Transitions.

Hello, Lovers!

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

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

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

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

Yes, on all counts.

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

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

To sum up thus far:

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

H = TEETH

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

Manayunk House = SOLD

Dallas House = Under contract, pray God

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

Gas Company = ASSHOLES

And yet?

Life = Very, very Good

Snowed In.

I mean, this is why you have kids.

All Good Things

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

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

(Ah, kids.)

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

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

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

So far, I think it's working.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Announcements

Mah People:

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

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

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

We're moving.

Ever so slightly south of PA.

Texas, y'all.

We're moving to Texas.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Friends?

It was a moment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The rest is history.

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

Life is meant to be lived, after all.

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

xoxo,

HomeValley

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

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

SEVEN MONTHS

I will never forget the first time you spit up.

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

I promptly freaked out.

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

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

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

Here are a few things that are awesome about you:

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

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

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

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

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

I think we'll keep you anyway.

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

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

Bullz 4 Life,

Mommy and Daddy

HomeValley Runs on Dunkin'

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

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

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

AND!

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

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

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

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

Merry Christmas, holy shit.

Book Club, Nerds!

Have you all finished Freedom yet?

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

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

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

Watching the clip, I exhaled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dickens!

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

Homevalley: out.

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

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

HV: WHAT.

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

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

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

Beer Him.

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

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

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

Cheers, y'all!

Cold Turkey

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Relaxing, indeed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Birthday Boy

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

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

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

We're stoopid.

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

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

This man who surprises me with trips to Southeast Asia.

This man who squeezes my hand during turbulence.

This man who does the dishes.

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

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

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

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

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

Working at it.

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

Tramps Like Us

And just like that?

Mama ran a half-marathon, chickens.

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

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

"I AM!" I growled.

I was.

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

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

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

One Sunday, your long run is an insurmountable THREE.

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

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

Most importantly: I finished something I started.

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

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

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

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

His selflessness humbles me. I am eternally grateful.

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

What's next?

Five Months

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

Oh, sweet baby. It did not go well.

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

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

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

Really wasn't your idea of a good time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

M.I.A.

Party people!

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

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

We're working on this.

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

Aaaaannndddd... boom goes the dynamite.

Live to Tell.

Oh. Oh, you guys.

I have. A tale. To tell.

You may want to sit down for this one.

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

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

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

AND THEN.

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

WHAT I SAW?

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

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

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

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

"You knew?" I stage-whispered.

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

Devastated, I attempted to process my new reality.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuucccccccccccccccckkkkkkkkkkkkkkk.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stay Tuned.

Dudes!

Hey.

I know, I know. Where have we been?

Busy. Just look:

We have also done a bit of this:

And then, there was the time we did this:

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

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

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

Snoozer Takes Manhattan!

New York!

Shit, NYC is DIFFICULT with a baby.

But we had a lovely time, thank you.

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

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

We took Hendrik to the park where we got engaged.

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

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

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

My boys.

Extra!

Fin.

BAB Blah Blah BlazZZZzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

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

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

Dudes, I lied.

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

So very tired.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Four Months: Partners in Crime

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

I thought: what the fuck?

In 2010, I think very differently.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Four Month Birthday, sweet, sweet boy.

O.P.R.A.H.

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

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

Consider it my new mission in life.

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

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

Me too.

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



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



And now, here is my baby:






Believe you me: he's awesome.

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