The Mom Stays in the Picture.

We got family photos done last Saturday.  Here is a sneak peek:

Have you read this?  I think about this ALL THE TIME.  I think the title of the article has become my new mantra.  I find myself repeating it in my head any time I feel uncomfortable with my body.

The mom stays in the picture.

And looking through the shots of our family - at this point in time - well, we are genuinely happy, numbers on a scale be damned.  I look at my face and I don't see extra baby weight.

I see JOY.  Pure joy. 

Why would I ever not allow a camera to capture that?

(AND OMG TINY LITTLE PUMPKIN FACE NOM NOM NOM)

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.

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?

20 Weeks, and the Ninja Won't be IGNORED, y'all

Squee! Ultrasound pictures!

I just created a photo album on Facebook entitled: "The Mighty Ninja." I included only the 4D image of the Ninj. I tagged J. Someone promptly "liked" my new album.

Then I quickly deleted the whole she-bang.

I don't know why. It just felt too personal. Like maybe 400 Facebook friends shouldn't see my uterus. And my baby's shoulder. And the giant HomeValley head.

I save that for you guys. My real friends. That space is Ninja's, and I suppose I decided that that space will remain his/her. Until birth.

So, the Ninja emerged with a vengeance this week. I hopped on the scale at Friday's prenatal still high on receiving the single greatest compliment any prego can hope to receive: "My, you are so cute! You look like you swallowed a basketball!"

Quite.

So imagine all hints of smugness and hubris being sucked from the room when the numbers kept going up.

And up.

And TEN pounds in 3.5 weeks later, the Ninja let his/her presence be felt. The Ninja is starting to resemble a young Chuck Norris.

Since I had only gained an adorable six pounds since learning I was with blessed child, the doctor assured me that ten pounds in a month was okay. She did warn me, however, that if I packed on another ten in one month, that we'd have to chat.

Thus, my love affair with the gym begins again in earnest. Because it's not like I can deny Ninj his/her Snickers bars. What kind of mother would I be?

Also of note? I am in Syracuse, preparing to watch Julie and Julia. This frightens me, as I fear the film will make me ravenous.

Also? I just turned off Baby Boom, as I got so annoyed with the entire premise of it. Let me recap: J.C. is a career woman. She graduated first in her class at Yale, and has a Harvard MBA. But alas, she is married to her job. The narrator WARNS us at the film's onset NOT TO BE FOOLED BY APPEARANCES OF GIANT SHOULDER PADS AND CAREER SATISFACTION. (Even J.C.'s moniker hasn't a scant trace of femininity. She may even have a penis. All she cares about is WORK.)

You see, J.C. is terribly unfulfilled, and she doesn't even know it. Not until a baby is dropped in her lap and she has to quit her job because she can't hang with the big dogs anymore. Really, what she has always wanted to do is make baby food from a quiet house in the country anyway. The end.

And that is why the 80s was a hot fucking mess for women. Hey now, I've read Backlash.

What say you, women and men alike? I want to qualify my statements: there is nothing wrong with birthing babies (you know I'm into it). There is nothing wrong with staying home to raise your babies. But on the other hand, there is nothing wrong with NOT birthing babies. Moreover, there is nothing wrong with birthing babies AND continuing to work to provide for them. Happiness is personal. Do you hear that, 1980s filmmakers? Enough with the scare tactics and blatant agenda-pushing. (I'm lookin' at you, Fatal Attraction director Adrian Lyne.)

Now, if you will excuse me, I need to find some chocolate bars with almonds. For the baby.

Night.

And Now, A Very Special Episode of QITNM.

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

*waiting*

Girls, I want to talk about bikini waxes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Am. Crazy.)

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

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

So it was my fate.

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

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

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

Right?

The One With All The Groundhogs

Remember when I sent out those damn holiday cards late last year, and I detailed all of the colored responses I received? No? Well, review here.

Please note that these cards are sent to my rather large database automatically. That's why before I knew what was happening, I had sent out a Groundhog's Day card to thousands. Mortified, I immediately shut down all of my "automatic mailers." Because fucking groundhogs dancing around on an e-card? Does not exactly scream professional to me.

Incredulously, the masses seemed to appreciate my Groundhog Day greetings! Well, five or so responded, "Um, same to you."

Except Crazy McParanoid, unfortunate wife of a card-recipient, who emailed me this:

I'm not sure as to why you would be sending my husband e-cards. Some how this was sent to me.I let the Christmas card go thinking not much of it , but now I would like to be told if there's anything I should be aware of. I realize he is my husband and hold no acountablility on your part. (just want some answers women to women)

Awesome, right?

Hypervigilant, suspicious wife: 1
Institution of marriage: 0