Departures

Our lil BHB is almost 2. I can't believe it. If you have a new-ish baby and you're reading this, let me be the 412th person to tell you this 'It goes so fast!'.

Are you annoyed? I sure was.

But, holy crap, it goes so fast! Hold on, wait, that's not true. The first 6 months took about 6 years. 

But since then, it's been blazing by in a blur of sweet and firsts and 'oh I should write that down' or oh I should blog about that'. But there are no lack of pictures my friends, the boy is documented at the very least in photographic evidence. Here are a few recent goodies:

Kale smoothie

ASL - the letter V. Or peace.

In other news...

I don't know about you, but my heart and brain are just breaking apart the last few days with the news of the Earthquake and Tsunami in Japan. That event is the true meaning of devastation, and I never know what to do with the overwhelming feelings that crowd my synapses at times like this. It's such a mix of unreasonable sadness and helplessness and the weird relief that distance provides. Although living in LA which by all accounts is 'next' when it comes to anyone's guess for earth shaking disaster zones isn't exactly providing much in the way of 'thank god that's not us'. Cause it so totally-ottally could be and likely in our lifetime will be.

So there's that. 

In recent months I went into a power scramble to get our 'kit' together and did a pretty good job of making it happen thanks to this place and this site and of course the cute hubs who just totally obliged my freaked out state of mind. And that feels somewhat better. But. When I watch the footage of that horrifying blob of water creeping across the land makes me wonder what the heck our collection of  bottled water and snacks and bandaids will do in a moment like that?  I shudder when I say, 'Oh, not much'.

Being a parent just really puts a giant amplifier on these types of moments, doesn't it? The fears and sadness the 'whelming empathy I feel for those families come from a place that's so different now. Being the one who that tiny laughing boy with the big eyes counts on just makes me feel so responsible and useless at the same time.

Like tonight I want to sleep under his crib so that if the earth moves even the tiniest bit I can grab his little sleeping body and somehow be good enough to save him from whatever the hell is going to happen. Guess what? I can't do that now, nor will I be able to do that when he walks to school alone and has to cross the street where there are big trucks that are driven by dudes with big egos and big addictions or when he wants to skate around town with his ipod and knit hat pulled down over his eyes, or when he becomes a pilot or when he...ok, you get the idea.

So I guess the best I can do is enjoy his little snore and be grateful for the running water (hot even!) and for the safety of my loved ones and the bed that beckons and even the loss of an hour due to random time scrambling.

I just want to say that my deepest sympathies are with you Japan and your beautiful people, I am so very sorry for your losses and continued troubles. I cannot begin to know.

Yours,

PS - If you need some cheering up with some deeeelicious foodstuffs, be sure to drop by this blog. My friend and a supporter of our movie cooks and writes these amazing recipes up, I'm so going to cook the current recipe for our own warmth and cheer and try to figure out how to ship it across the sea.

Kickass

So if you're like me, you occasionally need a break from your existence. And if you're like me, you don't drink. (not likely...but quick shout out to my girls in the hot chics who drink perrier club!) So if you're anything like me, you'd think sneaking off to go see a movie with friends on a Wednesday night would be just the thing.

But here's where the trouble starts.

beloved friend: we're going to see Kickass at the 3 dollar theatre.
me: Oh that looks good. But. I just read on flixter that it's pretty gratuitous in the violence department.
beloved friend: oh I haven't heard that.
my inner voice: don't do it, not worth it.
me: Cool - sure, sounds good.
inner voice: go see How to Train Your Dragon! Hubs would never watch it with you. You love animation. You can't WAIT to see Toystory 3. Why risk it?
me: what time does it play?

I hate violent movies. I violently hate violent movies. I can't watch the murderous mayhem, it churns my guts and makes me just shake. So thanks to my unfortunate ignoring of the very articulate and clear inner voice, tonight I landed myself at an incredibly violent movie.

And I'm still shaking.

There was a ton of redeeming stuff about it, in terms of production value, ideas, acting even. The parts I watched anyway, most was watched from behind my hands or with averted eyes. Perhaps it was a very good movie, but I  hated it with every cell in my overly sensitive body. Afterwards I went into the badly lit pink bathroom of the 2nd run theatre and had a good cry.

I cannot reconcile this experience sometimes, I don't know how to do this. How do you raise a kid in a world where we think it's funny or charming or fun to watch an 10 year old girl kickass with every weapon known to human kind? And I"m a fan of dark comedy, I get that, but I'm still just blown away (bazooka to the chest) that our society thinks it's neat to make a super action killer character out of a little girl. It's disgusting. And, y'all know me, I'm not one of those Mom's who wants to censor the world or what not - but SERIOUSLY - how is this okay?

One of the scenes played just like a video game, I lost track of the body count. To which I say, video games harumph. I don't play them. I don't want the boy to play them. Ever. Certainly not the gun-ee or goreee ones. How can I protect him from that? It's so ubiquitous. I'm so screwed here people. In fact today there was a war of sorts just beyond the sweetness of our font porch. Seven kids ranging in age from 4-9 were battling it out with orange and green machine guns. Foam pellets flying. The sweet 8 year old girl who comes by to walk brown dog was at the forefront with her big, creepy, cute colored gun. And what's even more upsetting? She looks like she knows how to carry the damn thing. As if I know what that looks like.

As we drove home I thought about his sweet blonde head asleep in the crib. The sound of the ocean plays in his room and tiny little butt is pushed up in the air under a crocheted blanket his grandmother made for him. In the morning we will pick him up and he will smile his blindingly sweet smile at us. His white soft arms will wrap around us, he may touch my cheek with an open palm as he's done lately. We'll read him books about a little red barn with all of the animals, nothing about the genetically modified crops in the fields or the terrible slaughtering practices in the other barn. Or the killing going on in theatre's nationwide. I don't know how to reconcile the worlds.

But on the porch I saw the battle going by while the little one joyfully yelped and barked the sounds of learning a language. At least I could just inhale his sweet baby skin and dream of the billions I could make if there was some way to bottle his smell.

(what I see when I am lying on the padded porch with the BHB - this is sorta cliche California, right?)

sweet faced dude 

Here are some sun-soaked porch pictures. Today was the first day I saw him successfully stack the legos himself. Clearly the kid is a genius.

And I prayed he didn't notice the guns, no doubt he'll ask me for one soon.

Yours in-between worlds,

Do The Right Thing

Everytime I think - 'Ok, it's time. It's time to let go of the naming the posts after movies thing' a BRILLIANT title of a post appears in my mind that happens to be the name of a movie. And in this case a great movie. Boy there are too things at work there. Humility and a dastardly misspelling. Of course I meant two, not too. Jesus!

OK!

I'm in a 'do the right thing' kinda moment. And I'm going to be honest, I'm not really having fun.

Today I was changing BHB on the changing table - which is hard to do because he likes to squirm and crawl away making it completely precarious and frightening due to the 3 feet above the ground thing. And annoying! Especially where there is poo involved. So we've tried several solutions including moving the whole operation to a safe distance from the floor - ie; the floor. Or reasoning with him. (which is going great, thanks!) Or just telling him 'tough kid, lay still' - which usually makes him do the terrorist scream. You know the one? It's the 'someone is trying to kill me' scream that we often hear around PJ time. I expect child services to show up at our door any day, I'm sure our neighbors have the number on speed dial.

So I've taken a new tack. I tell him firmly and with a smile that he has to lay still for this part (the diaper part) but then I am more game for him moving around for the clothing part. That way the poo situation is mildly under control and he can 'help' me put his clothes on. I'm not saying this is completely successful yet, far from it. It's just the plan. (go ahead - laugh). But it's worked like twice and so I'm a believer. Especially if I can have any sense of humor at all about it, he is much more amenable to it.

Wait! I'm getting to my point. Here it comes.

So I was trying this new system and saying something to him along the lines of....

"Sometimes things in life aren't fun but its non-negotiable. This is one of those things. Like Mommy has to clean the bathroom. She doesn't want to, but she does it. And so you will lie still during diaper time little dude, and I hear that you are frustrated. I HEAR THAT YOU ARE FRUSTRATED! I"M SORRY YOU ARE FRUSTRATED BUT SOME THINGS ARE NON-NEGOTIABLE..."
(obviously he is screaming so I have to bring up my empathy to a higher volume)

And I thought, oh crap. Now I have to clean the bathroom.
But then I did it. And I felt better!

But to that end it's time to start packing without doing the wah-wah poor me terrorist scream. This move is 'the right thing' for so many reasons. We need to be near family. We need to lower our costs. The boy needs to know his grandmother (cute hubs mom), and she needs to know him. It's the right thing! And no I'm not comparing moving out of LA to cleaning to the bathroom, but I'm guessing I will feel better when it's done.

Moving date: August 1. Now all I need is some good 'moving' themed movie titles for future blog posts. Oh and any advice on the whole diaper-scream-change time would be awesome too.

Yours in 'the A word' (acceptance),



PS - In case you are wondering, I am reading all kinds of inspirational and uplifting 'change is good, accept all to be free, what you resist, persists' kind of . It still doesn't change that I LOVE the house we are living in and I love this damn town. I'm just sayin'.

PPS - Sorry for the re-run from FB but omg I love this misty morning photo. It's total crap quality from my iPhone and likely the tiny grubby fingers pushing the lens is what created this effect but, yea. It really makes me happy...

Working Girl (2)

Sometimes motherhood knows no bounds in it's ability to bring me to my knees. Literally.

Imagine this.

You're at some work function, it's the type of thing that features a sea of featureless faces and fancy graphics flying around giant screens, stage lighting, and funny but wince worthy videos. Anyone live in corporate land and know what I'm talking about?

So let's ignore that it doesn't make sense that I'm there. Let's just let that go for now. Let's just say that it's an old day job that came up and I'm happy to be there. 


Back to you. So you're there, the place is filled with thousands of people, but most of them are men. I'd say 80%. And before you go all 'Samantha' on me and think that the numbers sound good, I'll tell you that the actual numbers of the men you'd like to see their face is 10%. So the ratio isn't that special.

But the point of the above paragraph is that you're happy about it because there are never lines in the restrooms. Like at hockey events. And you go in and no one is there but in one stall you see a pair of black boots that are facing the wrong way. That's odd. And you hear a toilet repeatedly flushing, like back to back to back. And again. And these boots are there, the owner is squatting and time is passing but you don't hear anything. By now you expect to hear the telltale wretching of the night before gone wrong, but you don't hear that. Instead you just hear the tiny splish splish splash of tiny squirts of some petite liquid hitting the water.

Do you know what it is?

If you're a mom you're going to guess faster.

And if you guessed milk,
 you're right!

Silly me, I thought we were more or less weaned. Silly me I thought it was fine to go on this business trip without the pump. Silly me, I was wrong, wrong, wrong.

Leaning over the toilet is something I used to do alot when I drank too much. So my face too close to porcelain today was all too familiar. But there was something even more sad and pathetic about the grown woman squatting and squirting with vigor into a churning tank because the damn auto-flush function was in overdrive so I was occasionally getting splashed in the face thinking are you effin' kidding me with this!? all the while wondering what the nice lady who is always there to ensure that the place is super shiny is thinking as she paces by. Meanwhile I"ve GOT to get back in there to work but it's also critical I commit time to this activity I don't get a plugged duct or something horrifying.

And I so desperately miss the little creep who's fault this is. The physical pain is a helpful place to put the heartache I feel. I'm guessing the person who decided the dates of this event is a man and maybe not even a Dad because I had to fly away from the sweet little giant headed baby on Mother's day - before he or the sun even awoke. Which sucked.

But skulking past the bathroom lady 6 or 7 times today enduring her dirty looks and figuring out which of the 18 stalls the auto flush is mercifully broken and wondering what bladder trouble I needed to invent for my co-workers and trying desperately to find a pump but deciding that it was too expensive was how I spent my day. And I thought y'all might get a kick out of the story.

Looking a LOT like a porn star,



PS - I took these pictures yesterday as everyone prepared for the onslaught of people today. I think they perfectly captured how I felt after flying across the country away from my boy for the first time. I was so profoundly alone. These chairs and tables are lonely and beautiful little flowers.

Eat, Pray, Love

I loved this book. I know, me and 14 trillion other ladies. The movie is coming out soon. I'm anxious about it, I saw the trailer and - uh-boy. I don't remember a best friend that she confides in all the time from the book, do you? They invented a confiding best friend and that makes my heart sink.

A couple years ago around the time it was becoming the ginourmaous massive hit it was to become, one of my BF's and I  went to hear Elizabeth Gilbert speak.  She was on tour with Annie Lamott and I thought boy is that worth the 50 bucks or whatever it was - these were two amazing women breathing the same air. And this is BEFORE I read Operating Instructions, I thought I loved Annie Lamott from Bird by Bird but I had not idea that I loved her as deeply as it turns out I do.
But I digress.

Eat, Pray, Love. What an amazing journey. Such unbearably beautiful writing. I love her voice. I love her. I love her talent and guts and her unbearably beautiful writing. She is worthy of idolizing, and, clearly -  I do it.
And,
I don't think Julia Roberts should've played her.

There, I said it.

I don't.
I'm sure no one had a choice in the matter. But, let me tell you who should have played Elizabeth Gilbert in this movie that is DOOMED to fail because holy crap we all love this book too much and there's no way, just no way that a 95 minute movie is going to take us on the ride it needs to to even for a second give us a glimpse of the page turning goodness.

So yes, here is who it is.
Kate Winslet.
Am I right? I'm so right.

Oh dammit, I just googled that combo and I see that I'm not the first to come up with this. I'm sure everyone else said the same thing. Julia Roberts? Really? No! It should be...Kate. or Laura Linney. That's a great idea too.

Anyway, the point of all of this is that I just finished re-reading EPL and it totally inspired me. Not to leave my husband and go on a soul searching journey, but to stay with my husband and tiny tot and go on a soul searching journey. I think I'd call my version Sweet, Play, Love.

God bless me and my cheesy ways but I need to make that my mantra. What else is there really? That little boy shows me these all the time. His sweetness overflows in the little fountain of joyful squeals, fast crawling toward our waiting arms, and in his sweet smelling hair. If I actually sit and play with him, we find each other. We bonded today over the moving of the big legos from this bin to the other spot.  He stared into my eyes and laughed at my random observations. He's like a little alien who doesn't speak the language but gets it more than anyone I've ever met. And love? As you know, it's all we need. My damn cute husband is a walking lovebomb - when I stop and focus there instead of 18 other places, I hear birds and notice good lighting. So - when I come back to those things,  along with the gratitude I have for the health we have, the love of friends and family, that hummingbird that was hanging around this afternoon -  I can't get all freaked out by the future and all the stuff I'm freaked out by.

Although, frankly,  I'm kinda freaked out.
The trouble with coming out of the movie coma I'm faced with reality and it's a bit daunting.

Towards the end of EPL she talks about this time that she went to an island alone for a week and sat in solitude and silence and faced down her fears. She literally sat still, watched the feelings come and go and then invited her fears, shame and hurt into her heart. I have never heard of anything so brave. I was so moved when I read this, it floored me. Again let me tell you - she sat STILL inside of squirmy awful feelings and let them move through her - and then she INVITED them into her heart. Who does that? Seriously? Rockstars. Not real ones, I use that as a complimentary term. She's my hero.

So there you go. A little sass and sap for you on a Tuesday night, as I continually try to talk myself down from the freak out and back to the SPL.

Your memoir writing mama wanna-be,


PS - Here's some eat play love - stop it with the cuteness, right?

The boys making the birthday cake for the belated birthday party.  Not sugar of course, sweetened with maple syrup...

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...

A Beautiful Mind

I guess we should have seen the signs. But we didn't know.

Even though a family member had at one time been diagnosed as schizophrenic, it didn't occur to us to worry.

Every two year old has temper tantrums. Tons of high school kids have drug problems. Lots of people have perfect pitch and vocabularies that surpass their knowledge and learning level.

You can't really worry too much about schizophrenia being a family trait when the affected family member managed to recover from that terrifying diagnosis through the use of self discipline and willpower. This is a fact. He stopped exhibiting symptoms and in relatively short order become not only a contributing  and well member of society, but a pretty incredible dude and artist as well. Add into the mix great teeth and an amazing combination of accountability and sincerity. How did he move out of that diagnosis you ask? He did it by getting really, really specific with his food choices. He went vegan. He started getting blood tests and managing every aspect of his blood chemistry, sugar, potassium, iron, etc etc you name it, he watched it. He meditated. He did yoga. You know what? He did it right and the result was miraculous.

So when my brother was in his late teens and dabbling in psychedelics we all thought, ah well... it's a phase. Sure it's ridiculous that he barely made it out of high school considering his remarkable IQ but. You know, drugs and alcohol, it's almost cliche.  It was about the time Tough Love was introduced, so we dished that up.

I had gone to acting school for two years and already beat-up and disillusioned by that career choice before the age of 20, I decided to move across the country. I arranged to waitress in South Dakota for the summer to raise money for my new life in California. A few days after I arrived there, my world crumbled. After a fun day of rock climbing with some brand new friends I got a note on my dorm door that there was an emergency and I needed to call home. After many calls with trembling hands I finally heard the word. My dad was dead. He had Lupus so it shouldn't have come as a surprise, but he was always insisting that the 'wolf wouldn't get him' and we believed him. So it was an unbearable surprise.

Now I see that it was the perfect storm. An angst-filled young man, drugs and alcohol, a terrible tragedy. The current reality is no surprise to any health professional or anyone who knows anything about mental illness. But we didn't know, we couldn't know. We were torn apart, blown apart by our loss and our grief and inability to know how to be a family. After the services I continued on to California. My mom found her way into grief groups and then an RV and traveled the country for a few years to deal with the loss of her beloved 46 year old husband.

And my little brother spiraled. More drugs. More alcohol. A diagnosis: manic-depressive. Then the jail stints. A car fire...was it an insurance scam? We wondered.

About that time I was making my way into film school, into the jagermeister bottle and up and down big rocks in Joshua Tree. My brother's dramas were far off and incomprehensible to me. I think about my early 20-self sometimes and wonder if she could have done something to help him. To alter his terrible path. And sometimes I let myself off that sharp hook with some of the words already written above. How could I have known? And sometimes the nails into my hands are very painful. I could have...I should have...If only. But I didn't.

The years have unfolded in a movie-of-the-week-after-school-special plot line involving more jailtime, homelessness and a long unsuccessful line of halfway houses. My mom has kept a running document of all of the events of his life so she can give it to the next social worker or the next counselor or hospital. By now if printed it would be about a ream of  paper.  In my late 20's I did a big rescue effort. I flew to Florida and hunkered down for two months to do my big sister duty. First I had him Baker Acted into the hospital so that he could finally get the help and meds he needed to get straightened out. The result wasn't great. Thirty or so days of hospital life and his voice in my head. 'I hate you for doing this, I'll never forgive you'. Awesome.

It's a fucked up disease, that's for sure. As a family member, it's impossible to know how to be. We have alternated between being very involved and very hands off and the results don't seem to change based on our efforts. Some suggest to deal with him like you do with someone addicted to drugs or booze. As in, do not help them unless they are helping themselves...they have to 'want it'. And while he has a dual-diagnosis (addicted and schizophrenic) I think it's much more complex. He's got rude and mean-spirited voices talking to him in his head. He argues with them all the time, sometimes they win. In fact more often than not they win. When the voices start arguing with me, I have to get off the phone at that point 'cause I am bound to lose and strain my own version of sanity in the process.

Not long after the big rescue effort came the 'I can only love him from afar' era. He can be incredibly manipulative when there is money or musical instruments to be had, which to my mind is confusing. How does he have the prescience to be able to manipulate reality to his preferred end? It's strange but true. So to avoid getting caught in that trap, I decided that I wouldn't give him money or material things, only my ear over the phone and my love from 3,000 miles away. Needless to say, my mom has been through the ringer on this one. About eleven years after my Dad passed she married an extraordinary guy. He's seen the both of them through many, many variations on the themes of hands off to very hands on and miraculously has the willingness to answer the midnight calls and go on the jail visits. I think we all consider ourselves lucky that our new family member would be such a giant of a guy to be able to handle such a brutal and constant source of pain and awkward and unruly variables.

For years I had strong opinions of how my Mom 'should be doing it' and for some reason I was convinced I had a line on what correct action was. Interesting how the birth of my son has ripped that smug knowingness from my gut. I realize now I know nothing. I do know that schizophrenia (and addiction) is a family disease and you'd be right if you thought 'Gosh I bet that scares her a little bit'. You betcha. If my son starts to go down these roads in a few years, can I help him? Can I save him from the horrible fate of loneliness, despair and social outcast?

For those of you who have been around LCD, you might remember the PSA that I made about an organization that helps mentally ill get off the street. Remember, the one that should have won that damn Emmy? I'm putting it here again.

Thanks for watching and reading. Oh and voting, if you please (to the left). Tell me what to type about for Movie Monday.

Yours in joy and pain,

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.

Teeth

If you don't know about this movie, check it out.  (title of post) Hubs and I saw it at Sundance a few years ago, it's a quirky and dark film that was quite controversial. Here's the thing. I don't enjoy your basic gore n' horror films at all, not one tiny bit. Sorry. But! strangely I did like this film. The college trained feminist in me actually went for this crazy lil film about a woman who discovered she had a superpower that was, um, unnatural and set her up for a successful and apt revenge against a man who raped her. I will also say that the hubs was not having it one bit. Hated it as I suspect most men do. I'm going to make you click away to find out any more details about it because once again I've spent a paragraph justifying the title of my post and let's get honest, that's silly.

But you guessed it. Teeth are on the mind as one (singular, tooth) has just recently appeared in our life. It broke through the gums before creating too much havoc but either the process of it growing up further into the mouth and or it's lil tooth buddy next door is creating quite the stir and turning our otherwise perfect child into a neurotic manic-depressive with an oral fixation and a perma-grimace. Honestly his version of crabby is still pretty darn reasonable, but it made it very rough on my friends who babysat for us on Sunday. I don't know if y'all have been wondering....you may remember I was pretty excited about the date with the mister. Apparently our big-headed-baby cried inconsolably the majority of the time we were gone, which of course proves that I should never leave the house again.

Kidding.

Sort of.

So the march of time adds more body parts...hmm well since the tooth was hiding in the gums it's been here all along so perhaps I should say reveals more body parts. But it's also added more length to the lil dude. He turned 6 months old a few days ago and at the check-up clocked in at 95th percentile in length and only 25th percentile in weight. Damn, I wish those were my numbers. And I hate to start running down this road, but ah well, what would a mommy blog be without it?

So here goes. Everyone kept saying that nursing was going to just 'melt the weight off' and while I think it would be rude to call them all liars. Well. They are. And then of course I also heard 9 months on, 9 months off which I thought was just a charming way of saying that other women have a hard time getting the weight off, but of course it wouldn't apply to me. Because I'm special. And I have to say, it sucks not being as special as you are convinced you are.

When BHB was 8 weeks old we went back to Florida for my high school reunion. Which one you ask? Oh 10th of course. Ahem. We stayed with my grandmother who gave birth several times, the result was 7 kids and they came in pretty rapid succession. She wanted to share with me some stomach exercises that she used and still does to help me get my figure back. Great, I thought. Sure. And seriously, you gotta give it up for the 84 year old woman busting out the pilates moves on her dining room floor. The devastating part of this story was that I literally could not do the little routine of sit-ups and leg lifts she was showing me, there was absolutely no way. That is either just more awesomeness going out to her, or the opposite coming back this direction. Pretty sure it's the latter.

End of day I just hate being a cliche. New mom frustrated with baby-weight. Comon', it's way too obvious and pat. And it's really not too bad. I put on 45 during the pregnancy and 30 have come off so what's left is kinda like the freshman 15 right? And based on the amount of late nights and pizza I'm eating, it pretty much makes sense.  With this picture above I'm going back in time to 6 months on the other side of the birth, 3 months into the pregnancy. I thought I had such a belly then. Ha!

And since I was just telling a fabulous new friend and mommy blogger that I don't want to come up here and whine in y'all's general direction (which is why you haven't heard from me all week) I better stop while I"m behind. But let me leave you in a wake of pixie dust and tell you about a sweet moment that occurred this week...

While buckling the lil dude into his jump seat there in the back o' the prius I looked into his face and found that he was staring at me in the most amazing way. I don't know if I can give it deserved justice here, but the best way to say it was that he was just loving me. Rather than kissing his head and bustling on my way into the front seat to hurriedly go whereever the heck it was that I was going, I stopped. And sat there. And soaked it in. And he stayed there too, in that remarkably sweet space, holding my eyes and sending me love capital L. Honestly it was incredibly tough to sit still. Tears just rolled down my face as I held his gaze there in my back seat in the parking lot under a hazy blue sky. I saw his soul that day, his old soul showed through for a moment between all of the teeth growing and scream-finding and various-and-sundry confusions that must come from having a new body. It was a literal soul connection and I'll never forget it.

It used to really piss me off when people said to me "You can't understand how amazing parenthood is until you are in it." I'd be like, whatev's. I have a dog, I get it.

But now, I think I might be starting to understand what they were talking about. All respect to the brown dog too. In fact I'll leave you with a little montage of the BHB and the brown one.

Cave shadow drawing in Griffith Park.

The Oregon Trail

Most hotels offer wifi now, and godblessthem for it. My eyes are all overexposed from the screen-light causing me to squint at these words. Thank goodness for the keyboard back-lighting as I sit here typing in the pitch dark next to snoring baby and hubs.

Hello from the Oregon coast! Or actually, factually, we are now on the northern California coast in Crescent City which sits right above the Redwood forest. But we spent the last two days more or less on the Oregon coast and boy was it yummy. In this moment I hear a lighthouse horn that should be more romantic sounding than it is and the churning humming of the mini-fridge that makes maxi-mum noise but that makes it sound bad but wait! I misrepresent. I'm peaceful, I'm content and actually a little sleepy from a sunburn thanks to an amazing hike through white dunes (see pic to right). But the main feeling running me now is that I couldn't be further from home.

We've been gone so long away from the smoke and madness of LA and in the meantime have gotten all woo-d by the beauty of the pacific northwest. If I hadn't already lived here before and felt the unrelenting sprinkling rain, low-flying gray and bone-chilling cold of the winters we would have already put in an urgent call to a moving company to pack our place. But September is Chamber of Commerce time for Oregon and Washington and I WON"T BE FOOLED DAMMIT! As tempting as it is. And do you want to know why this land is so damn delicious? It's the trees.

On the drive up we found ourselves going into the evenings more than once and the night we drove into Ashland well past the big-headed baby's bedtime. Thankfully he'd drifted off to some quality sleep in his car chair (aka the bucket) and I sat beside him in the backseat as we drove along in silence through the dense siskiyou trees. Now I'm going to risk you guys thinking I am nuts (oh really Jane? Like this is new?) but I am telling you these trees were talking to me. Or better said, stroking the side of my face with their gorgeous green, cool softness. Stoic and statuesque, they loved me from rooted solidarity in the dark. The moon was amping up the magic by providing back-lighting and ghostly suggestions.

Oh lawd I tried getting all poetic on you people. So sorry, but... don't hold back...do you think I have a future?

Anyway. I'm just here to tell you that if you take the 101 South through Oregon you will become a conservationist and get better at only using 3 squares of toilet paper or okay 4 but no more than 5 for a special day and only 1/2 a paper napkin with your turkey sandwich and god forbid ever print anything again. It's devastating to realize that we are all such giant consumers of these amazing creatures. You can see in this picture the thick gorgeous fringe of trees on the roadside. But what you can't see is that right behind them more often than not is nothing. Speeding along you can glimpse through the fringe a graveyard of churned up earth where trees used to be. It's land chunked out by clear-cutting or perhaps you'll see a little tiny army of baby trees on their way up.

I couldn't help but think of those one walled sets that you see on backlots in hollywood. It's a great looking storefront or what-have-you but it's literally one wall with empty nothingness behind it. I think these NW Chamber of Commerce troublemakers keep that one or two layers of trees by the 101 so we don't see the insidious tree-killing going on the back room.

What's a tourist to do. The world is so full of troubles but at least we got to eat ice-cream at Tillamook creamery, right? And while this trip has been such a reprieve from the banality of it all and I will readily admit magical Northwest has soothed my singed little self, it's best to tell you the whole truth. While I started this post with a big ol dose of contentment and yum we should probably round out those emotions with some serious paper guilt and a little bit of sadness for the trees.

Road Trip

Or a better name for this would be head trip. But let’s start at the beginning, shall we?

As you likely know, LA is burning. Again. And if you don’t live in LA you’re probably thinking. 'Whatev’s'. And that’s fair. When you have floods that take out all of your cows and tract housing I think, 'Aww. That sucks'. And then proceed to order my venti decaf cappuccino and obsess over how they never get the foam right instead of doing the right thing and sending dollars over the internet to your flooded plains. So I get it.

But the burning hill-line (like skyline) was so unnerving to me this time around. And I attribute that to my new status as protector-provider-procreator-person. And as that person, I, along with my teammate (aka the dad, hubs, cute husband) decided that the proper thing to do when you can see flames from your house is run. Sure the flames were 10 miles away and really the likelihood of them getting to our particular place of residence was pretty darn low. Yet I still got a new sticky sensation of unease that sent us packing. Of course that sticky sensation might have come from how freakin’ hot it was. But I’m talking about something else.

Parenthood has me right out on the precarious edge of reason and normalcy. I’ve heard friends reference this in the past and of course I just couldn’t understand it. When I was pregnant at a Christmas party last year (you know, cute pregnant? Not cankles and giant-face pregnant. That came later) my step-brother said to me, ‘Get ready to be terrified all the time’. Huh, I thought. This big guy is afraid? How cute. But yep, now I get it. It’s like a combination of a constant low-level adrenaline buzz spiked with a splash of irrational fear the imminent, untimely exit for my immediate family unit as well as everyone else I hold dear. How many times a night do I check to see if the wee one is breathing? Shoot this week I woke up cute hubs worried that he wasn’t breathing. I don’t know if this gut-bomb of anxiety diminishes over time, but here at almost five months in I’m still on the razor’s edge.

Plus the smoke was really bad. Here is a picture I shot last Saturday as the fire really kicked into gear.

Ominous, right? The real trouble came when our AC units were not doing their job of closing the vent and our place was filling with smoke. With watering eyes and hurting lungs I turned to our DEAR dear friends who had just came down from SF on Saturday to stay with us and meet the BHB and said. “We gotta go”. My lungs are big and they hurt, this is clearly not okay for the tiny-lunged dude. Thank god they not only understood, but they also gave us the key to their place is SF. So we home swapped. Not as interesting as wife swapping but just as weird.
Or it sure felt weird when we were driving out of town…did we just leave some of our BF’s ever in our smoky house? Did we just dump our sweet still-cone-headed dog on them to care for? Are we really passing up a flight to Seattle in favor of driving all the way there with a five month old? I ask you. Now that is nuts.

Unfortunately the ominous feeling of those towers of smoke and the smell of national forest burning didn’t fade when the image left our rear view mirror.

That dark feeling of doom trailed us north on 1-5 and didn’t actually shake off until we arrived in Seattle four days later. The trip was long and strange, we took it really slow and only did about 5 hours worth of driving per day – not that we only drove five hours mind you. More like eight - which is a heck of a lot of time to think.

The good news is that the big-headed-baby has been an unbelievable pleasure of a road-trip buddy. On the way up he was just a sweet, cooing, drooling, smiling, foot-waving rockstar. We rotated sitting in the back having face time with him with his adorable grin and then tried to have a little grown-up time in the front when he napped. The miles rolled by and the trees got bigger, our car dirtier and the baby farts funnier.


But we finally made it. Today we’re in Seattle which is our previous home. It’s beautiful here. There is nothing like early September in Seattle, it’s pretty much ideal.

I’m feeling better being around many dear friends but I am told by the same dear friends that the new fear-factor running my show doesn’t go away. Sure the first year is precarious and there’s lots to worry about, but it’s only just begun.

Anyone have any advice for coping mechanisms for this new cocktail of feelings? I think the recipe is part fear, part anxiety, largely overwhelming, heartbreaking love that is shaken And stirred. Do tell if you’ve found any chasers. Oh and despite my fun with the martini analogy here since I don’t drink booze anymore please don’t tease me with how you get it done that way. Please tell the other ways, if they exist…

Oh Brother Where Art Thou

When will our brown dog become the brother that the big-headed-baby deserves?

When will he stop his whining and kabitzing and man up to this new role? Ok, big dog up?

When can we put the credit card back in the freezer and stop buying doggie eye procedures and surgical supplies?

Anyone?

So yep, when hubs and Bongo visited our new BFF's at Pasadena Eye Care for Animals (I capitalize and link with respect) on Thursday, they gave us some bad news. Essentially stop-gap procedure on eye #2 had not worked like it had on eye #1 and while we could try another 500 dollar option, with success rate of only 50%, the only really effective move was to bust out the 2K surgery at a 90% success rate. Since we were already 400 dollars in, we figured...ok wait. I know. It's kinda low class to talk numbers but on the OTHER hand - specificity helps storytelling, so propriety be damned, that's whats going on. And shoot, why not go all the way there? We are now 3k into this cute dog's eyeball's, and my god I hope that's all we need to do to prove we love him this week.

Now all of my pet-loving friends out there, you are all nodding and blinking along going, yep totally, that's what credit cards are for. And all of you Momma's who have bills that kick my vet bill's ass due to physical challenges with your human kids, I apologize for going on about this. My guess is that in the face of serious hardship, this is a bit whatev's. But seeing as how he is our first born, and was until very recently the only true love of our lives, I am compelled to share more. (than before)

Side note: I've been reading a ton of blogs tonight and really touched by what I'm finding out there. In that spirit I'm going to have to link it up to where I've been and why I suspect my puppy troubles are Nothin'....amazing blog here.

So here's the thing. My dog doesn't like our baby, he really doesn't.
If we kiss the baby, he harumphs. You think I'm kidding? I do not kid. It is a groaning Harumph sound.
If we laugh and coo at the baby, he whines and paces.
If I am hanging with the baby, I don't' know, feeding the child? I get the stare. Please witness.

Okay so they are both staring at the nut-job with the camera. But you can imagine.

I get that as a cooped-up Mom with a new-ish baby I'm on the list of potentially coo-coo-for-cocoa-puff's and voted 'Most Likely to Loose It Before Christmas' and since I think my dog is thinking deep dark thoughts about how to get his #1 status back, it's probably hyperbole and over-reaction. And if you think so, I would like to invite you over.

Here's a photo essay to prove my point:

Blanket time turns into squish the baby time:

How cute are their feet? Is it troubling that I'm shooting pictures instead of rescuing the child from his brown butt?


The little one is pretty good nature-d about it..















I finally realized that this rug is the brown dog's rug and that the mistake was CLEARLY mine when I thought it was okay to put the baby blanket's on his rug.

I mean.

Sheesh.

Don't you love the tail over the boy?


So what do y'all suggest?

Rough New Prizes

Listen, I will be honest with you
I do not offer the old smooth prizes
But offer rough new prizes
These are the days that must happen to you:
You shall not heap up what is called riches,
You shall scatter with lavish hand all that you earn or achieve.
However sweet the laid up stores,
However convenient the dwelling, you shall not remain there.
However sheltered the port, however calm the waters, you shall not anchor there.
However welcome the hospitality that welcomes you,
You are permitted to receive it but a little while Afoot and lighthearted, take to the open road
Healthy, free, the world before you the long brown path before you, leading wherever you choose.
Say only to one another:
Camerado, I give you my hand!
I give you my love more precious than money; I give you myself before preaching and law:
Will you give me yourself?
Will you come travel with me?
Shall we stick by each other as long as we live?

extract from Song of the Open Road - Walt Whitman

I got married to the cute husband in 2001. Fall 2001. September 2001 to zero in on it, and okay, shit here it is: September 29th, 2001. Hey evil doers - I don't use my anniversary in any passwords. Just fyi.
Annnyway. We had the above read at the ceremony as seen in above picture by above dear friend. 18 days after 9.11 we all needed another good cry as well as a reason to celebrate, and our wedding proved to be quite a lovely affair offering time for both. This poem (okay, excerpt) really sends me into my love of falling water from my face.

Wait, sorry - side note. Am I a big dork for linking to my own posts when I only have like five so far? Please let me know. K, we're back.

I'm embarrassed to say that I didn't realize at the time that this is an excerpt of the poem. It wasn't until I googled 'smooth old prizes' recently did I discover the whole she-bang. It's a long ass poem in comparison, and if you're missing your 12th grade AP English class check it out. However I hope you'll agree that this lil cheesy wedding version above does pack a good heart-tugging punch.
I'm finally going to get to the point, thanks for staying with me. I've been living in smooth old prizes land for quite some time now. Married and happy. Rockin' good friends. Work comes and goes, freelance is freaky at times but we've always been well taken care of. In fact I feel pretty damn lucky that I've shot stuff that made me giddiously happy and gotten paid really well for it. Despite my ability to create drama, it really was a pretty easy life swimming around in the calm waters.
Enter adorable, squishy, munchee face, big-headed baby who is now an inhabitant in my household and heart. As I've already shared here, not so smooth, not always so easy. World has officially gotten rocked.
In fact, I almost named this blog Rough New Prize, because that is what he is I think. I have remained too long in the sheltered port and now I see that I must Afoot and Lighthearted take to the open road.

Even when I feel trapped in my own house and domesticity.
Even when the PPD Fairy kicks my ass like today.
 Even when I can't figure out how to schedule a dentist appointment because it's an overwhelming task.
Even when my heart and tired brain ache for simplicity and ease.

I can see the long brown path before me and ohmygod I hope I do right by this fresh, new person. Ohmygod I do.