The Devil in Blue and Yellow

This past weekend we went to Ikea. I was really, really determined to get to Ikea. Since my precious baby will soon be ousted from his crib by Li'l Wanya, we need some big boy furniture, and quick. And because toddlers are super destructive little beasts, we don't want to spend a lot of cash.

Enter Ikea. My whole weekend: built upon getting to Ikea. Did I mention I really was completely batshit crazy about getting to Ikea this weekend? In addition to bargain, minimalist furniture, I romanticized that Hendrik could connect with his Swedish roots. Look, baby! Lingonberries!

(I spoke a lot about lingonberries as we got closer to Ikea. They remind me of being a child at my Far-Mor and Far-Far's house. After I mentioned them for the fifth time, J said: "You know they're just like cranberries, right?" God, he is so not Scandinavian.)

We finally arrived at Ikea late Saturday afternoon. We are still at the mercy of the child's afternoon nap, which is approximately 12 - 3 on any day we wish to go somewhere at a certain time. So we entered Ikea's massive parking lot around 4 PM, and I was taken aback by all of the cars.

"God, don't these people have anything better to do than be at Ikea on a gorgeous Saturday afternoon?" I remarked to J, without irony.

Oh my God, guys. Ikea. It is a fucking soul-sucking, hellish pit of soul-suckiness. There were 8008709 people there. They were everywhere. And the signage! There are like, secret passages to get where you are going. And we couldn't find them! And we were walking in circles! And H was running away! Our stress-levels escalated quickly. We grabbed a $10 wooden train set for H and decided to high-tail it out of there. Only, in Ikealand, they don't let you high-tail ANYWHERE. They make you work for it and walk past the miscellaneous stuff. You know, all the crap you don't really need but they somehow seep into your fragile psyche at this point and you find yourself loading up on wooden salad bowls and trays.

We followed signs for the checkout. We walked for miles, and Hendrik was agitated by now, and every mile marker I would spot an idle employee in yellow, and beg, "Please? Where is the checkout?" And they would smile malevolently and tell us we were headed in the right direction.

And then we arrived - at the SELF checkout. The lines were hideously long, and these animals had more than 15 items in their carts! We had two things. My gallant husband put these things down and said: "We can order this online - we need to get out."

But wait! They seriously had the exits blocked and locked and fixed with ALARMS. The only way out was through the checkout line. Evil Swedes!

We made it out alive. My pregnant feet were aching. We had survived.

When we arrived home, J got to preparing the turkey burgers (and hard drinking) and I told him I needed to lay down for a moment. Hendrik followed me into the living room imploring: "Choo choo? Want choo-choo train? Wanna play choo choo train!"

J and I glanced at each other, panicked, and I grabbed my son's hands and said, as calmly as possible: "Honey, I'm so sorry; Mommy and Daddy didn't get the choo choo. We'll have to wait a little bit longer, but we will get you the choo choo."

The boy collapsed in a swell of tears and naked emotion. "NOOOOOOOOOOO!" He writhed on the floor. "WANT CHOO CHOO!" He sobbed.

I couldn't help it: I started sobbing too.

For the first time in his 22 months, we had let him down. We had been so irritated, we hadn't bothered to tell him we weren't going to buy him the choo choo. We hadn't done it to avoid a tantrum; we had acted impulsively and hadn't considered our son's expectations and feelings.

He was just so: hurt. I saw the future: there will be other hurts, and they will be heart-crushing for his parents to witness. I love him so fiercely; perhaps I should just keep him inside the house for the rest of his life? I will make him a whole room full of choo choos.

He calmed down. It took me much longer to stop crying. We sat on the couch watching airplane videos on YouTube while I hugged him and apologized and told him how much we love him. I vowed in my mind to never blindside him again. I suppose, in the end, it was a worthy lesson.

This post brought to you by Ikea: Where Dreams are Dashed and Families Are Torn Apart.

Fin.

Happy Halloween It Was.

Greetings, friends!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Second: We might be alcoholics.

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

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

Frazzled.

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

Adjusting.

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

(I kind of suck at accounting.)

(I'm not just saying that.)

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

And still. I worry it's not enough.

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

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

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

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

A New Season

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

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

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

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

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

Informal poll this Monday morning: Divorce?

Ten Years

Today, I fell in the shower.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I listened to it.

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

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

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

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

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

I hope.

Blogger Woe - Need Guidance.

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

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

Thanks, loves. Happy weekend.

Twister!

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

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

Until the ferocious wind nearly knocked me down.

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

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

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

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

To which J replied, No, the bathroom.

J, there are windows in the bathroom.

No, Snooze's bathroom.

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

Obviously, a solid plan.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Welcome to Texas, y'all. Eff me.

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

Everything's Bigger in Texas.

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

Very dramatic, this blogging. Obvi.

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

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

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

(See, everything is BIGGER in Texas.)

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

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

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

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

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!

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.

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.

The Front Porch and A Time Machine

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


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


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


Suddenly, I was terribly sad.


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


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


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


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


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

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

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

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

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

BAB Project Week 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.

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.

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.