8 Hours

Knock, Knock

2006-08-27T15:11:00.000-04:00

What are you still doing here? I've moved!

Don't wait another second to update your blogroll and edit your Bloglines.

I've been waiting for you.

24/7

Change of Address

2006-07-27T14:33:00.000-04:00

This pop stand is closing down shop. I would like to say I'm moving up, but I fear it's more lateral than that. I am now blogging in loose association with a newspaper local to the eastern portion of my state. It is no New York Times, ladies and gentlemen. It is no Hartford Courant. But there are some suckers out there who pay for this little rag, and, with any luck, they also pay for an Internet connection. So far I am not encouraged by the statistics StatCounter.com has compiled for me, but you never know. A photographer from the paper took a really bad headshot of me that the editors plan to run in the masthead any day now, with a teaser pointing people toward their blog page. I'm praying for Sunday. Put me in, coach! Put me in!

8 Hours and the short-lived Fourth Trimester have been good to me, as have all of you. Those blogs will always hold a special place in my heart as a symbol of the new life that began for me with the birth of my daughter. But things have changed.

I am no longer the sleep-deprived new mom who sought, and found, an outlet for her creative energies. The one who, without knowing she was even in the market for one, found a network of support.

I'm more confident now. Blogging has had no small part in helping me harnass the self-assurance to take on freelance projects at which I would have balked only one year ago. Creatively and professionally, I am at the top of my game. I haven't figured out a damn thing when it comes to this whole parenthood thing, but I'm more willing (and able) than ever to write about it.

I'm not going to get any more sappy than I already have. Instead, I will implore you all to come with me to my new digs. Luckily, a change of Internet address is not akin to a real-life move--because my letter-writing inclinations are non-existent and I hate talking on the phone. Here in cyberspace, though, I will always be easily accessible. All I ask is that you put my new calling card somewhere you can easily reach it.

See you soon.

24/7
A Woman's Work is Never Done

That's All She Wrote, Finally

2006-07-20T10:57:00.000-04:00

Note: It all starts four posts below with The Last Day. You may want to begin there, too. Watch me as I try to make up for more than a week of no posts with one ginormous ode to childbirth...

Also lost in that contraction and the ones that followed was a certain level of consciousness. The pain was so dominant that it pushed all other thoughts and feelings so far away that they were no longer even a part of me. My husband became the active participant in the hospital drama as I floated in and out of my labor fog, catching certain key words and a heavy sense of everyone else’s uneasiness.

With the baby’s heartbeat still responding well to extra fluids and oxygen, my midwife suggested that I try the narcotic Nubain. There went another birth plan bullet point: "don’t ask us if we want drugs—we’ll ask you." While my husband argued the logic of administering a drug with the stated risk of lowering my fetus’s already low heart rate, the midwife insisted that pain management was the best option. He was reason, she was empathy. Since I had come into this open to the possibility of accepting a narcotic (though adamantly opposed to an epidural) I somehow managed to leave my own private haze long enough and with sufficient strength to utter the words “I’ll take it.”

They shot the Nubain into my ass, which burned. Then more went in through the IV. Not too long after, the baby’s heart rate descended from the 120s to 110. In any other circumstance, my husband would’ve said “I told you so.” But he was scared and I was doped up. If I thought I was barely hanging onto consciousness before, I was next to comatose now. The pain thrived—oh, yes, it was having a field day in my mid-section—but my ability to react to it was non existent. I lay there on my side, immersed in misery. There were no more hee-hee-hoos as my husband shifted from conducting the breathing symphony to discussing medical interventions with the midwife, who was growing increasingly concerned. The pain came every two minutes, and the sound of the baby’s heart was a sluggish drumbeat that reverberated throughout my space.

I remember the midwife rocking in her chair, staring at the monitor with her hands resting in her lap. The baby's heart rate fell into the 90s. “It really has me worried,” she repeated. “If that heart rate gets too low, the baby won’t get enough oxygen and she’ll be fatigued by labor.” The solution (and I have no recollection of this) was to administer another narcotic to counteract the effects of the Nubain. This Norcain would block the receptors to keep them from absorbing the Nubain floating around. They gave it an hour to work. It didn’t.

While they waited, my husband decided that it was time to eat. It was 3 o'clock, and he hadn't eaten since he grabbed a muffin early that morning. Unaware of his decision to stuff his face, I turned toward him in a brief moment of cognizance and was shocked to see him munching away on one of the sandwiches he makes each night before bed to eat the next day at work. I looked at the wheat bread and the bright green romaine and I was certain that I had never been so mad in my life. How dare he eat while I alone endure this cluster fuck of a birth experience! Who did he think he was? I stared at him while the anger seethed inside me, feeding on the agony of another contraction. But the Nubain was still doing its thing and the receptors that had absorbed it told me that there was no point in wasting energy yelling at him. So I stared some more, and I seethed again. And my husband later said he had no idea that I had even been irked by the sandwich episode.

In yet another blow to the birth plan, my midwife decided that an internal monitor was necessary. The midwife and the nurse prodded me to get on all fours as they inserted the wires through my cervix and onto the baby’s head while blood squirted everywhere. I have vague recollections of the discomfort, but none of the blood. That detail was later recounted by my husband. He also told me that the first attempt failed, and that the midwife had to try a second time to get a reading from the internal monitor. More discomfort. More blood. If I had been in the mood for irony, I would have picked up the birth plan and ripped it into shreds, throwing them up into the air so that they could fall down on us like a freak July snowstorm.

But the internal monitor finally picked up a heart beat that matched the dire predictions of the external version, and a doctor was dispatched. The midwife was out of her league. It took a half hour for the obstetrician to arrive, but when she did, she took one look at the long paper feeding out of the monitor machine and said “This baby has to come out NOW.”

If Life Is a Bowl of Cherries, Why am I in the Pit?

2006-07-20T10:54:00.000-04:00

The fluids and oxygen seemed to help as the baby’s heart rate rose from the low hundreds to the 120s. The midwife was encouraged enough to deal another blow to my birth plan. “Since you aren’t really progressing on your own, I think we’ll start you on Pitocin to see if the baby’s heart rate can tolerate contractions,” she said. I sunk deep into the bed to which I was confined by needles, clips and tubes. My husband patted my hand. He knew my first love was the written word so he voiced his sympathy by picking up where he had left off in his reading of Eleven on Top.

The nurse hooked me up to a bag of Pitocin and upped the dosage several times before it had any effect. When the contractions began they came strong and close. The first two were less than five minutes apart. Each contraction was a long tightening with a distinct center that was almost separate from what built up to it and what came after. That center was excruciating but short lived. From the very beginning I wasn’t able to speak through the hard hills indicated on the monitor, cringing at first, then moaning. The contractions felt huge, but the jagged rise and fall looked so small on-screen. I knew it wasn’t going to get better, and I wondered how bad worse would feel.

The tension was in my shoulders and, strangely, in my ankles as I stretched out my legs and flapped my feet up and down as if trying to kick out the strain. I was further aggravated by the finger-clip that kept falling off and the tubes that made any movement more laborious and less rewarding. Despite the impediments, I took the midwife’s advice to shift from one side to the other and then to move to the chair beside the bed. My husband sat in front of me, taking my two hands in his. Occasionally he would massage my head or back, but it was never long till I would grunt my displeasure and he would have to try something different. We were two very talkative people with the sudden inclination to stay silent. The constant beat of the baby’s slow heart filled the room and made my head pound.

I didn’t necessarily want my husband to do or say anything, but I was fierce in my desire to have him there. When he got up to go to the bathroom for what seemed like the millionth time, I was the one who was pissed. “How many freaking times are you going to go to the bathroom?” I demanded. “Would you just stay here?” Though the bathroom was part of the labor room we were confined to, and was only about three feet from my bed, I couldn’t bear to have him behind closed doors. If he had a typically wise-ass response to my irrationality, it was lost in the wave of the next contraction.

Waiting

2006-07-20T10:49:00.000-04:00

Upon waking for another round of fetal monitoring around 5 or 6 AM, my husband began reading to me from Eleven On Top, the latest comedy-crime novel by one of my favorite authors. He had purchased the book, per my suggestion, as a little token of his appreciation for the work I’d be doing on our daughter’s inaugural birthday. That day dawned slow and hopeful as the hospital, too, came awake, carrying a chorus of nurse’s voices, along with the smell of slightly burnt bread in the toaster.

Exploiting all available forms of media, we took a break from the book to listen to a CD of Lewis Black’s comedy and flip through the television channels as we waited for the arrival of the midwife-on-call. The TV beamed over photos of a second round of bomb attempts, this time undetonated, that were wreaking confusion all over London. All around us, the world turned, but my husband and I watched each other awkwardly in a sterile pink room that stood still.

The fetal monitor, to which they hooked me up once per hour, indicated a low heart rate, but that didn’t come as a surprise. A week earlier, I had been sent by my midwife to the hospital for a non-stress test that showed the same thing. The midwife on duty that day was not concerned, saying that the baby must just have a low baseline by nature. Nobody seemed too concerned now, either; or, if they were, they weren’t letting on. So we waited, and the mood was early-morning quiet and anxiously reserved.

The midwife’s first order of business when she arrived around 8 AM was to approve breakfast. My little feast arrived in the form of gelatinous egg and cheese on a croissant. Chris took out the video camera and recorded for posterity my ruminations on whether or not the greasy slab would actually stay down when the contractions came on. I had every hope for an unmedicated birth, but the reality of the pain and each twisted turn of events was only naïve speculation at that point.

Our “birth plan,” was shot to hell almost the moment the midwife walked in and saw the results of the fetal monitoring for the first time. “This heart rate really has me worried,” she said as she rocked slowly and contemplatively in the wooden chair across from my hospital bed, watching the low line creep across the computer screen. “I think we’re going to have to put you on an IV and give you some oxygen. We’ll see if that helps the baby out. We’re going to have to keep you on the monitor from now on. You’d better put on a hospital gown.”

I looked down at my comfortable black nightgown and mentally crossed “No IV” and “Intermittent fetal monitoring only” off my birth plan. My husband asked if I could just drink a lot of water instead of receiving fluids through the IV, but that, apparently, was not an option. A cumbersome clip was attached to my finger to record my own heart rate as the IV went in and the plastic-y smelling oxygen mask went over my nose and mouth. This, I thought, sucks. The midwife’s internal exam put me at 2 centimeters’ dilation, which is roughly where I had been for the past couple of weeks.

The Last Day

2006-07-20T10:46:00.000-04:00

A year ago tonight, and into tomorrow...

Unbeknownst to me, my water broke on July 20th sometime between lunch and dinner, somewhere between the Connecticut shoreline and my home in the northeast corner. I spent my last full day as a mommy-motel (womb with no view) taking my dog for a field trip. We went to a pond where she could swim and, hopefully, not ingest so much water that she would be peeing all the way home. I was nine days overdue at this point and the next night’s moon was going to be a full one, so there was something definitive in the air as I waited expectantly for my life to change.

This breaking of the water was an unnoticeable trickle for awhile, becoming more pronounced but still not tell-tale as the day wore on. Don’t ask me what I thought it was or why I didn’t make the connection, but it wasn’t till ten at night that I mentioned it to my husband. He had more faith than myself that I didn’t just suddenly go incontinent and was relatively certain that my old amniotic dam must certainly have burst.

I phoned the doctor on call, who directed me to come into the hospital so the staff could assess the situation. Once the water breaks, he said, contractions usually begin within 12-24 hours. At the time, I was still contraction-less and feeling fine. My conscious self was a bit paranoid that maybe I could not properly recognize the difference between lax Kegel muscles and an actual rupture of the amniotic membrane; but, at a subconscious level, I knew very well that the baby train was barreling down the track and I was powerless to stop it.

The half hour ride to the hospital at 2 a.m. was black, peaceful and portentous. I was becoming more aware by the second that I was taking a one-way trip out of my old life. I was attuned to every shadow, every curve of the road, every shard of moonlight that lead the way. The Dixie Chicks sung “Landslide” on the radio and I was overwhelmed. Then the hospital was on my right, and I looked at the elongated glass façade of the state-of-the-art facility that I had driven by so many times, never knowing when I’d end up inside, but always aware that I would not come out the same.

We walked in the emergency entrance as directed by the on-call doctor and signed in. A Women and Infants nurse was dispatched as our escort. On our way to the labor and delivery wing, we wound through an emergency ward of moaners, pukers and passed-out invalids presumably drawn in by the pull of that full moon. “This is much worse than usual,” said the nurse. “I’m glad you’re not having contractions so we can just get through here fast.”

We did, and soon I was in my own room, in my own hospital gown, joined by a nurse, a midnight midwife and a medical intern of the Doogie Howser persuasion. The midwife did an internal, inserting a long cotton-tipped swab that turned blue in indication that my water had truly broken. She reminded me that contractions should begin within 12-24 hours of point of rupture (which I arbitrarily assigned a time of 7 p.m., though I was pretty sure the leak started earlier than that).

The midwife who would take charge of my active labor was scheduled to come on at 8 a.m. Her name was Sue and she should not be confused with the midwife I had been seeing faithfully for the past nine months--who, of course, was on vacation. That’s life, I thought, and settled into bed per the nurse’s suggestion that I try to get some sleep. Soon the fat moon was replaced by a fat sun visible through frosted windowpanes.

Happy Anniversary to Me

2006-07-12T23:28:00.000-04:00

There were 318 turns in 11 miles on the Tail of the Dragon as my husband and I hugged the tightest curves and blew through the gentler ones in a 30 minute drive that seemed more like five. Chris’s only regret was that steering problems in his ’83 Porsche 944 forced him into the driver’s seat of my automatic sedan as we sliced through the mangled souls of motorcyclists hanging over the Smoky Mountain pass. Me, I felt no such nostalgia for German engineering as the skin of my preoccupied fingers stretched tight over the Oh, Shit bar. I leaned in and out of each curve in hopeful defiance of centrifugal force.

On this trip to Tennessee in celebration of our second anniversary, I realized our marriage is like the path dug out by the dragon’s tail. It’s all twists, slow rises and views that fall steep. At its most harrowing, I wonder why we do it. Other times, I’m just glad to be along for the ride. Then there are the moments when exhilaration defies danger and I know, however briefly, that this is what it’s all about.

We talked later that night about what we could do to make our third year better than the last. Chris suggested that I not get pregnant. But because leaving it at that would put all our happiness in my hands, he wisely volunteered to find a job that pays more. I nodded over my glass of Chardonnay.

“What now?” I took a sip.

“I think we should go back to the hotel. I gotta drop a deuce.”

I took a gulp.

As they say in the Smokies: If that don’t light your fire, your wood’s wet.

Penicillin For the Soul

2006-07-05T18:46:00.000-04:00

The proof of my changed life is in the salad dressing. It's the same Thousand Island Lite I've been dropping in a single, neat tablespoonful onto a bed of romaine for over a year now. It's the bottled mayonnaise product that my husband wouldn't dream of eating, not after growing up on oil and vinegar that falls fresh from separate glass containers into the same salad bowl, repellant for the first time.

It's the dressing that I glanced at last night, only to realize it had expired in September 2005.

Before Tolby, a year was a very long time. Food that was old, seemed old. The digital reading on the bottom right hand corner of my office computer went so slowly from 9:06 to 9:07 that it seemed not to change at all. One season of the Sopranos was separated from the next by eternity. The idea of shopping July sales for gifts to give at Christmas was absurd.

At least I knew I wouldn't live forever, even then. But I didn't care. The fifty years that separated me from my average-life-expectancy were a comfortable buffer. I was safe.

As I sat with a spoonful of invisible mold sitting surprisingly tasty on my tongue, I realized that this never would've happened in my old life. The bottle would've been tossed, 2/3 full, into the garbage can the day August flapped open to September. There was organization, inasmuch as I could ever be considered organized. There was waste, for sure. And there was boredom, as I stared into the cold cubicle, tossed out a few old yogurts and rummaged behind the pickles, looking for something fun to eat.

They say--I say--it goes by so fast. We ask: Is it that time already? Yes. And yes. And if you eat some mold because you were too busy enjoying your dinner company to stop and check the expiration date, so be it. It's penicillin for the soul.

Where I'm From

2006-06-29T13:18:00.000-04:00

Found this writing exercise via Buffy. You should try it sometime.

I am from Cookie Monster sweatshirts, shrugged on past bedtime. I'm from Dairy Queen and a station wagon.

I am from the chain-linked smell of gasoline and grass clippings. I am from dandelion seeds, yellow weeds and petals of "he loves me not." I'm from lilacs for mom on the kitchen table.

I am from Marlboro Reds by the carton, by the day; I'm from them living while I sleep.

I'm from Faith, Hope and Wisdom, Russian sisters in translation. I'm from pampered grudges with skin soft from attention. I'm from funereal reunions.

I'm from shhhhhh and daddy's sleeping.

I'm from crimson carpets and Sabbath inattention. I'm from kneeling in a straight line.

I'm from the USA. Hot dogs and pierogies.

I'm from the #6 Combination Platter at Hong Kong Kitchen, from tiny fingers on a teacup with no handle, and an empty space in the booth.

I am from Great Aunt Sonia's head, where all our cramped secrets will die because nobody wants them.

Mom At Work

2006-06-27T18:45:00.000-04:00

I recently started a non-fiction freelance writing project that will have me writing 20,000 words over the course of 4 weeks. Since 2,000 is about as high as I've gone in any freelance pursuit thus far, I am in for a world of hurt. But it's not just the word count that makes my left eye twitch--there's also the whole "non-fiction" thing. In such genres, facts are checkable. There are events that unfold in a certain way, and there are finite ways of reporting them. As I work with a reality that is not my own, I must find ways to give dimension to things I've only heard about. I know it's true that the fifth sense is heightened when the other four are taken away, but does it stand to reason that I can write an entire book (albeit a short one) based on less than ten hours of interviews? I'm still wading through the recorded files, but as each transcribed line elicits a whole slew of questions that I know I won't have time to get answered, I start to prejudge my ability to get this thing done.

Assisting me in this endeavor is a high school aged mother's helper who started this week. She keeps the baby occupied four days a week, three hours a day. She looks like Britney when Britney was illegal and hot, but that's where the similarities end. I prefer to reserve judgement on Britney's parenting skills, but I will say that outward appearances indicate my mother's helper has more positive maternal qualities than me and Ms. Spears put together. You see, I have so much sympathy for the bum rap Britney has received because I know how easy it is to make mistakes as a parent. If the papparazzi was following me the day Tolby's carrier fell out of the shopping cart and bounced three times on the asphalt, DCS would've descended on me like protective locusts. Alas, it seems that nobody cares about poor, defenseless Tolby except me.

Hearing my daughter giggle with her nubile babysitter outside my home office is encouraging but also just a tiny bit off-putting. Like, does Tolby have to laugh quite so much? I want her to be well cared for and entertained, but I'm not sure it's necessary for her to chortle. And, later, when I walk through the living room on a casual jaunt to the bathroom, why does Tolby have to be nestled in the crook of this babysitter's arm, placidly chewing on the remote control? For me to place Tolby on the couch beside me would be akin to committing infanticide, what with her BASE jumping proclivities. But put her under the calming spell of this relative stranger and she just sits there.

Yet, it's all very good. I'm getting paid to do what I love. I have three hours a day to pass in a makeshift cloister devoted to the writing life. Color me satisfied. And just a little bit nervous about the next 20,000 words.

On Birthdays

2006-06-20T17:30:00.000-04:00

I never thought of my late July birthday as my mother’s anniversary. It was only ever about me and all the typical trappings of a summer celebration: water balloon tosses, relays in the pool, ice cream cake, and piles of presents beneath leafy trees. Later it was open-air Dave Matthews concerts and tailgated beer. Once it was a Lake George amusement park with a guy named Chris who kissed me for the first time. It was my day, each and every one of them.

As I come up on one year of motherhood, I know differently. July 21st isn’t simply my daughter’s birthday. I’ll act like it is—of course I will—but when the day dawns hot and yellow through sunflower curtains I will think of my own life, as different now as Tolby is new. It is more my day than any wet May Sunday, but when I don’t get breakfast in bed it’s because of what every child knows: that a mother’s anniversary is never truly about her. I will get up first to watch the sun in glints of gold on my daughter’s head as she lays in her crib, one year older. And I think it will be the best Mother’s Day I ever had.

My mom calls me every July 30th with the same message. “I remember it like it was yesterday. It was the middle of the night when I went into labor, and your darn father refused to wake up…”

Father's Day

2006-06-19T15:17:00.000-04:00

Last night my husband did the most amazing thing. He walked into the banshee's lair, placed his hand on her writhing back, and lulled her to sleep with his presence. The incredible part isn't that she calmed down so easily; it's that he reached out. The gesture was a year in the making. His hands-on approach toward swapping out car engines or turbo-charging lawnmowers never extended to the day-to-day maintenance of a baby. What he wanted from life was simple: cars, trucks, boats, cable television and pie. He thought a wife to hand him the torque wrench and laugh uproariously at his jokes would be quite nice, too. At 27, he was sure he had a few more good years of buying toys and watching Modern Marvels on the History Channel before Father's Day would be anything but a celebration of his own dad's role in his upbringing. At 28, he realized he was wrong. Much petulance ensued.

When I told him I was pregnant and he was unenthused, I pushed it to the back of my mind with the ever hopeful "he'll get excited when I start to show and it becomes more real to him." When I started to show, I figured he'd come around when he felt her kick from within. When her kick made him jerk his hand back with an incredulous "it's like a God damned alien in there," I was sure that her birth would be the moment of true acceptance. Unfortunately, I was unconscious for that and cannot make an identification either way. All I know is that I came to and there was nothing to indicate that the bond I was anticipating had been forged. Until yesterday. Until Father's Day.

My husband was adamant that he didn't want any gifts. So I didn't get him any. But we had what turned out to be a nice visit to his parents' house and, on the drive down, I laughed a lot. He likes when I do that and I guess, yesterday, it was as good for him as it was for me. At his parents' home, we conversed and ate and ogled the happy baby. Our dog drank too much water and peed on their carpet. The ride home was companionably silent.

After I nursed Tolby and put her in her crib, she was too exhausted to sleep. The air was thick with humidity and with dust from the inaugural use of our big box fan. I laid on top of the sheets in my underwear while she cried it out. I heard my husband at the top of the stairs and saw the hall go black. I thought the creaking floorboards would lead him to our bedroom, but the doorway remained empty. Suddenly there was only the white hot noise of the fan. Several minutes later he padded into bed. He set the alarm for 7:30 a.m.

"How'd you get her to do that?" I asked the ceiling as he laid on his back beside me.

"I just put my hand on her back till she fell asleep."

"Oh." A breeze that wasn't light or heavy rustled through the curtains. I thought, this is why I love the beginning of summer. Things you have been waiting for so long finally start to happen.

Better Than Nothing, Maybe

2006-06-09T14:39:00.000-04:00

I was in the car the other day when I heard a song that I am embarrassed to admit I love. As I cruised the backroads, I ruminated on my dorkdom and considered whether or not it was a bloggable offense. I decided some things were better left unwritten. Imagine my surprise when I came home to see I had been tagged for a meme asking me to list 13 songs for which I have a shameful fondness. I guess it was meant to be.

The song in question is Agnus Dei/Worthy by Third Day. Oh, God, this is humiliating. Pardon the pun, because Third Day is a Christian Rock band. I only know a single song by them and this is the one. If you are a fan of Third Day, I ask you not to be offended by the fact that I feel I need to apologize for digging their Jesus groove. I love it for the same reason I love the rock opera Jesus Christ Superstar and the book The Da Vinci Code (because it sure as hell isn't for the great writing). It's why I think it would be cool to own a life sized plaster rendering of JC that I can dress according to the latest in Cafepress.com fashion. It's all about accessibility. Tradition and faith are all well and good, but I'm here now. And I don't have shit for an attention span.

That being said, I am hard pressed to come up with 12 more songs to satisfy the requirements of this meme for which I was tagged. I generally don't embarrass easily, which is probably a by-product of the fact that my mother saddled me with the name "Binky" before I had any say in the matter and, as if that wasn't bad enough, gave me many, many bad perms.

Those who know me and my allegiance to one particularly bad musical duo might scoff at this, and suggest that it shouldn't be hard to find 12 songs in the Insane Clown Posse canon that any self respecting mother would be embarrassed even to know about. They may bring up, for the sake of discussion, tracks like "I Stab People," "Bugz on My Nugz," "Fat Sweaty Betty," or the holiday favorite, "Santa's a Fat Bitch." But I'm not ashamed. I've been a Juggalette for almost ten years now (holy crap!) and have rolled in the mud at three of the communal love fests that are their yearly days-long gatherings. I love ICP the way good ol' boys love wrasslin'. I love it the way American hausfrau love soap operas. There is just something about being down with the clown til you're dead in the ground that gives you something to live for.

Pictured above: Wicked Clowns, me and my bro

Perspectives on the End of Bachelorhood

2006-06-01T16:31:00.000-04:00

Some of you may remember my plot to get my husband to show his figurative face on this blog. Some of you may even remember acting as willing pawns. To you enthusiastic cheerleaders, we say thanks. And we submit the following He Said/She Said for your approval.

SHE SAID: My husband came home from the Vegas bachelor party determined to put up a strong front. We went to a Memorial Day party on Monday; he went to work and then to play pool on Tuesday; and it wasn't until Wednesday that he finally called in sick to the office. Or, more accurately, he emailed his employers that he would work from home "in between naps." I ran to the nearest Internet portal and looked up the incubation period for the ten most common STDs.

HE SAID: My wife doesn't trust me worth a darn. She is still convinced I got some at my bachelor party. I probably should have. At least then, I'd have the bragging rights to go along with the blame. Believe it or not, a bachelor party can be fun without the swapping of bodily fluids. Other wholesome activities include watching strippers, gambling, drinking until you puke on a stripper, trashing hotel rooms, and discussing Tolstoy with strippers who are just doing it to pay for college.

SHE SAID: He forgot "burying your face in a stripper's cleavage at 20 bucks a pop." I would be interested to know how many lap dances it took to secure his party's place in the VIP lounge. Not that I would take his initial offer at face value. I know how it goes. It's like me with my iced coffee addiction. If he comes home from work and asks me if I went to Dunkin Donuts that day, I'll give him an honest yes or no answer. But if it's Friday and he poses the open-ended How many times did you go to Dunkin Donuts this week? question, I'm not above fudging the numbers.

HE SAID: Good thing I get the credit card statements. Her "lies" can only deceive me for so long. Here's an interesting tidbit about strippers. The girls in Vegas can make upwards of $200k/year for putting a knee in your lap. This one girl in particular wasn't even really hot yet she lives in San Francisco and commutes to Vegas. I guess the lack of health care and retirement benefits could be an issue, but regardless, that's not a bad gig. Here's my addition to the bachelor party stories: There was one girl whose gimmick was "talking dirty." Not talking dirty as most people know it. Instead, she went up to guys with lines like, "Who's going to let me pee on them next?" or grabbing a guy from behind and whispering, "I want to shove a yam up your ass." Maybe it works for some dudes, but she didn't exactly have me throwing money at her. At the very least, choose a vegetable that people will recognize. A yam? Seriously.

SHE SAID: It's impossible to get a straight answer out of him. Why regurgitate the truth when you can be lighthearted about legumes? Fortunately for him (though I don't know if it's fortunate or unfortunate for me) I like laughter almost as much as I hate deception. When he's really going good, I can be sidetracked indefinitely. I'm sure he loves this about me. What he doesn't relish so much is another personality quirk that plays into this discussion. I often say inappropriate things. And my timing? It's not so good. So my husband has the valid fear that, were he to divulge any secrets from the bachelor party, it would come back to bite him over champagne and chicken Francaise at the wedding of the man whose bachelorhood was so ceremoniously discontinued at the Las Vegas weekend in question.

HE SAID: See? She's already blabbing about this all over the internet. His fiancée is going to read this and wonder what sort of stories Binky might be referring to. I should have never have even admitted to going to Vegas. Fortunately, by now, most of my friends have learned to expect a scene whenever she's involved. Like the time at a dinner party when she brought up the anal sex escapades of the host and his high school girlfriend. In front of that guy's current fiancée. Yeah, that went over really well with the significant other. I'm surprised we still get invited anywhere.

SHE SAID: Go stick a yam up your ass.

A Wednesday Morning

2006-05-31T08:26:00.000-04:00

My husband was still sleeping this morning when I walked into the bedroom, clutching Tolby to my chest. I was sobbing. "I just..." I gasped, "heard...the...saddest...THING!" The hysteria rose until I heaved out the last word in a phlegm-laden howl. Tolby mistook my extreme emotions for glee. She giggled.

"There was a baby in a walker and the father was in the yard and the baby rolled down the hill and then there was a truck and then THERE WAS AN ACCIDENT!" Amidst the tears and the frenetic run-on, a lesser husband would've had no idea what was happening. But me and Chris, I guess we just have that understanding.

I've heard about horrific events befalling children before. Some of them, like this one, have been local. But this is the first time that I was able to look from the newspaper article in front of me to a baby girl at my side. She was gnawing on an old hardcover version of Capote by Gerald Clarke when I scooped her up and pulled her to me so that her head slipped into the crook of my neck. She patted my back.

My husband looked at my face tinged with snot and Tolby's face tinged with drool and said nothing. It's best that way, which is what he's learned after almost a decade of knowing me. I stepped over my daughter's own grounded Exersaucer and got into bed again next to him. Tolby sat between us, blathering about "da" and "doh" and emphasizing each syllable with a spastic slap of her hand. Then she pulled at Chris's armpit hair and tweaked a nipple. Her laugh was a feathery staccato.

"She's so cute," Chris said, in the redundant way of fathers.

I tickled her so we could hear her laugh again, then I seized at the sound of it and wrapped myself suddenly around her slippery frame. "I love you, I love you, I love you!"

And I thought about this foolish risk we all take when we let our hearts leave our bodies.

The Cat's Away

2006-05-26T16:27:00.000-04:00

My husband caught a plane to Vegas today. He's off with 11 friends to celebrate the imminent castration of one of his best buddies. Surely there will be much revelry, drunkeness and gratuitous snatch. But what else is on tap?

To hear my husband tell it, nobody ever gets so much as a blow job at bachelor parties. Yes, some men are stripped naked on stage and whipped by women in similar states of undress. Yes, these men may even roam the club floor, barefoot and in boxers, on their way to the bathroom immediately following their public humiliation (does this sound too specific for me to make up? It should.). They puke on strippers. They fall off chairs.

But service in any of its Clintonian manifestations? Nope, America. I did not have sexual relations with the stripper in my hotel room.

Sorry, guy, but I'm not buying it. I accept that there are many low-key events we can safely assume are a threat to nobody's morality. A keg, some hot wings and maybe a big screen with the game on. An inocuous display for the bride's father and for the groom's Uncle Bob. Maybe a round of golf or a spin in a Go Kart. But there's always the other end of the spectrum.

My husband is pretty open with me, I think. I mean, he's told me stuff that would make your toes curl (not that I haven't shared things with him that made his own pedal appendages fold over onto themselves). It's just that sometimes, when he consistently ends up the virtuous one in his tales of group debauchery, I have to wonder.

Maybe I'm jealous. There's a whole world of illicit excitement that I know nothing about. There's fraternity, nostalgia and the unadulterated quest for a good time. There's the cusp and there's the celebration. There's acceptance of the fact that what was may never be again.

In interviewing wedding industry professionals for articles I've written, it's en vogue to discuss how bachelorette parties are becoming "just as raunchy" as bachelor parties. I disagree. Penis popsicles and inflatable phallus headgear do not a bacchanal make. Again, there are exceptions to the rule, and I am perfectly willing to believe that there are more and more exceptions being written every day. But I know a lot of women, and most of them can't hold a candle to the blistering inferno ignited by concentrated testosterone.

Amy and Jene excluded. Where are you girls when I need you?

Better Cut This One Short Or She Might Learn To Drive While I'm Not Looking

2006-05-25T16:34:00.000-04:00

I'm the kind of mother who can, despite being of the so-called "stay at home" variety, miss most of her daughter's milestones. I was folding laundered bedsheets the time she first rolled over. When I stood and held out the queen sized cover like a curtain in front of me, Tolby was on her back. Several awkward tugs later, the sheet was a wrinkled semi-square in my hands as Tolby gazed at me from a prone position. Just yesterday I was at the computer with my back toward her when she sat herself up for the first time. I'm sure I'll walk in on her inaugural crib-stand some morning when I'm too exhausted and bleary-eyed to even contemplate getting the camera.

Still, the element of surprise is always there, regardless of whether or not you watch the newest first unfold. Maybe it's even more shocking to turn around and see your baby at a destination you have no idea how she reached than to watch her get there. They move fast, these little buggers. You won't always catch them.

You can only hope to contain 'em.

More French Kissing

2006-05-23T16:24:00.000-04:00

During the same trip to France mentioned previously, my traveling companion and I hopped the TGV to the ville of Tours, which has a university and a proximity to many beautiful chateaux. After a day of tourism in which we biked 22 miles round trip to the chateau Villandry (oh, I was so proud of myself, so very proud) we returned to our hotel to shower and change before heading back out for a much needed dinner. Dinner was delectable and slow. I remember warm goat cheese. I remember tuna. In my life, I find I mostly remember the bad times, but I also remember the food.

What I can't recall as vividly comes to me this time around with the help of the journal I less-than-religiously maintained during our 10-day French vacation. Recorded for posterity are things like the French university students drinking in American fraternity style (sort of) at the bar we went to later that night. "One of them did a shot consisting of him leaning backward on the bar and having the bartender pour a swig down his throat," I wrote. "Well, this being France, the bartender leaned forward and kissed the guy square on the mouth, where he had been expecting alcohol."

But that is not all the froggy lip smacking I am here to report to you today. That very same evening, a young man from that group of university frolickers walked over to me and asked to kiss me on the cheek. I slapped both hands over my mouth to protect my virtue, then leaned into him with a flushed face. When in Rome, I figured. Except that in Rome, I might've been offering up a totally different cheek.

And then there was a line. No freaking shit. A queue of Frenchmen waiting to kiss my cheek. Methodical and quick, one after the other, no liberties were taken. I won't say that somebody didn't offer to demonstrate a real "french kiss," but I quickly put the kibosh on that native tongue. It was sweet, though. All of it. How could I not love them, these boys smelling of Pastis on a cobblestoned night in May?

Carmela Reminded Me

2006-05-22T12:34:00.000-04:00

Once I was a tourist in France, gazing upon the Ecole Militaire, the Eiffel Tower at my back. I was especially enamored of military schools at the time, and it didn't matter at all whose homeland the cadets were being educated to protect. There was no lofty allegience on my part, only admiration for the unabashed masculinity of the shirts, the shoes, the hair and the ramrod backs of a few good men. I looked at the school, then back at the Eiffel Tower. All along my periphery couples dry-humped in the Parc du Champ de Mars. As I readied my disposable camera and took aim at the Ecole Militaire, I was as sure as I ever was that the real thing could only be preferable to phallic symbology.

Then a Frenchman walked in front of me and asked if he could be in the picture. I know that's what he wanted because, after eight years of instruction in this gentleman's native tongue, I still needed my childhood friend and travel companion to translate for me. Then he asked if I wanted a kiss.

"Bisou, bisou," he shouted with glee, zeroing in on my American lips with a determination I never expected from a man who should've been more culturally predisposed to bending over and taking it than to initiating his own conquests. His face had almost reached mine before I was shocked out of silence. I don't remember what I said, or even if they were real words, but the sounds I made were loud and shrill. Racous mimicry ensued as I bolted away, the Bisou Bastard and his friends slapping each other's asses and chattering in the lackadaisical ecstasy of Parisians in the afternoon.

I'm It

2006-05-17T15:51:00.000-04:00

As proof of what a little pathetic whining can do for a girl, I have been tagged for my very first official Meme. What a delightful coming-of-age story for this late bloomer. You must realize, of course, that my luck dictates Memes will fall instantly and completely out of favor, making it so that I am the only one running around the playground looking for someone to tag while the rest of the girls huddle in groups comparing the size of their training bras and talking about the fourth grade victim of the Bovine Growth Hormone whose inaugural visit from Aunt Flo caused her to bleed all over the seat of her white shorts while chalking out a long division problem on the blackboard. That's just how it goes. But now for the "I Am" Meme, as sent by Redneck Mommy.

I AM: the luckiest lady on the block (not that that's saying much).

I WANT: to harnass the discipline necessary to write a novel.

I WISH: I was better at showing my husband how much I love him--but not too good, because he'd never get over himself.

I HATE: any recipe derived from liver. Pate. Foie Gras. Liver and onions.

I MISS: certain people in Massachusetts, Virginia, Florida and remote portions of Connecticut with whom I used to interact daily and are who are now relegated to sporadic phone and email communications because I am a horrible long-distance friend.

I FEAR: any phone call between midnight and 7 a.m.

I HEAR: the baby crying in her crib upstairs, which just doesn't have the effect on me that it seems to have on most other mothers.

I WONDER: if there's really anything wrong with my inherently laissez-faire approach to child-rearing. Or if I'm just rationalizing a cold, unfeeling maternity.

I REGRET: not realizing earlier that my mother is a human being. Not that I could've figured it out before becoming one myself. A mother, I mean.

I AM NOT: a registered democrat.

I DANCE: the same booty-shaking way no matter what song is playing.

I SING: really badly, repeating the same song fragments over and over, and always to the chagrin of my husband.

I CRY: regularly while listening to NPR.

I AM NOT ALWAYS: good at consoling people. I find it hard to reach out. More often than not I cross my arms across my chest, nod, and make sympathetic clucking noises.

I MAKE WITH MY HANDS: damn good cheesy meatballs. I usually take off my wedding and engagement rings when working with the 93 percent lean ground beef, then promptly forget about them so that it's days before I notice them sitting next to the kitchen sink and put them back on.

I WRITE: magazine articles, blog entries and copious posts in the local section of a newlywed bulletin board.

I CONFUSE: thinking about starting my novel with the actual act of putting my ass in a chair and writing it.

I NEED: to be more conscientious about bathing my daughter. It was easy when she was smaller and I had to throw her in the tub three times a day because of her explosive poops, but now her outwardly non-foul veneer makes it so I can go days without realizing she could do with a good scrub down.

I SHOULD: run at least four miles a day, pushing the handy dandy new jogging stroller I received on Mother's Day as a gift from my fabulous in-laws.

I START: my tenure as president of the local MOMS Club chapter this July. Wait, what's that sound? It's the angry hum of all my blog traffic slamming into reverse and high-tailing it out of here. That is, if anyone's still reading after I admitted to not being a democrat.

I FINISH: my plate. Always. Once I ordered an omelette at IHOP and devoured it. My waitress ogled the shiny plate with only the slightest trace of shredded cheddar remaining and said, "Wow, I have to give you credit. I could never have finished that whole thing by myself!" Do you think she got a tip? Do you?

That's all, folks. Now for the tagging: Chicken-and-Cheese, you're it!

Much More Than A Hallmark Card

2006-05-16T14:33:00.000-04:00

I've learned the best way to get what I want from my husband is to tell him exactly what that is and how to make it happen. Photo illustrations help. Verbal encouragement is necessary (or, to put a different spin on it, oral encouragement). But he cannot be left to his own devices. Someone wise once told us to do things ourselves if we want them done right. But I say we can trust our partners more than that. If you want something done "right," I say, leave your husband a detailed plan, and even then, interpret the term loosely.

It was my first Mother's Day as the one on the receiving end of maternal goodwill that spilled into my home via telephone lines, satellite, wireless computer networks and one small luxury sedan. The in-laws, unknowing pawns in our Mother's Day plot, came to spend the day with their one-and-only treasured granddaughter.

Rule #1: I do not want to change ANY diapers on Mother's Day.

My husband saw to it that his mother was on hand for all diaper changing exigencies. She also fed the baby and cuddled her for roughly 5.5 out of their 6 hour visit.

Rule #2: I do not want to lift a finger in regard to anything involved in the cooking process.

Thank God for the grill, paper plates, and plastic utensils.

Rule #3: I would like an artistic rendering of my husband and daughter like the one I saw in the window of the photography studio downtown. Black and white. 16x20. A senstive downward gaze and an adoring smile shining up. Naked baby.

This one was trickier for my husband. After repeated calls for what it was, exactly, that I wanted, he whisked the baby off to the Picture People (52 miles, round trip) one night after work. He chose the chain for a number of reasons, not the least of which were the facts that a) they could turn photos around in an hour and b) the more reputable studios were out of our price range. So, on the Thursday before Mother's Day, Picture People it was. Tolby stole hearts with denim overalls and a pocket-sized giraffe attached to the front panel. When she disrobed for the pre-ordained naked time and snuggled against her father's chest, she peed on him. He said "oh, crap, she's peeing," and then wiped it up with the long-sleeved onesie she had been wearing minutes before. When he brought her back to our house, where I had been enjoying a strange solitude, I saw her silky skin gleaming from under those overalls like Farmer Jane after a day in the corn fields. I thought it was funny and sweet.

On Mother's Day, when he gave me the fruits of that labor, I was touched not only by the framable result, but by the blood, sweat and piss that went into it. And he did it because I asked him to. I've come to realize that he'll do almost anything if I ask, because he loves me that much.

Surprises are nice, but not if I expect them. It's the way he finds out what I really want and tries to make it happen that means the most to me.

What more can you ask for?

[Note: More of my musings on life, liberty and blogging can be found today at Motherhood Uncensored, where I have unleashed my guest-posting prowess as Kristen enjoys a much needed vacation. Come on down!]

My Mother's Day

2006-05-12T12:23:00.000-04:00

One of the most disappointing aspects of becoming a woman is the realization that your mother is not the perfect person you thought she was when you were a little girl; one of the most liberating parts is embracing the fact that you don't have to be perfect, either. You can try to be better. You need to learn from her mistakes. But there's freedom in knowing that you are allowed make your own.

Maybe I would've been a happier person growing up if I didn't have to give birth to my own daughter to realize parents aren't cut out of a faultless mold. Just as a mother must feel pressure from her children to show no flaws, the children, too, have to perceive the weight of a promise unkept. Not that my mother made any such promises. How could she have? I just wonder how I ever translated the words "I love you," and "you are safe," to mean "your life with me will be complete harmony." Because that's a loaded expectation that can lead to nothing but the feeling that one has been cosmically gypped.

I know my daughter will hate me for reasons totally different from the ones that bred my own contempt for my mother. It's only logical. I fear that Tolby will even harbor resentment for some of the same exact things she sees in me that I railed against so ferociously when I was young--twenty years ago, fifteen, five. I'm trying hard to prevent the latter from coming true, and am accepting the inevitability of the former. I can only ever be me, and that's a person who messes up a lot despite the most benign of intentions. I am not my mother. But I am not perfect.

With my first Mother's Day looming, I am grateful to be able to share it with my mom on solid, level ground, packed down by so many tiny footsteps and welcoming in its earthiness. Tolby will feel the warmth as she swirls in and out of our space, and maybe she will mistake it for perfection. That's what childhood is, I guess.

I'm finally growing up.

The Bitter, Bitter Irony

2006-05-11T16:33:00.000-04:00

Maybe I have too much testosterone.

Exhibit A: Excessive body hair
Exhibit B: The inability to multi-task
Exhibit C: The complete and total lack of any mechanisms to aid in the silent exit of gas from my body

In the past there would've been an Exhibit D with a "sex overdrive" designation, but I'm married now, and no longer is anything about my sex life notable. As someone with a likely overabudance of testosterone, this fact causes me endless grief. Though I would love to do something about the hum-druminess of it all, we all know it takes two to do the horizontal tango. And I think my other half has a metaphorical headache.

See, the dichotomy between my husband and I is much different than most other romantic relationships we encounter. This may or may not be true in the marriages you've studied, but it is clearly manifested in my casebook: the woman is the nag and the man is the lazy one. Or, if he's not lazy, he is at least perceived as such by his wife (to be fair, I should probably extend that line of thinking to state that sometimes the woman is perceived as being a nag even when she's not--but, let's face it, she usually is).

My parents certainly fit into that mold, and I spent the entire thinking part of my life trying not to turn into my mother. I was a walking, talking reactionary timebomb. I tick-tick-ticked my way through school in anticipation of graduation and my explosion into adulthood. I didn't want to live under a cloud of criticism, blame and restriction. I wanted to be respected for my opinions, or at least feel entitled to them. I wanted to be my own person instead of somebody's scapegoat. I wanted somewhere to go and a way to get there.

Maybe you can guess what happened.

I married my mother.

Unprotected

2006-05-06T12:28:00.000-04:00

Today I passed another motorcycle accident on my road. It was the second in as many weeks, and one of the several I've driven by since we moved here more than two years ago. The ambulance hadn't arrived as the slow line of traffic filed through on the opposite side of the road. As soon as I saw chrome on its side and police officers huddled around, I turned off my peripheral vision and stared at the road in front of me. My chest was tight. Tolby and Roxie were in the backseat, oblivious.

Last year my husband and I were driving across an overpass when we noticed cars and motorcycles parked next to the sidewalk that lined the chain links looking down on the highway. Below, cars were backed up as far as I could see. It must be an accident, we said. How sad, I thought. Then, just as quickly as I had started, I stopped thinking. See, I'm an avoider. That's similar to being a procrastinator, only it's more highly evolved. Avoidance is the only thing that allows me to be a functioning member of society now that I'm a mother. If I sat down and entertained the myriad ways in which life could crumble down around me in one bat of my twitching eye, I'd be rendered useless. So I don't think. My husband, on the other hand, does. He just doesn't care. That's why he stopped the car and got out to see what was going on. I stayed right there, belted into my seat, disproportionately proud of myself for not going out of my way to gawk at tragedy. A minute or two later, he got back into the driver's seat. Bunch of rubberneckers, I sniffed. Then, So what happened?

The next day I looked in the newspaper for an account of the accident. That's what I do, as if time and newsprint make a window thick enough for me to safely view other people's misfortune. But it's about hope, too. Like maybe I'll find out the rider was taken to the hospital with only minor injuries. It's easier to be hopeful if you can glaze over things as they happen and wait for analysis after the fact.

Let me say, in summation, that I am glad we are too poor to purchase the bike my husband would so love to own. If it means we never get one, I will happily live month-to-month for the rest of my life.

Speaking of my husband, he has heeded your pleas to show his face via a guest post on this blog, but his first submission was rejected by the editor. In the only line from his failed attempt that will see the light of cyberspace, he wrote "I'm a sucker for flattery and some of the comments poured it on really thick." He is currently working on his next idea.

Mr. Brown Can Moo, Can You?

2006-05-04T15:39:00.000-04:00

Yesterday night a book called "What to Expect: The First Year" jumped out of the bookcase into my hands as I walked jauntily through the den enroute the television set. I was jaunty because the baby was sleeping; the dishes were done; and the house was somewhat clean. I felt less encumbered than I had in months--nine months, to be exact. I was free to throw more than a casual glance at the tome resting in my grasp. I had time to peruse.

I cracked the virgin binding of the book in which I now had less than 1/4 of an interest (in a strictly calendarial sense). For nine months, I had been too busy living my daughter's first year to do any reading about it. Not that I would have chosen this post-partum member of the "What to Expect" series if I had had the time. The original guide, "What to Expect When You're Expecting," was filled with enough old-wives and old-doctor crap to keep me on the cutting edge of pregnancy science well into the 1940s. I didn't buy them, by the way. They were gifts.

So I flipped through to the Ninth Month section and realized it was laid out exactly like the pregnancy version. Eureka! Oh, the ease with which I can assess my daughter's development and completely freak out because she's developing at her own pace and not theirs. As I read about "pincer grips" and the discriminate v. indiscriminate "da-da," I realized this was crap I did not need. For three quarters of a year we had been doing just fine with the knowledge that her doctor thinks she's doing swell. To begin comparing her in any depth to other kids would be the start of a journey down a slippery slope better left ungreased by my ass. I'm doing the best I can. A book won't make me better. Not that kind of book, anyway.

Back to the collected works of Dr. Seuss.

The Polls Are Open

2006-05-03T14:15:00.000-04:00

The first time I saw the name "dad" show up in my comment section, this is what went through my head:

"How the hell did my father find out about this blog?"

Then I thought about it a little more and, as is often the case, got it right on the second try. The dad in question was Tolby's, not mine. And that realization was more than a little weird.

Any mention of, or comment by, Tolby's dad (or "my husand," or "Chris") on this blog is usually met with an enthusiastic response by my other four readers. See, he's quick-witted. He has timing. He's a hit at all the Internet parties.

When I met him on AOL nine years ago, I was in love with him before I saw his face.

But that's my side of the story. I've written a lot about my other half and I think it's time to let him have his say. How about getting a little He Said action going on here? Leave a comment below if an 8 Hours guest post by "dad" would interest you.

Because I might need a little help convincing him, and this I have learned: flattery will get you everywhere.

Update on the Job Interview

2006-05-02T12:44:00.000-04:00

It was several weeks ago that I blogged about my interview for a part time writing position at a local university. This follow-up post is a bit on the belated side, considering that I contacted my potential employer the very next day to ask him to withdraw my name from consideration.

I thought I wanted to go back to work, but until the possibility became real, I didn't think about it very hard. The cursory concept of writing and making money over the course of a 19-hour work week seemed ideal. I'd pull in just enough cash to at least psychologically ease my husband's bacon-bringing burden. I'd be writing instead of perfecting the art of literary procrastination. And this new schedule would only take up about 2 and a half day's worth of my time.

Except that it's not my time. It's Tolby's time, too. And it is so fleeting and amorphous that to miss any of it, or to put it on a schedule, sticks me right in the subconscious part of my being that actually knows what's going on. See, it was never rationally apparent to me that "staying home" with my daughter was the best thing to do. It still isn't, necessarily. But there's that voice, deep and ingrained, telling a different story.

I usually don't do my best thinking consciously. And I NEVER write that way. My best ideas and my truest held beliefs have always been layered in such a way that requires digging to reach. I can't speak eloquently off-the-cuff. I can't assess a situation with one glance and know what to do. But when I sit down with a pen or a keyboard, and with time, I can knock out a pretty good strategy.

The plan this time is to believe in myself and my family. I'm lucky that they believe in me. You see, there was never any question that something needs to be done about our miserable financial state. I am grateful for my husband's contributions, which were significantly greater than mine even when I was working full-time, but the fact remains that one income is not enough. Fortunately, I am blessed with a portable talent. I can do it here or there, I can do it anywhere! I don't need an office job. I want to write for a living. And I know I can. I think my husband is even more sure of it than I am. It's just a matter of mining those same recesses from which I pull my inspiration as I endeavor to dredge up the determination and single-mindedness necessary to be successful as a freelancer.

I've been in contact with a professional acquaintance who emailed me the other day with this message: "I would like to offer you the opportunity to be the writer for the lead book in the new venture we're planning, and we would like to spell in out in detail the concept we are working on to see if it's something you are interested in."

Doors opening, doors closing. My husband, daughter and I are walking through the thresholds together.

Out of the Mouths of Babes

2006-05-01T09:05:00.000-04:00

In parts of southern and eastern Africa, and in a small corner of Connecticut, USA, natives communicate by a tongue known as the Click Language. To some indigenous tribes of the lower hemisphere, clicking is prehistoric in its longevity. In the 8-6-0, a nine-month old named Tolby is hoping to bring the trend stateside as she works with her elders and her peers to convey the nuances of this little understood mode of communication.

Tolby clicks to be picked up, or to be fed faster, or to suggest to her mother that no socks and no sweater is a degree of undress not well suited to early spring in New England. She craps, then she clicks. When she wakes up in the morning, there are clicks and coos mixed in with the occasional shriek. She'd probably click upon retiring, except that gasping sobs seem better suited to her feelings about her crib at bedtime.

Everything is new to Tolby--from the tongue in her smooth, wet mouth to sounds of her own making ringing in her ears. And it's new to my husband and me, too. We are aware that our daughter must not be the only one out there clicking, but she's the only one we know. Her explorations into the realm of language are as funny and sweet as they are enlightening. With her active participation, we become more of a family every day.

Sometimes we sit around the table and click together. Tolby gets frenzied, ramping up her tempo to match ours and raising both hands in a lobster-pinching kind of wave that means something we haven't quite figured out yet. She bobs in her high chair and sounds off inside flushed cheeks. We're loud and it seems like we're not making sense. But we get it, finally.

"It took you long enough," Tolby clicks. "This is what I've been trying to tell you."

[Note: Today is a banner blogging day as I have been nominated by none other than Mom-101 for the "Perfect Post" Award given out at Suburban Turmoil and Petroville for my post titled Lifestyles of the Penniless and Overlooked. I'd shout it from the rooftops, but it probably would be best if my neighbors didn't find out I was writing about them.

Thanks, Mom-101. It really is good for my writing soul.]

Funny Guys

2006-04-26T13:09:00.000-04:00

Last night I dreamed that I met Gilbert Gottfried at a hotel for an illicit liaison. The first thing he did was provide me with a used toothbrush with which to freshen my breath. He also had one for himself, which I thought was very egalitarian. Gilbert recently topped the Boston Phoenix's list of the 100 Unsexiest Men, but he will always be one very canoodleable specimen in my book.

In order to make me laugh, it helps if you can laugh at yourself. Or at least laugh at your own joke while you are telling it. I find laughter to be as infectious as the snot globbers that shoot out of the mouths of babes at Tolby's weekly playgroups. Such comedic contagion accounts for most of my infatuation with Gilbert. I once nearly drove off the road when he was a guest on the Howard Stern show bantering about capicola lunchmeat as eaten by mafia henchmen. He pronounced it "gobbagoo" and went on at length. I have no idea why, but that, right there, is funny.

Then there was Mitch Hedberg, whose comedy still is. It is my sad lot in life, having discovered him posthumously, not to be able to see this genius perform live. You should go find some of his stuff online. Maybe my favorite joke of his will help spur you on (though text is a poor substitute for the staccato emphasis of his delivery):

"I was in downtown Boise, Idaho, and I saw a duck, and I knew the duck was lost, 'cause ducks ain't s'posed to be downtown. There's nothin' for 'em there. So I went to a Subway sandwich shop, I said, "Let me have a bun." But she wouldn't sell me just the bun, she said that I had to have something on it. She told me it's against regulations for Subway to sell just the bun. I guess the two halves ain't supposed to touch. So I said, "Alright, well, put some lettuce on it," which she did. She said, "That'll be $1.75." I said, "It's for a duck." And they said, "All right, well, then it's free." See, I did not know that ducks eat for free at Subway. Had I known that, I would have ordered a much larger sandwich. "Let me have the Steak Fajita Sub - but don't bother ringing it up, it's for a duck! There are six ducks out there, and they all want Sun Chips!"

9 Months

2006-04-24T16:03:00.000-04:00

Gestation included, Tolby has been an organism in my life for more than a year and a half. She has been sucking in her own oxygen for as long as I was pregnant. It seems like forever--and like no time at all. An entire adulthood spawned by a child.

Here are the stages of my maturity.

1. Hope, anticipation and pain

2. Respect

3. Responsibility

4. Cleanliness

5. Godliness

6. Irony

7. Health

8. Appreciation

So There

2006-04-20T14:24:00.000-04:00

In the cyber version of an elementary school playground, there exists the Meme. Like intellectual (or not so much) Tag-You're-It, bloggers run around the 'sphere, poking, prodding, or ripping inseams as they tackle the next person to respond to the meme du jour. What's the meme du jour? It's the meme of the day.

So if a meme is like tag, then I must be the pig-tailed girl standing alone next to the swingset with buck teeth and Coke bottle eyeglasses.

And cooties. In a year when not enough cootie shots were manufactured due to unhygienic factory conditions.

Anyway, as I sit here untagged by the "Six Interesting Facts You Didn't Know About Me" meme that is now pretty much played out, I am reminded of first grade at the Catholic school I attended. First grade was bullshit, excreted daily by Mrs. St. John. It was at her hands that I was implicated in a love letter plot that brought down several of my female classmates as we composed phonetic odes to the sexiest third grader in a tri-parish radius. With the salacious letters confiscated and justice meted out, none of us lovelorn ladies got a foil star on the class chart that week.

Back to this not-being-tagged thing. What should I expect with a name like Binky? Imagine a girl on the playground named Binky, with glasses as thick as they were wide, a gold monogrammed "B" stuck to the bottom of one lens. Then, fast forward to eighth grade, when that same girl ran for class president on the "Don't Clown Around, Vote for Binky" ticket. The girl who regularly wore sneakers on gym day, regardless of what she was sporting on the rest of her misguided frame, just so she wouldn't have to haul around extra footgear in her backpack. I can still picture the tan hide of my suede skirt and the blue and white Adidases that went with it. And then there were my university years, where I pressed on in dorklitude by getting my hair hacked off (not once, but twice--stupid, stupid, stupid!) in an all-women's-college kind of cut that my husband, who became acquainted with me during the first of these unfortunate phases, remembers as "kind of, well...how do I say this...spiky."

There's not much to do but embrace my inner freak. I'll sum it all up with the fact that, several years ago, I hauled my singular unhipness onto Metro North and rode it into midtown Manhattan where I waited in line for 3 hours to get my right buttcheek autographed by Violent J of the Insane Clown Posse.

So, you see, my dorky self is no stranger to unrequited games of tag. I've developed a thick skin, like suede over tennis shoes. But I've got pride, too. If I was asked tomorrow to meme about "Six Interesting Facts You Didn't Know About Me," I wouldn't even respond.

It's the principle of the thing.

Back to Life

2006-04-18T16:23:00.000-04:00

I had an interview today for a part time writing job at a nearby university. In the past, I've always known the minute I stepped foot on a property that would become my new professional address. I had the same feeling the first time we drove through the town in which we would later purchase a house. This intuition manifests itself in a moment of sparkling clarity as my subconscious says to me, "We're here for an extended stay, Bink. Take a look around."It's fleeting, but it's instantly recognizable. It's not an after-the-fact acknowledgement.

Well, I didn't have that feeling today. Even though the interview went well and I have every reason to believe I will be chosen for the position, the precognition I have come to rely on was strangely absent. Maybe it's ambivalence that is closing my mind's eye to possibility. Or maybe I'm just not going to get the job. Come Monday, we'll at least know if the latter is true.

The ambivalence is a result of the fact that I love my current status as part of this do-whatever-we-feel-like-when-we-damn-well-feel-like-it mother/daughter team. I LOVE being what is commonly referred to as a "stay-at-home" mom, though Tolby and I are rarely home. We're visiting, we're walking, we're window shopping (not buying--we can't afford that), we're driving aimlessly; basically we're doing everything possible to thrwart a healthy nap schedule. And I freaking love it. Sometimes I get in a freelance article. Most days I blog. If it wasn't for the fact that the one-income thing is driving my husband to drink unhealthy amounts of Piels*, I'd be the happiest I've been in my entire life.

So, while I wait to see if the Connecticut university system has any judgement at all, it would probably be prudent to investigate childcare options that will make gainful employment possible. I'm not gonna lie to you--about this I am not too psyched.

The question is this: where is my intuition now? Where can I find clarity on this most convoluted issue of motherhood inside the home, and out?

*I'm using the "driving him to drink" cliche for hyperbolic effect. My husband is actually not the one with the addictive personality in this relationship. But the Piels thing is accurate. In fact, Tolby's favorite chew-toys are the cardboard cases we buy it in.

Lifestyles of the Penniless and Overlooked

2006-04-17T13:54:00.000-04:00

On one side of our home, a 500-pound woman sits watch in her living room, gazing out onto the state road with such focus and regularity that almost all passing motorists know to beep at her as they drive by. She's hurt if you don't.

On the other side, a makeshift campground sprung up not long after we moved in, after a savvy gentleman purchased the one permanent structure on the property (as permanent as a trailer can be) and illegally rented out the rest of his land to a series of registered sex offenders, irresponsible pet owners and tree-house carpenters. They lived in motor homes and pop-up campers that leeched off the main trailer via extension cords. There were six of them at last count, until the winter winds came and drove them back to Florida. I'm assuming they'll be back any day now.

It's a sad state of affairs when my husband and I are the rock that keeps an entire neighborhood from blowing away in a gust of crazy.

Anyway, today's post is about the first neighbor I mentioned--let's call her Betty--whose agoraphobic obesity is, unbeknownst to her, sounding the death knell of her marriage so loud and clear that everyone outside of the soundproofed barriers of her home knows it. She called me yesterday (she does this sometimes, even though we hardly know each other) to tell me she enjoyed having us as neighbors.

I didn't even bother contemplating the motivation for such a declaration, as rational thought is pretty much a waste of time in our zip code. "We think you're great neighbors, too," I lied.

"I'm telling you this because we're moving. With the mill rate going up and all the new expenses, we need to sell the house. I wanted to say that we've enjoyed having you as neighbors."

"Oh! Where are you going?"

"That's what everyone asks," she chortled, as if that was funny. "But we don't know."

Again, rational thought unprevailing, I let that go and hastened to end the conversation. It was no suprise to me that their money situation was tight, considering they had borrowed our gas can months ago and had been filling their oil burner with straight diesel fuel for weeks now. They just didn't have the $500 it takes to fill a tank with heating fuel in these days of grossly over-compensated Exxon and Mobil execs.

But the real story came out the next day as my husband spoke with Betty's husband--let's call him Dirk--across our chain link fence.

"I heard you're moving," said my husband.

"Yup. And we're getting divorced. She just doesn't know yet," said Dirk. In this phrase, which my husband recounted to me later, I knew that Betty did not hold a monopoly on mental illness in that house. Of course, I had figured that out more than a year ago when a dead cat washed up in front of their mailbox and Dirk kicked it more than 20 feet to the edge of their property line so he wouldn't have to worry about it anymore.

Turns out Dirk is rendez-vousing with a married co-worker from the potato chip factory down the street. He is going to use his profit from the sale of the house (what's left over from the 75 percent his lawyer advised him to give to Betty) to pay for his mistress to divorce her abusive husband, who likes to follow Dirk around like some kind of strung-out private investigator in a sleeveless tee shirt. Which is, like, totally what I should have expected.

As Dirk and my husband chatted over our property lines, Dirk expounded on the virtues of the other woman. "She's only 150 pounds," he said. In unspoken comparison, he nodded heavily toward the house, where white siding and green shutters sheltered Betty from the world while she waved at the cars beeping by.

Ultimate Fighting Championship

2006-04-12T15:58:00.001-04:00

Another chapter in the Why Didn't Anybody Tell Me It Was Going To Be Like This? book of new motherhood:

And Baby Makes Three, Or, You're Doing Good If You Don't Claw Out Your Partner's Eyeballs With What's Left of Your Gnawed Off Fingernails

Let me say, for the record, that I am writing this on the upside of a 3 week standoff with my own mate that began for reasons I have long since forgotten. It's a lapse in memory made inconsequential by the fact that whatever reason we had for fighting was totally irrelevant in the first place. Most of our fights are caused by all kinds of different straws that break the same back of the two-humped camel that is our marriage.

Hump One: our miserable financial state
Hump Two: my husband's perceived lack of freedom now that he's a father

(And, that, folks, is pretty much all the humpin' that goes on around here.)

Anyhoo. My point is that parenthood wreaks havoc on marriage. I would be perfectly willing to accept that my case is unique and that maybe my husband and I are just miserable people doomed to a life of shared disunity, except that I have heard too many stories by other new parents who can relate all too well to the stresses of a growing family. Like skin stretching tight over a pregnant abdomen, something's gotta give. Maybe it's a stretch mark, that first year as parents--an ugly sign of resiliency that fades over time but never goes away. For some, this new life as married parents might be like a c-section scar; it's raw and painful at first, but then the wound heals in a thin line of scar tissue stronger and more tightly fused than ever before. I'm sure the analogies are limitless (I'll spare you the one on episiotomies) but the thrust of the argument is the same: it's all part of the process in which a child is born and raised. Everything changes. How could I ever have thought it wouldn't be just exactly as it is?

I'm assuming that all you parents know what I'm talking about, in some way, on some level, unique to your own situation. I just can't believe that any post-partum marriage could come out unscathed. And those of you who aren't yet parents--it doesn't matter what I say. If you aren't ignoring me already, you'll soon forget. Then you'll pop out some progeny and life as a mother and a wife will become one big emotion that is, at once, alienating and unifying. You'll think you're the only one who has ever felt the way you do, but you'll know, deep down, that the experience is as old as time. You'll probably be pissed off at first. That's the bitter pill that feeds the target demo for my future Why Didn't Anybody Tell Me It Was Going To Be Like This? bestseller. But you'll get over that soon enough, and the "why" won't be nearly as important as the "like this." That's when you'll begin in earnest to seek out the experiences of others, and when you'll become so eager to share yours.

I hope you'll blog about it.

All By Myself

2006-04-10T15:20:00.000-04:00

I belong to this web ring of women called Crazy Hip Blog Mamas. And even though I'm much more crazy than hip, it's nice to be a part of a group. Which reminds me--I finally figured out the correct nomenclature for my blogging self. I am a mother blogger. Not a mom blogger and most certainly not a mommy blogger. A crazy mother blogger, if you will. I have no idea if this came to me on my own or if someone else planted a seed that I subconsciously gestated and that later popped out as my own brainchild. It seems like far too good of an idea not to have been thought of before. But, whatever the genesis, it's still accurate, and I'm running with it.

Anyway, CHBM offers these writing prompts for member bloggers to ponder, and this month's is "If I had an entire weekend to myself I would...”

No. I will tell you what I would NOT do. I would not clean my freaking house, which is exactly what my husband railed against me for not doing a few weekends ago when the baby went to visit the grandparents, leaving my husband and I home alone.

His logic was this: "You are always complaining that you can't get any housecleaning done when the baby is around, so this is the perfect opportunity to make this place liveable."

I looked up at him from the couch where I sat, nursing a hangover (something, incidentally, that is related to what I WOULD do if I had an entire weekend to myself) and stared at him. I think I was speechless. Why, in the name of Jesus, God and Baby Jesus, would I spend my only solitudinal day in recent memory CLEANING THE HOUSE? How does that even make sense? And, moreover, why was working himself into a nagging fit of maternal proportions and lecturing me as if I WAS THE CRAZY ONE?

So here's what I would NOT do:

Laundry
Ironing
Vacuuming
Dusting
Bulk cooking in casserole form to stockpile for the coming week
Taxes
Scrapbooking
And, dare I say it, blogging

But here's what I WOULD do, and a lot of it:

Breast pumping

So, holding up a bottle full of the good stuff, I say, Cheers! Here's to Medela and a weekend alone.

Remind Me To Tell You The One About Being Emancipated

2006-04-07T17:01:00.000-04:00

One day at my parents' we were sitting around the table, shooting the proverbial shit. Somehow Katie Couric's name popped up in conversation.

"I didn't know she wasn't married," my mother said.

"Where have you be-en, moth-er?" I demanded with the same syllabically-elongated hauteur I have exhibited in conversations with her since I turned eleven. "Her husband died, like, years ago. I think it was prostate cancer."

"Oh, yes, now that you say it." My mother nodded deliberately, as if fighting against demented brake pads to stir the wheels of memory into action. "I think that was it. Prostrate cancer."

"Oh my Go-od, mom." I'm not making this up. "It's not PROSTRATE cancer! It's prostate! Pros-TATE!" I was getting worked up. I looked with wild eyes to my husband, my brother, my father. I even looked to my sister, who is an idiot.

Then my other half, with a sense of diplomacy that has made him a beloved son-in-law against incredible odds, looked up from the coffee cup he was so carefully examining.

"Well, he probably laid down and died."

Why Tolby is the Luckiest Girl in the World

2006-04-06T12:42:00.000-04:00

Parents. Aren't they grand?

Load of Laundry

2006-04-04T20:54:00.000-04:00

Today I watched our wedding DVD and sent our videographer a very belated thank you note-- year and a half late, to be exact. Though it feels like ten.

I popped in the DVD and clicked over to the five-minute highlights section because I have no patience for the 2 hour long-form version. The montage was quick and upbeat, with adoring gazes flung right and left. I marveled at my husband operating in romance mode. I watched his bull riding self and his dazzling dance floor machinations. I watched him hold sparklers, and me.

The thank you note went like this:

Though we are remiss in sending this thank you note a year and a half after our July 2004 wedding, we hope you will consider its belatedness a testament to the fact that the wedding movie you created for us just keeps getting better with time. Thank you for this magical DVD that ensures our first day as husband and wife will remain a living, breathing memory for as long as we both shall live.

We truly adore everything about the movie, from the old-fashioned black and white fast forward effect during the montage to the hilarious bull-riding sequence. You caught all the moments we hoped you would, and then some.

Our family has already grown by one, and I know that our daughter will soon love the movie as much as we do. With our lives moving so fast now that it’s hard to stop and catch a breath, it is a special blessing to have this DVD to remind us of the importance of slowing down and reflecting on how it all began.

I honestly believe all that, though it doesn't tell the whole story. The truth is that the "wedding movie" (his terminology) is worth its weight in gold because it shows a new love unfolding--before it gets worn, spit up on, peed on, and covered in strained carrots, then thrown in the laundry pile where it will sit until the baby runs out of onesies and we can't find any clean socks. That is our love now.

If I was really feeling bitter, I could have told our videographer that. I could've waxed poetic with tales of wash and woe. I could've told him how our jeans don't touch, not even in the hamper. I could've told him that's where the real love story is, even though his artistic rendering of our wedding day is wonderful filler. If he really wants to make "movies," he should skip the receptions. Weddings are reality television; everything that comes after is real life.

How the Other Half Lives

2006-04-02T13:44:00.000-04:00

Having exhausted the semantical discourse related to identity and motherhood (Mom v. Mommy v. Mama v. Bitch with Baby), perhaps it is time to move on to a similar examination of fatherhood.

Where Does Your Man Stand? Is He a Dad? Daddy? Dick with Dependents? Take the 8Hours Quiz To Find Out!

1) Your other half thinks that life with children:

a) should be exactly the same as life without children, only with more tax deductions
b) is better than ice cream
c) is okay as long as it doesn't conflict with Poker Night

2) In the heat of passion, he has been known to scream out:

a) "It's like a hot dog in a hallway! A foot long one, of course, but still...you're a freaking hallway."
b) "You kiss the baby with that mouth?"
c) "Don't worry about the baby crying. This won't take long."

3)He is sitting in the room with his offspring, who has filled the entire lower level of your home with the malodorous stench of a jam-packed diaper. Your child's father:

a) pretends to ignore it, all the while trying to harnass all the power of his gastro-intestinal tract so that he can drown out the baby's smell with his own, more pleasing, fragrance
b) runs to the child's aid, all the while cooing "Baby-waby has a huge poopy-woopy! But it's okay! Your dumps are better than ice cream!"
c) says "Hon-ey! The baby just shat himself!"

4) After a pleasant weeknight dinner, you ask him to give your daughter a bath. He says:

a) I worked all day. What did you do?
b) Sure thing, darling. Afterward, I was hoping you and I could go over our finances to determine if becoming a stay-at-home dad is in the cards for me.
c) Okay, but you have to come with me so you can wash...you know, down there.

5) When he dresses the baby, he:

a) wakes up from the nightmare screaming and in a cold sweat
b) lovingly pulls on the matching shirt, pants, socks and shoes that he set out the night before
c) reaches into the drawer and pulls out the first top and first bottom he sees, regardless of season, print or size

If you answered mostly As, your significant other is a DICK WITH DEPENDENTS. He'd sooner leave you for the secretary than acknowledge any stake in the day to day business of raising children.

If you answered mostly Bs, your man is a DADDY. His baby is a princess; you are his queen. Of course, it's all fun and games till the jealous neighbors key your car and set the jungle gym on fire.

If you answered mostly Cs, your co-creator is a DAD. When the baby was born, he held him like a football, and he hasn't stopped thinking of fatherhood as a game--best accompanied by beer, wings, and a Hi-Def TV--ever since.

Coming Up Roses

2006-03-30T15:07:00.000-05:00

Today Tolby ate her first piece of grass. It was brown and shriveled and hadn't seen light in 6 months, but as I watched her warm fingers shove it into her mouth till she gagged, I recognized it for what it was: manna from heaven. Sitting there in the midst of one of the first truly springish days of the year, I felt that sunlight alone could have nourished us sufficiently, but Tolby, in her infant wisdom, saw through the pricklies to the restorative benefits a little roughage could provide.

And it was good.

Call Forwarding

2006-03-28T13:23:00.000-05:00

There is a sadness inherent in stopped blogs. I discovered this yesterday when it dawned on me that one of my favorite sites had quietly, and with perfect timing, slipped back into the cyber abyss. "I know it's late, but I needed to tell you one last thing." I read the words on Friday and didn't think much of them, till Monday came and the usual prolific postings had dwindled to nothing. And I was like damn, he's good.

The blog was layered. There was meaning on levels as deep as you wanted to go. All the classic elements of a good story were put to use in this new form. Irony. Allusion. Foreshadowing. And, of course, lots of links. It was real. You could try to label it, but whatever term you came up with would only be one small aspect of its essence. A blog about marriage. Infidelity. Parenting. Tennis.

Like the Tour de Lance, kudos to TPR for going out even stronger than it came in.

As a damn good blogger once said, "i spent an inordinate amount of time writing and editing each day and perhaps that time will be better spent on just shutting the fuck up for a while and living."

Which is most definitely sad, and probably true.

Better Late Than Never

2006-03-25T15:51:00.000-05:00

Today I'm blogging from a coffee shop into which I walked with my laptop secured in a diaper bag. Delicate and bulky electronics? Check. Baby? Nope, she's at home. It's freaking hilarious that I buffer my computer with diapers and bibs in transit and still like to think that I have any identity whatsoever beyond that of mother. All my pursuits--be them wifely, writerly, or friendly--are shit stained before I get out the door.

As the mom v. mommy debate rages across the momosphere, the significance of denotation, connotation and obfuscation is being picked apart as it relates to Web-writing women and the ways in which they classify themselves, and are classified by others. Are you a mom or a mommy? Do you know the difference? Do you care?

I'm a mama who cares. I am too obsessed with language to deny the importance of labels in personalizing my own identity and making it accessible to others. Though I am more tolerant of mommyhood than I used to be, there are semantical lines I can't bring myself to cross. But I admit I get closer every day to throwing words to the wind and beating my inflated Almost-B's with wild abandon, screaming "I am MOMMY, hear me roar!" Unapologetic. Devoted. Reeking of sour boob juice. Baby Einstein CDs bleating electronically in the background.

But I am not mommy. Not to you, anyway. To call myself "mommy" in front of anyone but my direct descendents would, to me, deny the other aspects of my existence that I am clinging to with a quiet desperation evident in white knuckles clutching at the strap of my diaper-bag-cum-laptop-carrier. I can't let go. It may be delusional or it may not be, but I am more than mommy. That doesn't mean that I don't appreciate those who are mommy, who embrace that aspect of their being wholly and hold it up to the sun to grow and to radiate and to flourish. It takes all kinds to make these worlds go 'round--the one our bodies inhabit and this new intellectual space we didn't even know there was room for.

And there is room. For all of us. Moms, mommies, bitches with babies. And once we accept that ourselves, we can work on convincing the rest of the blogosphere that the hand that rocks the cradle can craft a damn good blog, too.

The Witching Hour

2006-03-24T16:30:00.000-05:00

My daughter has developed a nighttime sleeping routine which dictates that she will awake, and stay that way, if I so much as fart. And if the dog runs up the stairs right in front of her room? Or if a door I am so purposefully trying to shut in silence slams closed? Forget it. Tolby's up till next Tuesday. I am really quite beside myself.

The part that makes it so aggravating is that my husband is on the opposite end of the spectrum from his spawn--he'll sleep through anything. Then he will refuse to wake, meaning he won't budge an eyelid indicating that he and consciousness have reunited. But last night, after I had already lulled her back to sleep once at 1 a.m and she woke again at 2, I figured out the one thing he couldn't sleep through.

That would be me, screaming. Not words, just diaphragm-propelled sounds gaining traction up the windpipe so that they come out shrieking like those small but powerful fireworks you can buy legally in makeshift tents that spring up next to Interstates a week before Independence Day. It was a grand finale up in that bitch last night as I tore off the comforter, snapped on the light and stomped on the floor, wild-eyed and approaching motherhood induced psychosis. First a few volleys, then this: "Will. You. Please. Get. Her. This. Time."

Nothing.

"Please. I asked if you would get her this time."

He burrowed over onto my side of the bed and snuggled into my pillow.

"I'm talking to you!"

"What?" He willed the words out of a slack jaw.

So I screamed some more and felt so uncontrollably angry that I wanted to bash his unbreakable skull into the headboard.

Then I went into her room, brought her back to our bed, fed her, and let her sleep there the rest of the night.

Because Dr. Ferber can suck my right tit.

Gathering Dust

2006-03-23T11:56:00.000-05:00

I can't walk and chew gum at the same time. For the same reason, I cannot simultaneously raise an infant, freelance, blog and keep a clean house. I'm a womanly failure. It is said that multi-tasking comes more easily to those in possession of double Xs, which makes me wonder if I don't have a little too much testosterone coursing through my veins. The predominance of hairs under my chin would also support that theory.

My husband and I are currently not speaking because he's pissed off that our house was starting to resemble a slum and then I got pissed off at him for calling me on it. Since we are both stubborn and manly, neither of us is willing to be the first to break the silence. I will say, however, that the true seriousness of the slumly situation became evident when I picked up all the junk from around the dog's bed and the dust began to attack our pet. I'm not kidding. There were clumps of fuzzy debris all over. Roxie has short fur (resembling my chin after I've misplaced the tweezers for a week) so it was quite obvious. She started digging herself into her bed in hopes of shaking the allergens, but even more dust had taken refuge there, thus perpetuating a cycle that rivaled field dandelions blowing in the breeze. I rationalize it like this: dust is not so much a dirty thing as a messy one. Piles of clothes and other inactive compounds are not so much unclean as they are walking hazards. Just thought I'd mention that.

Anyway, the reason I bring this up is to explain my absence from the momosphere this week. I was engaging in a cleaning mission that took all my powers of determination and productivity. I am at my best when I can focus wholly on one thing--which, as you can imagine, renders me pretty useless now that I am a mother. But I know my limitations. Isn't that half the battle? That's what I'd like to tell myself, but I know it's not true. Because I know a lot of things, and the fact remains that life is still one big skirmish that won't end till I'm dead.

Dinner in Deutschland

2006-03-16T22:07:00.000-05:00

This is me on my honeymoon in Germany, more than a year and a half ago. Yes, those are fajitas and, yes, that's a margarita. There's only so much schnitzel and pilsner a girl can take. But, weiners? Those are another story. Anyway, I am posting this today in hopes that someone might be proficient enough in German to be able to tell me what the bib says. It came with the dinner and I donned it happily enough, but the paranoid part of me wants to know exactly what kind of message I was espousing as I munched on that Rhinelandic homage to Tex-Mex. If you speak the language, or know anyone who does, help a schwester out and post a translation forthwith.

[Note: In case you can't read it,

the words read something like this:

Latzchen (?) sind nett

und schutzen vor Fett!

Allerdings nur die

Kleider.

Leider!]

Return to Sender

2006-03-15T22:44:00.000-05:00

Tonight I was folding a friggin' huge pile of baby laundry, contentedly. The incongruity of it did not escape me. Why, if folding the fresh, little girl duds was actually a pleasant experience, did I let the laundry pile up to such an extent that my daughter had not one single pajama, shirt, pant, onesie, snow suit, sock or car seat cover left to her name? Procrastination, thy name is Binky. My husband thinks it's laziness, but I say, "Why do the wash today when you've still got one perfectly good pair of underwear left for tomorrow?"

So I was piling one adorable sleeper on top of another and thinking how the size 6-9 month clothing had seemed so huge when I was the pregnant center-of-attention spewing tissue paper and gift bags all over my mom's back porch at my baby shower. Anything larger than "newborn" blew my mind. I didn't even bother trying to fathom the idea of my child fitting into such attire, that's how foreign the concept was to me. "Why the hell would anyone buy something this big?" I thought to my dumb-ass self. God. What an idiot.

8 months wiser, I am jaded enough for a lifetime. It's all true. Time goes by so fast. I can't believe how big she's gotten. It seems like just yesterday. If I am this nostalgic while folding my 8 month old's sleep sacks, I am going to be a sniveling cascade of mucous and salt the day I first drop her off at pre-school. My husband thinks it's a mood disorder, but it snot.

Anyway, I'm there folding these hitherto humongous outfits and thinking about how, soon enough, it will be time to put them in the attic until child number two comes along. The plan is to wait at a least year to even think about getting that whole process started, but now that Father Time and I are best buds, I realize that's no time at all. I find a 3-6 month onesie and put it aside. "I guess we'll have to put this away for the next one," I say to my husband.

"The next one?" he looks up in alarm from the Sudoku he's working on. "You mean there are more coming?"

I looked down at him with eyebrows that arched up, pushing my glasses lower on my nose. "Yes," I say.

"Oh." He is sly, like a fox. "If we move, do you think they'll find us?"

Tolby is Eating the Keyboard

2006-03-14T16:49:00.000-05:00

I asked my mother if it was possible for a child to bite off a mother's nipple while breastfeeding, and she just sort of laughed--hesitantly, as if really letting loose would be insensitive. It was a low, knowing chuckle that spoke volumes: "But for the grace of God do I stand here now with my breasts intact."

I once read a book on breastfeeding that must have been written by a midwife smoking peyote on Ina May Gaskin's Farm. It said that breastfeeding babies don't bite; that their tongues, instruments of instinct, will protect their mothers from harm. I don't know who's more ridiculous--them, for writing it, or me, for believing it. There's more than one sucker in this here breastfeeding team, that's for sure.

Luckily, my fingers have borne the brunt of the damage inflicted by her early whites thus far. In fact, I didn't discover the two teeth in the first place until she stuffed my pointer in her mouth and clamped down. I was too caught up in the euphoria of the milestone to think in any depth about its repercussions.

All indicators, however, point to more on the way. Night wakings, red cheeks and drool. Lots of drool. Soon that jagged bottom tooth will meet its match up top, and God help anything that gets in between. I am beginning to realize ignorance is blissful for a reason. Experience hurts.

A Bride's Guide to One F---ing Classy Wedding

2006-03-12T19:22:00.000-05:00

Having just finished the final revision of an article I am writing for a bridal magazine, I find myself waxing nostalgic about my own nuptials. I thought that I might pull together a few words of advice, with photo illustrations, to inspire my readership to new heights in wedding success. If I can guide just one dewy-eyed girl down my cultivated path to becoming a wedded woman, I will be satisfied. Just remember--you cannot pick and choose what recommendations to follow. To have a truly urbane affair, you must heed them all.

Arrive at the church with no jewelry--not because you forgot earrings and a necklace, but because you never made arrangements for procurement of said jewels in the first place. Expect pearls to miraculously appear. Smile serenely when they do.

Surround yourself with the less attractive sex so as to secure your place as the event's most shining star. Choose a male "maid of honor" and two best men.

When the priest asks you to put the ring on your groom's finger, zone out and completely ignore him. After the uncomfortable silence, and some prodding, laugh uncontrollably as you complete the transaction.

Insist on a Cadillac limo for the utmost in refinement.

Have your reception in a barn.

Rent a bull.

Ride it.

Stay on longer than your husband.

But not longer than your best friend.

Polka, barefoot.

Make sure the DJ has on hand much Big Hair Rock. Sing loudly and gyrate to at least one Bon Jovi anthem.

Choose, for your after party, a seafood joint no less than 75 miles from the shore. Force this friend...

...to drink this shot. Without shellfish and Tabasco, vodka is meaningless. Then make him drink many more.

Hope that the proprietors of the fine establishment don't notice when and where your friend's stomach lining attacked his offering then rejected its contents.

But don't be surprised when they do.

I've Got All The Riches, Baby

2006-03-10T16:42:00.000-05:00

There's nothing like the first spring-ish day of late winter. It warms my icy heart and melts out in the form of 1960's Motown ditties. "I. Guess. You'll. Say. What can make me feel this way? My girl! My girl!" I was singing into the top of Tolby's head as I walked through the local park, my daughter strapped to my chest and my dog leashed beside me. There were teams on the basketball court, kids on the swings, and teenagers filling the band shell with angst. I felt calm and unencumbered (proof of the power of positive thinking, considering the child and canine hanging off me) as I strolled the track, not concerned in the least about doing enough laps to burn off lunch or about the work waiting for me on the computer at home. The first 65 degree day after four months of New England dreariness is a Get Out of Jail Free card. It was an excuse to revel in the breeze on my face, to watch it blow through the blond tufts of Tolby's fine tresses. It was a moment to live in. I don't think I've had that feeling since Tolby was born, when life was suddenly all wistful longing for the day before and anxiety about the one ahead.

But, it's Connecticut. If you actually like the weather, just wait a minute.

The Distillery

2006-03-09T12:40:00.000-05:00

Sometimes a situation will require you, or a proxy, to distill the entire essence of your being into one word or phrase. If you die in a small town with a bad newspaper, it could happen like this: Helen Riordan, 94, Longtime Bingo Caller at Coxsackie Senior Center's Annual Casino Night; or Martin McPhee, 78, Retired Priest, Loved Children and Sheep; or Margo Daly, Once Went Over Niagara Falls in an Inflatable Kayak Purchased With Marlboro Miles, Dead of Cancer at 57.

Maybe you belong to a club or volunteer with a group of people who are all something. A mother. A farmer. A writer. A crossing guard. A champion pie eater. How do you decide on a label? How do you determine if it's family status, profession, or some hard-won achievement that really pegs you as a human being? I know a lot of it depends on the situation, but sometimes life is just a generality.

As for me, I don't know what I am. I'd like to think "writer," but for that to really work I'd probably have to write. Or at least post to my blog more than twice a week. But if, for the sake of discussion, I am a writer, where does that leave my poor, motherless child? And, more importantly, where does it leave my tax returns?

So, dear readers. Tell me what you are. All of you. It'll do this blog mama good.

8 Hours presents Cribz with Tolby T

2006-03-03T15:04:00.000-05:00

Archer, this is for you.

Welcome to beautiful northeastern Connecticut, where they are closing all the factories down. Sorta like Allentown, except that this is Connecticut, so the factories get replaced by shopping centers named after local trees.

I am Tolby T, and this is my Crib.

I am a cheerleader with a cold. Please excuse my glazed expression. Mom said I couldn't send the photographers away because this is my one chance at stardom.

Right now I cheer, but when I learn how to walk, I plan to be a baller. My uncle is a UCONN cheerleader, so I think he will be very proud of me. He says he likes being a cheerleader because he is in touch with his masculinity, as well as other things, since he gets to share locker rooms with the girls and also gets to put the girls up over his head.

I am tall for my age (unlike my uncle, who is short, with a center of gravity that predisposes him to cheerleading lifts and round offs). Mommy gave me that word: "predisposes." I usually don't talk like that. Anyway, I think I might make a good basketball player. But I'm not going to rush into any decisions.

Give me a P! Give me an O! Give me another one! Give me a P!

We all know the heart of any Crib is the fridge. I take my Cristal secondhand.

This is where I hang with my dog, Roxie. She is ferocious.

My cell. I mean, my Crib's crib. I thought there was a trend in this country toward rehabilitation instead of incarceration. Yet, naptime after naptime, night after night, here I am. I do not know why they don't respect me enough to let me fall asleep in my swing like I used to do.

Speaking of sleeping, check out my whip. Cadillac-ac-ac. If you have the means, I highly recommend picking one up.

Thank you for joining this tour of my crib. You've seen all there is to see. Even I'm bored now. I'm going to hop in the Caddy with Mom so we can go watch the glass factory turn into a Home Depot. Mom says she's not sure, but she thinks that's called progress.

A Biting Commentary

2006-03-01T16:48:00.000-05:00

My friend's daughter got bit by a dog. Thankfully, the little girl is okay. Her lip required stitches and she will be undergoing some kind of scar therapy over the next few weeks. The dog was put to sleep.

It happened at her sister's house, in front of everyone. That is to say, it could've happened anywhere, to anyone. That's a scary fact to come to grips with as a dog owner myself--the owner of a much maligned breed of dog, no less. The dog that bit my friend's daughter was an American Pit Bull Terrier, as is my dog, Roxie. I know these dogs to be the most people-loving, devoted and tolerant pets around. I also know that their dog-fighting predisposition brings out aggression issues with other animals, but I've never felt any fear or insecurity when it comes to supervised Tolby-Roxie relations. As a smart and innately protective mother, I never leave them alone together, but that would be the case with any dog.

I'm not going to bring up all the statistics that prove a well-cared-for pit bull can be one of the most amazing pets a lucky family could have. To me that's a given. But I would be lying if I said close-hitting stories like this don't give me pause. I'd love to live in my own world, flipping off ill informed media as they go after sensationalistic pit bull stories like crazed cocker spaniels go after nut sacs (cocker spaniels being the most likely to bite, which you would never know from the average newspaper or television story). But it's harder to claim media bias when it happens in your own life. When it happens to you or someone you know, it's not bias--it's reality. It's bloody and terrifying and nauseating and infuriating. But it's isolated. I'm no more prepared to believe that all pit bulls are instruments of carnage than I was before my friend called to tell me what happened and to ask if I could watch her other child while she brought her daughter in for a follow-up with the pediatrician.

But, you know what? In the lingo of the times, I will be more vigilant. I'll watch more carefully when Roxie is around other children. I'll pet her while she eats and take her bowl away from her a little more often so she's not surprised the first time Tolby slinks up and does it. These are precautions I would take no matter what my dog's breed. From poodle to pinscher, all dogs are dogs. They're living, panting, loving, stinking members of families that need us to act in their best interests. I'm up for the challenge. And I know Roxie is, too.

By the Light of the Moon

2006-02-28T16:32:00.000-05:00

The other night, when Tolby woke at 3 am--as has been her dentally-induced habit as of late--we let her do a thorough cleansing of the tear ducts instead of going in right away to soothe her. Being that her tear ducts have a pretty vigorous maintenance plan as it is, such action was probably not necessary, but there you have it. At least my husband and I got an extra fifteen minutes of laying in bed, dreaming about dreaming. When I finally went in to get her, she had worked her sinuses (sinii?) into such a tizzy that she could no longer breathe properly through her nose. The result was a gaping look of befuddlement as she pulled in great gasps of air through swollen gums. How could you do this to me, mother? There was no anger, no sadness--only circular astonishment. Mouth open, eyebrows raised, her face was a round, red question mark. I held her to my chest for awhile and stared. Her expression was borne of mucus and my own analysis, but it seemed so real. She seemed so real. Then I lifted her onto my shoulder and hip-swayed her into submission with a efficiency no overpriced glider could mimic.

Waking up at 3 am is worth it if it means I can be there to see her turn into a little person.

Books Are Good, MmmKay?

2006-02-25T13:33:00.000-05:00

When I was younger, afire with the hormones of pre- and actual-pubescence, there were a lot of literary characters I found hot. Among them: Johnny Tremain, Mercutio, Benedyk, Gilbert Bly, Sodapop Curtis and, depending on my mood, Dally Winston. For the sake of discussion, I'm talking about the kind of books we read in school, not the countless and more generic young adult novels I scarfed down like the Cup O' Noodles I grabbed from the pantry every day after school. Books were my life, and for lack of any action that wasn't confined to 150+ pages of pallid paper, I took romance where I could get it. Oh, the drama and the intriuge of that cocky Johnny with the gimp hand and his star-crossed Cilla. They will get together! They won't get together! They will! They won't! Kiss me, you fool! I just could not get enough. At thirteen, the world of masculine humanity, past, present and future, was at my disposal, and I tore through those pages by the hundreds. Then, at night, I'd lay awake in bed, my nose pressed into my drool-stained pillow that somehow smelled good, and make my own fantasies inside my head. These creations were a strange blend of Shakespearian, revolutionary, Canadian and midwest, mixed with DePaolo Middle School. The glory of it was that anything was possible then; I could honestly believe that, one day, I would meet someone as dashing as Mercutio, as tragically flawed as Johnny or Dally, as darn sweet as Gilbert Bly. All I needed was to be somewhere else. To be someone else.

So I waited, and I read. Then I got some cars, an education, and several jobs. Got a life, became a wife. And it's funny, because sometimes I still bury my face in the pillow, searching for the smells of childhood and wondering where it went, the hopeful excitement of not knowing.

Luck of the Draw

2006-02-23T15:53:00.000-05:00

My baby should be surly. She should realize that the world owes her something and act accordingly when it doesn't come through. She should raise a wicked eyebrow when she farts. She should chuck her frozen teething ring, pock-marked by two sharp eruptions, across the room because it just doesn't do anything to numb the pain, godddamit! By virtue of being my child, she should do all these things, and more. But I guess she didn't get the email.

She's too beautiful, too sweet, too mild-mannered and calm to be mine. She should've been born to a mother--no, a mommy--who is soft in all the right places: soft chest, soft arms, words of adoration welling up inside and brimming to the surface, softly. She is not the type of child who belongs to a woman who looks at soft, written out four times in one sentence, and thinks, "wow, that is a weird looking word." She is more than language could ever say. She should have a mother who knows that.

But she is mine. I am hers. And that's really an uneven exchange. I am the one who got lucky the day my husband laid that swaddled bundle in my morphine hold as her warmth stilled the shivers that wracked me. Every day she grows, blood running hotter through each squiggling extremity. Every day her friction melts me more.

But enough? I'm afraid not.

Good Will Hunting

2006-02-22T13:46:00.000-05:00

So, here's a question for ya'll: do you have a will? I don't. I can rationalize this by stating that wills are a money-related business, and most things fiscal fall to my husband (not all, but most). My husband--the man who thinks he is immortal. So immortal, in fact, that most of his bi-weekly paychecks go into our retirement plan. We live on mac 'n cheese and Two Buck Chuck now so that, one day, he can be old and crotchety in a garage as big as our current house, restoring vintage Porsches. His certainly has a keen sense of foresight; it just doesn't extend to the Pearly Gates.

For that reason, my husband's mother is now on a quest to instill some semblance of maturity into the father of her one and only beloved grandchild. For as long as I've known her, she has left cut-out newspaper articles on the nightstand next to the bed we sleep in when we visit. Sometimes the Dear Abby excerpt is a bit on the cryptic side, and we wonder why she figures the sterling chain of our lives is lacking this particular pearl of wisdom. Other times, like this past weekend, it is abundantly clear. Sitting under the pale glow of the bedside lamp was a six part series titled Why Dying Without a Will is a Bad Idea.

Each state has an intestacy statute (that's latin for should've written a will, dumbass) which dictates who gets a person's property if s/he dies without a will. In the case of married people with children, the decedent's property is split between the surviving spouse and the children (when they reach the age of majority). In the case of a married couple without children, however, things get dicey. As in, many states will force the surviving spouse to share the estate of his dearly departed with the in-laws. So, if your relationship with your beloved's parents is such that the four of you can't even agree on what kind of pizza to order when you begrudgingly stop by on a Saturday evening, you might want to consider drafting that will.

Of course, there are many more issues that make dying intestate a bad, bad idea, whether you are single, married, civilly unionized, childless, childful and/or in possession of a hamster.

So I emailed my husband.

What are we going to do about this? I asked.

Not die? That's my plan. I don't know about you.

What Would Jesus Wear?

2006-02-17T14:56:00.000-05:00

When I was in college, my roommate and I had an elaborate plan that involved purchasing a life-sized lawn ornament of Jesus Christ and dressing Him according to the season: a toga for Greek Week, a pointy paper birthday hat and a plastic kazoo on Christmas, a Hawiian shirt over Spring Break, etc. But a lawn Jesus is expensive and a college student's budget is small, so we were never able to pull it off. I remember the anticipation, though, and am not being disrespectful* in the least when I say we were really looking forward to welcoming the Big Guy into our dorm.

More recently, my husband, brother, mother and mother-in-law went to the Christmas vigil at the Catholic church my husband attended as a child. It's a contemporary building with a covered entryway more reminiscent of a hotel lobby than a house of worship. "It's Courtyard by Jesus," my brother chortled. And I thought that wasn't a bad analogy for my kind of Jesus--accessible, accomodating and just as susceptible to the whims of modern architecture as the rest of us.

Pretty soon it's going to be time to introduce my daughter to Uncle Jesus, but the problem is I haven't been able to reach Him myself. Every time I catch a glimpse, the ugly head of institutional Catholicism rears itself yet again and obstructs my view. Priests can't be women; can't be married; can't encourage the faithful to think. With all those barriers, how can the real Jesus be anything but out of reach?

I wonder what a 6 foot plaster Jesus goes for nowadays? Maybe that's where I should start. I've got a North Face jacket and a knitted cap with His name written all over it.

*That former college roommate is now a minister with a degree from Yale Divinity School. I couldn't make this shit up if I tried.

12 Seconds

2006-02-16T09:10:00.000-05:00

Proving once again that the stereotype about tight-assed New Englanders is not entirely true, I present exhibit A as documented at my July, 2004 wedding.

God Bless America

2006-02-14T10:15:00.000-05:00

To all those in the military, past and present, and their families.

Thanks for the freedom.

Green Olives Make No Sense

2006-02-13T17:57:00.000-05:00

There are things I love without knowing why. Among them: the musical Cabaret; green olives with pimiento; Troy, New York; most words with hard K sounds; certain blogs; some people; and bourbon, even in its most generic form. I'm sure I could figure out my attraction to these things if I tried, but, really, why would I? Sometimes it's enough for something just to be.

In fact, maybe that's the secret. I should never have to think about broadway musical soundtracks on repeat, or why I love the words Shodack (a town, incidentally, near Troy, NY) and Wachovia. It's enough that bourbon, like certain old friends, is comforting and familiar, even though it's hard to pinpoint what brought us together in the first place. See, getting there isn't as important as being here now, and, in some cases, getting there doesn't matter at all.

Like with green olives.

A Friday Referral

2006-02-10T17:28:00.000-05:00

My husband, using Blogger's "Next Blog" function as he is wont to do, actually came across something good. It's a weblog called The Phone Rang that found its way into my heart and my Favorites and hasn't budged since. It is, like, really good. If Dooce is modern motherhood and Anonymous Lawyer is the fucked up culture of workplaces and Overheard in New York is urban voyeurism, then this site is good, old fashioned, there-but-for-the-grace-of-God, marital DRAMA. Time Magazine, take note. If you're going through the archives, I suggest warm jammies, popcorn and a couple (two, tree) bottles of wine. Needless to say, you should put the kids to bed before embarking on this adventure. Then go up and kiss them on the unwrinkled innocence of their foreheads when you're done.

Why Good Enough Will Never Again Suffice

2006-02-09T16:34:00.000-05:00

The absolute most fantabulous thing about my baby girl is that she loves me because she doesn't know any better. I can't get that kind of unconditional adoration from my dog, but here is 14 pounds of babbling, soft-skinned warmth that puts all its trust in me. Her blind faith makes me a better mother--maybe, one day, it can turn me into the person she thinks I am.

An Avocado By Any Other Name

2006-02-08T15:40:00.000-05:00

Surprise #1,567,001 in My Life As A Mom: Baby poop can actually smell good.

Though you may not have known this about avocado and its effect on immature digestive systems, I'm here to tell you that it looks and smells the same going in as it does coming out.

No shit.

I-95 is a Random Muse, Or, Just One of the Things That Popped Into My Head On My Way Back From Virginia

2006-02-06T14:03:00.000-05:00

The only good thing about the northeast, as far as I can tell after 27 years of observation, is the abundance of Dunkin Donuts establishments. And even that is a mixed blessing now that the company has traded in my old standby--French Vanilla coffee made from flavor-infused beans--for at least nine different sugar-free syrups that roll over the tongue like sweet cancer. In case that somehow sounds appetizing, let me just clarify: it's not. These syrups are a foul-tasting marketing ploy to offer variety to the throngs of people streaming in and out of the drive-thru at the start of yet another weekday differentiated from the one before and the one after only by the presence of coconut, toasted almond or blueberry syrup in their 24 ounce styrofoam cup. But, really, who cares if it tastes bad? By the time the caffeine jolts us awake, the propylene glycol, glycerine, natural & artificial flavors, triacetin, polysorbate 80, and caramel color have long since numbed our taste buds.

We'll willingly drink bad coffee because it makes our days livable, but truly good coffee makes that living worthwhile. McDonald's tried to capitalize on that fact on the upper east coast with the introduction of Green Mountain coffee (Newman's Own Organic Blend). Then they got really smart and offered it stark, raving FREE for something like two whole weeks. One could drag his or her somnambulant carcass into McDonald's every morning for the duration of the special and sail out on an complimentary caffeine cloud. And an organic one, no less. We love that. Don't let the fact that we'll pay $5 for a non-fat Starbucks latte convince you otherwise.

Insecure Connection

2006-01-30T15:33:00.000-05:00

Go here to vote for the best of the best of the bloggiest of blogs in the sixth annual Weblog Awards.

Go here to marvel at the things we don't talk about and the creative ways we get the message out anyway at PostSecret.

Here's my secret:
I have dooce saved in my favorites, and I voted for Heather B. Armstrong all over the place in the Weblog Awards, but I can't actually read her stuff anymore because her talent makes me throw up a little bit in my mouth. Maybe writing as good as hers should give me something to aspire to; but instead it makes me feel like mediocrity personified. So I don't go there, and I keep up my own blogging as if there's a point to any of this, until, in a bout of self-esteem, I click on her site again. Arise, vile bile of jealousy.

Little In The Middle But She Got Much Back

2006-01-27T21:40:00.000-05:00

No longer can I say her shit don't stink. Gone are the days of the mild mustard poops. With the introduction of baby oatmeal, we are entering an era of stank not smelled since my husband last ate an entire carton of raisins in one sitting. Before today, it was always the wet feeling on my leg or the sight of a diaper breach that would alert me it was time for a change. These evacuations were so mild in stench and texture (though not in scope) that even Tolby was not moved by them. She would not cry or become fussy. But no longer. If her uncomfortable wails had not warned me something was amiss earlier this afternoon, then the odor would've. I walked into a room so thick with methane that I knew the day of reckoning had come. My baby is growing up.

I haven't been this nauseous since my child was an embryo.

Them's the Brakes

2006-01-27T14:45:00.000-05:00

I just read that Joaquin Phoenix, star of Walk The Line, had a car accident wherein his brakes stopped working, causing him to lose control of the car and hit an oncoming vehicle. Thanks to God and Johnny Cash, he walked away uninjured. Absolutely all accident analysis aside, let me say this: how freaking freaky is the idea of losing your brakes?!?! I live in fear of just such an occurance. I once mentioned this to a friend, who suggested opening the driver's side door to maximize wind resistance in the event of brake failure. Turns out he was joking, but I swear to God (and Johnny Cash) that I would try anything. Talk about feeling helpless.

I have a lot of these fears now that I have a baby to be scared for. It is a testament to my ability to sweep things under the subconcious rug that I can even get out of bed every day to face all these new demons. Though I've never been what anyone would call a worrier, I have been a tad superstitious and a bit on the paranoid side. Before my daughter came along, I'd think that the world was out to get me, but I wouldn't really care. In the Tolby era, I have to care, because nothing is really about me anymore. Now I can't go three minutes without knocking on wood or trying to banish images of car accidents or Avian Flu epidemics from my mind's eye.

On a related note, I really had to struggle to spell "brakes" correctly throughout this entry. Despite my usually impeccable spelling, my default setting for that word is "breaks." I don't know why.

The Cold Season

2006-01-25T21:50:00.000-05:00

Someone I live with likes to shoot rhinoviral loogies into the bathroom sink. Perhaps, by shrouding his identity in ambiguity as I broadcast this across the blogosphere, he will be able to hold onto the modicum of dignity available to him after repeatedly hawking up phlegm globbers into our communal wash basin.

I have nothing against expelling the thick stuff. Sometimes the works get gummed up and you have to clear the way. But why the sink?!?! It is over the sink that I insert/extract my contact lenses, brush my teeth and cleanse my delicate pores. I know that germs from any or all of those processes are bound to make the rounds, but somehow they all pale in comparison to big, green, already-compromised goobers rolling like viscous tumbleweeds from porcelain to drain. How about the toilet, one might ask. Or even the tub. Anything but the sink, which I look at now and want to vomit (puke being another thing that should be reserved for the toilet--or the shrubbery next to our porch, but that's another story).

I realize this might all be grosser than gross, but there is not and likely never will be a moratorium on nastiness in this blog. There are too many facets of life bound by appropriateness. How will we ever discover just how similar (or completely different) we are without divulging some of the more unsavory aspects of our existence?

Yesterday I said that life is too short to worry about the small things; today I add that it'll be short and boring if you try to repress all the juicy details.

How I like my sink: clean
How I like my blog: completely unsanitary

Eat This

2006-01-24T13:48:00.000-05:00

Yesterday was Tolby's six month check-up. We discovered she only gained about one pound and one inch, putting her in the 10th percentile for weight and the 65th for length (down from her four month stats of weight: 50th and length: 90th). She also got four immunizations. One could almost feel bad for her, all emaciation and needle sites. But she's tough, and the baby Tylenol made her even cockier. It was all in a days' work for my little crack whore midget.

But, seriously. I could let her descent through the percentiles worry me if I was the type to stress out over things like that. As it is, I've decided that as long as she's happy and healthy, I must be doing something right. I still worry in the back of my mind about wine and coffee stunting her growth and impeding the fusion of critical neurons, but then I regain my regular consciousness, which is ruled by the phrase everything in moderation. And by everything I mean even the bad, bad ingestibles that pregnant and lactating women are warned to avoid like the plague (or at least an e coli outbreak) such as gouda, olive loaf, mahi-mahi, or steak tartare. Putting things off-limits just makes them even more desirable.

This, I tell you: one could live to 35 or 102, and the fact would remain that life is too damn short to worry about every little thing.

Her Place

2006-01-23T16:45:00.000-05:00

I re-found this article courtesy of The Happy Housewife, but I first saw it back during my college days in a Communication Studies textbook. It's no joke. Let us harken back to a time when women were gay and interesting, children were little treasures, and men were incapable of removing their own foot gear.

...from 'Good Housekeeping Magazine', 13th May 1955

THE GOOD WIFE'S GUIDE

Have dinner ready. Plan ahead, even the night before, to have a delicious dinner ready, on time for his return. This is a way of letting him know that you have been thinking about him and are concerned about his needs. Most men are hungry when they come home and the prospect of a good meal (especially his favourite dish) is part of the warm welcome needed.

Prepare yourself. Take 15 minutes to rest so you'll be refreshed when he arrives. Touch up your make-up, put a ribbon in your hair and be fresh-looking. He has just been with a lot of work-weary people.

Be a little gay and a little more interesting for him. His boring day may need a lift and one of your duties is to provide it.

Prepare the children. Take a few minutes to wash the children's hands and faces (if they are small), comb their hair and if necessary change their clothes. They are little treasures and he would like to see them playing the part.

Be happy to see him.

Listen to him. You may have a dozen things to tell him but the moment of is arrival is not the time. Let him talk first - remember, his topics of conversation are more important than yours.
Make the evening his. Never complain if he comes home late, or goes out to dinner or other places of entertainment without you. Instead, try to understand his world of strain and pressure.

Make him comfortable. Have him lean back in a comfortable chair or have him lie down in the bedroom. have a warm or cool drink ready for him.

Arrange his pillow and offer to take off his shoes. Speak in a low, soothing and pleasant voice.
Don't ask him questions about his actions or question his judgement or integrity. Remember he is the master of the house and as such will always excercise his will with fairness and truthfulness.

You have no right to question him.

A good wife always knows her place.

Food For Thought

2006-01-20T16:47:00.000-05:00

Tolby turns 6 months tomorrow, which means two things of note:

1) Time goes by too freakin' fast

and

2) I really need to start feeding her solids.

The fact that I haven't started her on the latter (#2) is that I am so freaked out by the former (#1) that I want her to remain infantile as long as possible. Not carnival-sideshow long, but I want to buy myself as much time as I can get away with without displeasing the medical community or the grandparents. Ever since she was born, the comedy/action/adventure/drama of our lives has been on fast forward, leaving me with no time to sit back and relish the show. Yet I know how important it is to do just that. Somehow, holding off on the rice cereal and the pureed turkey dinner makes me feel like I can get away with freeze-framing the simplicity of her newborn-ness just a little longer. Even though her attention span is not as wide as one breast and half the time she'd rather stare at the white ceiling than eat, I hug her close to my chest and rub her silky hand, knowing she won't always be that soft and she won't long be so huggable.

Before Tolby, there was a time when I'd think things were moving too slowly and the tick-tock of the clock was interminable. Even while I was in labor with her, it was that sluggish fetal heartbeat that caused my midwife so much concern. I remember the impatience of my previous life and, though I don't miss it, it left me ill-prepared for the dazzling speeds of my new world, where there's no going back and there's no slowing down.

If I Can Make It Here, I Can Make It Anywhere...

2006-01-19T22:46:00.000-05:00

I am applying to become a blogger for the Web site of a Connecticut newspaper (not local, local but not big-time, either). After I sent a cover letter and sample blog entries, they forwarded the following questions. I answered them in the lofty prose, liberally sprinkled with bullshit, that one must produce in order to get anywhere in the world of words. Censoring the crap out of myself (figuratively speaking), I made sure not to include any references to poop. It's not easy being respectable. For now.

How will you come up with blog entry ideas?

I’ve been inspired with blog entry ideas in the midst of tasks that include, but are not limited to: taking a shower; feeding the baby; changing the baby; washing the baby’s clothes and, less frequently, washing the actual baby; putting the baby down for a nap and failing; putting the baby down for a nap and succeeding; and going on long scenic drives that clear my head, making room for even more blog entry ideas. You see, life is its own muse, and inspiration is everywhere, if you just know where to look.

How you will shape the content, meaning, how will you decide what to write about? How long would entries typically be? Will you use quotes? Voices of others, such as friends and relatives?

The thing about writing a blog is that life dictates what I will discuss on any given day. It’s really quite liberating. There’s a freedom in knowing that it’s the very quotidian nature of daily living that readers are logging in to read about. I want to be funny and relatable; readers want to laugh and connect.

300-500 words, on average, gives me enough room to say what I have to say, while keeping even the most cursory of readers engaged.

The voices in my head as I write are often those of my husband, parents, siblings, and friends, and they will all translate into this blog. Some stay-at-home moms say that they lack meaningful adult interaction, but those mommies aren’t me. I’ve never put much stock in the “stay at home” aspect of full-time mothering, and, in my pursuit of stimulating ways to fill days that are already proving too short, have found no lack of situations, stories and quotes with which to regale my blog readership. I’m a mother, wife, writer, friend, volunteer (et cetera, ad infinitum) with enough angles and interests to appeal to a host of demographics.

How will you sustain the content, meaning what do you plan to do to keep it fresh? Do you plan to periodically revisit items previously written about and update them in the blog?

As long as my life is fresh, my blog will be, too. And my life will be fresh. I have never been the type to sit idly by while things get boring. Luckily, having an infant means that I no longer need to go on the offensive when it comes to generating excitement. Between raising my daughter, trying to get a freelance writing career off the ground, and making sure I don’t lose my husband in the chaos, I’ve got more stories to tell than ever before.

How you will you use reader feedback? You’ll likely receive email from readers, and their comments can provide good fodder for responses in the blog.

[Note: Is it me, or did they answer their own question? What I should write in response is "I will likely receive email from readers, and their comments can provide good fodder for responses in the blog."]

Using the existing audience of [hyperlink deleted to save myself embarrasment if I'm not selected] to catch the attention of travelers on the information superhighway, I hope to draw in those Internet rubberneckers with witty, easy-to-read content that keeps them coming back for more. Once they become regular readers (and commenters), they’ll be treated like friends, with old anecdotes becoming inside jokes as a building sense of familiarity leaves them interested in what the next day’s blog will bring.

I welcome reader comments not only for the sense of camaraderie they help build, but as a way to gauge areas and levels of interest as I work to provide content that engages as many people as possible.

Wish me luck.

Much Clown Luv, A Retrospective

2006-01-16T17:21:00.000-05:00

I didn't quite get married in Insane Clown style, but I did paint my face and christen the gown a week before our wedding when I had our photographer take a series of photos, one of which I printed up and presented to my husband on our actual wedding day.

I'm the Mommy, That's Why

2006-01-16T15:29:00.000-05:00

So, about this mommy thing. Let me go on the record right now as saying that, in order for you to refer to me as mommy, you better have been pulled out of my gaping abdomen (or vaginal canal if things go a little more smoothly next time), spent at least six months sucking on each boob, and landed enough explosive poops for me to pull blog material from for the next two years at least. If you are not my child, I am not a mommy. I am a mother because we are adults. I know that I might get some resistance here, as there are many, many women who love to refer to themselves and other recent reproducers by this term (in all its mommy manifestations--mommyhood, mommy-to-be, stay-at-home-mommy, "Oh how I adore being a mommy," etc.), but I don't feel it. When I am speaking to adults, I want to use adult words. I will speak babytalk with the best of 'em, but if you are over the age of 6, I prefer mental stimulation and some acknowledgement that I have worth beyond my ability to produce milk and wipe shit from my daughter's armpits.

Of course, using the word in an ironical fashion is encouraged. Pop culture references such as "Mommy Dearest" are okay by me as well. But when the kids are at the babysitter's, and you're sharing a bottle of Lost Vineyards $3.99 Red Table Wine with my husband and I as Johnny Cash growls in the background, you're among adults. Sit down, relax, put another one back.

Friends don't let friends call themselves mommy.

See, I Don't Write About Poop For Once and It Totally Sucks

2006-01-12T13:27:00.000-05:00

Some stereotypes about women:

They are afraid to ask for money.
They are afraid to speak their mind.
They can't say no.

Asking for money. I hate it. From the day I trudged door-to-door as a kindergartner, hawking my Jeanine Kit wares, I have detested sales. The fact that I even remember the name "Jeanine Kit" shows just how mentally scarring the experience was, since I only remember the bad stuff. It was a cardboard suitcase filled with crap that even a 5 year old knew nobody wanted to buy. In junior high, I missed out on more than one field trip because I failed to sell enough candy bars to fund my transportation costs. Girl Scout Cookies? Forget it. The things practically sell themselves and still I could not manage to merit even a badge, let alone the stuffed monkey recognition prize. Now the MOMS Club of which I am a member is looking for ideas to raise cash for our international Mother to Mother Fund and I am starting to twitch.

Speaking one's mind. I'm not one for holding back, myself. However, what I do know something about is how other women, who might not be as outspoken, react to a strongly stated opinion. They get defensive. And they read things into it. And they think that the one who opines is bitchy instead of assertive. In fact, even some women who are, themselves, opinionated, can balk when confronted with an idea that does not mesh with theirs. And instead of dealing with it constructively, they'll go behind backs to talk about it.

Saying No. Okay, this one really doesn't apply to me, since I have never made a habit of doing things I don't want to do. But I guess there are a lot of overacheiving women out there who can't delegate or disassociate or dig a hole in which to crawl when the demanding throngs become too loud. It almost certainly ties into not speaking one's mind, but it's deeper than that. I'm not a sociologist, and I have no desire to play one on the Internet, so I will cut this one off here, leaving you to ponder where you fall on the metaphorical feminine spectrum that goes from "Do Me Now" to "Sorry, Buddy, I Have a Headache."

My point is that I believe in stereotypes, though I know that they could never apply to everyone or be true all the time. It's just that I've never believed something could be discounted purely on the grounds that it generalizes. What's more important is the context in which the stereotype emerges. Maybe women don't always "speak their minds," or bring in the most money for their alma mater, or admit that their plate is a little too full. But we are operating in a world where values are assigned by men. For a woman to embrace her feminine side often means being looked down upon by a society that holds more masculine ideals dear (Say what you mean! Mean what you say!). On the other hand, a woman who makes her way according to "man's" rules might be construed as stabbing her sisters in the back (Why can't you be more diplomatic? Why can't we all just get along?).

I don't know where this is all coming from. I guess I just find it so hard sometimes to get along with other women (mostly new women--it all changes when they become friends) and I want to know why. How much of our day-to-day interactions are clouded by our societally-influenced perceptions of the way things should be, as opposed to an acceptance of the way things innately are?

Okay, this is stupid, rambling and boring. I am so glad that nobody ever comments here because I'm sure there wouldn't be many positive responses. I should stick to writing about poop.

Seven Sevens

2006-01-11T16:20:00.000-05:00

Seven things to do before I die
1. Put my ass in a chair and write some novels
2. Put my ass in a chair and write lucrative magazine articles
3. Have more kids
4. Weigh the same as I do now after having those kids
5. Travel extensively and internationally
6. Make sure family and friends know how much I love them
7. Spoil my grandchildren

Seven things I cannot do
1. A pull up
2. Talk French convincingly
3. Tolerate my husband's road rage
4. Develop an appreciation for liver and liver products
5. Lie convincingly
6. Figure out how to keep my baby from soiling all her garments with rocket propelled bowel movements
7. Remember to take the garbage out

Seven things that attract me to my husband:
1. Humor
2. Intelligence
3. Faithfulness (in the event that this isn't true, at least it will make him feel guilty)
4. Competence in almost everything
5. Height
6. Broad shoulders
7. He's happy when I'm happy

Seven things I say most often
1. Time flies
2. It goes by so fast
3. I forgot
4. I can't remember
5. Interesting
6. True, true
7. Tolby

Seven books (or series) I love
1. Beach Music by Pat Conroy
2. Stories of Eva Luna by Isabel Allende
3. Janet Evanovich's Stephanie Plum series
4. Everything by Nelson Demille
5. Vince Flynn's political thrillers
6. The Red Tent by Anita Diamant
7. When I was young I was obsessed with a series called The Fabulous Five

Seven movies I watch over and over again (or would watch over and over if I had the time):
I don't have that kind of patience or endurance. I'm substituting "television shows" for "movies" and there ain't nothing you can do about it.
1. Sopranos
2. Desperate Housewives
3. How I Met Your Mother
4. Reba
5. So You Think You Can Dance (if it returns)
6. House Hunters
7. Vacation Home Search

Seven people I want to join in, too:
Not all of these people have their own blog, but they at least have email, not to mention the ability to contribute their own Seven Sevens to my comment section
1. Chris
2. Jene
3. Amy
4. Sarah
5. Jess
6. Sean (but he doesn't read my blog, so I guess he'll never know)
7. You

Chicken Hunting

2006-01-10T15:27:00.000-05:00

It seems that the Avian flu virus has claimed several casualties in remote parts of Turkey. By playing monkey-in-the-middle* with chicken carcasses, two Turkish teens unwittingly handed themselves over to death's icy grip as contaminated fowl beset their homeland. Now, I realize that every situation must be analyzed in its own cultural context, and that one child's Nintendo DS is another child's severed chicken head, but some things really just make you go hmmmm.

We live in a global society now, but, in the grand scheme of things, very few of us think that way. The world over, regular people are concerned with their regular lives and the regular ramifications of their regular actions. Here in northeastern CT, I am consumed by my daughter's explosive poops and their effect on the laundry. In Turkey, mothers must now worry that their children may be exposed to Avian flu-infected chicken feces while playing in dirt. But if that Avian flu merges with a human flu strain and mutates into something easily transmissable from person-to-person, it's a concern that will come home to roost in the lives of families the world over.

We are American mothers, and it is frightening to think of things in such a large context and humbling to sense our complete lack of control. As AIDS ravages Africa, we feel helpless; as the Avian flu crawls westward, we are scared. It's no longer enough to watch neurotically as our kids wander their neighborhoods or go on play dates across town. Now we must set our sights wider as civilization closes in on a one-world landscape that leaves these babies vulnerable to the kind of boo-boo a kiss and a Band-Aid won't fix.

*Or some variation thereof

Memories of Marseilles, Part Deux

2006-01-09T22:20:00.000-05:00

We stopped first at our hotel, where coffee stains on sheets (or what we hoped were coffee stains) were commonplace and where the cleaning staff didn’t care. Then we were off to the visitor’s bureau and up the hill to the Abbaye. The staleness of that ancient house of worship and its tombs was a cool respite from the high July sun. From there, we trudged ever upward into the church of Notre-Dame de la Garde, the most unabashedly gaudy piece of architecture I had ever witnessed. Its steeple was the virgin and child, in gold.

By then it was time for dinner, always my favorite time of day. We settled on that waterside café with the prix-fixe special, and were less than enchanted when the waiter opened our bottle of wine with a series of grunts and tugs between his thighs. After the rubbery calamari had been ingested, my husband asked the sidewalk accordion player who was thrumming away behind us to play “Happy Birthday,” which would have been nice, had his song not been followed up with no less than four gypsies and assorted street hustlers trying to sell us a product line ranging from roses to cigarette lighters. Eventually, our waiter proved his limited worth by demanding that they leave his establishment alone so his patrons could enjoy a good meal. I’m paraphrasing, here. It’s funnier that way.

In Marseilles, only the moonlight is soft in all the right places. Darkness falls on dirty streets and lonely cafes, while a pale yellow glow shines on the virgin and her son before shimmying low across the ripples of the bay. That night, I sat with my new husband on the old stone edge of the water, feet dangling and my handbag protected by my armpit. The breeze stirred the heat of the Mediterranean air that was all black and golden before us. It is easy to remember the bad parts, of course, but in Marseilles it is almost impossible to forget midnight—a black slate, not clean, but completely open to possibility.

View from the old stone edge of the water, Marseilles, July 2004

Memories of Marseilles, Part I

2006-01-08T13:39:00.000-05:00

The view from Notre Dame de la Garde in Marseilles, July 2004

My Marseilles is old and dirty with bad calamari and good sarcaphogi. My husband and I experienced the former during my birthday dinner at a dirt cheap sidewalk eatery, across from the port, that we should have known was too good to be true. The latter were encountered earlier that day in the crypts of the Abbaye Saint Victor, where ornate tombs flanked the underworld perimeter. Upstairs, select vestiges of Saint Victor’s skeleton and those of several of his comrades were displayed in golden boxes encased in glass on either side of the altar.

The fact that skull fragments and 15-century-old tombs were the highlight of my two day excursion to the south of France’s most historic city speaks volumes about a place where sunlight and oxygen only serve to make the rotten stench of decay easier to inhale. This was a birthday gift from my husband on our European honeymoon.

Before Marseille we had been staying with his mother’s family (his mother included, and his father, too) in the small southern town of Biot. My husband’s parents, whose permanent residence is the outskirts of New York City, had high-tailed it to France the day after our wedding and were waiting, all smiles, when we arrived in the ancestral homeland about a week later. The sun beat down on all my new relatives and they opened a couple bottles of wine before retiring inside for the après-lunch siesta. After naptime, we ate again as more corks were popped and baguettes were brandished at all ends of the dinner table.

There is something to be said about being awakened at 9 a.m. on your honeymoon to the sound of a woman who, aside from having given birth to your husband, has the other incongruous quality of having lived in the United States for 30 years without being able to shake the rolling, high pitched cadences of her native tongue. “Chreees-toe-fer! Eet is time to get up! Allo? Allo!” Perhaps it should’ve seemed more natural than it did, that bright morning in the south of France as the sun streamed in through the wooden slats of the shutters and fell hotly across our entwined appendages. “Chreees-toe-fer! Are you awake yet? Allo? We are going to zee beach now!”

It was on the heels of such distinctly un-honeymoonish encounters that I demanded a private soujourn into Provence to celebrate my birthday. When I said “Provence,” what I meant was the lush, green hills and valleys of the region extolled in Peter Mayle’s travel tomes. What I got was a two hour trip in a crowded cabin of non-conditioned air on a commuter train bound for the crime capital of France. We stepped off the train platform and onto the streets of Marseille, which descended steeply several miles to the main port and then rose again, steeply, in the direction of anything worth seeing.

To be continued...

One-Nine-Oh-Six

2006-01-06T15:22:00.000-05:00

Howard is coming all over America. This Monday, the REAL radio revolution will shine down on us like the rays of a liberating satellite sun. Howard Stern takes to Sirius for his first show at 6 a.m., and my tired ass will be there. There's nothing like freedom feeding into an unassuming digital display, heralding a new era for free thinkers and free talkers everywhere.

I love voices in the air, from Howard Stern to the newly syndicated Jay Severin to NPR programming to Democracy Now. It's unique approaches to entertaining and educating (not necessarily in that order) that hook me--not wanna-be ideology.

I'm a mom now and I know that one day soon I am going to have to exercise that special mommy superpower touted by many free speech advocates in the face of corporate (and, dare I say it, government) censorship of entertainers like Stern: changing the channel when things get too inappropriate. Go, Go Gadget Pointer Finger! With nerves of steel and a brain like a sponge, I will call on all my available resources to do what I feel is right for my family, as only I can. If I don't like it, I'll change it. If I decide it will make me look bad if my daughter starts stripping down to her diaper and asking if she looks good enough for Playboy at her weekly playgroup, I'll change it. I can do it. I pay taxes for things like highway maintence and homeland defense, but when it comes to my listening pleasure, I prefer that federally funded civil servants keep their legislation away from my boom box.

A change is gonna come.

Downward Dog

2006-01-05T13:00:00.000-05:00

Today I came home to see that my canine had devoured our chocolate-filled advent calendar, plastic tray and all. I had just returned from a friend's house, where we lotus-sat our way through a video session of Living Yoga: Abs for Beginners in the calming atmosphere inspired by the presence of three children under the age of 3, to find a trail of yuletide carnage woven throughout the first floor. The reason there were any "treats" left in the calendar at this late date is that the chocolate was so ungodly BAD that even I could not force myself to eat it. So there it sat on a living room end table, just inviting disaster.

Now, I know that chocolate is bad for dogs and that eating plastic can't be too good either, so I automatically (and neurotically, and perhaps psychotically) assumed the worse. When I called out my dog's name and she didn't respond, I figured she was dead. My breathing became rapid and I froze in place, afraid to look anywhere around me for fear of spotting the rigid carcass of our family pet. I screamed out her name some more, to no avail. Luckily, the phone was sitting on the coffee table in front of me, so my plan (to call my husband) was a-go.

Let me interrupt this story to mention that I have a phobia of fish. Not so much living fish in their natural habitat, but dead fish, or fish-out-of-water. It all stems from the goldfish I had as a child, the one that lived for several years and grew to roughly the size of its ten gallon tank before floating upside down to the surface one fateful day. I even wrote a haiku about it:

Yesterday I found
my gold fish, belly up at
the top of the tank.

I only rehash this story because it illustrates my fear of death as manifested by pet-related phobias. I was very conscious of the memory of finding that goldfish dead as I stood in my living room today, sure that rigor mortis was setting into Roxie's musculature somewhere on the first floor.

Anyway, so I finally got through to my husband (after leaving a hysterical message on his voice mail), only to find him unsympathetic and generally pissed that he had married such an ineffectual lunatic. He told me to go find the dog. I told him she was probably dead and I couldn't deal with it. He said she was not dead and that she was most likely hiding in a corner with her tail between her legs because she knew she'd done wrong. I said no, she's dead. At this point, the conversation was approaching the don't-ever-call-me-here-again zone. Thinking fast, I realized that, if she was indeed still breathing, all I had to do to get her to come to me was open the refrigerator door and pull out the cheese drawer. If that didn't work, I was taking the baby, leaving the house again, and not coming back until the body had been bagged and removed from the premises.

Ohthankthegoodlord. "I think I hear her."
"Of course you hear her," said Chris. "Now beat her ass. You're crazy and I have to go now."

Roxie was happy and wagging, oblivious in the face of cheese. I crumpled into a chair and sighed.

Tolby flapped around, equally unfazed in my arms. A stray baby-finger went up my nose and she shrieked. This is life now. Life and death.

The Nature of Nurturing Sleep

2006-01-04T13:32:00.000-05:00

Tolby Evelyn has, for once in her life, actually bought her own ticket to the Land of Naptime Nod. This means I have to write something now, and I have to write it fast. Working under this kind of pressure, the only topic I can come up with is Schedule? She Don't Need No Freaking Schedule!

The girl, generally, will not nap. For a five month old, she's awfully caught up in other people's business. How old will she be before she realizes she's not missing much? They say that youth is wasted on the young, and that's most certainly true, but a lot of good sleep is frittered out the nursery window as well.

I know that her lack of a schedule is directly related to the fact that I don't have one myself. My life as a stay-at-home mom is all willy-nilly, with me taking full advantage of not having something like a real job to superimpose structure on my existence. I go here, I do that, I throw in some laundry and I drive around aimlessly for awhile. I've never been so happy in all my years, but the trade-off is a cranky baby (with eyes so wide-open they scare the crap out of me when I'm caught off guard) at 6 p.m. when I need to get dinner made.

Maybe 5 months old is too young for a schedule anyway. Perhaps today's bionic babies don't even need sleep. Nine months of pre-natal vitamins and some Baby Einstein CDs should do just fine to stimulate brain development and encourage motor skills, both fine and gross.

I like to think it's the nighttime sleep that's really important, and at least there, Tolby has the zzzz's on lockdown. I may have imparted a complete disregard for daytime scheduling into her nascent noggin, but I have given her nothing but appreciation for a good night's sleep.

Ah, there she goes again. I must say, her timing isn't bad. I was just about finished with this entry anyway. Who knows when I'll have time for lunch, but at least I got some writing in.

An Obstacle to Overcome

2006-01-03T14:08:00.000-05:00

My husband recently saw an episode of Family Guy (a show I abhor, btw) that really seemed to strike a chord. It was one in which Stewie, the freaky baby, mocks Brian, the articulate dog, about the "progress" he's been making on his novel.

Listen to it here and then get back to me.

Okay, so my husband thinks this is so hilariously relevant on account of the fact that I am three years and three hundred pages into a big nothing of a novel myself. I like to consider myself a writer, but the irony becomes obvious when the fact that I don't actually write anything is held up for scrutiny. I think about it a lot, though. And lately I've even seen the faint glimmer of a plot in my mind's eye. One day in the car I came up with a sentence.

I'm sure that readers of this blog have already deduced that discipline and will power are not my strong suit. I'm working at a disadvantage there, but I owe it to myself, my love of books and my own talent to get off my ass and do something about it. Or, more specifically, to get on my ass. Someone famous and writerly once said that this is what you've got to do to become an author: put your ass in the chair. But just like any other aphorism, it doesn't really mean anything until you're ready to accept the message. Like someone famous and Chinese once said: when the student is ready, the teacher will come.

Well, Stewie, I think I'm ready. I feel ready, anyway--moreso than I ever have in the past (excepting seventh grade, when I came up with 30 pages of what I believe to this day would have made a fine young adult novel, had I not misplaced the notebook).

Something is definitely brewing. And for once I'm not referring to what my daughter is cooking up in her diaper.

Can You Hear Me Now?

2005-12-29T13:55:00.000-05:00

I am a bad, bad long distance friend. I'm not particularly sterling close up, either, but put a few miles between me and my amigo and I really show my crappy colors. This Christmas, I called nobody to wish them well. Thinking about calling them was about as far as I got. And, in my defense, I thought about it a lot. But that does not change the fact that I am turning friends into enemies all up and down the east coast, with no good explanation at all.

Sure, things are busy with a new baby and various holiday commitments. For the past few weeks, life has been a flurry of breastfeeding; breast pumping; diaper changing; last-minute shopping; chewing on toes (Tolby); rolling over (Tolby again); and grandparent-juggling. But how hard is it to pick up the phone and catch up with people one hasn't seen in a coon's age? It's not. I have no excuse. Nor do I have any justification whatsoever for using the term "coon's age." Blessed are those who forgive. They will never lack opportunity to be holy as long as I'm around.

So please excuse me if I cut this entry short to strap on the ol' headset and go a-callin'. Is that your phone ringing now?

Variation on a Theme

2005-12-28T17:30:00.000-05:00

The following email was sent to me by a friend after a visit in which the main topic of the day was poop. As she arrived at my house, I was busy in the basement, Shouting out three layers of shit from my daughter's clothing. Later, I regaled her with a recording of David Sedaris reading a poem about, well, you guessed it (if you have the time and the inclination, I suggest going here to find Sedaris's hilarious re-telling of a bathroom incident in two parts--it's in "Act 4" and begins 36 minutes, 40 seconds into the program, to be exact). You see, it is not only the central theme of my blog, but also of my more generalized existence. I had suggested to said friend that this fascination was a product of motherhood, but she countered, and later proved through this email, that I have always been interested in such matters.

From : Jessica
Sent : Saturday, December 17, 2005 12:24 PM
To : Binky
Subject : More on poop

I was cleaning out my email inbox today and came across the following story in a message you sent me about a year ago. It's just more evidence that you have always appreciated and attracted entertaining poop.
-j

"Roxie had a good time dropping the hugest deuce as soon as we arrived at the Xmas tree farm yesterday. I mean, the girl absolutely loves laying a big one in front of as many people as possible. So, I picked it up in a baggie and looked around for a garbage can. I went up to one of the employees and asked if they had a receptacle, all the while waving the baggie. He reaches out for it to take it from me, and I go, “But it’s poop.” I didn’t want there to be any confusion. He said, “oh,” then, after some consideration, grabbed it anyway and put it in a little bucket they were using for trash. Stinky. Not a particularly great story, but amusing nonetheless."

I guess I am nothing if not consistent. Or regular, as the case may be.

Happy Holidays

2005-12-27T15:30:00.000-05:00

Two exhausted holiday partiers take it easy on the Monday after Christmas

[I'm sorry for the lapse in blogging that resulted from the happy chaos that is the holidays. Time flies when you're not sitting in front of the computer.]

The clock and I have had a different relationship ever since I had Tolby. The hour hand seems to tick away the seconds as things change before my eyes. My mother says I have no idea how fast life goes by; that before I know it, Tolby will be an adult herself; that I will be a grandmother. My mother, however, underestimates me. I am painfully aware of time. I cannot live in even one moment without the knowledge that it won't be like this for long. It's almost pathological the way I dwell on the future and its inherent absences. I know that bad things will happen and so I wonder when, and to whom, and how often. I think of death constantly because it is attached to time. People tell me about their grown children and I say it goes by so fast, doesn't it? It may sound funny coming from me, a 27 year old with a five month old baby, but I know it to be true. It goes by so fast. I don't blame my mother for thinking that I wouldn't understand the gravity of the clock, since it does seem like a sense honed by more experience than I've yet acquired. But I get it.

And that lack of blissful ingnorance makes my chest tight.

Things That Blow

2005-12-15T13:46:00.000-05:00

My daughter has always been a prolific pooper, but today takes the cake (or the mudpie, as it were). All exits were compromised--front of the diaper, back of the diaper, and both leg holes. She was up to her armpits and down to her knees in the sweet mustard that is breastfed baby shit. Apparently, in the malodorous spectrum of infantile bowel movements, everything is normal. From babies who make only weekly deposits neatly contained within their diaper to ones, like my own, who leave a gift (that keeps on giving) with every changing, it's all within the normal range. The subject never ceases to amaze me. And from what I hear from some of my friends, the adventure is just beginning. Oh, the stories we can tell. Motherhood will change a woman in a lot of ways, but never is it more apparent than in her fascination with baby dookie.

Things That Suck

2005-12-14T12:42:00.000-05:00

When I got my dog, I did not realize she would pay for herself in electricity and vacuum bag savings. Who needs a Hoover when she has a Roxie to inhale the edible trail left by 7 toddlers? Today I hosted a Coffee Klatch for the MOMS Club of which I am membership vice president. Yes, I hold elected office in the MOMS Club. Yes, I realize that's funny. No, I don't think it's as funny as you do. Anyway, a Coffee Klatch is an event where moms sit and drink coffee while their children run around like lawless banshees, tearing up the host mother's home. There's nothing like a group of kids you can't really discipline because they aren't yours, tearing ornaments off the tree and hitting buttons on the stove till the burners ignite and the oven makes the kitchen nice and toasty. My heart hasn't raced like that since I stopped jogging about 13 months ago (note to self: that's way too long to go without regular exercise). Anyway, to get back to the main point, Roxie can be really utilitarian sometimes. Once the kids were out the door, leaving the kitchen awash in Little Debbie Christmas Tree crumbs, it was Electrorox to the rescue. It totally makes up for used diapers she likes to stash in unseen corners and the breast pads she will devour anytime you leave the garbage can unattended. It works out so well when our interests converge like this--me, doing anything not to drag out bulky household appliances, her, doing anything to eat. I love my little Pit Bull.

The Friendship Test

2005-12-12T17:22:00.000-05:00

I hate the process of making friends because I can't really be myself until the more presentable version of me has been accepted. The presentable me is reserved, polite and well coiffed. She tries not to swear and she listens well. You can dress her up and take her out, but why anyone would want to is beyond me. In other words, this presentable me lacks luster. I'm not saying that the real me is supremely incandescent or anything, but I don't think anyone in my established friendship base would say that I fade into the woodwork.

This vetting period of friendship is such that I cannot, as dictated by experience, spring my true self onto unsuspecting acquaintances. I'm not the type to hold anything back, in word or deed. I prefer to tell it like it is, but I know that not everybody is ready to hear it. Some people never will be, and with them I am stuck being my presentable self for the duration of our association. But occasionally some people come along, who, whether it takes minutes, weeks or months, make it clear that they are as crazy as I am. These people, though honest, aren't judgmental; though responsible, aren't uptight; though sympathetic, aren't sappy. And they're always funny, at least to me. So whether they are amused by me as well, or if they simply like having a captive audience, something clicks.

When I laugh so hard that my asthma acts up, I know I've found a friend.

The One That I Cried As I Wrote

2005-12-09T11:10:00.000-05:00

I was in a writing class recently with a woman who said that 9/11 didn't affect her. She said this after I read a poem with veiled but evocative references to the terrorist attacks on the Twin Towers. "That didn't affect me," she said. We all looked at her. "September 11th, I mean. It didn't affect me." We looked at her some more. She probably said something, but I was too busy trying to convince myself not to reach across the table and squeeze her neck till her eyes popped out of her head.

It didn't affect you? Then it must have been a nice day after all. You must have been able to enjoy the pale blue sky and the way that 70 degrees can feel so breezy-warm on your skin as summer fades away. Or maybe you didn't notice Mother Nature's calm serenity at all, since it was just another day, with nothing to startle you out of the monotony, offering nothing dark to hold up against the clear morning sky.

You live near Boston, where the planes took a final flight, but you must not have listened to the radio or turned on the television, because it did not affect you. I assume you never saw the gruff, middle aged firefighter standing before the entrance to the second tower as he told the reporter he was doing what he had to do, and that was all there was to it. Surely you didn't see him go in. Surely you didn't wonder later, naively, what had happened to him.

You must not have seen a little girl, like little girls all over the country, walk into a living room with the television on to puzzle at the sight of specks falling from the 100th floor in graceful adherence to gravity, sometimes two specks at a time. A little girl with so much confusion and knowing behind her eyes when she said, "were those people?"

It goes without saying that you didn't cry for weeks the way you hadn't cried in years; didn't hold a candle outside your front door or chant USA at the bar as the band played its final set. You don't have to go home, but you can't stay here.

I know you weren't there. Neither was I, or anyone I knew directly. For you, that's not affecting. For me, it means that, forever, airplanes in a clear blue sky herald nothing but night.

It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas

2005-12-07T12:22:00.000-05:00

Amidst bulbous, snow-capped trees, mother and daughter freeze their respective asses off on a New England afternoon at the Christmas tree farm.

Diamond is The Girls' Best Friend

2005-12-06T18:31:00.000-05:00

From drunken frat boys at the bar (Good times never felt so good! So good! So good!) to elderly women bearing oxygen tanks, there's something about Neil Diamond that really spans the generations. I took my mom to his concert last night as an early Christmas in Worcester, Massachusetts, where thousands of the ugliest individuals east of the Mississippi converged on the DCU Center to watch the sequins fly. I loved it the way I love tourist traps like Wildwood, NJ and parties with the Pimp & Ho theme, all pulsating light, big hair, and bad dressers. He sang America with pictures of Ellis Island playing on all the big screens, and as the last image flashed to the Statue of Liberty holding her torch high above two backdropped towers, I was misty. Trios of women on the waning side of middle age stood up in their seats and held out their arms. In perfect a perfect representation of the audience age disparity, the couple next to me were sporting at least a 30 year age difference. I thought he was her father till I saw her stroking his hand.

All in all, it was not a bad way to spend a Monday night in Worcester with my mom. Based on the variables, that's saying a lot.

Deer Over the Tail Lights

2005-12-04T23:22:00.000-05:00

Unrelated to my previous post (except maybe philisophically), I saw a dead stag's head hanging out of the trunk of a car heading south on I-190 in Massachusetts yesterday night. It inspired my gag reflex more than any sense of awe, and I realized again just how important context is. A deer munching on your perennials out back tells a whole different story than a head lolling out of a half-open trunk, ready to impale the next tailgater.

I felt oddly vindicated. Nothing is as awesome as it seems.

Yes, Deer

2005-12-02T17:09:00.000-05:00

What is it about deer that inspires such awe? I got a family of three caught in my headlights this evening as I pulled in my driveway, and the incongruity of the scene rendered me as motionless as they. My house is flanked in front by a main road that runs parallel to the Interstate, but behind us is all woods. As I turned off the ignition and stared into the strange glow of the smallest deer's face, time seemed to stop. The picture of serene immobility muted the sound of so many tractor trailers and the noise of lives lived in fast forward. For several minutes we just stared at each other, until I turned off the headlights and stepped out of the car. I expected them to retreat. I thought they would run away in keeping with the holiday rush. But they didn't seem to be in any hurry as they turned sideways to inspect the cold grass with their muzzles. They wandered through the upper right corner of our property, and if the clock of unreality was no longer standing still, it was certainly taking its time. It could almost make a person (me) love all the things she thought she hated: the place, the season, the way small things get big so fast. It was almost too much. I slammed my car door shut to see what it would take to make them leave.

Monday Muses

2005-12-01T17:31:00.000-05:00

A friend of mine suggested that I solicit weekly topic ideas from my readership (which very well may consist wholly of the aforementioned friend, my husband and my dog). At any rate, if you are reading this and would like to be my Monday Muse, please post your subject suggestions in the comment section. I will pick one per week and will present the inspired blog entry on, you guessed it, the following Monday. Some examples:

Binky, please write about why Cadillac Cateras are not good cars to buy if you do not have an auto shop and car lift in your backyard, as well as the ability to think like a German.

From, Rhodes Idassistance

Bink, kindly expostulate on the advantages of Shout stain remover versus all inferior detergents when it comes to taking care of common infant stains (title suggestions: Exterminating the Excrement; Doing Away with Doo-doo; Stamping Out Stool).

From, Anonymous
Note from Binky: This person is gross. She must be a mother.

Bink-O, would you comment on the phenomenon wherein you wake up at 3 am on the morning after Thanksgiving to be at Wal-Mart the moment it opens in order to buy a $20 DVD player which you must wrestle out of the hands of a 78 year old woman before trampling over her on your way to a Roll-Backed inflatable snow globe lawn ornament?

From, Grandma Got Run Over By Me

As you can see, the possibilities are endless. Please consider making a contribution today.

Birth Story, Part III

2005-11-30T13:54:00.000-05:00

Note: Parts I and II can be found here and here.
I didn’t necessarily want my husband to do or say anything, but I was fierce in my desire to have him there. When he got up to go to the bathroom for what seemed like the millionth time, I was the one who was pissed. “How many freaking times are you going to go to the bathroom?” I demanded. “Would you just stay here?” Though the bathroom was part of the labor room we were confined to, and was only about three feet from my bed, I couldn’t bear to have him behind closed doors. If he had a typically wise-ass response to my irrationality, it was lost in the wave of the next contraction.

Also lost in that contraction and the ones that followed was a certain level of consciousness. The pain was so dominant that it pushed all other thoughts and feelings so far away that they were no longer even a part of me. My husband became the active participant in the hospital drama as I floated in and out of my labor fog, catching certain key words and a heavy sense of everyone else’s uneasiness.

With the baby’s heartbeat still responding well to extra fluids and oxygen, my midwife suggested that I try the narcotic Nubain. There went another birth plan bullet point: "don’t ask us if we want drugs—we’ll ask you." While my husband argued the logic of administering a drug with the stated risk of lowering my fetus’s already low heart rate, the midwife insisted that pain management was the best option. He was reason, she was empathy. Since I had come into this open to the possibility of accepting a narcotic (though adamantly opposed to an epidural) I somehow managed to leave my own private haze long enough and with sufficient strength to utter the words “I’ll take it.”

They shot the Nubain into my ass, which burned. Then more went in through the IV. Not too long after, the baby’s heart rate descended from the 120s to 110. In any other circumstance, my husband would’ve said “I told you so.” But he was scared and I was doped up. If I thought I was barely hanging onto consciousness before, I was next to comatose now. The pain thrived—oh, yes, it was having a field day in my mid-section—but my ability to react to it was non existent. I lay there on my side, immersed in misery. There were no more hee-hee-hoos as my husband shifted from conducting the breathing symphony to discussing medical interventions with the midwife, who was growing increasingly concerned. The pain came every two minutes, and the sound of the baby’s heart was a sluggish drumbeat that reverberated throughout my space.

I remember the midwife rocking in her chair, staring at the monitor with her hands resting in her lap. The baby's heart rate fell into the 90s. “It really has me worried,” she repeated. “If that heart rate gets too low, the baby won’t get enough oxygen and she’ll be fatigued by labor.” The solution (and I have no recollection of this) was to administer another narcotic to counteract the effects of the Nubain. This Norcain would block the receptors to keep them from absorbing the Nubain floating around. They gave it an hour to work. It didn’t.

While they waited, my husband decided that it was time to eat. It was 3 o'clock, and he hadn't eaten since he grabbed a muffin early that morning. Unaware of his decision to stuff his face, I turned toward him in a brief moment of cognizance and was shocked to see him munching away on one of the sandwiches he makes each night before bed to eat the next day at work. I looked at the wheat bread and the bright green romaine and I was certain that I had never been so mad in my life. How dare he eat while I alone endure this cluster fuck of a birth experience! Who did he think he was? I stared at him while the anger seethed inside me, feeding on the agony of another contraction. But the Nubain was still doing its thing and the receptors that had absorbed it told me that there was no point in wasting energy yelling at him. So I stared some more, and I seethed again. And my husband later said he had no idea that I had even been irked by the sandwich episode.

In yet another blow to the birth plan, my midwife decided that an internal monitor was necessary. The midwife and the nurse prodded me to get on all fours as they inserted the wires through my cervix and onto the baby’s head while blood squirted everywhere. I have vague recollections of the discomfort, but none of the blood. That detail was later recounted by my husband. He also told me that the first attempt failed, and that the midwife had to try a second time to get a reading from the internal monitor. More discomfort. More blood. If I had been in the mood for irony, I would have picked up the birth plan and ripped it into shreds, throwing them up into the air so that they could fall down on us like a freak July snowstorm.

But the internal monitor finally picked up a heart beat that matched the dire predictions of the external version, and a doctor was dispatched. The midwife was out of her league. It took a half hour for the obstetrician to arrive, but when she did, she took one look at the long paper feeding out of the monitor machine and said “This baby has to come out NOW.”

Where "8 Hours" Comes From, And Where It's Going

2005-11-29T16:14:00.000-05:00

Still high on the childbirth cocktail of progesterone, prolactin, oxytocin, and endorphins, life during the Fourth Trimester was three crazy months of baby, baby, baby. Nature is a compassionate mother, though, and she laid a hormonal path on which I traveled relatively free from fatigue. If my body was tired (and it must have been) I didn't know about it. If it was hungry, I wasn't aware of that, either. It was as if my body was intricately wired with the wherewithal to withstand the insanity of bringing a screaming little kickboxer into our home. My own desires for sleep or a complete meal eaten in a single session were replaced by the necessity of caring for someone else. I thanked God for this every day, for the old me could never have pulled it off.

Now birth and those first few months post natal are all but forgotten, and corporal life as I've known it is back with a vengeance. I wake up exhausted and starving, then schlep off to the shower, where I sit under the running water and think about the calories in a ham, egg and cheese sandwich. The fog of the fourth trimester has lifted, revealing that which has been there for the past three months, but which has been shrouded by a mercifully altered mental state. It has uncovered a world where sleep does not exist.

I need those 8 hours, now more than ever. Yet it's not in the stars. That, my friends, is the story of the rest of my life.