End of an Era: End of the Errors?

John and Doodle, MA ~ May, 2010

Considering the major life change that is John, Doodle's adjustment to her little brother has been relatively smooth. I spent a ton of quality time with Doodle before John was born. Namely because I knew things would be different once our new roommate arrived and also because at the end of my pregnancy, all I could do was lie in bed on my side. Doodle loves nothing better than a still, warm snuggle companion. After John was born, I read in my baby books that you're supposed to limit the time you spend with your animal friend before the infant comes home in order to prepare her. Oh well. I guess I'll just add this to the list of several well-intentioned parenting mistakes I'll make along the way.

Doodle was terrified of John at first, not sure what to make of this wiggling, crying thing that smelled weird and seemed to be everywhere: on the bed, in the basket, on the table, in the swing, in the bouncy seat, with Mom. Always with Mom. But once she realized the squirming twerp wasn't a threat to her safety, she relaxed a bit and went on with her life, a little hungrier for food and attention.

Most readers know that Doodle cat uses a toilet instead of a litter box, something I trained her to do over ten years ago with incredible results. I basically moved her litter box into the bathroom, put it atop the toilet, then switched it with a mixing bowl filled with litter, and finally, used some plastic wrap with a hole in it, the litter scattered on top to direct her where to go. And voila!Over the decade, she's had an 85-90% success rate, even managing to poop and pee in strangers' toilets when we've traveled to Massachusetts or Vermont. The problem has been, however, that when she makes a mistake (or an intentional mistake), it's often a costly one in terms of money, effort, and frustration for both of us.

On Monday, Doodle peed in the toilet and I gave her cheers, per usual. Later on, JD's Mom and brother came over to see the baby. JD was in the bedroom on the phone, and Doodle was running around acting a little crazy. Generally I pay close attention to her activity to thwart any potential rogue doo doo bombs, but I was entertaining. I assumed she was running to and fro because she had just done her #2 business in the can and was due another round of praise. I was wrong.

JD screamed out from the bedroom. I rushed in with a "What? What?? What???" He was in shock, and all he could muster was a gesture toward the clean comforter which, in my corner of the bed, now contained a little nest of logs compliment of Doodle cat. In her confusion over the number of guests fawning over the new roommate whom has stolen her thunder since March, she flipped and failed.

With the comforter clean and no "Bad kitty!" reprimands, I'm finally coming around to the idea of providing Doodle with her very own litter box so both of us don't endure the potty time stress anymore. She's a wild animal (wilder than most) with an intelligence, sophistication, and grace which surpass most homo sapiens, and I'm so proud of her. I think it's time I honor her with a box of dirt she can toss turds around in just like her peers. And if she wants to act like a lady and dump in the can once in awhile, that's fine too.

Viva Doodle!

Got Pride?

~

Diana Davies photographs, 1965-1978 ~ Christopher Street Liberation Day, NYC~ 1971

Let's Face It

Having a baby is a good reason to buy this kind of crap so you can put your baby in it and say, "Wow! Look how cute my baby is lovin' this crap that I bought for him (with giftcards)!" Doesn't John need a beach chair and umbrella? At 20% off? I think so. It gets pretty bright in my apartment in the afternoon.

I'll Be Fit as a Fiddle in No Time Thanks to Sans

He found someone (a very cute someone) to jog for me.

Thanks, Sansy! I'll drink to that!

He Likes to Splash It Splash It

John, NYC~ June 22, 2010

When the Baby's Away the Cat Will Play

This little piggy went to market
This little piggy stayed home
This little piggy had roast beef
This little piggy had none
This little piggy cried weeeeee all the way home


And


This little family took a train to visit friends in the Philadelphia area this weekend. There we thoroughly enjoyed exotic suburban luxuries such as central air, washer and dryer, finished basement, SUV, and a big back yard with a kiddie pool. We didn't take Doodle cat with us.

Since we left late Friday afternoon and were scheduled to return early on Sunday morning, I didn't think I'd need to get a friend to come over to check on Doodle. I always worry about her when I'm away, but I reminded myself that one day by herself isn't a big deal. She's a former alley cat for cryin' out loud, she can handle it. Plus, it generally takes two full days of being alone and bored before she freaks out, and she had more than enough food and water to cover one full day by herself. Before I left for work, I gave John's Daddy (I'll call him JD) a Doodle Checklist, which he followed to a T:

• Put up the step ladder (for her enjoyment)



• Close the bedroom door (to discourage a rogue turd expedition)



• Open a window (for ventilation)



• Close the drapes (to keep it cool)



• Keep the closet door open (she likes to sleep in there)

Remember that JD was not only preparing Doodle for our departure, but also packing up Baby John for his first visit to Philly. Anyone who knows anything about babies understands that getting out of the house with a baby is challenging no matter what. Because they can't pack for themselves. Or walk. And they require a lot of odds and ends and bits and pieces and you have to anticipate which ones will be required during your stay. Diapers, formula, burp cloths, clothing, extra clothing for barfed-on outfits, toy, white noise machine, car seat, etc. And since we don't have a car, travelling with a baby is extra complicated and obstacle course-y, because we must carry everything we're bringing with us on our backs.

Lucikly we travel well together and are getting good at it. The journey out was smooth, the journey back even smoother, and a great time was had by all. John got to "swim" in his first swimming pool, sleep in his first Pack 'n' Play, and JD got to celebrate his first Father's Day. My only regret was not eating breakfast at the house before we left because by the time we got back to the apartment, I was ravenous. And of course, curious how Doodle fared in our absence.

As I put the key in the door, JD said, "I wonder if there are 50 million turds in the house."

"I don't know," I said as I turned the key. "Maybe she surprised us."

She surprised us, alright. The smell in the house was not good. Sure, it was hot and humid, and presumably the cat had done at least some of her business in the toilet, but it had only been the one full day. Soon Doodle appeared, content and relaxed, which is a nice change from most cases after I return from a weekend away wherein she greets me at the door frantic and meowing. Now John, no longer distracted from the taxi ride, made it clear that he was hungry, so I had to get it together for him. I pulled a bottle out of the diaper bag, and as JD brought in the rest of the stuff, I went to the bathroom to flush the toilet and eliminate the stench so that John --and eventually we--could eat lunch in a pleasant setting.

At the bathroom's entrance, I was stopped dead in my tracks. Doodle played her own version of the World Cup this weekend. Not with a ball, but with a substantial mouse. And evidently, the mouse lost. Big time.

Look closely at this picture--as hard as it may be--because there's a lot going on. Exhibit A, obviously, is the mouse, taking front and center stage apparently having died a thousand violent deaths. The toilet in the back is chock full of waste, compliments of Doodle. Good girl! Mid-ground is a jingle ball, which may have been a part of the World Cup Game or found itself on the field later. Assorted spots on the ground are fur: mouse, cat, or both. The picture which had been sitting against the wall to be ultimately hung up (and then I went into labor) is askew from the scuffle. Doodle herself is on the side of the tub, so stoked to show off her kill that she can't get out of her own way.

I did a 180 degree turn when I saw this cat and mousy show and screamed for help. JD cleaned up the crime scene (and took this picture) because I couldn't handle it. Suddenly, I wasn't so hungry anymore. I ran to the kitchen to get the paper towels and bleach, and lo and behold, the kitchen door was wide open! In JD's haste to remember everything for Doodle and John, he had forgotten to bolt the back door. Thus, the wind blew it open at some point over the weekend, and Doodle had her run of the place, inside and out. For hours. Approximately 48 hours. Nope, she hadn't found that mouse in my house, she went down 8 flights to the laundry room and out the window to get it, and bring it back up for a good time.

No wonder she was so calm and collected when we got home. She didn't miss us one bit. In fact, she's definitely wondering why the hell we lock the back door at all when life is so much more interesting when her square footage of living space is increased and she can roam as she pleases. Had Doodle not found a mouse, she'd without a doubt have the " Gone Huntin' " sign up when we returned. And had she caught more than one, this joint would've turned into full-on Apocalypse Nimh.


Now back to the photograph for more fun facts. In the tub you can see John's blue playmat, which Doodle peed on earlier in the week and turned into a pissmat. I washed it, and it was hanging on the side of the tub to dry when we left for Philadelphia. But in the mouse melee, it must have ended up in the tub. I pictured the trembling mouse hiding in the mat's folds, Doodle with her paw placed firmly on top. When I went to tidy up the bathroom after JD disposed of Doodle's prize, I whisked up the mat to find approximately 50 million mouse turds flanked by a mega bonus of what I can describe only as a trio of organ meats, delightfully stewing in their own sauce which had coagulated and rendered the gizzards so stuck to the tub that I couldn't pick them up with a dry paper towel. There was also something resembling a tendon in the mix that was particularly stubborn to remove, resisting my grip with the stretchiness of a rubber band. Ahhhhhh eeeeeeeeeee yahhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!


When did the disemboweling happen? Before or after Mr. Mouse found himself on the tile floor? Was he so scared of Doodle the Ripper that he literally crapped himself to death in the tub? What's more thrilling, the chase or the kill? What's tastier, the heart or the liver? Was there mouse roux in the pile of Doodle's barf on the carpet this morning? I don't know, I don't know, I don't know, I don't know if I want to know. What I do know is that everyone had an amazing weekend. Well, almost everyone.

Someone's Not Thrilled About Her Baby Brother

Doodle, NYC ~ June 17, 2010

We left John's playmat on the floor and Doodle decided to play on it, changing its name. Pissmat.

Weird Wedding Photos Part MCLMMVMXMMVM

Remember this crappy series? Well, it's wedding season, folks! And the perfect time for a re-introduction. Enjoy.

My Cousin Went to Hooters: A Review

My cousin went to Hooters last night and said there were "lots of hooters."

There you have it.

Kid Farm

The Party's Over

It seems like yesterday that I had a bun in the oven and was waddling around in the cold and getting into fights on the subway when folks wouldn't give up their seats for my pregnant arse. Now the baby's been born, my maternity leave is over, the warm weather is here, and I'm officially back to work.

Not many mothers yearn to leave their children with others so they can bring home the bacon, but it's a fact of life that I have to work. I miss my baby something terrible; we were inseparable for 12 months, afterall. But in the interest of Embracing the Positive Side of Life so You Don't Kill Yourself, I've realized there are some upsides to leaving the house.

One is getting off the sofa and away from the television set. I'm certain I watched every episode of every program on basic cable more than once. I saw so much t.v. I actually witnessed someone win the double showcase on the Price is Right (11 am EST on CBS). That doesn't happen very often, folks--the contestant has to be within $250 of the cost of her showcase to win both, okay? And this woman was off by $151--so... it's clear I put some serious hours into the boob tube while John put some serious hours into my boob boobs.

Another upside to being a working mother is engaging in face-to-face conversations with everyday people from all walks of life over the age of 0-3 months. Sure, mommy groups are nice (I had the chance to join one when I was back home visiting my parents), but the topics of discussion rarely stray from what new Moms are all dealing with 24 hours a day: a parasitic eating, eliminating, sleeping and crying machine who has suddenly developed baby acne and may not be getting enough tummy time--is he normal? Will this last forever? Sure, it's important stuff, and you want to know you're not alone, but sometimes you just want to hear about a great new restaurant--that doesn't have crayons on the table and sawdust on the floor-- that someone --not wearing a burp cloth on their shoulder-- had the chance to eat at recently.

What else? Well, leaving the house to go to work is a good reason to put on pants. And a little makeup, maybe run a brush through the hair. My apartment was a pants-free zone for a long time, because John and I lived on the bed, most everything we needed within arms reach. I wore a Men's XL t-shirt and John a diaper and "putting myself together" meant tossing on a robe before I answered the door for the man delivering the take out cuisine du jour.

Now that John practically sleeps through the night, the house and I are a little less messy and a little more ready for our close ups. Three months later, the baby has almost doubled his birthweight and I've already lost over half the pounds I've gained. I'm not back to my pre-pregnancy shape, and I'm not sure if I'll ever get back there, but I am finding some things in the pre-John wardrobe that fit reasonably well enough to be seen on me in public. And the public, generally, has been quite kind, offering up sentiments like, "You don't look like you just had a baby," and other crocks of shit that I'm all too happy to buy.

Last Thursday, I wore one of my red dresses from my old life which is made of fabric with a little give and has chic little "distracting pleats" in the mid-section. I was so pleased with my appearance, my reflection in the mirror almost convinced me for a nanosecond that I didn't have a baby who happened to be gurgling adorable things just a few feet away as I got dressed. Almost.

On my way home from work, I decided to visit the nail salon near my office for a touch up on the old eyebrows which hadn't been weeded in awhile. I hadn't been there since February when I got a pedicure at eight months pregnant because I couldn't see my toes. When I walked in, I was greeted by the salon owner with a big smile and enthusiastic hello, and all the ladies gathered around to see baby pictures and ask questions about John. Then the salon owner pushed my tummy and said, "You jog."

"Oh, well, yeah..." I shrugged, deflated.

And again, she pushed with her finger. Poke poke. "You jog." And she did the jogging motion with her arms, in case I didn't understand in her broken English that I'm now a fat ass.

"Yeah," I sighed, "I'll get there..."

"Because before, you sooooooooo theeeeeeeeen. And now," she gestured with her hands to make a big belly, "you soooooo..... beeeeeeeeeeeeg." Poke poke. "You jog." Jogging motion.

"Ok."

"Ok?" Poke poke. "You jog." Jogging motion.

"Ok."

I'd go kill myself, but I've got a baby to take care of. Meantime, I'll find someone to jog for me.

Why This Item is No Longer Available

Is because it's freakin' gorgeous!

I met a bride-to-be recently and this is her wedding ring. Paloma Picasso for Tiffany.

Apparently she got it just in time before all the other bitches snapped 'em up because now they're done sold out, yo.

He Likes to Move It Move It

John, NYC ~ May, 2010

It's Sink Season Everywhere

Doodle - Beverly, MA ~ May, 2010

That's me, the terrycloth clad photographer, reflected in the spout.

The Hospital Bills Are Rollin In

www.marriedtothesea.com

Separated at Birth?

I don't recall delivering another baby on John's birthday, but the likeness is uncanny, no? Here he is pictured wearing a gift from Grama Altman, a camo-inspired swaddler which essentially calms a newborn the farg down as it reminds them of the close and comfy quarters in the womb before their violent eviction. Too much exposed space in their new orbit freaks them out, and they whack themselves in the face and wake themselves up. 'Round these parts, we call the swaddle "fabric jail." Sometimes John fights getting in to (and out of) fabric jail, but he likes it. And since he's discovered his hands and the joy of sucking them over the past week, he's not punching himself in the grill as much, which is good. I guess?He's also smiling a lot, cooing and gurgling lots of important things.

I spent a few weeks with the Family Altman in MA where I arrived with a wee baby, and I've come back to NYC with a little boy. Who happens to look exactly like a Fisher Price Little People person. But is bigger, warmer, softer, and wigglier. And louder. And more expensive.

But cuter...

Weeee!

Love From Canada

A most delightful quilt (with matching almost too-good-to-use burp cloths) made for John with love by the uber talented Lisagh at Grosgrain Garage.

The Story is a Little Different But the End is the Same

Doodle's Home (That *&^$%# Jerk)

A third sleepless night and I was compelled to go down to the courtyard with a can of Fancy Feast to look for Doodle. She must be hungry for easy food now. I unlocked the basement door to complete quiet and no signs of her, but when I turned the corner, there she was. Just sitting near the side of the building, wild eyed and small, apparently in mid-stalk of some rodent.

I called to her, and she responded to me. But when I cracked the can open, she trotted over. That's when I scooped the jerk (a very light jerk, I must add; doesn't seem like she ate too many meeces on her adventure) up in my arms and briskly walked up the 8 flights home.

She just ate the can--which she ate in an undignified way straight out of said can--in the kitchen sink and now is looking for a dark quiet place to sleep it off. Being that it's 5 in the morning, there are a lot of these places right now but she knows that soon enough the sun will rise and she'll be bored out of her tits again with her partner of 10 and 3/4 years.

Until the next expedition, I'm going to catch some precious shut eye. Between Doodle and her little brother's antics, I'm a little spent over here.

The Hirt Locker: The Soundtrack for Doodle's Latest Escape

Al Hirt with Java.

Somehow picturing Doodle running around Manhattan to this tune comforts me.

Doodle Was a Rollin' Stone (That &%$#@ A**hole)

Have You Seen Me?

Doodle, NYC ~ March 18, 2010

This Just In: Doodle Ran Out

Last evening I had the front door of the apartment open to catch a cross breeze. Doodle slipped out into the hallway at some point. Generally she doesn't go far other than up and down the stairs a bit because she has no access to the street from that exit. Unfortunately, as of this afternoon, she hasn't reappeared. Did she go out for a pack of smokes never intending to return? Is she running around Chinatown? In an airplane on her way to Puerto Rico? Dead in a ditch? We shall see. Keep your fingers crossed that John's big sister comes home soon. I'm sick about it.

Thoughts While Breast Feeding Typed With One Hand

He looks so sweet. A boy. My darling boy. I hope he doesn't turn out to be a serial killer or a rapist or something. I will be so disappointed. And frankly, embarrassed.

I Once Had a Blog Now I've Got a Boy

John and Doodle, NYC ~ 4/8/2010

Landing on un-updated blog is as about as unappealing as pulling back the drapes to find a sticky grey hair ball glued halfway on the carpet/halfway on the hardwood, wouldn't you say?

I'm catching a few minutes here at 4:30 am while my two-month old son's Zantac kicks in. That's right, the kid's got reflux. We found out today at the pediatrician that this stuff is to be given prior to a feeding so John stops barfing up his dinner. I plopped him little green swing wrapped up like a burrito, his pie hole plugged with a pacifier, and he's making fussy, hungry I'm dissatisified with this fake boob which doesn't produce milk grunting noises.

Doodle's also making weird sounds. She has to take a dump, so she's running around the apartment crying. She knows where the toilet is, it's simply that she'd rather poop like the big cats in a pile of dirt--or Tidy Cat--which we don't have over here at Two Can Anne. So I'm shuuushing the boy, I'm shuuushing the cat...wait, okay, Doodle just flew out of the bathroom with a gutteral howl, she's officially finished with her business.

It's a pretty busy place around here this morning, aren't you glad you checked in?

We also learned at the doctor's that the rash on John's face which began as a few cute pimples and then traveled all over his head and upper torso is completely normal, just upsetting for first-time parents and innocent onlookers. Although there's a prescription for hydrocortisone and heavy moisturizing, allegedly it will just go away. Essentially, babies's systems are sensitive and wackadoo and they "just get stuff." Encouraging.

Having a kid is kind of like having a plant. And the name of the game is Keep It Alive. The difference is that your plant is wicked expensive, and when it gets aphids, and Miracle Grow doesn't work, you can't just throw it out for the trash man and buy a new one. So when your plant cries at 4 in the morning you can't ignore it; you have to change its diaper, grease it up with Desitin, olive oil and hydrocortisone, give it Zantac, walk it around, put it in a bouncer, put it in a swing, put a plug in it, play childish music to it, flash colorful toys in its face, and breastfeed it, supplementing with formula. Repeat every three hours.

And when you feel like hurling it out the window, you remember that you signed a paper in the hospital promising you wouldn't shake your plant. Plus, your plant just got a Social Security card in the mail so people might notice if you suddenly didn't have a plant anymore.

Ok, well it appears as if I've distracted my plant from breakfast long enough, so I must go. I've decided from now on seize the minutes in the wee hours of the morning waiting for John's Zantac to kick in--and Doodle to relieve herself--to blog. But there's so much to write about, and so little time. I need some structure, an assignment, so to speak, in order to make this work, so why don't we make the next few posts interactive? What else do you want to know about what's poppin' (or poopin') at Baby Barftown USA? Ask your questions the comments, and I'll try to find time to answer some of them.

Fisher price forever, yo.

Thank Dog It's Frogday

John, NYC~April, 2010

Parenthood 101

Last night I dangled my 3-week old son John's ass under the tub spout.

I cradled his head and arms while his Daddy got his legs, and we hosed off his junk to remove the explosive poo that had gotten seemingly everywhere but his face. This move isn't something they teach you in childbirth and newborn courses; it's an audible you call when the shit that goes down isn't in the playbook, and this time, the shit literally went down.

In class we learned how to create a birth plan and to be flexible about it, which we were, and as it turned out, had to be, but I'll expand on John's delivery in another post. We weren't prepared, however, for the fact that our son would spend only a few hours as a "well baby" and over a week as a "sick baby" in the hospital's neonatal intensive care unit (NICU). As harrowing as the Ass Dangle may sound, it's a far cry easier than changing and feeding your newborn --let alone hold him--when he's covered in wires attached to machines and spending his days and nights toasting in a bread warmer.

The doctors aren't exactly sure what caused the hypoglycemia and subsequent seizure that kept John in the NICU for a week. While specialists and nurses scrambled to get his nutrients in check, his Dad and I traveled back and forth to the hospital everyday to visit him, scrubbing up and donning johnnies to hold him, change him, and feed him until we were kicked out at night just to do it all over again the next day. The experience was, in a word, rough, with many ups and downs along the way. But gallows humor, support from family, friends, and the expertise of hospital staff got us through-- and John out of there-- finally.

This episode clearly tarnished the shine of being a first-time mother a bit and prevented me from blogging like I had intended to, but what's important is that he's home now, a "well baby," healthy and happy, eating, sleeping, and crapping--and looking impossibly cute doing it-- like a champion. And tonight, when we were confronted with another one of baby's renegade doo doo bombs, his Daddy's instincts kicked in, and he cut off the bottom of John's onesie to remedy the situation--again, another off-the-cuff idea. And for now, all's well in Babytown. More soon, I promise.

Ok, This Isn't About Babies But

Death metal version here.

Off Topic, Sure

But if you're lookin' for some crappy clam diggers, capri pants, and other crappy crap, look no more!

You like embroideries? You like lighthouse embroideries? You like lighthouses embroidered on clam diggers? Get the hell out of here and get thyself to Bonworth!

www.bonworth.com

After These Messages We'll Be Right Back

Doodle Meets John. NYC ~ 3/24/10 - 3/30/10

Meet John!

John Altman Sellar

born 8:33 p.m. Sunday, March 14. 8 pounds 7 ounces 21" long

It's a Boy!

Details to follow.

Love,
Anne and Doodle

If I Don't Have This Baby on Wednesday

Crimson and Clover

Tommy James and the Shondells, The Ed Sullivan Show, NYC ~ 1969

Shamrock Authorities Differ

A little good luck with that cig.

Willis's Cigarettes, 3rd Series of 50

Ultrasound Says

As of today, we're working with an 8 pounder.

Turkeys are 8 lbs!

8 lb turkey.

Turkey!

One Year Ago This Week

Me and People, Vermont ~ March, 2009

I celebrated my birthday in Vermont with cross country skiing and my ritualistic ragging on the obnoxious folks listed in The New York Times Wedding Announcements. No cross country skiing for me this year; these days if I find myself on my back I scrabble around like a cockroach struggling to flip myself over. I can't sit for very long in one position either. I can, however, still read.

One Week From Today

Is the day that Operation Baby Drop* is supposed to happen. Now I'm in a basic waiting game, which doesn't feel unlike waiting to be shot in the face.

Rather, shot in the bingbang.

I recall the ride at Disney World called "Tower of Terror," loosely based on and in the famed Hearst Castle which my family talked me --a person whom hates rides--into going on about ten years ago. It started off all cutesy, belying the world Terror in it's name, with cartoony ghosts joking and laughing just before the elevator you're sitting in gives way and you're shot 200 feet down in 2 seconds. This is where you poo your pants.

Remarkably, my family talked me into going on this ride again. Why I went through with it, I'll never understand, because taking the ride the second time was far scarier than the first. When those stupid little laughing ghosts came around, I knew they were up to no good, and I was just waiting for the drop, which certainly came and terrified me all over again.

I also never liked Jack-in-the Boxes as a kid, still don't. You turn the handle and the carnival-like tune starts to play and suddenly, BOOM, a creepy clown is violently shot up into your grill. Fun? Not exactly.

And so we wait.



*coined by newbluebaby

An Email From My Sister

I was remarking to someone recently that the websites I read on the baby's in utero- development always use a random item or vegetable I'm not really familiar with for a size comparison: This week your baby is the size of:

• a mondo Brazil nut
• a spaghetti squash
• the length and weight of a Harry Potter book
• a roast
• a burp cloth
• a casaba melon
  
  
  What the hell???

And today I got the this email from my sister, diligently keeping tabs on her niece/nephew's development:

"So, your baby is the size of a large bunny. they also said giving birth will be like squeezing a grapefruit out of a cherry. don't worry. our bodies were intelligently designed to do this."



Don't worry?

At least I know what a large bunny looks like.

(Casaba melon? Really?)

Would You Get in Bed With This Cat?

Doodle ~ NYC, March 8, 2009

They Say It's My Birthday and I'm Gonna Have a Good Time?

I'll do my best. Today, I'm a daughter, a sister, a parent (to Doodle), and soon, I'll be a mother. Holy Mom-oli!

I'm With the Band

Band Nerds. Marblehead, MA~ 100th Annual Thanksgiving Day H.S. Football Game, 2009

Swampscott @ Marblehead

Marblehead's Magicians:32 Swampscott's Big Blue: 27

Two Fights in Two Days

When I had braces at 13, my orthodontist Dr. Tenenbaum would twist the little screws on my teeth a tiny bit on each visit over two years instead of jacking them up to 11 all at once, presumably to prevent excruciating pain. Nice man, that Dr. Tenenbaum.

Conversely, my pelvis felt like separated itself overnight on Monday.

It turns out it felt like it did, because it did. I can blame relaxin, a hormone released to make ligaments loosey goosey for the baby's luge run. I guess my body orthodontist doesn't use the same technique as Dr. Tenenbaum. Maybe it's because I don't have two years to work with, perhaps not even two weeks or two days. It's up to baby. At any rate, now I walk like I can't, because my legs certainly can't be very well attached to their sockets.

Thus, for the purpose of this post, please picture a wobbly-legged woman smuggling a men's NBA over-inflated but regulation-sized basketball under her coat. That's me. Now picture me yesterday, fresh off the 5 train waddling my way through Grand Central for my now weekly visit with my obstetrician. As I passed Papyrus, the stationery store, I noticed a youngish woman pushing one end of a valet cart stacked with recyclable boxes. She had a helper in tow who was carrying a garbage bag. At some point during my waddle, I heard in a very bitchy Valley Girl tone, "Excuse me!"

In New York, we're unofficially trained to ignore people, so natrually, I ignored this.

"ExCUSE me!"

Certainly this person couldn't be talking to me.

And a third time, "EXCUSE ME!"

At this point, I assumed I dropped something, so I turned to see not someone running up to me with my wallet--or my uterus--but the woman with the cart and the helper, right behind me, totally up my ass. Really? Grand Central is such a tiny place that my path is the only one to wheel your shit around in? Is it not called GRAND Central for a reason? Her "excuse me" was essentially a "Beep beep!" for me to get out of the way, and not a friendly "Beep beep" which wouldn't have mattered anyhow. My fuse is short these days. I responded in kind at the top of my lungs with, "I'M EIGHT AND A HALF MONTHS PREGNANT, AND YOU'RE A BITCH!" As she passed, she had no comment, obviously.

That was yesterday. This morning, I had another adventure. I walked onto the 6 train and stood in front of two occupied seats in the corner. A teenage girl and a man in his 20's. Both saw me, my belly, and quickly closed their eyes to pretend they were sleeping. I felt like tapping the one chick on the shoulder to ask her how her fake nap was going, but I was more concerned with monitoring the rest of the train as we approached the next stop to see if any seats would open up. One did, and I approached it, as fast as I could waddle.

I wasn't fast enough.

A tall 30-something hipster dude with Peter Jackson hair and a stupid trendy raincoat started his descent into the seat. Before his fat ass could touch the plastic, I tapped him with, "May I sit down?"

"Umm...But I was going to sit down," he said incredulously, snarkily, totally prepared for a confrontation.

I paused.

"Are you also 8.5 months pregnant?"

"OH! So sorry, I didn't notice. Yeah, sorry about that. And I get really mad when people don't give up their seats and yeah, sorry..." his voice trailing off as he stood in front of his lady friend whom he was hoping to sit next to.

"Thanks," I quipped, as I whipped out my copy of Pregnancy & Newborn. Needless to say, the small talk between him and his lady friend was awkward at best. On their way off the train to catch the express, he tapped my knee with another apology, "I'm really sorry about that. Have a great day."

"Yeah. Thanks." I wanted to then say to his lady friend, "He's a keeper!" in the most sarcastic tone I could muster (my specialty). Fighting a petite woman who politely asks for a subway seat you know you're only using for two more stops? Then to give it up only when I tell you I'm with child? I've got to provide a doctor's note? A-hole.

I hope his trench got caught in the subway doors trying to squeeze his ass onto the 4Train and his body was violently dragged down the platform ending with a big splatter of brain matter and Peter Jackson hair, but it probably didn't.

I guess I'll have to wait for him to develop an enlarged prostate.

Where's Doodle-O

Doodle, NYC ~ March 2, 2010

My furry baby is as wigged out about the arrival of the hairless baby as I am. Look at this place. Are we ready? Please! I guess we could put baby in the corner, on the balance ball maybe? Whether or not she's mimicing my mood, Doodle can't get a grip on the chaos. Sitting atop the bookcase as uncomfortable as can be, longing for normalcy. The normal show's over, Dood.

I'm Pleased to Report I'm Pleased with My New Driver License Photo

Having your picture taken when you're weeks away from delivering a human into the world can be uncomfortable. Specifically, a head shot picture, because let's say your face is bloated from your pregnancy, but the rest of you is hidden from view.

For eight years you must to explain the big face to bouncers, cops, bank tellers, and of course, your kid: "Mommy doesn't look like Mommy in that picture because that picture was taken when Mommy was pregnant with you. When you ruined her body. Remember? Of course you don't."

Luckily, save for the turbo pumpkin in my midsection, the rest of me remains relatively unchanged. I've definitely added some padding to my face, but at my age, I consider it a wrinkle-filling youth boost. And two weeks ago when I had this photo taken, I was probably a few pounds lighter. The man behind the DMV counter who took it said after he snapped it, "You'll love it. It looks nothing like you." He's right! It's a great picture. I'm really terrible at a lot of stuff but apparently really good at taking an excellent DMV shot. I'd teach a class, but I don't know my own secret.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to get back my lunch of an oatmeal raisin cookie which is the size of my dome piece.

It Is Okay to Ask Someone to Stop Laughing

Because their laugh is so annoying, correct?

Good.

Mom

and me!

(in utero, you see)

NYC