Oh Hey! I'm Pregnant!

It's amazing how quickly and interminably slow your second pregnancy goes.  Whilst I feel like I have been pregnant since the beginning of time (we found out the first millisecond we could possibly have conceived), I can't believe I am inching towards 30 weeks.  Since I assume I will go a little early (H was 10 days early, and I always measure a bit large), this could mean 8 - 10 more weeks of baby-carrying.  I'll blink and I'll be in labor once again.  How did we get here?

I've banished any "second-child syndrome" chatter from the house.  (It was getting out of hand, from lots of sources.  I feel for you, second children.  We firstborns apparently steal all of your parents' attention, all of your toys, your ability to think independently, your ability to speak as quickly as us, and probably will end up drop-kicking you a lot during your formative years.  We're pretty treacherous; but I promise you this, Newbie: not on my watch.  We'll figure it out together.)

(Also, your big bro is pretty spectacular.  Just keep an eye on him around your puffs.)

I've been nesting like crazy this week, and I hope that continues through delivery.  I've never been so productive, y'all.  I still haven't hit the third trimester wall, so I've got a lot of energy to make lists, clean out drawers, read Economics, attend playgroup, and read for pleasure.  I've been waking up at 6 AM each morning to jump-start the day (it is always wise to remain a few steps ahead of a two year-old), and it's actually been some wonderful bonus time.  By the time H stirs around 7ish, I've already checked several things off of my ever-expanding To-Do list.  

Hey!  Let's talk about weight gain.  Yeah...  Well, I am just pleased that I didn't put on TWENTY pounds in TWO months like I did the last go-round.  The weight has come on slow and steady, and I'm now up 30 pounds.  I can handle gaining 40 this time.  If we go for a third, perhaps I can actually stay in the normal weight-gain range!  But I've made my peace with it.  This is my body on pregnancy.  I feel good; I exercise; I eat my veggies.  (And all of the Klondike bars, but LAY OFF ME I'M STARVING.)

Where is all the weight going this time around?  My belly is GINORMOUS.  People say incredibly rude and/or presumptuous things to me all the time. ("Two more weeks, right?  "You must be counting the days, huh?" "You got two in there?"  "I can't believe you have that long - you look much further along!") Last night, I'm fairly sure my Econ prof thought my water was about to break in his class.  (It very well might, y'all.  It's a long semester.)

When class ended, a girl I hadn't met smiled at me and said, "Can I just tell you - I think you look beautiful!"  How kind.

And thank you, stranger, for reminding me what's really going on here.

La La Land

Things I did not do on our recent trip to Los Angeles:

1. Get drunk. (Crap, I miss drinking. I consoled myself thinking that before the end of the summer, I will get to drink a martini.  And a mojito.  And a vat of wine.  Sorry, baby.)
2. Sleep in, or even through most nights.  (We ended up bunking with our little man when we had to abandon our charming Santa Monica bungalow that reeked of CAT.)
3. Read a whole book.  (I did download a book on my Kindle though!  That's something right?)
4. Sunbathe in Malibu. (Instead, I sat on the beach with pants, a sweater, and a towel wrapped around me, rereading The Happiness Project.  The Pacific is cold, yo!)
5. Visit Hollywood Boulevard and the Chinese Theater to take a million more gratuitous snapshots of my hands in Jean Harlow's and Clark Gable's.
6. See Flavor Flav at a taping of Kimmel.  But any excuse to use this photo:

Things I did do on our recent trip to Los Angeles:

1. Got inspired!  I got to spend some real QT with this lady, who has been a source of inspiration for me since I saw her speak at a Pennsylvania Women's Conference years ago (I didn't know then that we had a mutual friend).  Plus, She is from Delco, my beloved county of origin. 
2. Journeyed to Manhattan Beach to meet one of J's good friends from high school and her husband. (Incidentally, also from Delco.  We're everywhere.)  She's also slowly taking over the world, and we may start working together soon.  Exciting prospects!
3. Spent lots of quality time with two good friends who are getting married in Greece this summer.  
4. Spent lots of time lamenting that we're missing the wedding and a bonus trip to Greece this summer.  (I swear I won't bring it up every birthday, Newbie.)
5. Attended a fancy cocktail party with a jet-lagged toddler who behaved like a true gentleman.  He was contained, engaging, and didn't break anything.  (He did ruin the look of the cheese plate by devouring all of the grapes, though.)  Aside: He probably was on his best behavior because Jeff Franklin was there, and likely sensed that this man could propel him into fame with a few key catchphrases.  (Now I might be projecting a little.  But squee!  Jeff Franklin!  A man who brought us so much joy on Friday nights as wee ones.  You got it, dude?)
6. Hightailed it out of the party by about 8 PM, discreetly running for the exits past a group of Deal or No Deal models when H blew out his diaper.  Ah, parenting.  Remember to keep a sense of humor and hyper-vigilance and you're golden.  
7. Drove through UCLA's campus, Bel-Air, Beverly Hills, Sunset Boulevard, and the Hollywood Hills.  I am a nerd for the Hollywood sign, and seek it out every time we visit for tons of photo opps.  I can't help it:

We also had great dinners out; enjoyed decaf coffee from The Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf, and regrouped.  I'm so glad J and I agree that vacations are absolutely essential to a happy life.  I always come back refreshed, rejuvenated, and ready to take over the world again.  What more can you ask for?  

Oh, it helps when toddlers behave on planes (Hendrik did great this go-round).  You can ask for that too.

TWO.

This morning you woke at 3:30.

"Mommy!  Mooommmmyyy?"  you yelled.

Thankfully your father bolted up to attend to you; he came back after ten minutes or so.

"Is he okay?" I asked sleepily.

"Yeah, he's just awake."

At 5 you yelled out again.  This time it was my turn.

"What is it, buddy?" I asked, stumbling in the dark.

"Want to go city," you said.  "Want to go airport."

Sweet boy.  We've been talking about our upcoming vacation so much, you can't sleep with anticipation.

Then you looked at me.  "Mommy put you hair up."  Typical.  You are very particular about my do, even at 5 AM.

I picked you up from your crib and noticed your PJs were wet.  I wrestled with you through a diaper change.  (You've been fighting a mean rash, which makes diapering a challenge these days.)  Then I picked you up again and we sat down in your chair to rock.

"Were you dreaming, bud?  What did you dream about?"

"GiGi go bye-bye," you said.  "I miss GiGi."

"It's okay," I tell you.  "We'll see her soon."

Within a few minutes, you are snoring.  Your thirty-two pound, 36-inch frame is crushing your baby brother or sister, who is wiggling inside my swollen belly.

And in that moment, I think: Thank you.

Thank you, sweet boy, for teaching me what it means to be a mother.  For showing me how to put your needs before my own.  For opening up my world to another level of joy; one in which I get to experience everything fresh through your eyes.  Thank you for being the brilliant, gregarious, charismatic, life force that you are.  Thank you for challenging me in new ways each day, forcing me to adapt, expand, grow, and be better.  Thank you for teaching me to slow down, to appreciate every solitary minute.  I'm aware every waking moment that time is fleeting - you're growing fast and there will come a time when you don't run to me for every boo boo  ("Mommy, kiss it!  That better now, Mommy.") and you don't stop what you're doing spontaneously and say, "Want to give Mommy hug."

Thank you for the games, the laughs, the tantrums, the frustrations, the daily routine.

Happy birthday, Hendrik.  Mommy and Daddy love you so very much.

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.

March Madness

I swear: I just wrote last week. But alas, the days seem to move more quickly now. Life with a toddler is INTENSE, y'all. One moment that kid is rubbing my shoulders and picking me flowers; the next, he is throwing "amby-truck" at me in a fit of rage and collapsing in tears of fury.

In. Tense.

Plus, there's that whole second pregnancy thing. I'm 18 weeks now! Huzzah! I am in the sweet spot where I am actually feeling semi-human, and also eating all of the ice cream in sight. So naturally, I'm packing on the pounds, but I'm still hopeful that I can reign it in soon. Enjoying my third bowl of Breyer's last night, I did tell J I should probably stop buying this stuff. Probably.

Li'l Wanya (hereby christened after I met Boyz II Men last week at the House of Blues), is doing great. I've got another highly-mobile baby, but all looks healthy and strong. And, a little secret between friends: methinks this is a lady-child. Something about this pregnancy feels different. I know, dudes, they are all different. But if I were a betting woman, my money would be on lass. We've got our 20-week ultrasound on April 3rd, but of course we are waiting til Li'l Wanya makes his/her painless and joyful arrival sometime in mid-August. Stay tuned.

What else? We're planning a trip to Los Angeles in a few months, shortly after H's 2nd birthday. I've also got to plan his birthday party, which is bittersweet. Our little boy is growing up so quickly; I wish our close family and friends could help us celebrate. Alas, we will celebrate with them in spirit, with a whole lotta candy and Elmo and trucks and cars up in here.

The blessed child is now awake and we've got to run to the Nissan dealership and then dinner and then I'm out into an adult world known as marketing class. The fun never stops, y'all! I'm just totally producing endless blog fodder these days, like did you want to discuss how I'm now freaked out by microwaves and I'm heating up leftovers on the stove and in the oven all damn day? We'll talk. I'm interesting!

Weekend Notes

Ah: Monday. I typically avoid Monday bitchery but today I woke with a headache that would not be banished by Tylenol, and some very terrible news about a close family friend. I knew a trip to the gym would provide a mood boost, but I was not prepared to enter the normally bucolic, child-free shower stall to see a used sanitary napkin strewn in the corner. May have to rethink bathing at the gym, y'all.

But despite this Monday blahness, we three had a wonderful weekend, complete with an actual night out for moi with some Dallas friends. Erin has been my cultural touchstone since moving to the DFW area. We met rather unconventionally, when our temporary apartment digs were apparently under seige by a lone gunman in an adjacent building (it was thankfully more boring that it sounds, guys). Erin was our neighbor, whom we'd never seen, and we started chatting as we gawked at the 20 or so odd police cars, bomb squad vehicles, and fire engines lining the block. I probably would not have invited her in for a beer (I'm just normally not that forward), but J had been living alone in Texas for weeks and weeks, and was sick of talking only to me.

And for that I am forever grateful to him, because Erin has been such a rockstar friend from day one. She is one of those people who truly enjoys life, and is thus up for anything. She's always inviting me to do interesting things: mojito-making classes; a weekend trip with her college chums to Lake Texoma complete with a spa visit and a night of karaoke and hard drinking at the GREATEST dive bar one could ever imagine, affectionately named: Ankles Up. She also hosts "Wine Night" at her place quarterly, to which she invites her amazing network of intelligent women to drink, eat, and talk about things unrelated to child-rearing. (Books! And academia! And other things!) Next month we're going to see Boyz II Men at the House of Blues. You see why I love this lady, right?

This past weekend it was a terribly erudite trip to the Dallas Museum of Art to see one of our favorite authors, Jeffrey Eugenides. If you haven't read him, I highly suggest picking up Middlesex and The Virgin Diaries. He was engaging, charming, and refreshingly funny. It was a great session followed by a book signing. Followed by me learning that David Sedaris is coming in April and OHMYGOD we have to see him, and the like. Being in a new place, away from family and friends, I can't tell you how much a night away like this means. It recharges me, allowing me to be a better mother and wife; and it reminds me of the person I used to be every weekend, when I could roam the city with a notebook, scribbling ideas; wandering into a museum if the mood struck, or perhaps seeing a movie in the middle of the afternoon.

It's nice to reconnect with that girl. I quite liked her, and I take comfort in the fact that she's never gone for good.

Nerd Alert.

I've told myself that I will write at least one post per week here. I know I have told you this before, but I am a dreadful multitasker. When I feel like my brain should be focused on my studies, I tend to laser-focus on my studies. This is good and bad. Good, because I just received an unsolicited LinkedIn recommendation from last semester's accounting prof, who wrote that I was one of the best students he's had in years! He went on to say that after struggling initially, I finished with the second highest average in a class of 67 students. It was such a wonderful confidence boost; I still can't believe that someone could be so kind.

Conversely, my obsession with graduate school is troubling because I am, well: obsessed. Last semester I logged a ridiculous amount of hours preparing for weekly accounting quizzes. (I know exactly how many hours, too, because I ACTUALLY LOGGED THEM.)

Though I am partly concerned with my GPA (and this is because, frankly, I'm not working. When I do re-enter the fray, I'd like to have something to boast about besides expert cloth diaperer and competent sleep-trainer); I am more consumed with gaining knowledge. It saddens me to become so proficient in one subject and know full-well that without daily practice, my skill level will plummet dramatically. So I attempt to squeeze out every last drop I can; to read every last sentence in the text several times if I must while I attempt to nudge the vast expanse of Saved by the Bell trivia in my brain, and make way for statistical regression and one-way ANOVA.

(You guys, I told you: OBSESSED.)

(And seriously? Ask me anything about SBTB.)

I need to come back to the blogosphere to unwind. I miss writing; I miss creating; and I miss recording our daily lives here, mundane as they can sometimes be. Mostly, I miss you, dear readers. It is lovely to know that there are still a few of you out there.

I feel lighter already. Now, important matters to discuss: what can we rename this here space? HomeValley Does Dallas?

Also, a few updates: I have removed America's Next Top Model from the DVR. You have no idea how many times my hormonal ass CRIED during eliminations and thought This isn't the end, girl! Go for your dreams!

Besides, when I started showing my 21 month-old son how to do a fierce runway walk, I think we reached an unsettling tipping point.

Oh! And yesterday, I ran into a woman at our play gym who asked how old Hendrik was ostensibly so she could tell me her ENTIRE birth story. Twas in a birthing center, which I deeply admire, and afterwards, I romanticized my next birth in my head. I could do it, I thought. I know what to expect from contractions, if I can just learn to control the pain, I could really do it.

And then, I slammed my finger in the laundry room doors while good old Hank was vacuuming (yes, yesterday marked a great turning point in my life when he actually took the vacuum from me and was pretty efficiently doing his business). I slammed my finger so hard in those doors that I was splayed on the floor in the adjacent dining room, holding the injured digit and WAILING in pain. Then I was running around the entire first floor, yelling and willing the pain to stop. I finally made it back to the kitchen and grabbed ice as a perplexed Hendrik stared at me (while continuing to vacuum, mind you).

"Mommy hurt her finger," I croaked. "Everything's all right."

Annndddd - we're going with the epidural, folks.

Hello? Y'all?

I've been away for what feels like eons. I don't know that I can pinpoint one reason. Is it the pregnancy, complete with hormonal bouts of the mean reds, nausea, and an alarming new muffin top? The demands of a ridiculously energetic and brilliant toddler, who counts complex sentences as his bitches and spends his days asking me for things like "a bit more milk?" The holiday season, complete with a two-week world tour of the greater Philadelphia region? The Advanced Stats course that began in earnest in January? The fact that I write on a blog called Queens is the New Manhattan, despite having not resided in New York City since - er - 2006? The fact that I can't get the italics to work in Blogger right now, and it is driving me MAD?

Lo, tis a devastating combination of all of these things. I am in desperate need of a rebranding (good thing I am also taking Marketing this semester, eh?), but I can't quite bear to leave all of my incoherent ramblings here behind. The time has come though, though the mama seems to have little time now that We or Oxygen or one of those dreadful women's channels runs complete seasons of America's Next Top Model every other day. And I am tired you guys: so, so tired. And drinking while pregnant is generally frowned upon, which is just incredibly unfortunate all around.

But never fear! Your HomeValley shall prevail in the second trimester, and we will - together - generate some great blog fodder. I just know it.

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.

16 Months.

I don't know where to start; how to capture you at 16 months.

You, my friend, are a marvel. Your dad and I tend to stare at you in rapt fascination. Did we really make him? Does his adorableness really know no bounds?

You are a pleasant, charming, gregarious little boy. You have been known to greet people by approaching them swiftly with your arms raised, so that they can pick you up and you can really investigate them.

You are focused, even serious, at this age. You concentrate on the task at hand, and you are driven. Last night, you helped me with the laundry. You systematically put each of your clean diapers back into the dryer after I had removed them. I didn't have the heart to tell you that that's not how it works. Thanks again for that, buddy.

You love planes and birds. When you hear either in the sky, your eyes widen and you point up, with your long inhale of breath sound of excitement and glee: "HUUUUUUUUUHHHHH!"

You are a man of few words; you prefer to screech. I have lots of videos of this, friend, and I will show future lady friends. You say mama, dada, Nonna, Mom-Mom, diaper, (deh duh), uh-oh, bye-bye, banana (NANA, always with enthusiasm), baby, star, milk (meh meh), and the like. The other day in the tub you said bubbles, and then, "Bubbles, mama!" and I screamed with delight and yelled for your dad who unfortunately was outside on a ladder and ran in panicked, thinking I had fallen again.

It was worth it.

Bubbles, mama.

You are a very happy kid, except when you are hungry or sleepy. When hungry, you whine until we realize what you're after. I think you are quite over our ineptitude though, and have taken to going to the pantry and retrieving the snack that you would like. This morning after breakfast, you brought me some apple sauce. "No, baby," I told you firmly. "You may have that for lunch."

I forgot about this until lunch time, when I asked you what you wanted to eat. You marched to the pantry and brought me the apple sauce. You got two servings; Mama was beyond impressed with your tenacity.

When sleepy, you literally collapse in a heap with woe, giant tears spilling from your big blue eyes, as if to say, Help me, parents. I just can't take any more of this; put me to bed immediately. We oblige.

You love sweeping, the vacuum (BAC! BAC!), and knocking over anything anyone builds ever. You prefer sifting through rocks and dirt to playgrounds. You are delighted by dogs and cats and when you see one, you either bark like a dog and run towards the animal, or SCREAM giddily and run towards the animal. Because of this, most dogs and cats find you very menacing. If only they realized the utter joy you feel upon recognizing them. Someday they will, baby.

You are confident. You are spirited. You march ahead, my intrepid explorer, rarely looking back for me. Sound is your kryptonite however; a Sing-a-ma-jig, a car alarm, even a baby's loud cry leaves you reeling, your lower lip protruding in the way that breaks my heart.

And your feet! Those toes! They are so scrumptious; I never stop talking about them. Only a mother can understand the true wonder of baby feet. Your big toe is a miracle, friend. Just trust me on this one.

Lately, you love to bounce around on Mama and Daddy's bed. You flip about, crashing into pillows and giggling. Then, you will jump on me, snuggle up, and coo, "Baaaby, baaaaby."

Yes, buddy. Always.

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.)

Terror, Explained.

Absolutely worth a read, from Shoshana Hebshi at Stories from the Heartland blog. I also had to repost what commenter Ian said, because I couldn't agree more.

See, the purpose of terrorism is to cause exactly this. “Terrorism” isn’t about killing people — it’s about terrorizing. That’s why it’s called “terrorism” and not “killing-people-ism.”

Killing people is a means to an end. The end is to destroy a society, by breaking down the rule of law and social contract. And we do this better than any other nation on Earth. We’ve gone from a light unto the nations, a place which may not have always done the right thing, but was always on the right path, to a place that is an example of a police state, a cautionary tale to other nations. And why? Because we have reacted in exactly the way that al Qaeda was hoping.

In doing so, we’ve proven that we are a PERFECT target for terrorism. A terrorist who attacks the United States gets EXACTLY the goal they want: a repressive, over-zealous, fascist security force which destroys the freedom and liberty that this country once had.

Once upon a time, people thought that “freedom” was a thing that you were willing to risk your life to fight for. This country was founded on the notion that you had to risk your security to guarantee your freedom — and that that is a bargain well worth making.

Now? We trade in all our freedom for a tiny bit of security, the act of a craven coward. And we harm other people in the process.

I am ashamed to be a citizen of a country where three people could be detained like that, because someone was afraid. Terrorism requires people to be terrified.

And the people who are terrified are craven. And willing to harm their fellow citizens because of their own terror.

It was never more visceral for me than a train ride to DC shortly after the attacks. An Arab-looking gentleman was clutching a paper bag tightly in the row across from me. He went to the bathroom once, then again. The second time, he brought his carry-on bag, and was gone for far too long. I sat paralyzed - utterly terrified - because I was sure that he was going to emerge with a bomb strapped to his chest. I was sure it was the end.

I did nothing. I just waited there: unmoving, heart pounding.

He came out wearing more casual clothes. Then he pulled a slice of pizza from the brown paper bag.

So yes, indeed, Ian. In that respect, the terrorists have won.

Back to School

I am not sure what my favorite moment from class was last night. Here are a few:

• The BO? She is intense. Last night I had to dab perfume on my wrists, hold them conspicuously in front of my face all night, and simultaneous concentrate on retaining the information and breathing through my mouth. Also, guy who has mastered the Silent-But-Deadly fart in the row ahead of me? Kudos, brother; but you're killin' me.



• Perhaps the moment when the professor was giving an example of coercive power, and yelled at the class to stand up? And she spotted a guy in the back row not standing, and she pointed at him and bellowed, "You! Get up! Why aren't you standing?!" And another student quietly informed her that he was physically unable to stand, what with that pesky wheelchair and all.



• Or, when, with fifteen minutes left in class, a woman in the front row (who had the distinction of talking more than me this round) shouted out: "Hey! Weren't we supposed to have a quiz tonight?" I am surprised texts didn't fly at her head; the collective groan was deafening.

At one point, our instructor asked for an example of empathy. A man in the corner raised his hand and began," When my mother died in the earthquake in Haiti..." You could have heard a pin drop. I spent the rest of the class sending him psychic hugs.

Three weeks in, and nary a dull moment. I'll take it, business school. I just wish it smelled more like roses.

Meanwhile, do you remember this dude?

He's like, 15 now or something.

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.

Things I Need To Complain About.

Oh, you guys. You know how sometimes you just need to get it out there, so you can let it go? Please forgive me this bratty indulgence. But here are some things I need to complain about, so I can be my normal sunny self again.

1. The HEAT. My loves, it is about a million degrees in North Texas. I am not exaggerating. The HEAT is like another clingy, irritating family member, because all of your decisions need to be made according to the HEAT. When can we go for a walk? We have to get out early to beat the heat. Did you want to go out at 5 AM? It is only 90 degrees at 5 AM. That should be great. Can we go to this outdoor event this weekend? No, it is going to be 108 degrees, our baby's face will melt and his curly mullet will disintegrate; further, why does any rational person in Texas plan anything in July or August anyway? Are they insane?!? Can you run into the house to get me a beer as I sit in the 90 degree pool that feels incredibly refreshing? Sure, just let me make sure I put my flip flops under my chair... Damn, I didn't. I will have to wait three hours while they cool, so I can dash into the house without my feet catching fire. Oh, you guys. The HEAT. Last night, J laughingly told me the forecast for this week: 110, 109, 108, 107, 107... I grabbed my phone to see for myself, because surely, he must be joking. He wasn't. Mercy. Also? The other night? Our downstairs AC unit wouldn't turn on (we keep the upstairs unit at 78 all day, on the first floor we only use the AC at night). J was all: Well, you'll have to call the home warranty company tomorrow. I was all: OH MY EFFING GOD J THERE IS NO WAY WE SHAN'T SURVIVE WE MUST FIX THIS IMMEDIATELY FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY. Praise Jesus I was able to fix the problem. To sum up: HEAT.



2. Pediatricians. I miss our Philly docs. I had a very traumatic experience with our new pediatrician's office at Hendrik's 12-month visit (it involved a blood draw, a screaming baby, a mama instructed to get on top of the baby to hold him down, an inept medical assistant, and THREE separate employees who did not listen to the mother who told everyone HE DOES NOT NEED THIS TEST HE JUST HAD IT. You see? Trauma.) Feeling like the worst mother in North Texas, I vowed to find a new ped the old-fashioned way. (Remember being pregnant? Remember those awkward interviews?) I asked for recommendations in playgroup. Yesterday, I called the first doc. The receptionist acted like I was straight-up nuts when I asked if I could schedule an interview. Um, no, we don't do that. I mean, we do prenatal interviews. If you are pregnant. You can come in and like, get a pamphlet. I clarified: you mean, the doctor would meet with me if I was pregnant, but not with a child living outside of the womb? I called a second doc at 4:15, and the office was closed; the message mentioned that any after-hours call to a nurse cost $10, not billable to insurance. Wha?? So do they collect credit card information before a nurse will answer a question about diaper rash? In Philly, our nurse line was amazing. You could call at anytime, and they'd always ease the fears of a nervous first-time mom. Le sigh.



3. Health "insurance". This I won't belabor, but we switched to a high-deductible health plan. Shit is expensive, guys, and wellness is supposed to be covered. But then they apparently changed the definition of "wellness" to "nothing". So yeah. Pretty much nothing is covered. I think you were on to something, Michael Moore.

How do you all find a new doctor? Am I insane for wanting to meet? Are babies outside the uterus all chopped liver?

Uh oh. I did all that complaining and I don't feel better yet. Someone tell me something good.

Because It's Wednesday...

And I am on hold with United Health Care, talking deductibles and labs and well-visits and, most specifically, why was this applied to the deductible, when clearly this is a routine lab part of a well-visit?

Some time later...

Well, if I worked for a major medical insurance company, and I had to tell my customer something they didn't want to hear, I too would blame "the universal health care reform". Well played, Mae. Well played.

Snippet time!

• I love autocorrect. Seriously want to marry it. Today I got a text message from J as H and I were on our way to meet him at My Gym for some free play time. "On my way. Had to take a deep tour." Dirty!


• Lo and behold, J's detour was to DFW airport - Granddad just happened to be bunking in Dallas for the night. Win for the whole fam! I also love random grandparent drop-ins. Hendrik was very excited as well.


• The only time our kid will nap for two hours is when we actively need him to be awake because we are really, really famished on a Saturday afternoon and would like to be at the sushi restaurant immediately. On those days, Hank is Rumpelstiltskin. But when Mommy just wants to sit down and watch DVRed episodes of So You Think You Can Dance, you can be sure he pooped and needs to be changed post-haste and would also like to run around his bedroom and throw books at my head.


• Finally, J is hiring peeps. A recruiter passed on a resume he thought J might like after he performed an initial candidate screen. J passed. The recruiter contacted the candidate to tell him J passed. His response? Ready?

(Are you sure you are really ready? It's good.)

"they why did you call me and email me in the first place. get your shit together."

Somebody hire this pragmatist ASAP.

Little Boy.

Some more shots from our Colorado trip...

Who is this little boy? What has he done with my baby? And why is he giving me the stink-eye?

Just two dudes, being adorable. Born a mere 80 years apart.

His pensive mountain look.

Playground on Cheyenne Mountain. Shots taken before a very spirited two-year old knocked him in the head with a bucket. Boy's mama proceeded to put the bucket in time-out. Because it totally was the inanimate object's fault.

Now, let's smile for the camera, Hank:

Fourteen month-old boys are truly the bee's knees.

I'm Your Candy Girl

I think we can all agree that the days of "relaxing" on a vacation are kaput once the babies arrive. The only breaks I had in Colorado were when little man was napping or asleep for the night. (Since J was not with us - he was at a conference in Seattle - I read. Oh, and it was glorious.)

But if I cannot relax on vacation as per usual, I can certainly reassess my life's goals, goddamnit. As with every sojourn away from home, I returned to Dallas with renewed purpose. This time, I decided to do something once and for all about my health.

Bob Greene (Oprah's "brother" and fitness guru) said earlier this year: "When you are motivated, you are out of excuses." Word, Bob. And when you have a young'un, you have a million excuses, not least of which is: I'm really fucking tired right now and I deserve this king-sized Snickers bar. Bitch.

I'm still about ten-ish pounds away from wedding weight, five pounds from pre-baby poundage. This is not the end of the world, and I feel pretty good. Unfortunately, my clothes are just ever-so-slightly too snug. You know the feeling? Oh for sure, I can button those jeans, but beware the muffin top. And I can squeeze into this sleeveless shirt from 09, but it is really pinching my wobbly arm bits.

We're a one-income family now, with a large mortgage and graduate school and an electricity bill that I opened a few days ago and said: "Wait. This must be two months of energy, right?" New clothes are just not an option right now, save the occasional top I buy at Target that falls apart after three washings.

So my mission: she is clear.

I have to get back to my fighting weight.

If there is one thing I love in this life, it is vodka JJ Abrams Coach Oprah Snickers sugar. And so I first decided to assess this addiction. I eat sweets constantly, particularly if I am feeling blue or bored or it's a day of the week. Recently, Hendrik and I ran out to Target and I returned home with a Snickers bar AND a Toblerone. I gobbled up the candy in 3 minutes flat. I did not feel good afterwards.

Lately, it's been ice cream and chocolate and caramel corn and chocolate and Heath bar on my Tasti D-Lite and chocolate. I have several frequent buyer cards stamped at the Marble Stone Creamery, and my mom left behind a wake of Twizzlers and M&Ms. In Colorado, my Far-Mor put sugar on fruit and fed me incredible pound cake and homemade whipped cream, as well as a steady supply of Dove chocolates.

Yet the scale hasn't budged. Imagine!

Aside from the L-Bs, I believe sugar may be a carcinogen. For sure, it causes a plethora of health issues (hello, diabetes). There is no nutritional value, only potential detriment. To this end, when someone tries to give it to Hank, I tend to react like they have offered him arsenic.

No, I am not cutting out all sugar (it's virtually impossible and I still want to have some fun), but I am looking very closely at my intake. I remembered hearing on one of those PBS infomercials that you should max out at 16g of sugar daily. To put this into perspective, my hazelnut coffee creamer has 9g in 2 tablespoons. One teaspoon of sugar = 4 grams.

I relaxed my standards a bit when I read that most docs recommend you do not exceed 32g daily, or 8 teaspoons.

Oh! And I rejoiced when I learned that most red wine has about .96g per 5 ounces. BOO YEAH.

It's been going well. I've been tracking my intake for a week now, and the highest I've gone is 34 grams. Most days I average 24. I dare you to start tracking your own intake. One tiny Nature's Path granola bar has 15 grams of sugar. This new focus is rocking my world.

My other health/fitness resolutions?

1. Get thee to the gym, at least 3 times per week. This is based on monetary concerns, because cash rules everything around me, y'all. I can't justify a $50 monthly expense unless I get my ass there. The fitness? Just a bonus. I've been taking Hendrik to the Kid's Club, which is wonderful for him. It gives him some independent time with other kids - and other adults - and he seems to really enjoy it. I've also been to several Sunday morning yoga classes, and I'm actually thrilled with the caliber of the practice there. I can't afford a studio right now, but I am very pleased with the instructors at LA Fitness. We've also been walking outside before 10 AM, at which time all Texans must be inside, lest your face melt off in the 120 degree temps. (Another post, my pets.)



2. Drink 64 ounces of water daily. I suck at this. But I am trying.



3. Cut out the booze. Did I tell you J got me a wine fridge? Slid it right into the kitchen where the trash compactor used to be. It is unspeakably awesome, yet lends itself to one to two glasses of pinot noir daily. For now, I'm saving vino for the weekends. So far, so good.



4. Take vitamins. Multi, calcium, D - what up??



5. Eat at least five servings of fruits and vegetables daily. You know when you really want a starchy carb or a pint of Ben and Jerry's? I have been reaching for cucumbers and celery with hummus instead. It sucks, and it makes me very cranky at first; but then I realize I am doing something good for my body, my health, and my son. And then it makes me only slightly less stabby.

Jada Pinkett Smith said in this month's Redbook (BTW, I don't remember subscribing to Redbook. It justs keeps coming every month and I keep reading. I think they just know I am over 30 and married with children and thus subscription is mandatory.) that for her, "food is fuel." I really like that. It forces me to ask myself what will nourish my body and make it work better? when all I long to do is curl up with a jar of Nutella and a spoon.

What about you all? Do you monitor your sugar intake? Any fitness resolutions this summer? And do you read and/or like Redbook? Do tell.