Big Daddy

* Note to google stumbler who is searching for Adam Sandler silliness - sorry to dissapoint. I like to name my posts after movies. This movie offers a title I like. I've never seen it. We cool??* 


My Dad died when I was 20. I don't recommend this. I think waiting until you're 40 and up is a more preferable time frame to say goodbye to a parent's presence on this planet. Anything before 30 and it's going to be a life definer. Anything before 20 and it's so big all of your therapy will never quite get you through it. So I fall in the almost no recovery but not quite; certainly a life defining moment category as a member of the dead dad club.

My Dad was always going on diet's. He was built pretty much like a bear anyway, add the beard and fuzzy hair-do and he definitely had the 'bear' thing going for him. To lose weight he'd eat a mono diet of crackers for many days. Not kidding, the cracker diet. He'd drop about 10 pounds in 5 minutes 'cause you know, it's a male thing, they can do that.

He wore blue short sleeve shirts with a collar and a pocket. Do you know the one? Not the stiff starchee one, the soft kind. The pocket held is cigarettes. And a lighter that was always falling out when he bent over. He had these really great looking calves, like a tennis star. The only trouble is they were always really dinged up by coffee tables and any low flying objects. Benches, things like that. He had an eye disease called Retinitis pigmentosa. If you're not into following links, I'll say this:  He was loosing his eyesight very slowly, moving from the periphery in. What he could see, he could see well, it was just a very limited field. Take a pin, poke a piece of paper, look through that.

He was a really kind man. People really liked him - you couldn't help it. My cousins remember him as someone who would make you feel like you're the only person in the room or even in the world. He was very present with you, you had all of his attention. It was like a light swung by and stopped on you and your little person needs. This wasn't of course always my experience as a little person, but I get why that's how they remember him. And I really like it.

My favorite memory of my father happened when I was thirteen and my heart got broken. I mean smushed flat and stomped hard for the first time. A boy named Sean broke up with me a few days before homecoming. From then on my parents called him 'Ob-Sean'. I grew up in Texas y'all, and let me tell you, football and homecoming is a BFD. So getting dumped by the quarterback a few days before the big rally and game was pretty devastating for anyone, and for this lil sensitive thing? Disaster.

I was a twirler. There were four of us, we didn't perform with the band, more like in the shadow of the cheerleaders with a microphone and boom box. We had a big routine to perform at both the pep rally and the game. As the scorned girl, I felt that time more than ever, I needed to get it right. There waas nothing worse than the thump. thump, thump of the baton down the wooden stage steps and having to scramble into the audience in my white jazz shoes, nude stockings and short skirt to pick it up.

So I was obsessively practicing my routine in the backyard. Steady tears, scratchy grass and waning twilight were my company as I did the routine over and over and over again. Somehow that flashing silver in the dim light was bringing me the slightest sense of peace, I drank it up until the day gave in to pitch black. As I walked into the kitchen door, I discovered a strange sight.  My dad was sitting at the kitchen table crying his eyes out. He was on the phone with his sister Jane (who yes I was named after) and she was trying to help him through my heartbreak.

He tried to compose himself but I'll never forget his beautiful hazel eyes all red rimmed and wet. After getting off the phone, he took off his glasses and hugged me. We both wept. And then laughed. And cursed Ob-Sean's name, which was easy to do thanks to the nickname.

Can you imagine? How loved I felt? How completely understood and cherished? The light swung by and held my sopping little heart. Sure I think it sucks that I missed twenty to thirty years of being an adult and a relationship with a Dad. But. I had a lot then.

Yours in weepy memory moments,



PS. - If you're wondering what inspired me to write this, please follow this link. This is a dear, dear friend of mine who is an incredible writer.

Year One

Approximately one year ago (give or take 3 weeks) I began this blog. I didn't know what the hell I was doing, I just knew that my friend Stefanie Wilder-Taylor said I should. We had just met, I thought 'she's funny as hell and seems to have it together as a mom, I'll do whatever she says'. I know, that's ridiculous. In my defense I was sleep deprived, and she's pretty.

You: Dude, you are such a name dropper.
Me: I know. Sorry.

But I'm glad I did. And so I've been up here more or less consistently typing into the void of the interweb sharing my panic about this parenting thing, and my love of the tiny boy with the big head, the endless nights of sleepwalking, our shortfilm fundraising efforts which succeeded (woot!), a possible huge move out of the state (which isn't happening by the way), and the continual unfolding of realization that this choice we made to be parents just changes the whole playing field in ways I still don't fully understand.

The shockwaves run the gamut: finances, career, friendships, marriage, personal identity. For me it's been a bit extreme in such groundshaking, earthquaking ways that it looks like a crack the size of South Dakota and feels like the crushing loneliness I felt driving through that state when I was 20. I feel a little ridiculous by how thrown I am by this new life, and while it's definitely getting easier, glimmers of the existential angst remains.

But I'm here, and you know what?  It's getting better and better. It's actually turning out to be an incredibly sweet life, and the likelihood is that the darkness I've seen this year is what brought me into this light. Sure the PPD fairy left her mark, but her fairydust doesn't choke me anymore, thankfully that little beyatch is flitting about more on the periphery.

So now that I've linked my way through some highlights of the year, I'll also share some faves that are unrelated. If you've got a minute or 14, wade on through...

* Cute hubs on our anniversary
*A big creepy fight outside our house
* A lovely moment of happiness during the holidays
* Sad (long) story of my brother's journey with schizophrenia
* During the movie review phase - Away We Go
* The birth story that I wrote in SWT's class. This was Take 2.

I'll leave you with this. One of the only ways cute hubs and I made it through the year is through knowing Larry and Linda - The Untroubled Couple. They are amazing and have a beautiful way navigating the stormy waters of love. Please watch the trailer for their webseries and become a follower. You won't regret it.




Untroubled and pretty happy about it,


PS - Link count: -  14 of my past posts and 2 other sites. That's a lotta linky!

PPS - Can't leave you without one pic of the BHB. This is his sign for Light.

She's Having a Baby

Yep, I've known I was going to use this movie title for this post for a long, long time.

It's time for the birth story kids, it's time. Our lil hero turns one in an hour, we'll celebrate him on this day for the rest of his life, our lives. This life. (draft started 11pm on April 5th)


----

This time last year I was in the hospital wondering what the eff I was doing there. I had just gotten an epidural put in by a very hot, sassy, gum-snapping Armenian chick whose work was overseen by a giant man with an awkward walk. I was terrified. There I was perched on the edge of a hard bed with a breeze on my butt and what felt like duct tape up and down my back and the tiny long needle about to go in.

Snappy gum: Don't move. It's really important that you don't move.

Me: Contraction. WAIT! Please wait. I can't Not move during a...... aaahheeeighhggghggheihhh. F*ck. HOld on. Ouch. okay. hold on. okay. go ahead.

Snappy: Ok, this will sting a bit.

Me: Seriously? Nothing can phase me now.

enter needle

Snappy: Ok! Great, so now you will soon feel relief. Push this button (hands me a contraption on the end of a cord with a red button) if you need more relief, it will dispense more medicine.

Me: Neat.

So the army of amazing women who had followed me, the belly, and cute hubs across town to the fancy-ass UCLA medical center now disperse in search of sleep. My midwife says, sleep. Take advantage of this epidural to finally get some rest. Sounds like a pretty good plan since I have not slept since 3 am Saturday morning when the 'rushes' started - and this is now 11pm Sunday night. The boy isn't going to come on April 5th after all. Or April 4th either (our first guess seeing how labor started that day) I guess we'll meet him tomorrow.

'Rushes' by the way, is the lovely term that midwifes and other lovely hippy-dippy sweet people who want to make you think that you can give birth in a lovely home-like candle lit setting or in a calm part of some damn sea or a water tub with dolphins n' such and gracefully and gently move through the feeling of the 'rush' of sensation and by calling it a 'rush' it is somehow not the FAWKING TIDAL WAVE of PAIN and utter ridiculous PAIN and searing hot PAIN and bone-crushing body-wracking FAWKING PAIN and I guess it's not a bad plan to call it something other than the FTWOP (fawking tidal waves of pain) but I think they were pretty darn misleading but thankfully I am not angry. Really.

As they are leaving, I am a mix of compassionate for their needs along with a hollow feeling of being completely deserted. I watch their backs march away into the inky night which is visible through the giant window of our strangely beautiful hospital room that has nice dim lighting. The view is sweet of Westwood's spots of lights and perhaps campus beyond. Sleep they said. As my awareness fuzzes out into the lights visible over my giant belly and the form of a sweet sleeping husband on the bench, I feel grateful for their beauty and their kindness and belief in my ability to have a natural home birth but also just a little bit grateful for the gum snapping Armenian gal and her freaky needle.

And I fall into delicious sleep. I  close my eyes and ask the images of the previous 40 hours of my existence to disappear into a drugged oblivion. The walking and walking and the waves of pain and constant throwing up and the sitting on the toilet waiting for the world to end and standing and no, actually, walking and the waves coming consistently and then intermittently and none of it added up the the labor I was supposed to have. The walking sure. The singing even on Saturday night as my doula, BF and I did laps around our block. The beautiful moon behind the black palm trees in the gentle April night. My sweet doula and her constant presence. The warm smell of hubs neck as I leaned into him, his gentle ways and slight anxiety obvious through the haze.

What wasn't invited was the lack of rhythm. The fact that the swimmer was turned and his shoulder was stuck in some weird way. That the labor was termed 'prodromal' which is a mystery but I think says something about my head that isn't great. The IV drip due to my inability to keep anything down, even water. The thought-out labortime snacks I had prepared sat somewhere nearby, I think someone quietly nibbled on them at some point. I can't remember. The time at home was behind a wall of water and glass and pain.

-----

A few hours later I am awoken by the midwife on duty, she needs to 'check me' to see how well the pitocin is working. Fine. That's fine, check it out. She frowns and pulls her gloved hand out of the exit zone.

Nice midwife:  Oh well, okay. So. You're only dilated to 5cm. We were hoping for more. We need to up the Pitocin.

Me: Neat.

Nice midwife: Try to go back to sleep.

I nod.

This room is very large, I feel like I'm on a boat in a sea of shiny floors. They said it was the nicest room in the wing, sure seems like it. Let's ignore for a minute the beeping of the heartmonitor on the baby that I was never going to get, even if they said I'd need it. Let's ignore the machine hooked into my body providing a flow of narcotics surging into my body and the little one, the thing I was never, ever going to do. Let's focus on the fact that I don't feel the GD rushes. Oh. Wait a minute.

Me: Ouch

crickets

There is no-one here. Cute hubs is asleep on the bench. I don't have the heart to wake him. I'll just push this little button on the end of the thing here, because this 'sensation' is starting to heat up - oh boy.

Me: OUCH. Shit. Um.

The FTOP's are back. That's not the bargain I struck here. I gave up the last remaining shards of my 'birth plan' and dignity to end the reign of pain that had gone on for 40 hours at home and in the car. I am now fully in their world and their world is supposed to be pain-free.

Me: DAMMMMMMIIITTTTTTTT.

Cute hubs: Zzzzzz. (poor guy he hadn't slept for 1/2 of Friday and most of Saturday night either)

Time to call the nurse. She arrives eventually and promptly calls snappy gum who eventually (after many more FTOP's). She rolls in there rolling her eyes at me.

Snappy: You have sensation?

Me: Yes, plenty.

Snappy: Did you push the button?

Me: Several times.

Snappy: (SIGH) Let me see.
(pause while fiddling with machine)
Okay, I reset it. It should work now in about 20 minutes.

Me: 20 minutes!? Are you serious?

Snappy: (Eyeroll)

----

So this goes on. There is no more sleep. But at 5 am it's time to check again, (I wish I'd charged for admission for access, by the end I probably could have paid the hospital bill) and the good news is that we're fully dilated kids. Game on. Let's push.

My army of women slowly arrive as the hubs awakes. Dawn streaks out over UCLA as the pin lights disappear and I wonder about the college kids going to their classes and how they don't know that something miraculous is happening right behind them, right up there on the fourth floor.

At 7 am I have 'labored down' enough and I start to push. Due to the epidural which is now turned off but is still attached, and fetal heart monitor, I cannot push like a normal person, I have to squat awkwardly in the bed or do some kind of upside bar madness. It's not comfortable. It's not reasonable. But I'm okay, it seems okay. Strangely people keep coming in and saying that I look really glamourous. Which is ridiculous. The nurses say "You're the most glamourous pusher I've ever seen".

I bet.

So an hour passes. Then another one. And still I'm getting pretty good feedback about my efforts. It's certainly not easy and by now I think it's about time to get this lil party over with but oops looks like I'm losing one of the key players.

Nice Midwife: Well, I'm afraid my shift is up - I'm going to turn your case over to our next midwife on duty.

And now you know why I"ve been calling her 'Nice midwife'. Cause here comes the other one. 

This new woman enters and before shaking my hand or as much as a hello she checks me and the progress of the boy through the ol canal and now another frown and the stark, nasty disapproval makes my heart drop into my swollen feet.

Mean Midwife: (scowling) Ok, let me see you push. I don't think you're being effective here.

So I proceed to do my glamourous pushing which involves a head toss and some real strain, I mean really - but based on the look on her face, it's not enough.

MM: You're pushing with your face and your legs, you need to push right here. (She illustrates with by thrusting her hand into the spot of which she speaks. Apparently she's touching his head.)

Me: Scream.

Next comes a confrontation. MM and her folks decide to coach in a non-midwife manner during a contraction by yelling "PUUUUSH" and "RIGHT HERE!" and "OTHER THINGS" and I am just. not. okay. with that. Sure it's a very Hollywood labor moment but I just can't abide by this scene at all. So after I finish panting I yell.

Me: I can't have you yelling at me!

MM: I didn't think I was yelling.

Me: You were.

MM: Scowl.

And by 'pushing back' (ha ha) I create a tense moment that involves a conference outside the room with my real midwife (the one I originally hired for a homebirth) the MM, and the physician on duty.

The RM (real midwife if you're not tracking with my initializing) reappears and strongly encourages me to play ball (as it were) seeing as how it's now Monday morning and my water broke on Saturday and if I don't want to end up under the knife, well. I need to shut the eff up. Not her words exactly, but I get it.

----

So I push. And I push. And. PUSH. And I get more productive with the pushes, it's less glamour - more progress. The MM does not come back after the above conference (there is a God) but the physician is just as adamant about touching his head ALL THE TIME while I push so it is a deeply uncomfortable (and intimate) experience.

The following hour is something I'll never forget. I have never felt more vulnerable, raw and exposed. I have never been so strong and beautiful. I have never had to do something so incredibly fawking hard. And I've never had such a profound reason to partner with my body. I'm sure it will sound cliche but I dig into a part of myself that I had never met. It's somewhere under the gut, surrounded by soul right next to the heart and nowhere near the brain. It is primal and destructive. I am a cyclone, a whirling dervish a slow rumbling earthquake. I hear a roaring sound resounding in my head, I have no idea if the screams and grunts I hear are mine, as far as I can tell the room is silent as I watch the whole thing from inside and above.

And the time in-between the contractions is so weird. It's a ride on the FTOP's which are massive and huge and fantastic and then we file our nails and wait for the next one. Finally my girlfriend is running around the room weeping and brandishing my camera yelling 'he's coming! 'he's coming! I can see his head!'

Now he's crowning.
And everything stops.

But. He just sits there.

I'd heard of the 'ring of fire' - and I believed it was an accurate name. And I won't go on here but suffice it to say it is a fine name.

F*AWKING HELL-O KITTY WHAT THE EFF DID I DO DESERVE SUCH PAIN?

This is my inner monologue, outwardly I am strangely calm. I focus on my breath. It's 11am and I've been pushing for four hours and really? People? I am just done. So I take another breath.

In the next rush okay contraction he comes out. I don't know much about it because I can't see anything, my eyes have been pushed out of working order and it's all a fuzzy Renoir wash. So after only four and 1/2 hours of pushing, it's done. He's here.

----

What I have failed to mention thus far is that there was some evidence in the water that caused some alarm that the boy might be in distress so a team of dudes have been called. They arrive in a quiet shuffle all scrubbed and ready to meet him at the table across the shiny floor.

He is quickly ripped away from me and flown across the sea into their hands. I am there alone on the island, stranded in the tangled sheets and blood. I have just turned my guts, heart and other parts inside out in an effort to bring this guy onto the planet - and now he belongs to them. Medical science. A team of gloved hands and plastic tubes that descend deep into his throat and very being and my dear husband stands by and watches helplessly. I can't see any of it, but later he described watching this tiny infant being scrubbed and handled like a car in a car wash without the water.

3 minutes pass.

There is an oppressive weight in the air, like the humidity before a thunderstorm. Alone on my island I watch the storm approach and I wonder. I am curious. I am quiet. I don't know why but I don't feel anxious, just curious.

Will he stay?

Finally a raspy cry. I think a cheer went up in the room, I can't say.

The Real Midwifes of LA County insists that he come onto my chest. I guess this is a little tip of the hat  to my original dreamy birth plan of the candle-lit water birth and the sweet bonding and the alleged fact that the tiny guy will come crawling up to find the easy breastfeeding because of course there has been no drugs or anything to inhibit breastfeeding.

But this isn't the world I live in anymore, it's an old idea and I'm not sure how to get back there. His little mouth is yawning open with a weak little cry and I'm helpless like a beached, blind manatee. My hands are heavy like flippers as I try unsuccessfully to comfort this little being who is bound and perched on my chest.

But he's gotta go. The team of faceless carwash guys want him down in the NICU.

Hubs goes with them. And now there is nothing. I'm just there on the windy beach. I'm lost in a blown-out world of white and shapes, I still can't see.

----

56 hours. I did that dance with the force of nature designed to bring human life to the world for 56 hours.


Unfortunately I felt like I fell off the stage when I couldn't 'see' the birth at home anymore. When we took to the Prius caravan and covered the entire LA basin in search of a hospital with midwives, I'd turned in my shoes. And then the force of nature had to deal with the force of medical science. And in my humble opinion, they don't get along well. But the good news is the boy was born, and he was okay.

After they all roll down the hall to the NICU, my midwife (aka RM) - turns to me and says she is glad we are here, at the hospital. And as I look at her sweet make-up-free face under the turban and see the kindness and sincerity on her face, (what I could see of it), I say I am glad we are here too. But they better not give him antibiotics...

----

Happy Birthday BHB, I'm so glad you stayed.

In a wash of memories and relief and love,



PS - The NICU story for another time. Thanks for reading this. Hubs and I joke that telling our birthstory is almost 'real time'. Hopefully it wasn't 56 hours for you...

La Belle Vie

Sometimes, despite the dumb ass shizzle that abounds and multiplies, life tastes good.

Today is one of those days. Today I went and heard my meditation teacher speak. He tumbles wisdom out of his mouth with such force. I try to record the thoughts between my synapses and come up with mostly. Yes. What you said. Yes. And I remembered why I meditate and realized that even though there is a baby person taking up oh so much of the time, that I remembered that I do, I could, I can and I must have 20 minutes twice a day to find. What's up naptime! Since the boy always, always wakes up at 7:00 am, I bet if I got up at 6:30, I could meditate. Could, can, will, must? Will.

Today I didn't eat sugar. Again. This was Day 3. Well, at least blatent stoopid sugar like ice cream and scones. I suppose I did have a little slip onto a trail mix that had cranberries off the sugar tree. But who wants to eat cranberries without some sweet? That's a pucker-rrefic experience. I guess the answer is me, I'm committed to cutting out all sugar. And I shoulda read the label. So I'll be starting over with Day 1 tomorrow but I have that head start of already feeling so damn much better. As you can tell by my jaunty words. I feel so damn much better.

By the way I won't be going on about this here anymore, I've splintered off to another blog to talk all things sugar. I hope you'll follow me over there, it's a project that's been in my heart, mind and off and on my body for ten years. I've had some fun spoofing the F U Penguin blog and my site is of course called F U Sugar. Fun and prizes to be had over there, comon' by...

Today I woke up at 7:20 to the sound of the BHB just cooing and muttering to himself after having slept most of the night. I'm talkin' 8 hours in a row. Whaaat! That is some rock solid goodness right there people. Yep. I know. Clearly I'm an amazing mother.

Today we went to the farmers market. We bought stuff to smoosh into baby mush. We sampled tasty wares. The sun was slanty and shiny and our feet moved across the ground with ease. You know what I mean? Warmth on back. Everything through the amber sunglasses looks good. We run into a family that seem really effin' cool for the third time so we get their digits. Like that. 

Today we went and saw a great friend who is helping us with our short film. I've been remiss in sharing updates about said short film, but it's still grinding along. More on that later, let's just say that we're not shooting in two weeks, more like 2 weeks x 10. Let's just say that my idea of stretching a budget and what is actually real and possible didn't match up, so we're moving into a fund raising phase. Which is awesome. And by awesome I mean Ack. Let's just say it's time to suck it up and start begging.

But back to today and it's delicious tart and fresh offerings. On the way home from dear friend the cute hubs got the boy into a full tilt giggle that just wrecked me it was so good. Thankfully I didn't wreck the car. Here is some photographic evidence of the overabundance of cuteness.


How I could go from a state of 'giant-potato-peelers-took-off-my-skin-and-there-are-giant-lemons poised-to-squirt' feeling to a super yummy 'I'm-a-meditating-sugar-free-rockstar-momma-with unreasonably-cute-boys-in-my-life' in one week is beyond me. And you too I bet.

Falling Down

Today started out like any other day. Stayed up too late last night, slept in while the boy hung out with the cute hubs. This is an almost daily ritual, while I fade in and out of sleep, BHB sits in his bjorn bouncee chair doing his screaming banchee thang and kicking himself into a rockin’ rhthym while Hubs does the dishes. And if you’re wondering why I”m such a lucky Momma that gets to sleep in and did I say Dad does dishes? I did. I’d say I wonder too. But since I am the one on the hook to get up during the night, I think it might be semi-fair.

Went to the Feeding Little Foodies workshop and met some awesome other Momma’s and got some handy tips on how to make baby mush. It was great. I totally recommend it. I feel that much more capable and willing to make the food and freeze it and ya know, if I open a jar, I open a jar.

So in all the excitement about learning how to be feeding a little foodie I had not put any foodie in my body and since I’m still producing all the food for the little doody, I was famished.

To solve this problem I skipped loading the boy into the car and left him in the Ergo carrier and wandered down to the main street. Wilshire. I immediately found a cool little snackee place next to the El Rey theater that has found a hilarious line between Indian Food and Mexican. It’s called Cowboys and Turban’s and um hi, how fun is that? I ordered a chicken tandoori quesadilla (seriously).

I sat outside with my big-headed baby as we waited for this wacky concoction. In recent days I’ve realized he’s no longer the patient lap sitter he once was, he’s now a guy who needs entertainment. You know, like toys n’ shit. And in my haste to find nourishment, I dropped off the diaper bag that contained such things in the car and so I was caught basically empty handed. This is where my perfectly lovely day became other than.

BHB has been enjoying practicing his standing skills on our laps and laughing into our eyes. Needless to say looking into his starry blue eyes is uber sweet and this is what he was up to in this moment.

My arms are looped around him (imagine like a basketball hoop) and he leans into the left arm. I laugh at his laughing while the hand at the end of the right arm digs through purse for something fun for him to hold onto and or stuff into his tiny mouth. Two thoughts, lightening fast. Give him the glasses case. Take the glasses out first. So I avert eyes to open hinged case only I realize now the boy is missing. He’s down, he’s fallen down, he leaned back too far over my arm and flipped onto the marble below. My six month old child is screaming bloody-murder, no wait that scream was me. Now it’s him.

Before the brain has time to think, don’t pick him up he could be seriously hurt his back could be broken he’s up in my arms and I’m moving on the tiny patio in circles my voice says My baby, My baby oh my god I dropped my Baby and the nice Indian Man is out of the door saying, he’s okay, he’s okay I dropped both my kids yesterday this is what happens this happens all of the time until they are five then a nice guy who I noticed a few moments before as a hipster lanky guy with kind eyes is next to me saying He’s okay, he’s startled he’s okay he’s startled and I’m thinking or speaking Startled? Are you fucking kidding me? he hit the marble, that floor is marble is that cement or marble oh my god I dropped my baby as tears stream down my face and I try unsuccessfully to contain hysteria.

And now I’m also trying to get him to eat. Doing anything to create a sense of normalcy, my usual very modest public breast-feeding has become completely national geographic tribal and I just don't care. And the nice Indian man is yelling, seems to me he's yelling You have to Calm Down, He’s not going to calm down unless You calm down. And they are both very close to me, everyone is too close to me and I’m finally sitting down and the crying baby is thinking about latching but is too busy being upset. Like me.

And then he eats and it grows quiet except for the buses thundering by.

And lanky guy says, okay did he hit his head? And I’m looking at his perfect little head and I don’t see anything, not a mark. Lanky notices the angel's kiss on his forehead and thinks that is a problem, no I say, it’s a birthmark - there is literally not a single bit of evidence. I’m circling his fuzzy little head with a frantic hand as he feeds. It feels perfect.

And I call the pediatrician, only a nurse practitioner on duty today, she is going to call back.  And I sit there, on the patio looking down at the place where he fell. And he eats and he falls asleep. And the Indian man eventually comes out and brings the quesadilla. And lanky comes by a few more times and shares more kindness...and concern, what if he has a concussion? He should not sleep. So I wake the poor guy up, even though I know in my gut he is okay. Somehow he managed to perform a triple Lutz onto cement or was it marble three feet below and leave his head out of it. I guess all of that belly time paid off because he kept his head up.

After about 40 minutes, after the nurse practitioner called and we rule out head injury due to the fact that his head is not scratched and the fact that he’s giggling and banchee screaming and focusing fine and just basically behaving perfectly normally. My breath is finally coming back. The tandoori and cheese is good comfort food but you know, too rich but I’m not ready to be separated from his sweet breath by a car seat so we continue to sit there. I steal glances at the spot on the marble or is it cement where he landed.

Split seconds change a life. These moments which were orchestrated by random facts. I  didn’t bring food for me. The weather was nice so I walked. I found a place where we laughed. I looked for something for him to do and he was gone.

How fleeting. How dangerous this place. How much do I want to lock my family into a padded house with single ethnic food (no need to mix) and just laugh into each others eyes and steer clear of all hard surfaces. Needless to say I’m so grateful he is okay. I’m so sorry that he potentially wasn’t. I don’t know how anyone would survive this same moment going differently, I just don’t.

The good news is that I know what happened. After he backflipped out of my arms, he was caught by angels who then carefully lowered him to the ground where they placed him on his belly. The reason he cried was because I screamed. And cried. See Lanky was right, he was just startled. It's the only explanation that makes sense.

Love Actually

Tuesday was our 8th wedding anniversary, and it's got me spinning a bit this week about the love of my life...the mister, the cute hubs, papa to the big-headed-baby. In fact, come to think of it, he is the reason that baby has a big head. No paternity question here.

I've heard and read that the first year of the baby is often the hardest year of a marriage. And while I'm absolutely on board with that statement in as much as the first year of the baby is likely one of the hardest year of a life therefore by definition impacting marriage, I'd also suggest that it's a simplistic and flat point of view. So far this has been the most interesting, okay hard, let's go with topsy-turvey year of our marriage but in the most explosively beautiful way. It's the emotional equivalent of going from the crayola box of 8 colors to the ginourmous box of say 120. Seriously, it's that good. And there's a sharpener in the back.

I've never experienced this aquamarine shade of sweet. Or this brick red shade of anger. Or this much raw umber all over everything! But it really does require the help of the metallic crayons and an unwieldy number of those wax sticks o' goodness to find all of the subtle ways that I newly love the man. The way he shows up. The way he sits on the glider footrest and rocks the boy and me while we attempt first round of babysleep. The way he makes a killer bowl of oatmeal. The way he got us through the constant weeping and freaky-deaky nature of my bout with PPD with grace and gentle suggestions of homeopathic cures. He's a gem this guy, I am a fawking lucky person.

So in recovering from the madness of last Sunday night we stumbled into the day that marked eight years since we hitched n' stuff and it passed with not much fanfare. Hubs worked, I posted a "hey we're an old couple check us out' status update on Facebook and you know, that was more or less it. However (comma) we are going on a DATE on Sunday night. (Gasp!) That's right, a date. It's all thanks to my dear friend who gave me a coupon for two nights of babysitting at our baby shower. While I always thought that was pretty cool, I had no idea the true value until BHB showed up and I realized that going out together ever again was going to be virtually impossible since we are living a no-extended-family-in-town life.

And as y'all know, I've hired a babysitter in recent weeks and the value of the gift is even more apparent. That sitter thang is a luxury item! After dinner, popcorn and such, a date is pretty much the equivalent of a mortgage payment. But more than that, how can I trust anyone else sit and listen to the monitor with rapt attention in the dark of night? But since 8 years of marriage is certainly cause for celebration I guess it's all about that coupon, my adorable friend and a leap of faith. Yes. We are going people, going out, to dinner and a movie. And I know I'm supposed to like read the Variety daily since I'm a big ol film geek and totally know what movie to see, but well... you know. Help a sister out. What should we go see?

Before I go, has anyone else noticed how yummy this night is? Here in LA it's pretty balmy and tree sway-ee and the moon is just soft and delish on everything it touches. If you're wondering...yes, we bravely went outside into our front yard and despite the excitement of the week, it felt totally fine to be there. What a difference a few days makes. And if you don't know what the heck I'm talking about, scroll it on down and check it on out. (I've already linked to the last post so in all fairness I just can't do it again...)

I'm leaving you with these two gorgeous images. One is of the wedding quilt that my dear,  talented cousin made for us. This is the first anniversary we celebrate with it as it took her 7 years to make. You can see why due to it's magical magnificence and ridiculously amazing craftsmanship. It's like hanging out in a museum having this thing in my house.

And this is a glimpse of a recent sweet moment. You can see why I'm such a fan of my man. He's John Lennon to our Baby Yoko.

The Good, The Bad and the Ugly

Let's start with the Good:

1) Shoot on Monday was amazing.

Thanks to the supporters and senders of love. The result will be posted here soon, but suffice it to say - discussed profound shit with random strangers and I think it will make for some quality entertainment.

2) I only cried hysterically once that day when I was away from the big-headed-baby.

Of course it was probably my only chance as I was alone for those 10 minutes, and the water shot out of my face with much force and soaking power. Of course y'all knew that was coming. But I felt better and only called the cute sitter once to check on them. Quite an impressive achievement if I do say so my damn self.

3) Brown dog is better!

If you' don't know what the heck I'm talking about, back story here and here. What a joy to have him back and on hikes with us and generally just being his good doggie self. Huge, heaving sigh of relief.

4) We hit a milestone.

It's been threatening for months, but it finally arrived. And I'm talking about the roll, kids. We saw it go both ways this week, front to back and back to front. Proving that our child is gifted. A genius. Extraordinary. And actually I little late with this one (he's almost 6 months old) but frankly I'm probably going to trip him if he tries to walk too early so that's a-fine with-a me. Pic at right documents the first time it actually happened on recent trip, but we didn't count it due to help from a hill. So we'll call it Sunday the 20th as the actual first.


Next, the Bad:

1) BHB has a little cold that won't go away.

It's freakin' my shit out. I hope his little snotty nose stops it's snotty attitude soon. It started on the trip and then waned and then sorta jumped back in again today. Um, fellow Mommy's? What's a girl to do about such things? Since he's getting the Mama milk I thought he was immune to this kee-rap? Dawg.

2) Remember the wonder-twin producers I told y'all about? Well. Wonder-twin powers, deactivate.

This morning I got the first email of walking away from said project and then this evening I got the call from the other one. If you remember I had begged them and they said yes, and well, I kinda get that reluctant yes will likely eventually lead to 'or maybe not' but the fact that it didn't surprise me didn't stop me from full tilt panic. So there's a few other folks who might step in but what's scaring me the most is the idea that I might produce this monster myself. Ah-my-gawd, just shoot me.

and the Ugly?

1) My visage due to lack of sleep.

I posted a new profile picture that happens to be from a beautiful sunset on our trip and lets get honest, that is some damn good lighting. God bless fill light. But the reality? Hardcore. Notice that I'm not featuring a picture of the reality. Don't you hate it when you go to someone elses house and you see yourself in the mirror and you're like "What! Gasp! Seriously?!" because you've gotten used your bathroom-lighting-version of yourself. That happened this week. Full tilt sadness. The ridiculous part is that the BHB isn't stealing my sleep. Well not directly, he's just stealing my waking hours with his drools and smiles. The amazing fact is that the boy is only getting up once a night these days - godbless his giant soul. Trouble is that naps have gone microscopic, he gets it done in :30 or less or the pizza is free so daytime does not offer me any productive time 'tall. That nap issue was a gift of the trip. Hopefully, that will evolve into a better place.

So! I'm staying up til all hours typing emails to various crew and researching giant costumes and typing into this white box and then fighting with blogger to post my pictures in some reasonable way. Because if honestly is required I will tell you that Blogger sucks ass for picture posting, at least in my experience. Which is why I'm only dishing a few pics tonight so that I refrain from obsessively posting and re-posting to see what is going to make the stoopid pictures line up.

2) I'm sure there is plenty more ugly to share, but I think it's best to refrain...

Let's go back for one more good, shall we? The daily 20 minute meeting (Dig deep! You'll see it at the end of that post!) with the cute hubs has been one of the most extraordinary things we've ever done as a couple. I mean, other than make a damn cute human.

We both have the ability to procrastinate and seriously stall in ways that compete with 7th graders and their book reports, but with our new found commitment to this little movie - and the commitment to be together gabbing about it everyday, things are happening in amazing and astounding ways. I have to say it's giving me hope. Hope that anything is possible, even this movie.

'Cause this week we've managed to find our DP, our Editor, a friend who's hopefully going to Production Design, a Stylist, and another friend who is going to make a movie poster for us. I mean, how freakin' cool is that? So with that progress, I am feeling some Hopeful tingling Hope despite the new hunt for a producer person.

Fantasy Island

When the super sappy stringee opening music of Fantasy Island filled our parquet-floored living room, my little bare feet came a runnin'. My grandmother lived with us when I was a wee one in the 70's and this was her 2nd favorite show, The Love Boat being the top winner. But if you remember (ahem, shout out to the old people) these shows were back to back and so it was a Saturday night winning combination. My little brother and I felt pretty lucky to stay up late and watch in our soft PJ's on our creaky leather black couch.

For those of you playing along (I clearly like this phrase) I've been naming my posts after movies for some time now and right now you're thinking - dude, why mess up that amazing run of creativity and magic by naming this one after a TV show? To which I might answer, well, in honor of the Emmy's tonight, I think I should give TVland a little love. But instead, I have a better answer. Fantasy Island the movie is in development and allegedly Eddie Murphy will play the Ricardo Montalban role, among others. Among others? Oh comon'. Please don't. And furthermore, since this article announcing the film is from 2007 it looks like no-one else thinks this is a good idea either.

So two paragraphs of blah-blah just to get the title of this post justified. But thanks, I do feel better.

So what do I want to say about my Fantasy Island? Well. When I go there, I definitely want Ricardo not Eddie greeting me, and I want my visit to solve the epic dilemma that's putting the squeeze on my heart right now with a magic trill of strings and pretty 1970's film. Here it is. So as you know, I want to have this life, this amazing life of directing feature films and oh shoot, okay if I must-for-a-paycheck direct-TV-shows-preferably-HBO hour-long and whatever the heck else sounds fun to me. Award-winning doc? Sure! AND. And, I want to be here full time for the adorable BHB. Sounds like a great plot for a cloning movie doesn't it? This is the true definition of a dilemma as it is not solvable. And it's got me staying up late typing to you.

Tomorrow I'm going to do another shoot, the 2nd time since the arrival of Mr. pouty lips. This one is for a mini-doc that is going to be used for promotional purposes for our short film which as you know is promotional purpose for our feature film and if this is reminding you of a nesting Russian doll I think your brain is amazing Just like mine. The movie inside a movie inside a movie.

So what is my issue, you ask? Tomorrow is the first day I'm leaving smoochy with a babysitter all day. 'Cause the handsome hubs is part of this process of course and so he and I are both going out to do the shoot. And yes, truly, the gal who is coming is lovely. And awesome. And from Texas so she's all kinds of good in that sweet girl big probably used to have big hair kinda way that I know and love so well*.  But does her adorableness and the fact that the baby seems to just love her help with my anxiety? Oh no. My lip has gone out in a prep-the-pout look all day when I think of him here, wondering where the heck we are, all day -pining for my bad singing and hilarious bookreading with the occasional tummy time while I check my email but not for long I swear. And all of the pumped milk in the fridge that awaits their time together only makes me feel the tiny bit better.

To cheer myself up, I'm offering up some more of my faves from the recent trip. Hope you enjoy..

Roadside feeding just after a little rainstorm. Photo Credit: Cute hubs 


Contemplating new backseat buddy.

Enjoying the Japanese Tea Garden in San Francisco

ease n' grace

Sometimes I use this as a mantra. Or a wish list anyway. I would like do this thing (Mommahood), or anything, with some E n' G.

Walking onto set I am often mistaken for the craft services person, or the PA. Know why? Cause I'm nice. Directors aren't supposed to be nice, more often then not they are blowhard cap wearing', beard sportin', coke snortin' meanies who like to yell to make sure they still exist. Hello King of the World, you know who you are. I like to act tough in meetings so that agency or whoever is hiring knows I can kick some shotlist achievin' ass, but they'll find out soon enough, I'm sorta overly nice. Not completely in that desperate 'please like me way' there's a program for that but well, uh, you decide. Do I really have to strike up a conversation with the breakfast burrito dude before we get the first shot off? Probably not.

I guess my point is that Easn'grace that I am currently looking for is something I feel like I've found in my work. I can be my superfunohmygod jump-up-and-down-when-I-like-a-take girl there...

Yep, this is me jumping with joy at the sight of an excellent take.

I'm looking for her now around here.

But as you can see, I am mostly finding piles of laundry and the wear and tear of desperation to see that a nap is achieved. Wow, I'm airing my clean laundry here. See if you can find the carbon based life form in this pile.

I know, I know. He shouldn't sleep with all of that stuff around him. I KNOW!

ahem.

Whoops lost the EnG there. A little high strung from the lack o' sleep. Perhaps when the sleep becomes a little more, shall we say consistent...I'll find my inner joy light again. I do, I do want to because this little guy has tons of it.