back started to ache a bit.  I couldn't feel it completely, but I thought I should let them know. I hadn't felt anything like this since the epidural kicked in.  They thought the baby might be "sunny-side up", and so they decided to turn me on my right side to get the baby to move.

I'm not sure what finally killed the epidural for me, but I'm guessing it was that turn.  In a matter of minutes, my back radiated with pain, that soon worked it's way to my abdomen.  I was yelling again.  Dr. Fox came back and tried to help.  Soon, the back labor subsided but the abdomen pain remained.  I was ready to push, and the on-call doc assured me the pushing would help that pain.  It did.

I looked at the clock as we began.  I had pushed for three hours with Hendrik, the most grueling workout of my life.  I tried to mentally prepare for two hours of pushing, still hoping it would go much quicker.

The pushing began, and I did well!  I couldn't feel anything in that region (a huge solid, epidural).  The pain was completely concentrated in my abdomen, and the only relief was the strongest pushes I could muster.

This time, I felt like I could actually feel the baby moving through me, making progress.  After a few minutes, the doc got ready to "catch", as they do.  Seeing her in her garb assured me Newbs was almost here.  I was doing it!  I felt incredible.

J was by my side, and really watching the process this time.  "You're doing so great," he kept telling me.  "I can see the baby every time you push!"

And right before those final attempts, he asked, "Last chance: boy or girl?"

"Girl," I told him.

And then she was here.

The most beautiful, GIGANTIC baby you have ever seen.  They put her on my belly, and I prodded her to cry.  She did, and it was once again the most glorious sound you could ever imagine.

J and I cried too, and just repeated, "A girl!  A girl?  I can't believe she is a girl!"

I never knew how much I wanted her until she arrived.  A whooping bundle of perfection at NINE POUNDS, THIRTEEN OUNCES (see: exactly what the sonogram predicted), and 22 inches long!

How did I deliver her?  I have no idea.  My body did its magic, despite my lack of faith.

And she is here and she is ours and she is absolute perfection.  It's amazing how your heart expands.  It's incredible how these babies are worth every minute of that suffering we go through to bring them here.

J and I had named this little girl during our 2006 trip to Colorado, when we learned my great-grandmother's name was Aili (EYE-li).  I told my grandmother how much I loved it.

Just weeks ago, during what was to be the last conversation I would ever have with my Far-Mor, I asked her if she had any idea what the baby was.

"It's hard to say," she told me seriously.  'But, if it is a girl, I would love for her to have my mother's name."

Consider it done, Far-Mor.

Welcome, Ailie.

The Strangeness.

Just finished watching my grandmother's memorial service online.  It was streamed live from their mega-church in Colorado Springs.

It was... weird.

I don't have the time (or frankly, the mental energy) to expound on some of the issues that go on with the HomeValleyian clan.  Suffice it to say: there are issues.  We've all got 'em.  You know how it goes.

But I must mention that my grandfather, whom I love dearly, was the first to speak.  He presented a slide show of my grandmother's life.

As it began, I dutifully jotted down his explanations, made notes about which pictures I wanted to be sure to ask him for.  I had never seen many of them, and in several my grandmother looks absolutely stunning.  Why had I never known these?  Who was this woman?

As the slide show wore on, meandering into 1980s and 90s territory, I found myself willing him to include a photo of me.  A photo of any grandchild.  A photo of my grandmother with a grandchild.  There are nine of us.

A photo with family (other than distant relatives she rarely visited in Sweden and Finland), though I was grateful there was one photo of Far-Mor with her only brother, Kurt.

And then, the show was over.  My grandfather had included exactly three photos of my grandmother with two of her sons (all taken in the late 50s, early 60s).  He had included zero photos of her youngest son.  Nor any photos Far-Mor with any grandchild.  Nor any of her with their only great-grandchild.

It made me very sad, is all.

It sort of underscores the issues.  It made me question my place in her life.  And I imagine my sisters and cousins and aunts and uncles and stepmother and father - all sitting in the front rows, having flown to Colorado from the east coast this week - were wondering much the same.

Terror, Explained.

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.

Ten Years

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.

Blogger Woe - Need Guidance.

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.

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

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.

Live to Tell.

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.

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

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.

Inside the Brain Of HomeValley. Be Afraid.

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.

Broken

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.

Jacob 4 Eva

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:

1. 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 -


2. 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.


3. I really dig Anna Kendrick.


4. 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?

Banish-ED.

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.

Scratchy, Plodding, Whimpering Vermin. Happy Monday!

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.

Worry Just Will Not Seem to Leave My Mind Alone.

So Sunday?

Meh.

It was a bad day. I couldn't shake my dark mood. Every movement felt like an arduous chore, despite my AM yoga class (which I typically leave floating). My heart was heavy. I was restless in my own skin. Everything - somewhat inexplicably - was tinged with sadness.

I have a tendency towards anxiety. On some level, I've always been a worrier. As a child, my brother and I (and oftentimes, Koos) traveled to my grandparents' house in Colorado every summer. I loved those solo trips across the country, sans parents. I'm sure those early flights alone sealed my future independence and ease with travel.

Until one summer, I became - quite irrationally - afraid to fly. That year, my entire trip to Colorado Springs was effectively ruined, as I was desperately homesick, and I was SURE that our return flight was doomed. I was like some deranged character from Final Destination. John Denver's playing? And he died in a plane crash? Well fuck me, I am not getting on this plane.

Of course, I got on the plane. And survived! And eventually, I got over it. The fear. I gained confidence; became more independent, and continued to travel. The last truly lovely experience I had on a jet took place in June 2001. I flew to LA to visit my friend Brian, who was starring in a production of Evita. Blissful flight - with a connection through Cincinnati - blissful trip.

And then September 11th. Yeah. That.

Dealing with post-traumatic stress and anxiety is hard. It exhausts you. In my case, I could never feel safe. I felt like a moving target. Planes. Bombs. Anthrax. Blah.

That was nearly nine years ago. I have worked very hard to get through it. It's why I fly all the time. It's why I try to stay focused. It's why I make new resolutions every January. It's why I start Happiness Projects. These things make me calmer. More joyful. Whole.

But every so often (read: once every few years), the real dread creeps in. Luckily, it does not linger long. But it surfaces long enough to make me uncomfortable in my own skin. It makes me sad. It causes me to worry about every insignificant detail: new carpet might hurt our baby. The furniture won't arrive on time. SIDS. I'll get hit by a car. We don't have any window treatments in the nursery. WE NEED WINDOW TREATMENTS, J, LEST WE WILL NOT SURVIVE!

That was Sunday.

Monday was better. Today was great.

To help ameliorate my anxiety, I picked up Eckhart Tolle's The Power of Now on CD. (I'm doing a lot of driving this week in Upstate New York.) I was skeptical, but Tolle talks a lot about the power our thoughts yield over us. That nagging voice in our heads, he says, is our own worst enemy. It torments us with potential negative outcomes. It attackes and punishes us, draining us of vital energy. (I might have shouted Yes! aloud at this point.)

To free yourself, he says, you only need to start listening to The Voice, paying attention to any repetitive thoughts. Listen impartially - don't judge. Soon, you will recognize your own presence versus The Voice. The thought will then lose its power, because you no longer identify with the thought.

I think that's damn lovely, and absolutely worth a shot. One of my resolutions for 2010 was to stop worrying. If I can consciously recognize these damaging, needless worries, and then banish them from my brain? Sign me up.

Agree? Disagree? I'd be interested to learn how others cope with anxiety. I love to try new things!

StressNATION.

Da Koos - one of my bestest friends in the universe, a woman who keeps me sane on a daily/hourly basis - is moving to Maryland in a few short weeks.

And I can't seem to carve out a moment to see her and her husband and her adorable babies before she goes.

Internet: HALP.

I have noticed this week - ironically, since I began my makeshift Happiness Project - that I am increasingly miserable. Irritable. Overwhelmed. My anxiety has seeped into my REM cycles as well: for the past three nights, I have been solely responsible for killing my brothers and all of their friends in a horrific plane crash; inadvertently killed Ninja (a ten-pound boy named "River," inexplicably); or worked tirelessly to survive the plague in France.

It's work, dudes. I am charged with being "on the road" for at least three days per week, which can entail a myriad of different circumstances. At 7 months pregnant with a baby who's gestational age is likely 8.5 months, I am exhausted. It's not really the travel that's taking it's toll: it's all the time AWAY from my home. Time I should be spending with my husband. Time I should spend doing more prenatal yoga. Time I should spend reading baby books. Time I should spend decorating my baby's nursery. Time I should spend exercising. Time I should spend nesting.

Fuck, even a trip to the dry cleaner's involves extreme precision and planning. When will I go? Logistically, when can I pick up?

And when do I squeeze in a doctor's appointment? Shouldn't my health and the baby's health take top priority?

I have a wonderfully supportive husband who, thanks to my enervating schedule, does more than any man in the history of the universe has ever done. FOR REAL. He makes sure the house is spotless upon my return from a grueling trip. He's coordinating the new carpet installation, the new windows. He does the laundry. He's working full-time as well, and finishing up an MBA. And yet he is managing, better than me.

And what's really frightening me, if I can tell you all honestly?

The kid is not even here yet. CRIPES - how do you DO THIS, moms?? Please do advise.

So I need to reign it in. I need to cut back at work. I am going to speak to my supervisor. Tell him my concerns (in a calm, pretending I am not a hormonal basketcase type of manner). I am going to focus on my happiness project. I am going to keep up with yoga, because all other plans and commitments be damned, yoga is saving my life right now. I feel resplendent when I come out of my Sunday morning class. Whole again.

I am busy making lists, and crossing tasks off. And I am trying to go easy on myself, lest my baby inherit this stress and neuroses.

In the meantime, I am frantically trying to create more hours in a day. Like, maybe 30? 30 would be good.

Any and all suggestions welcome, as well as inspirational "buck up, little camper" speeches.

27 Weeks, Sans Photos, But Including Smug Judgment of Others Parenting Skills. Enjoy.

27 Weeks? For realz?

I am tweaking, my friends, into a whole new era. One less of the Warren G variety, and more of the third trimester kind.

One more week until we are 2/3 there! Hi, Ninj? You weigh a lot, fatty. And also: I adore you.

So let's talk growth scan for a minute. Ah, hell, we're all friends here. I gained another 10 pounds at my last check up, which occurred at 24 weeks and 5 days. I... I don't know. I am not swollen. My legs are a bit thicker, I suppose, but really, most of the weight is in mah belly. The doctors are deeply suspect of me, and yes, I do have a hearty appetite. But I exercise, and I practice yoga, and I try to eat mostly healthy foods (today's Massachusetts Sonic Run not withstanding.) (Oh, I am in Mass this week. I honestly didn't travel to New England just for a Sonic burger. But would any of you be surprised if I did?)

Back to my belly. My swollen, bulbous, belly. It's terribly sexy. (Stay away stretch marks. Stay away.)

ENORMOUS babies run in my family. I was 9 pounds, 10 ounces. My bro was 9 pounds, 2 ounces. My dad and uncles? One of those guys was ELEVEN pounds at birth, the tiniest on the smaller side of ten pounds. It is the superior Viking genes, you know. We're huge babies, and then we usually chill out. We grow tall, but not obese, praise God.

I had thought that Ninj might defy this legacy; but lo, at my last prenatal, the belly was measuring 27 weeks. So now I'll have another ultrasound (squee!) in a few weeks, to determine how big the baby looks. It's not an exact science; they can be off by a pound in either direction, or just plan WAY OFF. A girl in my yoga class knows a girl who was told she was having an eleven-pounder. Her baby was 8 pounds. She was angry. The end.

I am not sure that any of this really means much? I'll still try to labor as naturally as possible (I make no promises, however, with Ninj the super-fetus). I am focusing on my yoga practice, and imagining that my body (sorry pelvis!) is capable of this feat of strength.

And if it's not? Then I suppose I have a c-section. The whole point is to have a healthy baby, and it looks like Ninj is SUPER healthy. That's why s/he has a theme song that I sing to him/her daily:

Ninjy! Ninjy! The Amazing SUPER FETUS!

Then s/he punches me to quiet down, s/he is practicing her krav maga, jesuschristmom!

Man, I love my kid.

But you know what I don't love? Parents who bring their ten-year old child to see Shutter Island on opening night. I don't love when they sit directly behind me and J. I don't like when the kid hears more eff words than you can shake a stick at - this from the lady that curses with great relish and abandon. I... I don't want to spoil the film for you, but I was completely uncomfortable knowing there was a small child seated near me seeing that mess. There is blood. And murder. It takes place in an ASYLUM FOR THE CRIMINALLY INSANE. Oh! And here are some shots of dead kids at Dachau, for good measure. There was just so much violence. And rats! So many rats that I couldn't look at the screen for a full two minutes, because I didn't want to have nightmares.

"My god," I said to J as the credits rolled. "I was traumatized by "Thriller" as a child!"

"I was traumatized by Gremlins," he said.

Good luck sleeping this year, sweet boy.

%&$*#@@(!)

Arrrrgggghhhhh.

I'm having one of my days today, which is particularly trying, as I had one of these days yesterday. Hungover and sore from sleeping on The Real JC's air mattress, J and I sat on the couch all day, only removing ourselves from the gripping life of John Adams long enough to take a delirious trip to Wawa for chocolate peanut butter ice cream. (The need!)

And so I pulled out my planner last night, resolutely, and wrote down all of the things I needed to accomplish today.

And then I woke early, ready to start the day. But instead, I groggily plopped down on the couch at 6:30 to watch DVRed episodes of Chelsea Lately.

And then... nothing.

I walked the mile to the track, but found myself stifled by the heat and humidity. The run did not go well. So I walked home. I decided I needed to get out of the house today, so I showered and dressed and headed to my favorite coffee shop on Main.

But I couldn't pay attention to my conference calls; and after I composed and sent a few rambling emails, I packed up my laptop and planner and headed home by way of Machismo Burritos. (Damn you and your addictive power!)

I'm in my office now. I am trying to work, but I'm not present. I'm not sure where my mind is. This isn't working, I said to myself a few moments ago. This isn't what you're supposed to do with your life. The thought honestly occurred to me out of nowhere, as most days, I like my job a lot.

But I wonder if maybe there isn't a little kernel of truth to that last part. If this is my passion, wouldn't I be more, er, passionate? I wake everyday with the best intentions, but suddenly at 7 AM I feel... drained.

I blame E! True Hollywood Story.

When you watch that fucking show, you get the feeling that though everything doesn't come easily per se, these celebs know what they want and they work tirelessly - ruthlessly - to get it.

And then I'm suddenly inspired and embarrassed, because I have all of this potential, that I waste on the frivolity... Like E! True Hollywood Story!

It's a damn shame.

I don't know what's next. J and I talk about it all the time. We'll move, we say, once J is finished with grad school. Then I'll quit my job, and I'll go to grad school. While I'm at it, I'll write and have babies and be perfect and healthy and rich. The end.

I'm not sure where I am, or what I want, but I know I am at a crossroads.

To be continued.

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

D'oh!

Believe it or not, I started this amazingly well-written and structured post to give a little fitness update. So here you go:

Meh.

That is my update, y'all. I have been running, but not so well the last two weeks. I am okay with that, as my half-marathon training needs to start twelve weeks before the event; so after J and I return from vacation (August 15th) I'll begin the program in earnest.

P90X is on hold, as I have a lot of difficulty keeping to a routine with my constant travel. But I am determined to complete P90X at some point this year. I'll just have to develop a tighter schedule, as I am just now beginning to take back the reigns on time-management.

And the diet? Well, my Far-Mor told my sister Cat that I was "too skinny" after the Colorado trip. So, good on me! Alas, I'm not too skinny. I'm slim. I wa able to sustain the no-carb diet for 2 weeks, and I felt great, though completely bored. Then J and I went to a family party in which I ate a cheeseburger sans bun, and the paparazzi got wind of it and asked me what kind of crazy diet I was on, and when I said South Beach my cousin Lauren told me I was going to desTROY my kidneys, and then my mom called me the next day to say of course everyone was talking about this CRAZY diet you are on, and I'm all, hello, if any of you MFers read my blog you would already know about this diet! And also: South Beach! NOT crazy.

I guess the moral of the story is my family doesn't support me, and also thinks I'm crazy.

I lost three - four pounds on Phase 1 of South Beach, then I let my amazing weight loss skillz get to my head and started eating everything under the sun. This weekend I drank 85004 Hoegaardens at the Beer Garden in Queens, and so today? Fare thee well, carbs. I'm not sure how we are ever truly going to make this work, but right now, I just need some time by myself. I really need to focus on my career - obvs! - and what I want out of this life. And what I want involves passion, and most certainly does not involve a giant ass. (Sorry, babe.)

Love, HV

The Extent of the Crazy

Have just decided that I will no longer speak of this wedding to anyone, save J. So if you see me, and you dare inquire, "So, how are the wedding plans coming? Have you picked a place yet?"

I will grin maniacally and say only: "I'm right on top of that, Rose!"

Then I will back away from you slowly, still grinning.

Carry on.

So Tired

A long, long time ago, before I was betrothed, Grace and I met the creator of this website at the Beer Garden. He is/was a struggling stand-up comedian (though it looks like he is warming up audiences at The View now, so that's uh, really something).

He made an off-color Terry Schiavo quip early in our conversation, which was most decidedly not funny, but prompted Grace and I to refer to him only as "Schiavo" and shudder at the memory of his joke.

I digress. He was quite proud of his anti-wedding website creation, and he had many one-liners to assert his singular claim that nuptials, plainly, suck.

My point here? "Schiavo" got it right. I hate weddings. They are Giant Looming Purveyors Of Stress And Strife. And They Must Be Stopped.

*Shakes fist; looks up at sky*

That is all.

*sobs*