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.

Three Months Later

I blinked, and you were three months old.

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

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

Still, that's when I realized it.

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

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

Just... remember that.

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

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

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

J + HV = You.

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

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

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

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

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

Things I Threw Away Today

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

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

Ahem.

Where was I?

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

Things I Threw Away Today, by HomeValley:

1. Photos of kids who played orphans in our sophomore year production of Annie. Seriously, who the fuck were these kids? Why did I take so many useless pictures of them? Also? They are between ages 20 and 25 now. I hate those fucking kids.
2. All of the letters from my senior year spiritual retreat. After about the fifth letter by some lovely girl I didn't remember, I tossed them. (Though not before reading a cheerful and succinct note from my algebra dance buddy. Shout out, Sarah K!)
3. My old cell phones, after I stared at them in disbelief like Wha? I can't receive email on you? You are from the Stone Age, phones. Alas, one ancient Verizon flip-phone contained dirty text messages from J and a floppity jillion photos of Jesse Malin shows, plus J and me on our adventures in Manhattan and Queens. And then I was all Wha? J and I used to do it, and go to late-night underground rock shows? Again, I beseech you, childless people: get laid, attend concerts, and for God's sake - GET ON THAT COUCH.
4. Floppy. Disks.
5. 73889 playbills, though it pained me to do it. But J yelled at me when I threw the Titanic book in the save pile. And he's right, you know. That show had some balls having all those poor drowning third class folks singing about how they couldn't wait to make it to America.
6. A lone cigarette in a burgundy pack from Italy. (But I totally need this! I whined to J. No, J said. You're a grown-up. You don't need to save smokes from your 1998 trip to Rome. DON'T I?!?!)
7. A flyer from senior year of college in which - as Resident Assistant - I asked my homies to write me their "elevator horror stories" to make a case for repair to Resident Life. Then I remembered that people were always almost dying in our elevators, which what the fuck, Pace University?
8. A flyer from a TKE frat party that claimed to be "the HOTEST party of the SEMSTER." Ahahahaha. Adorable, TKE.
9. A note from my first grade teacher to my mother, claiming I was often "distracting" in class, not paying attention and scribbling notes during lessons. Shut up, First Grade Teacher.

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

Quite.

BAB Project: Week 7 - Fluctuation Nation.

Evening, chickens!

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

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

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

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

Here's what's new this week:

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


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


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


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


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

More tomorrow, loves.

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

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

Guys?

Six.

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

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

Mmm... mouse turd muffins. Delish!

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

Mmm... mouse hair English muffins!

Okay, this post is revolting. Apologies.

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

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

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

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

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

Egads!

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

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

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

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

(!!!)

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

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

What? he asked, grinning.

One down.

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

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

That's two.

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

Remember.

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

Broken

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

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

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

I woke up resolved.

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

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

I'm a jackass.

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

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

So where was I? J = out.

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

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

Ha. Haaaaaaaaaaaaaa.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A very wise woman once said:

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

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

New Developments

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

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

Because: come ON.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Perhaps he needs me more.

BAB Project Week 5: Mmm. Cake.

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

Starting weight: 158.2

Current Weight: 154.2

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

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

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

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

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

Am parenting GENIUS.

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

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

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

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

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

And then: a brainstorm!

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

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

Godspeed, mamas.

An Old Friend Returns...

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

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

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

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

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

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



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



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



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



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

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

Starting weight: 158.2

Current Weight: 154.4

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Drik's a Rock Star. Respect.

Happier times.

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

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

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

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

Jacob 4 Eva

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?

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

Starting weight: 158.2


Current Weight: 157


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


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


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


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


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

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


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


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



This week's reward: Pride.

Year Two in Review

It's been quite a year.

Happy Anniversary, Kins. We love you.

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

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

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

This week, we start anew.

Starting weight: 158.2

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

Total L-Bs lost: Go to hell.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Slow and steady, y'all.

For the Love of Cloth

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!

Week Two - Surprised to Not be Perfectly Thin Yet.

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

Here goes:

Starting weight: 158.2

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

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

Number of gym visits this week: 3

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They Call it The J.

I really, really LIKE my husband.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thanks, babe.

Body After Baby - The Inaugural Post

Supporting his mama with adorableness.

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



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



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



HomeValley: I can't do it!



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



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



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



HV: Yes!



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



HV: YEEESSSS! *breaks down into heaving sobs*



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



Obviously, I need to develop a better playlist.



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



I suppose this is how we'll track this:



Starting weight: 158.2



Current Weight: Talk to you in a week!



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



Number of gym visits this week: 2, thus far



Other physical activity: 1 walk with Hendrik, thus far



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



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



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



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



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



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



Let's DO THIS!

DENIAL: Thy Name is HomeValley.

A medium? She CRAZY!

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



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

• a digital scale


• a one-piece swimsuit


• a cover-up, Jesus Christ cellulite jiggly bits

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

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

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

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

Stuffed sausage, party of one.

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

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

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

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

Oh, my pooch.

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

Sigh.

Apparently, I think I can carry around an extra 22 L-Bs and still maintain my old size. I also believe that my pre-prego jeans should fit, as I torture myself by trying them on periodically. They don't make it past my KNEES! Gah!

(PENCIL SKIRTS!)

I am going to have to get serious, for the love of Bob Harper. My problem? I am not sure how to this whilst breastfeeding. My initial inclination is to cut out chocolate (which is also a win for my gassy, reflux-y offspring), and processed sugars. To stick with fruits, veggies, and whole grains.

Easier said than done when you're caring for a tiny infant, and all you want to do is eat all of the M&Ms. (Crap - what did I do with those M&Ms?)

And so we begin, folks. I am saying this: in two months time, I would like to be down at least 16 pounds. I feel like 2 pounds per week is realistic for nursing, though I know I can't do any major calorie-restriction, I can amp up my diet and haul my ass to the gym.

Also? I need to buy some new pants. I can't live in maternity jeans for the next 2 months. It's uncivilized. I am sure I will hyperventilate when I learn my new non-pregnant size, but thems the breaks. Hendrik is well-worth the body woes, y'know?

(Oh, here's a charming little anecdote to start your weekend. Last Saturday, J and I got all dressed up and took Hendrik to dinner on Main Street. I was wearing this dress, and I asked J, "So, how pregnant do I look now?" He gave me the once-over, and said, "Well, you didn't start showing until month 4... so I'd say... Like, 25 weeks pregnant?" Me at 25 weeks pregnant. LORD.)

One Month

One month old today, and already a little world-weary.

Back to the doc's today, this time we left with a prescription for Zantac. Hendrik is over this reflux. Eff you, reflux. Leave mah precious belly alone.

Me? I am having one of those days. The woe-is-my-mushy-pooch-formerly-known-as-my-abdomen days. I've been googling "how to lose weight while breastfeeding" and feeling just a bit low. Meanwhile, I am trying to remember to stay in the moment... It seems I am always fighting to temper my anxiety, and to stop imagining every single thing that could possibly go wrong. I'm concerned about the future of my career, and what lies in store professionally.

Also? I am trying to cut out sugar. What am I: Superwoman?

My boy? At one month, he is glorious. He is growing (nine pounds, 5.8 ounces this morning, up from nine pounds 1.4 ounces on Monday)... He is focusing. He loves music (very partial to Jack Johnson and our wedding CD), the outdoors, and moving, whether he's swinging, driving, or strolling around the Yunk in his ginormous Bob Revolution. Oh, he LOVES his nursery. The orange wall soothes him. He's also fascinated by the lion we created, affectionately dubbed Lionel Richie.

Dislikes? Diaper changes, the end of feedings, and when Dad lectures Mom about cleaning and organization. (True story.)

Most nights we look at him, and still can't believe he came from us. Or that 32 days have gone by.

Happy one-month birthday, Hendrik. We adore you, son.

Stenosis Schmenosis

Totally zen about this whole thing. Calm down Mama OMG.

We're currently keeping my little nugget upright, at a 45-degree angle, post-feeding. Child has got some issues. He's been spitting up quite a bit, almost to the point of projectile vomiting Exorcist-style. Yesterday, I called the pediatrician and I brought him in for a weight check and a once-over, figuring he was dealing with Saturday's choco-chip cookie overdose.

After a few hours of Internet research, I was ill-prepared for the potential diagnosis. Have you dudes ever heard of "pyloric stenosis?"




Within a few minutes of examining him, the ped gave me the 411 on PS. She then said though she didn't feel the "olive" in his belly, she'd like him to get an ultrasound. At the children's hospital. Immediately.




Oh, and if he does have this condition? He'll need surgery. Immediately.




Um, to reiterate, I took my kid in for spit-up. I was told he might need surgery within hours?




Imagine how composed I was, sitting in the office there, feeding my screaming, starving baby. We were both sobbing. The ped gave me a hug, and told me that H could have no liquids after 12 PM. I finished up his feeding in the exam room, composed myself, and hurried to the car to call J.



At which point I lost my shit again.



J came home and we cuddled a pleasant, satiated Snoozer. We then packed about 17 bags for the trip to the hospital, just in case. (Clothes, breast pump, toiletries, magazines, etc.)



I prayed all the way there, whilst examining my child for signs of this mysterious condition.



"Does he look yellow to you? He looks a little yellow to me."



"Stop," J said.



Hendrik was a champion during his ultrasound. He whined a bit at first, but then seemed to think Meh and went back to sleep. Within a few moments, we were told that the results were negative. I could have wept with joy. We were elated.



And so we still have a spit-up issue, though it is lessening. The doc thinks it was possibly a little bit of a stomach bug, perhaps combined with reflux, so if you are coming within 20 feet of my child? PLEASE WASH YOUR HANDS. I mean, please wash your hands within 20 feet of any small infant and toddler. If I am ever around your baby, I will make a big show of washing my hands and slathering on the organic hand sanitizer, because dude. Nobody needs projectile-vomiting infants getting ultrasounds of their tiny bellies up in here.

Tidbits

I'm having trouble writing Hendrik's birth story. The words get jumbled and I can't seem to get coherent thoughts on paper. It's still a work in progress, I s'pose. To distract you, some delightful tidbits:

• Fucking soft spots. I am TERRIFIED of soft spots. The other night, Hendrik's head was dented. Seriously! And it was also kind of pulsating. So I did what any new mother would do: I burst into tears, nudged J - who was sleeping placidly next to me in bed - and wailed that our son was brain-damaged - I have RUINED him! And J looked at him and said: "He's fine." By the next morning, H's skull had regenerated and healed itself with Ninja-like prowess. Fucking soft spots.


• Michael Jackson won the Ninja Baby Pool. That's... er... creepy.


• I have discovered the secret to my own happy marriage is keeping the kitchen sink empty. There is nothing that will piss my husband off more than when he needs to use the sink for a manly-man task, and my dishes are piled there, "soaking." I told J my brilliant theory the other day, and he stared at me, bemused. "Sure, but maybe you could expand the cleaning a little bit?" Quite.

• Pretty sure the raccoon is long gone. The pest guys need to come and remove the expulsion trap and close up the hole. They canceled on me Wednesday (due to weather) and then last night they showed up at 5:30 PM. They said it would take them about an hour and a half to do the job, which for these dudes I estimated to mean about six hours. I told them it wasn't a good time, and blamed H. Because you can do that when you have babies.

A raccoon tryin' to come into MY house? Not on my watch, Mama.

McSnoozer

Every day is a little bit different.

J's back to work, and so Hendrik and I are adjusting to our new life together, sans dad. On Monday, we went grocery shopping and bought stamps at the Post Office. Yesterday, we went for a long walk, enjoying the gorgeous weather together. We stopped at CVS, and even made it to the coffee shop for a quick decaf latte. I picked up Self and Women's Health magazines, and wondered (via Facebook), if it might be possible to lose 20 pounds by the Fourth of July? (Oh, I have already lost 25 pounds. I'll let you dudes do the math there. And let's never mention it again, mmmkay?)

Hendrik is just over three weeks old. Just when I think I know his patterns, he confounds me again. He is gaining weight steadily, and his cheeks are getting ever so slightly chubbier. He loves light; put him in front of a window, or step out onto the porch, and he is mesmorized. His tiny mouth forms an O, and his eyes get very wide. They sometimes cross when he is really attempting to focus.

He also loves to be in motion. He screams when we attempt to strap him into his car seat, but as soon as he is moving, he settles down.

Oh, and much to our delight, he adores his orange wall. He lights up when he's in his nursery, and he stares at the wall in wonderment.

He's got amazing head and neck control. He is also a champion "rooter." If he is ever so slightly hungry when I lay him on my chest, he lifts his head and bobs it ferociously up and down, eventually finding his way to a breast. He's no slouch, my kid.

Tummy time really pisses him off. He prefers to be on his back. He spits up about 78636 times a day. Just this week, he has decided that he would like to eat, thankyouverymuch, Lady with the boobs. And eat. Even if it takes six hours and two bottles of pumped breast milk. I fear he has inherited his parents' appetites.

We call him Snoozer, although we're making a conscience effort to say his name more. (Occasionally, we'll refer to him as Ninj.) He had the great misfortune of being born when the MacGruber movie was coming out; so he gets "Macgruber!" shouted at him a lot, or often: "McSnoozer!"

He has this face, too. He does it when he's waking, and sometimes when he is milk-drunk and settling down to sleep. He tilts his head back, scrunches his tiny brow, purses his lips, and stretches his arms out to his sides. It seriously makes us melt and guffaw at the same time.

Yes, we'll keep him. Even if he frustrates his mama with his insatiable appetite, or pees and poops and spits up on his father within a span of 3 minutes when he arrives home from work. He only needs to make the Snoozer face. He owns us.

Oh Em Gee ClusterFEEDING.

Hey, y'all.

Very little time to chat, as this child is permanently attached to my jubblies.

I am hoping to finish the birth story this week.

To distract you from my sorry blogging of late:

Perhaps he wants out of this laundry basket his parents have cruelly placed him in? Or perhaps he has heard too much of the Glee soundtrack this week and is channeling Lea Michele?

You decide.

Labor, In Painstaking Detail. Please to Enjoy. Part 1.

You'll have to forgive me this painfully-detailed account, but I don't want to forget a minute of it.


On Saturday, May 15th, J and I planned a DAY. You know: breakfast at our favorite spot; a walk on the Wissahickon Trail; a quiet afternoon spent sunning ourselves and reading in the backyard; and finally a romantic date on Main Street.


"This could be our last weekend," I said happily to my husband over a bacon-and-egg omelette that morning. "But really? I don't think it is. I think we have at least two more weekends."


HA!


On the trail, we ran into another very pregnant mama. "We've got the same idea," she yelled to me. "Walking these babies out!"


I wonder if her walk was as effective.


At home, I spent some cherished hours with my beloved Kindle, reading a book of short stories. My mom called.


"We've got a nice little Saturday planned," I told her. "It could be our last weekend, you know. Not that I think it is... I have no signs of labor. None. I'm going to be pregnant until June. Cheers."


HA! HA.


We eventually showered and dressed, and I felt pleased with my pregnant form. I waddled down to Main Street on my husband's arm, and we ended up at the Italian place. I ordered an NA Coors. We talked. It was lovely.


When we arrived home, we sank into our respective couches and watched the making of Planet Earth. We were engrossed in the filming of the snow leopard chase (never before filmed, y'all), when I started to feel... something.


Crampy.


"I'm feeling crampy," I announced to J. "It's probably nothing."


As the night wore on, however, it got increasingly uncomfortable. But I was totally handling it. Am labor champ! We went to sleep. Occasionally, a cramp would wake me. At 1 AM, I had to pee.


And here is where it gets interesting. Because I peed. I was done peeing. I stood up and flushed. I washed my hands. I walked towards the bathroom door, when suddenly -


A GUSH.


I mean, not a torrential downpour, but a gush of fluid coming from me, tinged pink, on the floor. (Hey male readers!)


I started to tremble.


And much to my delight, I got to TV sitcom-it into the bedroom, and say:


"Babe - I think my water just broke. It's TIME." (Fantastic, right?!)


(HA! HA. Meh.)

Hendrik's Due Date

Hey, y'all.

So, we're a bit sleepy over here at the HomeValley Ranch. We're surviving the sore nipples, the all-nighters, the diaper changes, the baby blues, and the milestones. (His cord has fell off last night. He's getting so old!)

We've got another pediatrician appointment today, and I'm hopeful that our long, lean boy has gained some weight. He lost 12 ounces initially, which left me reeling with mommy-guilt, as my milk took it's sweet time coming in. It finally appeared on Saturday; so far I haven't had to supplement with formula, and I am confident we won't have to go that route.

But, I am learning that parenthood is one giant, humbling lesson in flexibility.

In the meantime, we have the sweetest baby boy who was ever birthed. Not that I'm biased; but this kid brings the awesome.

More to come as I attempt to regain brain functioning and my sense of humor. I do miss sleep.

Deliriously Happy.

SERIOUSLY?

Every cliche about the love for your child is true, btw. This boy has us whipped.

Cue "Circle of Life"

The Ninja has finally revealed his true identity!

It's a boy. We have a son.

His name is Hendrik. He was born on Monday, May 17th, at 1:48 PM. He weighed seven pounds and 13 ounces and is 21 inches long.

Oh, and he is spectacular.

MUCH more to come on this little guy as I slowly rejoin the human race. I can't wait to tell you all about labor and delivery. (Spoiler alert: it HURTS.)

For now, we're home and getting used to being a family. One of isn't too fond of his bassinet, and thus did not sleep a wink last night. But I won't name any names.

38 Weeks: An Epic Retrospection of Absolute Insanity.

Thirty-eight week check-up was smashing! I lost 2.5 pounds! Babies heart rate is remaining in the 120s! (Totally a boy rate, according to Old Wifey. Stop messing with me, child.) Head is low! No internal! Boo Yeah.


I feel pretty good this week, all told. I am busy tying up loose ends at work; still trying to find the right pediatrician; researching breast pumps (news to me: it is unsanitary to share, even if swapping out the attachments); buying industrial-strength foundation for the hospital pics; and ordering a new camcorder charger. (My world almost imploded last night when I couldn't find the damn thing anywhere in our home. SMOKEY!)


Feeling a bit nostalgic, I opened an old Word doc I started when The Ninja was but a fantasy: this, ladies, and gents, is my fertility saga. I called it: Space Baby. And oh, the DRAMA. The absolute crushing disappointment of not getting pregnant on the very first try.


(I was really very annoying about this whole thing. Apologies, husband.)

August 26, 2009 (Home Office)

Where were we?

Ah, yes – most certainly NOT pregnant.

And it was ultimately a relief, as we journeyed to Montevideo and Buenos Aires, and ohhh – the malbec. And mojitos. And Torrontes. So there you go. I was wishing and hoping and simultaneously thinking I was making my baby retarded. I erroneously predicted that my period was due on Saturday, August 15th. When it didn’t come, we were very excited. We took the red-eye home on Saturday night, and I raced to CVS as soon as we arrived back in the Yunk.

Negative.

Boo. To add insult to injury (those tests are expensive, y’all), I checked my day planner and my period wasn’t scheduled to arrive until Monday, August 17th.

I spoke to Koos and gave her a full report. She yelped when I told her I wasn’t with period yet. I told her about the pregnancy test, and she exclaimed that of course I could still be pregnant – she had a negative test with baby #2! I didn’t want to get my hopes up, but I started to wonder…

When my period still hadn’t arrived on Tuesday evening, I allowed myself to get excited again. At 8 PM, I dashed to the closest pharmacy in Newton, MA, then eagerly peed on the stick and waited.

Negative.

Of course, the next morning I woke up crampy. I got my period that morning, pushing me out to a 30-day cycle. Since abruptly stopping the pill in April, my cycles have been 30, 29, and 28 days, respectively, so I figured I was settling into a nice, normal 28-day ride.

No such luck. Now I must make sure that J and I baby-mate from days 10 – 17, just to be safe. I have managed to rearrange my work schedule so we will only miss one full day of love (probably ovulation day), but we’ll just have to hope we can get it done another day.

I guess we have officially been trying for one month. I hope that this doesn’t take too long. K, baby? We are eagerly awaiting your conception, so let’s do this!

September 1, 2009

I have been snooping around that damn book again.

I just have a few questions, you know? Like, about cervical mucus. Who can I ask about cervical mucus, I beseech you?

This morning I went to Web MD to calculate when I may be ovulating. As I suspected, the Internet indicates tomorrow. It says my fertile period began on August 28th, and I should ovulate on the 2nd.

I did fairly well predicting that this month.

*I go on here to list the dates J and I baby-mated. Oh Em Gee, I will spare you. Let me just say, that once I decided to get knocked up, I approached it with all the vigor and precision and meticulousness of an army drill sergeant.

September 14, 2009

In the end, it was Drew Barrymore who tipped me off.

I was in the midst of a surprisingly vivid dream. Drew and I were best friends – naturally – and I was on set of a new film starring that Gilles guy with the penis from the Sex and the City movie. Apparently, Drew was banned from being on set, as she had offended the director more than once. She was in love with Gilles, and kept calling me, asking me to watch him for her. She wanted updates on his behavior. I kept trying to assuage her fears, good friend that I am.

In the dream, I realized I had to pee, and that my stomach was acting weird. I rolled over and fumbled for my glasses. I stumbled out of bed and headed towards the bathroom, where I found the last EPT test in the drawer. What the hell, I thought, as I ripped open the packaging. I’ll take this, it will be negative, and I will just wait for my period to start this week.

I peed on the stick, replaced the cap, and laid the test on the floor in front of me. I watched as the negative line popped up in the window, and I shook my head. I told myself not to be discouraged – this is only month two, you asshole. You’ll get there.

But wait.

Is that?

No.

I started laughing. Really laughing. And saying no. No. No! No way.

A second line. Faint, but not even very faint.

Pregnant.

I finally got off of the toilet and crept back into the bedroom, test in hand.

“Are you awake?” I asked.

J nodded, and I laughed again, and was all, “I have something to show you!”

I thrust the stick in his face.

“This says I’m pregnant!”

J was skeptical. But it’s not as dark as the other line, he said. I pulled out my copy of What to Expect Before You’re Expecting, and read aloud:

Q: I took a pregnancy test and it was positive, but the line was very faint. Could I be pregnant?

A: Get ready to faint: from excitement!

Of course, the next question caused some brief panic:

Q: I took a pregnancy test and it was positive; then I took two more and they were negative. What’s happening?

A: Chemical pregnancy, better luck next time.

“Well, that’s no fun, huh?” I said to my husband, who hugged me but cautioned me not to get too excited.

As. If.

After calculating my due date online, and quickly getting dressed, I headed to Whole Foods and Border’s, and, of course, CVS. I resolved not to pee for at least 5 hours. I made it to 6, and then took a second test.

Pregnant.

And this time, no faint line. I dragged J into the bathroom to show him.

“Well, there’s no mistaking that one is there?”

I left the two tests on the bathroom sink, side-by-side. I can’t stop checking on them. As if they are my baby. Our baby. I creep into the bathroom at least once an hour, and I stare.

This morning, despite peeing twice in the night, I took another test.

Pregnant.

And there the three tests sit, in our bathroom. Lined up in solidarity, shouting:

PREGNANT.

I made my first prenatal appointment today, which won’t be until October 19th! How can we wait that long? I asked the receptionist the same question.

“Then that’s safe? For my baby? I am so new… That’s okay?”

She assured me it was perfectly normal. When we go in, we’ll have a check-up, an ultrasound, and we’ll get to hear the heartbeat.

Heart. Beat.

I sent J an Outlook invitation to this appointment. I don’t think he wants to believe this yet. He’s afraid, probably more for me than himself. “Don’t get too excited yet, babe. Anything could happen.”

“It’s not going to hurt any less if I try to ignore it,” I tell him softly.

I don’t want to jinx it, but I think Ninja is strong.

September 15, 2009

Today – unbelievably – the world did not stop turning, and I had to work. I am in Bethesda, Maryland. Starting tomorrow, I am going to eat properly. Today I had hash browns, bacon, a few bites of scrambled eggs; pizza, and an Asian chicken salad, complete with a side of liguini carbonara. One measly salad does not a healthy diet make, and so tomorrow (and here on out) I will strive for the proper amount of fruits, vegetables, and proteins.

I went to Border’s and returned The Girlfriend’s Guide to Pregnancy (because: dumb) and settled on the oft-maligned What to Expect When You’re Expecting. It is straightforward advice and material that I need, and so far it has put me at ease.

Reading the book though, I got immediately panicky; suspect that Ninja had disappeared. As soon as I got back to the hotel, I took a pregnancy test (my FOURTH). POSITIVE. And now the test sits on the bathroom sink, where I can go in and stare at it when I need to be reminded.

I. AM. PREGNANT.

I cannot fathom that I won’t get to see AN ACTUAL DOCTOR until October 19th, more than A MONTH AWAY.

“How will I believe I am still pregnant?!?” I begged of Koos yesterday. “I will have to take a test like once a week!”

I am hoping I can get in earlier; the receptionist mentioned that there may be a cancellation in the meantime.

In other news, I finally ran again today. An easy two-miles, after which I felt great, and not like I killed Ninja. I weighed myself as well: 135.1. I was alarmed to think that I might weigh 160 before this is over. *ha. HAHAHAHAHAHA. Ha.

But really, Ninja, just stay healthy. We lurve you. (And also, I suspect you are a girl.)

Tomorrow: More craziness ensues. Stay tuned!

Banish-ED.

And now, a dramatic reenactment, from fair Manayunk, where we lay our scene.

Smokey the Raccoon: Ha! banishment! be merciful, say ‘death;’ For exile hath more terror in his look, Much more than death: do not say ‘banishment.’

HV: Hence from The HomeValley home art thou banished. Be patient, Smokey, for the world is broad and wide.

Smokey: There is no world without HomeValley's walls, But purgatory, torture, hell itself.
Hence banished is banish’d from the world, And world’s exile is death; then ‘banished,’
Is death mis-term’d. Calling death ‘banished,’ Thou cutt’st my head off with a golden axe,
And smil’st upon the stroke that murders me.

Can you believe Smokey's histrionics? (He nailed this scene though. He is the Sir Laurence Olivier of the raccoon set.) But, friends, we do believe Smokey has been banish-ed.

We think we heard him emerge from his fortress on Tuesday night; and since, I have not heard him plodding about the ceiling.

Has fortune smiled upon us?

In other news: damn, I love me some Bill Shakespeare.

It LIVES.

The raccoon is still residing merrily in the ceiling. Did you know that the raccoon's closest animal relative is the bear? Are you as reassured as I am?

The pest guys came yesterday at 3 PM. The neighbors were surprisingly friendly about this whole debacle... Yes, they'd heard the raccoon. Yes, they'd like us to take care of it. Yes, they'll pay for half.

As one of the guys helpfully pointed out: See? That bird shit was good luck.

Indeed.

The pest guys left at 9 PM.

SIX HOURS to set an expulsion trap. In case you had any doubts? This raccoon owns us all.

At one point, the owner of the company popped outside to grab something from his truck. "I'll be right back," he said, and drove off. He returned an hour later with little explanation, and some wire to create a better trap. That was super.

And the cheeky raccoon bastard is still plodding about in the ceiling. The idea is, when he/she gets hungry enough, he/she will venture out through the explusion trap. The beast can easily get out, but - pray God - can't get back in. Once we know it is out for sure, the guys will come back and seal up our neighbor's home.

J, after the guys finally left: I'm 50/50 that this scheme will work.

I should just buy a tiny raccoon bed for the nursery and call it a day. Maybe Ninja would enjoy a raccoon brother or sister.

In other news: I bought cellulite firming gel yesterday to cheer myself up.

We may have reached a new low, kids.

But I am looking forward to better days, and a beautiful baby Ninja.

Busty HV and Jim Eisenreich, of the '93 Phils.

FRENZY

Oh HOLY FUCK exterminator came and identified entry point for RACCOON on neighbor's side and neighbor not home so cannot do any work until neighbor signs off and by the way in the back they have squirrels and INSULATION and ELECTRICAL and FIRE HAZARD and some birds' nests for good measure and looked up to see entry point and bird SHIT IN MY EYE.

Fin.

Water, Water Everywhere... And I'm Retaining it All.

37 week check-up yesterday... no signs that The Ninja will reveal its true identity any time in the foreseeable future. I am coming to terms with an early June baby, listening to a lot of Glee and Jesse Malin to pass the time, and calling it a day.

You know what I am having more trouble coming to terms with? The fact that, if I am pregnant for another 4 weeks?

I will be even fatter. And honestly, I can't take anymore weight gain. I can't control it, and maybe this is a big FAT lesson in humility, but for the love of Lionel... ENOUGH.

I am not going to tell you how much weight I've gained overall. I refused to tell J, even, as my weight is threatening to eclipse his own.

I will tell you that I gained another 6 pounds. THIS week.

So after stepping off of the scale, peeing in a cup (sidebar - that is FUCKING impossible now. Pee = everywhere), I sat in the exam room yesterday, waiting for the doc, and I cried.

Then I got annoyed with myself for wallowing, so I tried meditating... But when I repeated a yoga mantra - I am beautiful, I am bountiful, I am blissful - my internal monologue insisted: OH HELL YES YOU ARE BOUNTIFUL. FATTY.

So I just breathed instead. And examined my swollen feet and ankles.

When the kindest OB in all the lands finally entered, he asked how I was feeling.

"Defeated," I said.

"Why - the weight gain? I wasn't even going to mention it."

(You see? He is the most fantastic man.)

He told me that it happens... I've been healthy my entire life, and this is just my body on pregnancy. He said - though admitted it was anecdotal - that he finds fit women who gain excessive weight during pregnancy will return to their pre-pregnancy form relatively easily.

And he told me not to be so hard on myself.

Sniffle.

And so I'll calm down, until I see a new doc next week, who may or not be as kind.