What You Don't Expect When You're Expecting

Every time it rains, it rains...

2011-07-12T15:47:00.000-07:00

...pennies from heaven...

Amazingly, Utley was 8 weeks yesterday, and to say that it's been eventful would be a vast understatement. I know I made mention already about her "hip" situation, ("hip" - get it? Like she's cutting edge? I know it sucks, but cut me some slack - I haven't slept in a Very. Long. Time.) but the plot thickened quickly thereafter and left our concerns about her hips in the dust.

Whilest we were concentrating on her hips at her one week check-up, I asked the doctor about a little spot on her lip. I thought maybe it was just a pimple, or irritation from my breast cream or something. The doctor agreed and we went on our merry way. By her two week check however, the small spot now had gotten a little larger. "Birthmark?" I asked. "Birthmark" her pediatrician agreed. "Its actually a birthmark called a hemangioma and I'm going to give you the card of a pediatric plastic surgeon who specializes in these, since it's on her face. No rush, maybe later this summer after you deal with her hips." I pocketed the card, smirking a little thinking of all the LA babies lining up to see the plastic surgeon in their Juicy Couture track suits complaining about the bumps on their noses and their zoftig love handles. By later that week however, no one was laughing, and by the weekend I began to freak out.

Within just a matter of days, the small birthmark grew three times it's size, covering about 3/4 of her bottom lip, thickening and showing no signs of slowing. A google search of hemangioma made me realize why we were given the plastic surgeon's card. Gone now was any image of track suits from my brain.

Come Monday morning, MT and I were scared to death. I called the surgeon's office and upon explaining the situation, we were given a Thursday afternoon appointment - even though they were booked solid for the next month. Doing research on the web, I found that sometimes early intervention can be key, that steroids are often used, but just as often doctors took a wait and see approach. I also found how disfiguring these things could become. And Ut's continued to grow.

The surgeon's office was one of the nicest I'd seen - but gone was my ability to make any jokes. I looked down at my sweet baby girl in her car seat, strapped into her harness and with an angry red slash on top of where her lip had been a week before and started to cry. The utter feeling of helplessness when you have medical dramas unfolding where your child is at the center of it is by far the worst torment any parent can face.

I cried several more times during that visit, reaching my peek torment during the part where the doctor showed us pictures of all the kids he was able to help. The "after" pictures were amazing. But the "before" pictures were totally heartbreaking. It was the worst afternoon of my life.

During our visit, the doctor outlined three treatment options. The first - the "wait and see approach", most likely entailing surgery later on, was quickly discarded. I asked if he thought Ut's hemangioma would continue to grow at the current rate. "There's no real way of knowing" he said "but given how quickly it's grown thus far, it seems highly likely." We learned that the eyes and the lips are two of the worst places to have these tumors - around the eyes it can cause blindness and around the mouth it can ulcerate, cause pain and feeding issues, as well as be extremely hard to correct cosmetically later on.

The second option was steroids, although the doctor didn't feel that was the way to go, because he hadn't seen much improvement with that course of treatment with lip hemangiomas. And so, that left us with the third treatment option - a beta blocker called propranolol, which was discovered by accident just three years ago while treating infants with heart conditions that also had hemangiomas. We agreed to start her on a 1/2 dose, with her pediatrician monitoring her each week to make sure the medication didn't have any adverse affects. "If it's working, what can we expect to see?" I asked. "Maybe you say to each other next week that it looks a little smaller, a little less red" the doctor answered "While the medication has had some great success, there have been no clinical trials as of yet." Asking if he was concerned about potential side effects, he replied, "Not really. People have taken it for years for things as basic as calming nerves for public speaking engagements." "Anything I should watch for?" I asked "She'll probably be a very good public speaker" he answered. Ah. A jokester. Something I would appreciate in the future, if not at this visit.

Armed with our prescription, we fought the traffic out of Beverly Hills. I cried the whole way and MT was alternatingly reassuring and stoically silent. We were both very shaken.

That night, I did a lot of research on the propranolol. I found the initial study that the doctor had been talking about and began to get increasingly excited. The drug had had amazing effects on the handful of children that it had been given to. Most of the kids had hemangiomas that were much more advanced than Ut's and they were also much older. I began to see my first glimmer of hope. I showed MT and we hoped. And we prayed.

A few hours after I had given Ut her first dose I was nursing her and called MT into the room. "Okay, I don't want to jinx us here or anything, but..." "I know" he replied. "It looks better. I noticed a little while ago, but I didn't want to say anything yet." But it DID look better. And by the end of the weekend, it had flattened out a bit and the color wasn't as severe, but most importantly, it had stopped growing.

Now, several weeks later, it has stayed basically the same as that first weekend. Sure, we would love for it to go completely away, but we feel as though we dodged a bullet and are thrilled at this point that the medication has held it at bay. The nature of these things is that they eventually stop growing and begin to fade on their own - what the medication will hopefully help us avoid is the damage and disfigurement they can cause in the interim.

All things considered, we are doing well. We could use a little more sleep, but most parents could. We alternate between being grateful that we were spared many worse scenarios, and struggling with all the doctor visits, the medication, the harness on top of the usual new baby plus older child situation. Often I feel bad for lamenting our situation, when I do lament, and MT reminds me that we can only exist in our own reality. Of course, he also kicks my butt when I get too weepy. So now, we will hopefully play out the summer - and my maternity leave - checking things off the long list of health related accomplishments, and trying to get this newly developed milk allergic little girl onto more of a schedule so that her Mama can have a much needed BIG glass of wine.

The Hippy Hippy Shake

2011-06-19T15:24:00.000-07:00

This is two of three posts I've been workin' on. I started it three weeks ago, so "yesterday" wasn't really yesterday, but three weeks ago, yesterday...

Yesterday, Utley was put into a harness to deal with mild hip dysplasia in both hips. Essentially, in her case, her hips sockets are too shallow, which would cause her major problems later on if not dealt with now. The harness draws her legs up and out to basically keep her hips in the correct place while the bones grow around them correctly.

We are so lucky and blessed that we have two otherwise healthy girls - and that's the mantra I keep repeating to myself. There are so many things that can go wrong, and if our cross to bear is her being in this harness for the next three months, then we can count ourselves very, very lucky. And yet, for all that positiveness being strewn about, I haven't stopped crying since the doctor put her in it.

We've been assured that she doesn't mind it in the slightest. With the exception to the places where the harness is already beginning to dig into her skin, I almost believe it. But, it's hard as a mama to look at, it's hard to change her, even harder to breastfeed her, and hardest emotionally to hold her. Because you long so much to hold that sweet soft baby close to you, and the damn thing makes her lumpy and scratchy and so NOT her. It's impossible to get close enough.

We are lucky in that she can come out of what I've dubbed "Shawshank" for an hour a day to get bathed and her clothes changed. Some kids can't be taken out of it AT ALL. No clothing changes. No real baths. No skin to skin. Last night I nursed, bathed and changed her as the moments whisked by. An hour has never gone faster.

I keep telling myself that it will get easier, it's only been a day. That I'll figure out a way to cut up some baby socks and tights to cover the scratchy parts of the harness, that the little baby leg warmers I ordered to keep her legs covered up will be so cute I won't notice the stark medical straps, but right now, I'm just sad. And I'm mourning the loss of three months of holding my sweet girl without something in between us.

Happy Birthday, times two....

2011-06-19T15:06:00.000-07:00

Note: Hey ya'll. I have been seriously behind as there has been lots going on here in Tasty-ville. I'm aiming to do a few posts right quick to catch up...we'll see if that actually happens, but thats the plan....

On May 16, 2011 at 10:39 p.m. our second daughter, hereby dubbed "Utley"was born. For those of you keeping track, her birth came a mere 2 years 24 hours and 47 minutes after her sister Yoda.

To say that there was a difference in my two labor and deliveries would be a VAST understatement. With Yoda, I had virtually no contractions prior to the big day and Yoda seemed to be stuck in my uteri with super glue. With Ut, I had been majorly contracting for a month, was dialated to two by my 39 week appointment and was 70% effaced. Knowing I wanted to avoid having the girls on the same day, my OB, who doesn't usually induce, suggested we induce. "You are really, really ready." She said. "This is going to be a very short labor. It's just a question of when you get started."

I declined induction at 39 weeks, figuring she would come when she came - same birthday or no. However, by May 14, I was more than ready to go.

By early afternoon on the 14th, I was noticing some strange, er, leakage. Didn't think it was my water, but called my doctor to be sure. "Doesn't sound like it" she said when she answered my page. "But call back if anything changes." I hung up and went back to trying to nap. A little while later, my phone rang again. It was my doctor calling back. "Listen, it doesn't sound like your water, but since you are so ready to go, I'd feel better if you went to the hospital to be sure." Ugh. I knew we'd be checking in and checking out, but MT and I kissed the GPs and Yoda goodbye, gathered up our bags and headed off to the hospital.

Once there, it took FOREVER to check in, making me question why I had both pre-registered AND physically brought my insurance card in a month before. But no matter, I wasn't in labor and figured we had cut some time off for when we came back for the big show. The hospital visit was pretty uneventful, save for the L & D nurse who did my cervical check. I think she got confused and thought I came in for a dental appointment.

Having confirmed that my water had not broken, MT and I left the hospital and ran to Whole Foods to pick up some dinner. Quite the surreal visit after the last several hours in the hospital.

The next day, which was Yoda's birthday, was awful. I felt like I had been hit by a truck and the contractions were the worst I'd had. Timing them, they would ebb and flow for an hour and then completely stop. "Don't go far." I told MT and the GPs. "I am 90% sure this baby is coming today."

But, Ut decided NOT to make an appearance on her sister's big day, after all, and I woke up on the 16th with the standard issue contractions that I'd been having. After breakfast and coffee, however, I again began questioning if NOW my water had broken. Not wanting to go back to visit "the dentist" at the hospital, I finagled my way into the doctor's office for a check with my OB instead. "Bring all the bags." I told MT. "If she's still game, we're not coming back here with out another baby."

Once in the doctors office, my OB again confirmed that my water had not broken. She also told us she had chided "the dentist." "I told her to be really gentle with you - that we did NOT want this baby coming on the 15th!" she said. "Now that we are past that..." I started "We want to know if we can have the baby today" MT finished. "Let me call over to the hospital and find out" she said "But, I would be totally comfortable with that. You are dialated to a three, are 80% effaced, contracting like crazy and totally ready to go. I'd be concerned to let you go too much longer, because I don't think you are going to have an energy left for labor after another few days of this." We finished off the check with her stripping my membranes, to try to help things along. While not the same as say, eating an ice cream cone, it wasn't as uncomfortable as I thought it'd be.

While I got dressed, the doctor went to her office and called over to the hospital. They were pretty busy at the moment, and asked us to call back in a few hours. "Here's what you are gonna do" said my OB. "Go to the mall, have lunch, walk around. Let's try to get this labor started on your own. If they can't take you when you call, ask them when they can take you."

With that, we were off. We called the GP's on the way over, to let them know what was up. The Piper asked Yoda is she wanted to talk to Mommy and Daddy on the phone, "No way" I heard her say, which is her new thing (I think I am guilty for that, as I started saying 'No way Jose' a few weeks prior. Boy, do I regret that now.) However, her reaction quelled any guilt I had in not going home to see her before heading back to the hospital. Three Grandparents trump Mom and Dad every time.

We got to the mall and MT asked me where I wanted to eat. "Ohh CPK!" I said spying their golden banner. And so, for the next two and a half hours, MT and I ate a glorious lunch, shopped and watched a 13 year old teeny bopper named Cody Simpson tape his first video ala dancers on the escalator. I love L.A.

With two o'clock quickly approaching, I called the head nurse at the Labor and delivery desk. "We can't take you now" she said, "But come at three." Hanging up the phone, I turned to MT. Perfect! I said "Just enough time for some gelato before we head over!"

Checking into the hospital this time was a breeze, in hospital time, at least. Three hours later, they were finally ready to start my Pitocin. A little while after that, my nurse asked me if I needed my epidural yet. I had shared with her how fast I transitioned the last time and she assured me that she would make sure I received my epi long before anything like that happened this time. Since I wasn't really in any pain yet, I said, no, that I could wait a while longer. Disappearing for a minute and then coming back, she told me that my doctor was on her way over to break my water and she wanted me to have my epidural first. She did some battle out in the hallway as someone else was ahead of me in line, and got the doctor to me next. Although getting the epidural was still the worst part of the delivery experience, it was SO MUCH better this time. The silver lining was that two nurses and two doctors really put MT on the spot, trying to get him to entertain me to take my mind off the epi since they all knew he was an actor. Dance Monkey, dance!

In the end, my little angel nurse was right - I not only went from a 3 to a 5 while getting the epidural this time, my contractions got bad enough that I broke my own water, which doesn't happen all that often - a fact that endlessly thrilled my doctor. "Look at that water just pouring out!" She yelled at MT. Ha.

Anyway, this little party all wrapped up by 8 pm or so, leaving us just to wait for me to progress. I left the pitocin in the dust - having only needed a little push before my own body realized, "oh yeah - its beyond time to get this baby out!!"

By 10:15 pm, I was feeling a lot of pressure and by 10:30 I had progressed to 10 and they prepped me to go. 10:34 we were apushin' and Ut was born at 10:39. Oh yeah - 5 minutes. Rock on!

During the amazingly quick delivery, my doctor gave me the option again of watching in the mirror. "Yeah, I don't think so.." I said. "Seriously, you've got to look - it's just the coolest thing" she said. "Quick give me your hand so you can feel her head!" "It's all squishy!" I shrieked and everyone laughed. "Seriously, you have got to see this" my doctor said again. Finally, I agreed. WOW. Thats all I can say. WOW.

"MT, you want to pull her out?" my doctor asked. He hesitated. "You can't wuss out now" I said. "I just touched her head while pushing her out." "Ok, I'll do it!" he agreed.

The next few minutes are a bit of a blur, 'cuz, well, I was pushing a whole baby out. But before I knew it, MT had grabbed UT under her little arms and put her on my stomach.

Such a beautiful experience. Totally crazy and awesome. "You guys really need to have another one" my doctor said. "You have such beautiful babies." "And BIG!" said the L & D nurse writing down Ut's weight - a mere 8lbs 10 ounces. All I could think was, holy crap, how big would she have been if I delivered after my due date?

The whole experience was so cool that I mentioned to MT later that I wanted to do it over again. "What?" he said, "have another baby??" "No, just the delivery part. I kind of wish it had been a little longer cause it went by so fast and it was so cool." "Ok, you're a total freak. It was cool because it was fast."

Touche' my dancing Monkey, touche'.

M-O-U-S-E

2011-05-13T11:17:00.000-07:00

I'm now 39 weeks and we are well into "Babywatch '11" over here. We continue to have at least one, "well clearly THIS is it" moment a day, but so far...nada.

Yesterday afternoon, as we were sitting outside on the porch, I almost sent myself into certain labor. The Piper, BEING the Piper had come bearing props for Yoda, one of which is a bear puppet, aptly named, "Little Bear". "Little Bear" has traversed many a classroom over the years, and Yoda really enjoys him. The thing about Little Bear that is odd to me is his clothing - the shirt is fine, but the pants hang halfway off his butt, as he is a puppet, and his butt is the hand hole, which makes him look like a perpetual bear (bare) plumber. The fact concerns Yoda too, as she began yelling, "pants, OFF!" while playing with him. As I started to take the bear's pants off, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the dog slinking slowly towards something on the back step about 10 feet away.

"RAAAAAAAAATTTTTTT!" I screamed. The next few minutes were a whirlwind. The dog, being a Husky, acts more like a large cat with his prey than a dog. They stared at one another nose to nose for a moment, before the rat decided to make a break for it, which was a sign to Aries that it was, "game on". He grabbed at it and batted it, injuring it's back leg before my screaming woke MT enough from his reverie to grab the dog and pull him off. Meanwhile, the Piper was trying to keep me from screaming, as to not upset Yoda, who, once I DID stop yelling, looked up at me and said again, "PANTS OFF!"

Once we got inside the house, MT looked at the rodent shuffling across the driveway and asked, "what do I do with it, now?" Having no idea since I was not raised on a farm, I did what any girl does - I called my Daddy, who didn't pick up his cell. Next I called a good guy friend that was my housemate for several years - more for comic effect than solid advice. "Whack it over the head with a shovel" was his suggestion. "This from a guy who once watched as I was chased around our yard by a rabid chicken??" I asked. "I didn't watch" he said, "I ran."

Meanwhile, MT returned to the house. "Wheres the rat?" I asked. "Next door neighbors yard" he replied. "He crawled under the fence. I helped encourage him."

A half hour later, MT looked out the window. “Oh no” he said. “He’s back!” Peering out the window after him, I saw MT approaching the rat with a shovel. "What are you doing??" I yelled. "I'm gonna throw it over the fence!" he yelled back, scooping up the rat. "You're gonna WHAT?" I said, picturing someone standing in their backyard on this bright and sunny afternoon only to see a rat come flying through the air at them. "Mission accomplished!" McTasty yelled across the yard, returning the shovel to the garage with the strut of a war hero. "I cannot believe you just threw a rat over into our neighbor's yard." I said. "It's all overgrown back there" MT replied. "Theres lots of things for him to climb on, like vines and trees! Theres nothing for him in our yard. He must have taken a wrong turn."

A few hours later, with Yoda in bed and the three of us finishing dinner, the dog made it clear that he needed to go out. “I’ll take him and make sure the rat didn’t return.” MT said, disappearing for a moment outside before slipping back in to grab the flash light. “Just so I don’t step on anything” he said sheepishly. “Deb!” I heard a moment later. “You are NOT going to believe this!” Going to the window, I could see MT flicking the flashlight back and forth over a spot on our porch outside. “He’s back? “ I asked “He’s back” MT yelled continuing to flick the flashlight to and fro, “but I think he’s dead. I’m trying to check.” “Are you checking his PUPILS? Is that why you are doing that weird thing with the flashlight?” I asked. Silence and then a laugh. Thats what he was doing alright.

A few moments later MT returned to the house, promising to rid our yard of the rat in the morning. “It’s just too creepy in the dark.” he said.

“Ok.” replied the Piper, “but what do I do if you go into labor in the middle of the night?” “About what?” I asked. “About the rat.” she replied. I thought for a moment. “Wait until MT’s Mom gets here tomorrow” I said, “‘cuz she DOES live on a farm.”

All My Bags Are Packed...

2011-05-07T14:00:00.000-07:00

I'm ready to go...

38 1/2 weeks. Can't believe the new kid is almost here and yet, I can't believe I technically have another freakin' week and a 1/2 to go. Not that anyone thinks that I'm actually gonna make it that long. This past week especially, we had a lot of, "um, is this it?" moments. Tuesday night was so bad, that at 12:30 I proclaimed to MT that come morning, I was calling my Mom to see if she could come out earlier than the flight she had scheduled for Saturday. She's here now, and it's Saturday, and I haven't yet had a baby, however, it's made the past few days less anxiety filled having her here.

The first time around, you take for granted that, aside from the dog, whom you can leave in the backyard with some extra food, you don't have to worry much about anyone else besides yourself when running to the hospital to birth a baby. We had a line up of friends, sure, but a. it's not quite the same, and b. we weren't quite sure that we'd have enough time to get someone else here. MT told me that, worse came to worst, we could bring Yoda to the hospital with us or I could drive myself to the hospital and he could meet me later. If you are smirking right now, I suspect you are a parent.

Theres a lot of things that are different the second time around - primarily physically. Aside from the fact that my immune system has been totally shot this time (and I'm looking forward to getting my old one back almost as much as I am looking forward to meeting our new daughter), I've been existing as a bigger person for longer this time around, which really begins to wear on you. Seeing a picture of my belly from 38 weeks with Yoda the other day, I realized that even though I've been bigger longer, I am now about the same size as I was then - even though I started a little above where I was weight wise this time around - which was nothing if not encouraging. The discomfort is more - probably because I wasn't in as good of physical shape at the outset and also because I wasn't able to exercise much due to all the sickness. "How are you feeling?" The nurse asked me three weeks ago at my doctors appointment. "Like I'm hoping the doctor will tell me that she's been wrong, I'm really 38 weeks and currently in labor right now" I said. She didn't, of course, but she did say Thursday that I'm ready to rock and my labor should be easy peasey this time around. And yes, of COURSE I asked for that in writing.

I'm down with OCD...

2011-04-17T14:47:00.000-07:00

...yeah, you know me..

Lest any of you should think that since I haven't been writing all this time about my OCDness that it no longer exisits, I want to asure you, this is not the case. It HAS, thankfully, gotten better, after the hormones settled down when Yoda was a few months old. But, I still have my weird-nesses.

Aside from needing to make sure the stove is off every night, my obsessiveness tends to run the "what COULD have happened" vein nowadays. Even THAT has been considerably well under control until last weekend, when, while outside with friends, Yoda took a header off her playhouse, landing squarely on her noggin', crunching her little neck back and then flipping over THE OTHER WAY. It was, in all honesty, the most horrifying moment I've had yet of being a parent. I'm still not quite sure how I flew over to her quite so fast in my (so I'm told) HUGELY pregnant state, but fly I did. Having arrived in time to see how she fell, I did not think that we would be lucky enough to escape without a major injury. Thank GOD, I was wrong, and within a few moments time, the tears were dried and forgotten - on her part anyway.

That night, recounting the fall for MT and over and over again in my mind, I couldn't shut off the "what could have happened" filmstrip. I also infected MT, who got little to no sleep that night either and I proceeded to keep making the hairs on my neck stand up for the remainder of the weekend.

On Monday, I recounted the story for a guy friend at work, who has two boys. He outlined his own story that ended with one of his boys in the emergency room with a dislocated elbow who said, "as horrified as we were about it, the doctor reminded us how much like little rubber bands they are at that age. You or I taking a fall like that is really different." You know, 'cuz we are old. And breakable.

But that really helped. It at least took the scariness down a notch for me.

In other, funnier OCD news - yesterday, I saw that MT had moved the toliet plunger from beside our toliet into our tub. "Why is the plunger in the bathtub?" I asked "Yoda was obsessed with playing with it while I was getting ready so I moved it in there." "You realise some of her toys are in there and now I'll have to wash all of them as well as the bathtub before I can take a bath with her in there?" (I can no longer give her a bath in her bathtub 'cuz I can't lean over, so it's become MT's additional job unless I take her into our bath with me.) "It wasn't used, it wasn't wet and I didn't touch any of her toys, so what the big deal? Just rinse it with a little water and it'll be fine."

So, last night, when MT realised while cleaning up after dinner, that he still had yet to give Yoda a bath, I volunteered to take a bath with her. "Oh crap" I said, realizing that I hadn't cleaned out the tub. MT again told me to just splash it with water. "I'm not taking a poop bath with our daughter" I said, marching into the bathroom with some lysol spray. After spraying and rinsing, spraying, soaking and rinsing again, I was ready for our bath. Yoda and I were having a great time in all our soapiness when all of a sudden Yoda looked at me grabbed her little butt and said, "poo-poo!" Then, desperately looking at me she lifted her arms up and said, "out, out!"

Now, we have a spa tub in our bathroom, which is really lovely, but not something I can get in an out of very well. And I can't even THINK about lifting Yoda out of the tub from in, or outside of it in my current state, so my only recourse was to again, call for MT.

Meanwhile, I had to figure out how in the heck I was going to manage to get all of the soap out of her hair midst the Yoda freak out. Finally, I just dumped a cup of water over her head causing her to yell "eyes, eyes!" (she doesn't like water or soap anywhere near her eyes, even if its the non-stinging kind.)

By this time, MT arrived asking what he should do. "I dunno, get a diaper on her or something". "How do you even know she has to go? Remember what happened last week?" (The week prior, I was giving Yoda a bath in her tub, when she looked and me and said "poo-poo". When I lifted her out and set her on the toliet, and then HER toliet, she freaked out. Turned out she was saying "bub-ble" NOT "poo-poo". But the words do, in her baby voice, sound remarkable similiar.)

Anywho, by the time I managed to get out of the tub myself, Yoda and MT were watching a game out on the couch. "So?" I asked "Nada. But she did seem uncomfy for a couple of minutes." He paused. "I guess you dodged not one, but two poop baths tonight."

Indeed. Indeed.

Of Mice and Feasting Pants

2011-03-25T12:47:00.000-07:00

If one more person tells me I'm huge, I'm gonna punch them in the teeth. Just now, checking out of the Body Shop, the cashier asked me when I was due. I inwardly sighed, waiting for it. "May 18th" I replied. "Wow, you're BIG! Healthy baby!"

I think in some weird way, it's meant as a compliment. But ladies, ladies, (and I say "ladies" because it seems to be our gender doing the commentary - men are way too gun shy) think about it - do you want anyone, for any reason calling you huge?

At first, I could translate or laugh it off. Another one for the blog, I'd think! But now (like most everything else) it's getting a little annoying. And I know, that a. I look bigger because I'm 5'1 and b. If people thought of me as large and in charge in general they probably would think more of the way in which they discuss my girth. Even taking this into consideration though, don't be surprised if you see me on the evening news beating someone with my KS bag.

In other, pregnancy related news, MT has a new Men's Clothing line he's planning on trying out. After a recent evening out, I had remarked that maternity pants were great since the waist didn't get tighter after a large meal - and thus, the idea for "feasting pants" was born. Men! Did you ever wish you didn't have to unbutton that top button after a large meal out? Do holiday dinners at the in-laws have you feeling restrained? Do you envy your wife the belly band on her maternity jeans? Well, envy no more! Feasting pants are here!

We'll begin taking orders shortly....

A Friends a Friend Forever

2011-03-21T10:24:00.000-07:00

A week ago today I flew roundtrip to Vegas for a friends funeral. When I flew out of Burbank airport that morning, my 8 month pregnant feet hadn't started swelling as of yet; and by the time I flew back at 9:30 that night, I could barely get them in my shoes. But that wasn't the only thing that changed in a day.

Kristin was one of two best friends I had growing up. We lost my other best friend - also Cristen - in eighth grade to cancer. I loved them both fiercely, albeit in very different ways, for the very different people they were.

Kristin and I began to lose touch after she moved away in high school - I would still hear from her from time to time over the years, but we were no longer part of one another’s daily lives. I foolishly thought that that fact would somehow make it easier after I heard the shocking news about her sudden and as of yet unexplained death. But I quickly learned that even if someone is no longer part of your day to day, when they have woven themselves so tightly into who you are, when they are gone from this earth, you suddenly look back at your life and see all the holes. Because she was someone who knew my history, my parents, my grandparents. Someone who got me to eat the jellybean paper on page 57 of my math book in third grade and someone who punched me in the stomach in fifth - just to see what happens when someone gets punched in the stomach. Someone who always shared their insanely large allowance and gave me her old Guess jeans. Someone who heard my younger brother call me penis nose when he was four - and called me that until the very last time I saw her. And the wonderful, terrible, lonely, lovely fact is there’s just not that many people you can say that about.

And though I ache for the loss of my friend, mostly the loss I feel is for her family - her husband, her parents, her sisters. Because I know her history, her parents. Because I know I got her to eat the paper jellybeans with me and I still remember the shocked look on her face when I dropped to the ground when all the air went whooshing out of me after being hit in the solar plexus. Because I know her children - and that’s where the ache is the deepest. Because now, as a Mama, I know the will to live changes from wanting to see more of your life, to needing to see more of theirs.

Life without the Kristins is bittersweet. The bitter, is obvious; the sweet - because I know I will see them again - and see them still in all that I am. Sweet because I have another day with my little Yoda and the still to be named causer of my swollen feet. Sweet because everything is a little more weighty when you realize the shortness of our lives. And sweet because I knew them - sweet mostly because of that.

Viva, Las Vegas!

2011-03-04T14:03:00.000-08:00

McTasty and I had been planning a "Babymoon the second" getaway for quite awhile, since we figured we wouldn’t be seeing the light of day after baby #2 makes her appearance. The plans were all set for two weekends ago - our plane tickets, hotel, show tickets and restaurant reservations were all booked, my parents were due to fly in to take care of Yoda two days before we left and we desperately looking to some time away after the perpetual illness that's taken over our abode. So, OF COURSE, when we got up two days before we were set to leave, it was obvious something would be amiss.

Yoda was sick.

Now, she'd had a runny nose on and off for several weeks after getting hit with the initial flu-like cold thingy both MT and I had had, but that was two days of Motrin and no problem there. On THIS morning, the poor thing looked miserable. I called the doctor and got her in right away. Turned out she had another virus and an ear infection. "We could wait and see if the ear infection clears up on its own, but since she's had a runny nose for so long..." That, coupled with the fact that MT was just finishing up some antibiotics from a sinus infection AND the fact that we were due to go out of town led me to the quick decision to go for a course of antibiotics. Finishing up the check-up (no small feat since Yoda started to scream as soon as the doctor dared touch her) the doctor checked her throat, hit her gag reflex and quickly stepped back. "I'm sorry" she said as Yoda started to barf. "No problem" I said as I deftly caught it in my hand, not realizing that this was only the "pre-barf" to the big show, which, of course, quickly spilled out of my hand and down my arm only to join the splatter on my Uggs.

When will I learn to pack an extra outfit for me with the one I always have for her?

Getting home, we passed the Piper and Grumps, who were just getting back from picking up sandwiches. They landed while we were on our way to the doctor, having cabbed it from the airport. "It seems I'm always greeting you dosed in barf" I said.

I passed the rest of the afternoon at the doctor myself, having a check-up, my glucose screening, a rh-negative shot, and filling Yoda's prescription. Getting home, she seemed to be doing pretty well on the Motrin and we were able to coax a dose of antibiotics into her without too much of a problem, and so we began our "are-we-going-to-Vegas-or-is-she-gonna-get-worse-and-we'll-need-to-cancel-vigil".

As it turns out, she's a bit of a rock star at being sick (a trait that she must've inherited from a distant cousin on MT's side) and by Saturday morning, although the nose was aflowin', she seemed to be feeling fine. Grumps dropped us off at the airport and we were off. It seemed the whole time that we had an extra hand free and the flight was about as stress free as I could've imagined.

Over the course of the next two days, we lingered over coffee, ate meals at whatever time we wanted and - wait for it - got to go to the bathroom ALL BY OURSELVES. Amazing. In fact, the only wrinkles in our trip had to do with my footwear. The first entailed an emergency trip to Sketchers to buy shoes that wouldn't kill or blister my feet. My cute little Converses are great for knocking around, but one forgets how vast the landscape is between hotels in Vegas that are "right next door." Add to that the fact that EVERY escalator in Vegas was broken and you see my problem. (A problem that I would like to note was shared by two other women just while I was trying on and purchasing my new kicks. I think the Strip Sketchers probably does 90% of their business this way.)

The second footwear issue came up when we got dressed up for the show we were attending. It was freezing for Vegas, but I wanted one "pretty night" where I could wear something other than my new sketchers. I had a black dress and a lightweight long black coat that looked good open (which is good, since no coats I own actually close anymore). I brought platform heels that zipped up, which are actually pretty comfortable for walking a reasonable distance, as long as the terrain is FLAT. My first clue that this was going to be an issue should have been when MT looked first at my feet and said, "oh. really?"

I was okay until we headed out of our hotel's door - the patterned cement over the door frame gave me pause, and as I teetered across it, I realized that the entire sidewalk was comprised of the same stuff. Gripping MT's arm with one hand and desperately holding my coat closed against the freezing wind with the other, my pattern went something like this: step, step, step, turn my ankle, "ouch!" Step, step, turn my other ankle, "shit!" And so on until we stepped off the curb into the street and I REALLY twisted my ankle, clutched desperately at MT and peed myself a little. Now, THAT was never an issue in my first pregnancy and I naively thought I would escape it again, but somehow, in the second pregnancy, I have learned all about the "sneeze-pee", the "cough-pee" and now, of course, the "twist the crap out of your ankle - pee". I was a vision of maternal loveliness.

We finally made it to the theater, cold and a little damp, but alive. We sat down in the second row and I realized that there was no way I could make it out of there, mid show, by myself, should I need to use the bathroom - a thought that every pregnant woman dreads. I did make it through the show, thankfully, although I trailed MT like a champion dog sledder getting to the bathroom as soon as the curtain went down...."mush!! mush!!!"

Our trip finished up without further event - relaxing, fun, needed. We had little occasion or need to worry about Yoda, as she was doing just fine running the show with the grandparents back home. You know you need those times away - but, man they can be hard to coordinate. They are invaluable though, to your sanity, your marriage… your sense of humor…

We might just start planning our trip now for next year.

I Cannot Go to School Today

2011-02-18T09:22:00.000-08:00

Said little Peggy Ann McKay....

While at a work event on the studio lot the other day, a woman next to me said, "isn't being pregnant wonderful? I just loved being pregnant - and it's so much easier the second time around, right?" Huh?? Now mind you, I think her kids are like 7 & 9, so she's had some time to put her pregnancy goggles back on. But I find the whole "everything about pregnancy is wonderful" about as realistic as the statements, "I've never had any problems breastfeeding", "my child never throws a fit" and "I hate being so skinny - weight just slides off me". If any of those statements really fit you, 1. I don't believe you and 2. Keep it to yourself, sister.

That's not to say that I dislike being pregnant. There are many wonderful things about it, like, say stork parking, and people being truly concerned when you slip and fall on your ass in the bathroom, instead of just laughing at you.

But, there are many discomforts, and, for me, the worst of it is, how I seem to pick up everything. Thank God we don't live in an area where Ebola is rampant, 'cuz I swear, my ear would be falling off right about now. In the last few months, I have had a cold, a stomach flu, and a respitory virus that turned into an infection that won't quite go away. I feel fine now, mind you, but I can still feel the snot there, hedging it's bets.

I've had many folks assume that Yoda is the one giving me these ailments, but alas, no, it is I that brings them home from the cesspool of sickness that is my office. It seems most people don't believe in staying home if they are sick, a fact that totally and utterly annoys me. Trust me sick person: you aren't that important that you can't miss a day. Please, go home and recover before returning to infect me yet again.

Last week as I had finished my course of antibiotics and wasn't in a position to communicate anything to anyone but still had a bit of a cough, a co-worker came up to me and started talking about HER cough and of course, alternatively coughing at me. She said and I QUOTE, "Yeah, I've been coughing for the last week or so. I started coughing up blood a few days ago. Am thinking I should maybe go to the doctor."

You think?

Both MT and Yoda have fallen victim to the latest sick o' the day, too, passing it back and forth between them, while I just kept it the whole time. Thankfully, I think we are all on the upswing, and I'm hoping to keep it real for the next three months until I deliver.

*********************************************************************

This quote actually comes from Yoda, who I have been trying to start preparing for the new baby, by pointing several times of day to my growing gut and saying "Baby! Your baby sister is in there!" She will often repeat back to me, "Baby?" to which I reply, "Yes, baby!"

So it made me wonder a bit about the state of affairs when, as I was changing her the other day, she poked me in the right boob and yelled out "BABY!"

On the Twelfth day of Christmas My True Love Gave to Me...

2011-01-07T12:55:00.000-08:00

We got cocky. That's the only reasonable explanation for getting on a plane with a 19 month old without cookies for our fellow passengers - cockiness.

We are freshly home from our two weeks of gallivanting around the globe. I hesitate to say, "vacation", because as I keep re-iterating to myself, there is nothing "vacation-y" about traveling with a toddler. That's not to say that we didn't have a good time seeing friends and family and celebrating in general. And we were very, very lucky that Yoda was a stellar sleeper the whole time we were gone. That's key. There's nothing worse than being away from home and having little to no sleep. Case in point - Hawaii. It's always great to see a sunrise in a beautiful place, but one does not wish to see said sunrise every freakin' morning.

The problems that we did have all can be blamed on the phenomenon known as "the terrible twos", which no one mentioned actually start at about 18 months. Similar to "pre-teens", the "pre-twos" throw parents - especially newer parents like us - into a Keystone Cop routine, wondering, just exactly where their sweet amenable child has gone.

The week prior to leaving, Yoda and I went to a Gymboree class, where my little wallflower has now become somewhat of a mountain goat. She was having a stellar time, as long as I didn't try to help her as she hurled herself down the slide - on foot. Her foot stomping refusal of my offer of help, brought out the stories of what the other mother's in her 18-22 month class were going through. In the end, the class turned more into a recounting of horror stories than the play-n-learn it was intended to be, with the mothers sounding like war veterans at a memorial. Misery loves company, and coming out of that, I reasoned that we had gotten off pretty easily in comparison to her classmates who I have now dubbed Senor Biter, Lady Kicker and Monsieur climb-on-the-table-to-play-with-the-chandelier. The class ended with Senor Biter biting Mademoiselle Whiner to really finish with a flourish. Oo la la!

So, with that said, as much as I love Christmas, and seeing family, having our own little family now makes it very nice to be back home. The additional niceness is the fact that my Mom has been here this week to help us get settled back in - and to take over Yoda duty mid-week so MT and I could celebrate my birthday with lunch and some general celebration (yes, now I'm 37). My Mother, whom I often refer to as "the Pied Piper" is probably more suited to her 30 + year career path of early childhood education than anyone in any career ever has been. And with her, our little Yoda, aka Dr. Jekyll/Mr. Hyde has been in a fantastic mood all week. I was actually starting to feel a little bad, truthfully. "Maybe we are just boring the heck out of her" I whispered to MT watching Yoda start on her second "messy media" activity of the day with "the Piper". "Maybe" he whispered back as plumes of flour rose from the kitchen.

So, it was with just a tiny bit of glee that I read a text from MT while at work yesterday saying that Mr. Hyde had reemerged for a spell, totally throwing "the Piper" off her game. Even more amusing was arriving home to find "the Piper" sprawled on Yoda's floor while Yoda climbed her like a mountain goat. "I'm worn out!" she exclaimed, following me to the family room with Yoda in tow. In the next moment, she had gotten the wine bottle out of the fridge and held it up, "do you mind? Since you're home now?"

Thursday's score: Yoda: 1 Piper: 0

**********************************************************************************

Quote of the week:

Female Co-worker One: Deborah looks like she's gained a lot of weight!

Female Co-worker Two: Well, she's pregnant.

Female Co-worker One: Ohhhhhhh.

My favorite part? That Co-worker Two recounted this conversation to me.

Grandma got run over by a reindeer...

2010-12-15T13:07:00.000-08:00

A couple of days prior to my first pre-natal doctor's appointment I had this conversation with myself in the shower:

"Well, it will be nice to be 36 and be done child bearing. Wait. 36? Am I 35 now? No, I think I was 35 when Yoda was born. I WAS, because I was considered a pregnancy of "advanced maternal age". So I must be 36 now. Yes, yes I am 36."

After that whole episode, when the nurse asked me at my first appointment when my birthday was and I told her, my world was thrown into a spin when she said, "ah, ok, you are 37."

I stared at her blankly and said, "No, actually, I'm 36."

"Well, we count it as 37"

"But I'm 36."

"But you WILL be 37."

"I will also be 40. But, I'm 36 now."

Okay, I get it. They count you by the age you will be when you deliver. But it seems to me, if they are going to write "advanced maternal age" all over your chart and scare you to death with the special tests due to said "advanced age", they could at least gift you your actual age prior to the whole event. Right?

So, due to my advanced age and obvious maturity, I've been thinking a lot lately about relationships and how they have grown and/or suffered in the last year and 1/2 due to advancing so far into maturity that I am a parent now, looking at life through mom-goggles. I think, most improved, is my relationship with myself really - insomuch as I've become a hell of a lot more realistic about what I can and cannot do. I've also started getting better at seeing people as they really are, instead of taking on the emotional responsibility of all unpleasant incidents that have ever or WILL ever occur.

Case in point are three friendships that I have had for a very long time. With each one, there have been incidents of late that before, I would have totally obsessed over. It's my OCD nature. Before, any of these three incidents would have occupied my every thought. They would have twisted my stomach up for way too long, having me go over and over the incident until I killed it, and my husband, in the process. And I'm not saying that I didn't spend time thinking through these things, garnering advice, etc. etc., but they didn't go on so long as to make me question myself in anything other than a rational way. In case you are wondering; one ended, one shifted, and one finally got accepted “as-is”.

So, I'm pleased. Happy that this whole "advanced" age stuff has me more clearly seeing things, myself, others. There are SOME bonuses.

Of course, the possibility exists that it’s not maturity at all, but rather, just a profound lack of sleep.

*********

I've decided to end my posts from now on with a "quote of the week" that has been made to me, pertaining to pregnancy. I hope you enjoy!

Work mate: Was there something you forgot to tell me?

Me: Oh, sorry, I haven't seen you! I am pregnant again!

Work mate: I know!

Me: (Referencing my stomach) Yeah, I kind of popped out quickly this time.

Work mate: Well, it's not just your stomach. Your face is MUCH fuller now, too.

One is the lonliest number...

2010-12-03T16:19:00.000-08:00

Or so the song goes. And since neither MT or I had to brave it alone without any siblings, we decided that Yoda shouldn't either: Obi won or Little Lea is due a mere three days after Yoda's second birthday. Ha cha cha cha!
It is a relief to share the news on many levels. One being it's awfully dang hard to write about anything else when you are in the depths of "the morning sickness". Two being that you want to shout from the mountaintops that no, you are not binging on pop tarts, you are, in fact, pregnant.

I think the most amazing thing is how much FASTER everything goes with your second. I look a good six weeks MORE pregnant this time around than I did the first time. Probably because everything is still all stretched out. Also amazing is how much HARDER everything is. I don't know if the sickness this time around has truly been worse, or if it just seems worse because there is a little munchkin around that I want/need to spend time with. But, as happy as we are, it's been a very rough coupla months. MT has borne the brunt of everything besides feeling sick. If you see him, he deserves a high five and a pat on the back. And hey! So do I! I'm creating a set of lungs here!

So, hand out the pats on the back. Just don't respond to my news the way a lot of women here at work have:

Me: Hey, by the way, I'm pregnant!
Random Work Woman (Looking down at my stomach): Yeah. I kinda figured that out a coupla months ago.

Have a great weekend!

As I row, row, row,

2010-11-10T10:06:00.000-08:00

going so slow, slow, slow...

Several months back, I re-started a book club with a bunch o' gals. I had begun one several years earlier, pre-McTasty, pre-Yoda, pre- a lot of things. And it kind of got lost in the shuffle. So, close to Motherhood: A Year In; I decided that it needed to be revived.

I dubbed it, "Babes, Books and Booze", recognizing that all three were vital components of a book club. Well, one that I wanted to be a part of, anyway. We've read some great stuff, some ok stuff and some life changing stuff thus far, but as cool as the books are, the babes (and the booze) are better.

We met last night after having read, "Overcoming Life's Disappointments". It was a book I had brought to the group after hearing it's author, Rabbi Kushner, on an NPR segment. The clincher quote for me was the following:

"The difference between a person who has a happy old age and the person who has an unhappy old age is not how successful they were, but it's how much the things they failed at continue to gnaw at them. And no matter what you've achieved, if you're not able to still that little voice of disappointment, you are never going to be happy."

We all came to the table last night agreeing that we all liked the book, but didn't love it. It had good nuggets, but wasn't life changing.

And then we talked about all the ways it had hit a nerve for over two hours.

For my part, I spoke mostly about career. Career in that, although I didn't have a framed picture of exactly what I wanted starting out, it certainly wasn't this. The group, largely made up of actors, added their own career wounds to the pot. Out of that came two really personally important things.

The first, were a few recounts of impressions from "The Others"; those who knew us then that we were hoping to impress now. "The Others" are those that you want to regale with success stories at class reunions, visits home and holiday parties. But you know what? "The Others” already ARE impressed. "The Others" don't realize that it took four years of schlepping to auditions to land that one commercial, or that your scene in that movie with Orlando Bloom originally had you saying actual lines. All they know is they saw you ON TV! They saw you IN A MOVIE! In other words, "The Others" are kinder to us then we will ever be. “The Others” are trying like hell to subdue their own nagging voice.

Secondly, and this goes along with perspective again, was something that a friend who was reflecting back on all she'd done as an actor said (and I'm paraphrasing here, because I didn't bring a tape recorder to our meeting. That would have been creepy.)

"I'm happy with my career as an actor. I'm proud of all the things I've done. Sometimes I made my living at it and sometimes I didn't, but I've gotten to do a lot of cool things."

She then recounted her career highlights, many of which we have in common. Things that before I attained, I felt I could "hang my hat on". After I attained them, it wasn't enough. The failures seemed to count more than the successes.

I guess it's like that in any career - and just in life in general. It's very difficult to separate contentment from complacency. But especially in THIS career, and in this town, it's never about what you've done, but what you are doing next. And that’s a hard row to hoe.

So, perspective. Perspective is key. And that was the underlying theme of the book: not allowing your unrequited dreams to weigh you down, but rather to shape and define you for all the new dreams that can come out of them.

Mr Sandman...

2010-09-29T13:01:00.000-07:00

Bring me a dream....

We are (hopefully) coming off a four day stretch of not sleeping at the ole' homestead. We've been lucky in that Yoda is usually a champion sleeper, save for certain periods of unrest and hotel stays. The last several days however, have had us completely wrecked, as she was getting up each night between 9:30-10:30 and not going back down until 2 or 3 a.m. To say that sleep deprevation messes with you is a total understatement. The worst brawls MT and I have had thus far have been at 3 in the morning, usually because we are both just completely annoyed that we are up. It's tough, too, to maintain patience with a child who will fall back to sleep on the couch next to you in a dark room, but screams like a ring wraith in her crib, even with you still there in the room. Tylenol and teething tablets are given, songs are sung until you are parched and hoarse and still....nadda.

I finally got her back to sleep the first two nights by lying on the floor next to her, with my hand stuck inside the crib singing louder and louder until my voice was outdoing hers. Finally she just would stop - not taper off- completely stop - and then, roll on her stomach and fall asleep. Later on, I would wake up, cold, on the floor with my arm asleep, only to crawl on my hands and knees out of her room, trying my best to avoid the creaky spots.

MT took the third night, and when he crawled back into bed at 4, I asked, "Did you crawl all the way back in here?" "I didn't want to chance standing up. It was just easier this way." he said.

By the forth night however, she was on to our tricks and everything we did only served to piss her off. We traded back and forth and back and forth as the night wore on, finally deciding at around 2 that there was nothing actually wrong, save that she was exhausted, and we were going to have to go back to our old sleep training methods.

MT volunteered so I could try to get some sleep and asked me to refresh him on the ole' program. "Wait ten minutes, go in, try to calm her without picking her up, leave regardless afer a few minutes, go back in after fifteen, then twenty..." I said as I pulled the blanket over my head.

An hour later, he was back in bed. "How many did you get up to?" I whispered. "Just shy of fifteen." he whispered back right before we both fell asleep.

In the morning he told me how awful it was - that when she was smaller, she would lie there and cry, but now she would stand there, arms outstreched like a mini Eva Peron. It is so amazing how these tiny little creatures can so completely bend you to their will, and how, just as you think you've figured them out, they one up you.

Last night, as Yoda was going to bed, a friend came over to rehearse with me for an audition we are going to later this week. Noise is usually ok, but after our previous few nights, I started singing more and more quietly as the night wore on. About an hour later, during the midst of a funny story, my friend launched into a VERY loud version of "Roxanne". Both MT and I snapped our heads around and shared a panicked look. "Oh, sorry, I forgot" he whispered. I waited, holding my breath. Nothing, not even a whimper eminated from her room. My friend left, shortly after and MT and I hurriedly got ready for bed, hoping to a least get a few minutes rest. I woke up on my own this morning at 6:30 a.m. - she once again regained her former self, kind of like Prince, and slept through the night.

I'm booking my friend for the next week, minimum.

Back in the saddle again....

2010-09-08T16:20:00.000-07:00

I'm both nauseous and hankering for guacamole. That could mean so many things, or simply that the coffee I drank this morning is burning a hole through my empty stomach needing some company in there. The two simple facts that tie in with this revelation are:

1. MT and I decided on Yoda's birthday that we would like a little Obi Won or Lea to complete the set.

2. I had a miscarriage about six weeks ago.

I wrote a blog about the miscarriage, which still sits languishing in my blogger box, unpublished. It's entitled, "Raw" and I have been too much of that to put it all out there. But, it is getting tougher to write about anything else, not having published it. So, there it is, and that's where I have been.

Miscarrying is such a personal thing and is so different for everyone. First pregnancy vs. twelfth pregnancy vs. trying for a year vs. already having a child. Late vs. early and so on and so on. In the end though, it totally sucks, although the degrees of sucking may vary. I know that there are a lot of us out there - 20% to be exact. So many of you with whom I've shared the news have quietly answered back, "me too".

It does leave a mark on you, sometimes small, sometimes large. It begins to fade as soon as the physical aspects are through with you, but the future is always colored with it, especially for one who tends to obsess about these things.

Those of you who have been through all this and gone on to have another child have affirmed that the timeline is burned into your head - and through your consecutive pregnancies you do not let out your breath until you have crossed that threshold.

For me, I try ohsoveryhard to enjoy wherever I am, for that moment. I'm not saying that I don't often fail badly, but I try to soak up the joy today regardless of tomorrow. I hope I can remember that...unless of course, that joy is the three pounds that went on in a mere seven weeks of pregnancy heaped on top of the ten that I still had to lose.

THAT kind of joy, frankly, blows.

Theres no place like home...

2010-08-27T12:57:00.000-07:00

Our second trip of the summer is now completed and checked off the list. And while absolutely beautiful, hotel travel with a one year old is a ALOT of work. Restful vacations are a thing of the past, at least for awhile.

We started off our trip to Kauai with cookies. Lots of them. Ok, in actuality, I started our trip with packing, LOTS of it, about a week prior to our actual departure, but the cookies sound more festive and were the last hurrah that went into our bag. After our last horrendous flight back east, I had read about bringing cookies on board for the passengers that surround you when traveling with a baby, to get in everyones good graces early, in case all goes to hell.

So upon returning home from work Friday, I walked in the door to the smell of freshly baked cookies, right out of the oven. McTasty is a rock star and had rocked out the cookies so that they would have time to cool before I got home, allowing me to bag and tag them before the wee hours of the evening. We got everything else packed up and got to bed at a decent time, and made it out of the house Saturday morning just a mere 5 minutes after we planned at 7:20 a.m. Pulling up to the airport parking lot, we looked a little like the Wells Fargo Wagon. I brought anything and everything that I thought would make our trip easier and a little less eventful. For a weeks time, for the three of us, we checked four bags & one carseat base, carried on four bags, a baby Bjorn and a car seat and gate checked a stroller. As we were getting on board, MT spied a couple traveling with 3 month old twins, who had, among them a stroller and ONE diaper bag. I noticed his site line, shrugged and said, "I have NO idea."

The boarding process itself was uneventful, as boarding processes go, and as the other passengers filled in around us, MT whispered, "Now? Do we give them out now or do we wait until she has a breakdown?" Not wanting to carry fifteen mini bags of cookies around Kauai with me should Yoda decide NOT to breakdown, I told MT I wanted to wait until most of the other passengers were there. When the time was right, I stood up and said, " Hello! Excuse me for a moment. You are traveling today with 14 month old Yoda, who has had a tendency in the past to make travel somewhat uncomfortable for those around us. To sweeten your journey, we have cookies for each of you in our adjoining rows. Please enjoy."

The stunned looks turned to laughs, turned to 15 adults becoming children, who happily munched away on cookies as we ascended into the blue sky. I was amazed that such a simple gesture could turn 15 strangers into our best friends. But, friends they were, laughing and commenting on how good a baby Yoda was and assuring us that she was the best baby they'd ever traveled with. On the 5th comment on how mad his cooking skills were, McTasty whispered, "They were just slice and bake. I feel bad taking all this credit." "Roll with it" I whispered back, simultaneously noticing that Yoda had fallen asleep while pulling my Bible sized copy of "Breaking Dawn" out of my bag. (If you laugh, you obviously are a man, or haven't read it yet.)

The rest of the flight was uneventful. Yoda was FANTASTIC. We were beside ourselves - we were home free! She was destined to be a great traveler after all! And therein lies the problem - I think we just got cocky.

After landing and collecting our rental car and 300lbs of luggage, we headed to the hotel, about 30 miles away. Yoda was great in the car too, and I was beginning to feel all the stress we had had over this trip begin to lift, when Yoda looked at me, and barfed everything that she had eaten on the plane, namely BLUEBERRIES, all over me, herself, the car and carseat. Good, good, purpley times.

Adelaide's Lament

2010-07-27T22:32:00.000-07:00

We recently returned home from a trip back east. A great trip, although it was sandwiched between two flights from hell. We had been a bit concerned about flying with Yoda, since she is in phases where she wants to be all over the place (except in her car seat), and is also easily overwhelmed by new people, places, etc. We were very right to be concerned.

On the flight there, we had 2 1/2 year old Cole in front of us. Upon getting on the plane, Yoda was fine - curious and content. Cole was another story. From the moment he got on the plane, his lament began. For those of you without kids, it is not often that babies can contain themselves from chiming in, once someone kicks it off. By the time the other passengers had gotten on board and the stewardess had begun giving safety instructions, both Yoda and Cole had ratcheted it up to 11. McTasty and I, desperate to do something - ANYTHING (!!), began to laugh. Looking around at the other passengers, THEY were all hysterical, too. By the time we were in the air, I had tears running down my face, I was laughing so hard. I am finding, that there are some moments, as a parent, that are so out of your control, that laughing HARD is the only option.

The rest of that flight sucked, as did the hour and 45 minute drive to the house, as did the ride BACK to the airport, out done only by the RETURN flight home, which, by that point, was no longer funny. So NOT FUNNY, that I couldn't even begin to write this blog when we returned home, since there was no funny to write. I WAITED, thinking that maybe it would BECOME funny, but no. Still not funny.

Even less funny is that we have another long flight coming up in a few weeks. To Hawaii. With Yoda. Something that we would have cancelled due to the first not funny flights if we didn't have non refundable tickets. When you still contemplate cancelling HAWAII even in light of all that, you know it's bad. I called the ped's office in hopes that they could recommend something, ANYTHING to make us all a little more comfortable on the next trip, even if "comfortable" meant some minor hair tearing, but left our clothes in one piece. "There are some pediatricians in the camp that are fine with giving Benedryl to toddlers" the nurse replied when I roughed out our last "vacation" and upcoming doom. "Unfortunately...." "Our pediatrician doesn't like camp?" I finished for her. "Exactly" she replied. She went on to say that we could give Yoda Tylenol. Or Motrin. But since Yoda's problem was that she was totally exhausted but refused to nap, Tylenol or Motrin won't really cut it. Blueberries were the only thing that seemed to help, but how much time can you really spend doling out blubes, and what then is the mathematical equation for time spent in the icky airplane bathroom dealing with 5 hours of blueberries?

Ah well. We're upping the ante as much as we can - McTasty did a dry run with an upload to his iphone of the movie, "Cars" which seemed to hold her attention (we are doing "no tv 'til 2", but recently decided that only goes when feet are touching ground), I have started searching for toddler apps (to add to the 5 we already had), and we are planning on making a big batch of cookies for the flight. Not for us, not for Yoda, but for our fellow passengers.

Whatever works.

Shave and a Haircut,

2010-06-16T12:05:00.000-07:00

...two bits!

I have never been a waxer. Say that to a roomful of women and the majority of those under 40 will look at you all horrified like, whilst the majority of the over 40 set will ponder with you why you would ever want to do such a thing.

I've waxed my eyebrows for years, but came late to that party too. And getting my eyebrows waxed HURTS, but it's on my FACE, so I can deal. There’s not a lot of humility swallowing to get your eyebrows waxed. (Unless you are my sister, who's aesthetician remarked the last time she got her eyebrows done, "OHHH NOOOO! YOU HAVE MUSTACHE! YOU SUCH A PRETTY GIRL! I WAX MUSTACHE FOR YOU!") I just started giggling again writing that.

Look, as Rosie O'Donnell pointed out, God is a pretty fair guy. Really skinny women have no boobies. Long legged women have trouble finding jeans. Baby fine haired, khaki skinned women don't have a lot of body hair. It all evens out in the end. Waxing has never been a baton passed from mother to daughter in my family either - never a "must do" spa-ing experience we did together...in fact, a few years ago my sister and I became aware that our mother had been shaving her EYEBROWS, so intolerant was she of the plucking/waxing routine that most women battle daily. (We made an appointment for her immediately and threatened her life should she ever shave ANYTHING on her face again.)

Anyway. I did it. I went for my first bikini wax.

There was an event at work a few weeks ago where Bliss Spa came in, gave mini massages and handed out coupons. With the coupons, they had a whole waxing pamphlet that was funny yet informative. Further, they promised a "virtually pain free waxing experience". I manned up and made an appointment.

Now, I have always suggested that a aesthetician could make a KILLING by scheduling waxing appointments through a GYN's office. You're there, you're prone, you have no pride left. They could even come up with a cute name for it, like a "Pap-n-go!" or a "Spa-n-schmear". I don't know. It needs work, but I maintain the idea is sound. Bliss's little pamphlet suggested that they let you keep a shred of decency intact. Ah, no. Not really. There is not a lot of modesty when someone you just met is staring at your naked crotch asking, "do you want to take a little more off the top?"

And "virtually pain free aside", I had some eye widening, jaw dropping moments. I think I said "HOLY SHIT!!" about four times. I wouldn't liken it to labor, but it certainly wasn't a "relaxing spa experience."

She did my eyebrows next, and that hurt about 1/2 as much as it usually does when the little Vietnamese lady down the street does it, so I cannot imagine what the non "pain free experience" usually entails down in the Netherlands. Nor can I imagine what life is like for my Italian friends who must endure this outing with much more frequency than I could ever become accustomed to.

I got out of there snorting only once more when the cashier asked if I felt pampered and relaxed, and cringed only for a second when the valet delivered my unwashed bird pooped on car between a Benz and Jag (it's Hollywood, folks!) I jumped into the car feeling a little free-er and prettier. I had done myself up a bit, anticipating the spa's swankiness, but also in anticipation of an upcoming dinner out with McTasty and Yoda. The weather was nice, the windows were open, the tune-age was on. I pulled into our driveway having taken the cashier's question on my shoulders like a mantle to wear: I WAS feeling pampered and relaxed, thankyouohsomuch, Bliss!

I walked in the door and a delighted Yoda squealed and crawled towards me, making my heart totally melt. I scooped her up and sat down with her on my lap. She looked up at me with shining eyes, made a funny face, and promptly threw up in my hair, on my face and down my shirt.

Ah, Motherhood. It's one pampering forward and another shower back.

Happy Birthday to you....

2010-05-17T10:17:00.000-07:00

It's hard to believe, but a year has passed since the momentous day that changed our lives. Yoda is a year old! It exciting and fun and a little melancholy, too. Each day she learns something new and becomes more of who she is and less dependent on us. We're loving every minute of it, every discovery. She's a thinker, this one, and loves to scrutinize the world around her before she makes a move. In the last three weeks, she has started to crawl, clap, sit up in her crib, flip herself to sleep on her tummy, dance and now tries to feed herself with a spoon. She's finally started saying "Mom-mom", (albeit AFTER "Dada" which came months ago AND "Aries", our dog), can point out dogs, cats and elephants (?), as well as any ceiling fan in any room.

We had a party for her on Saturday. Just a few friends and family, which ended up being bigger than originally intended, as does everything I seem to do. But, we really wanted to share in the bliss with our close peeps. The one thing I was dead set on was making Yoda some cupcakes that she could eat, as well as something for the proverbial baby smash. Everything else I was set on keeping relatively simple.

I went shopping with my parents for the baby cake ingredients on Friday, figuring I could then make the cake after breakfast on Saturday. Since this was a wheat germ/wheat flour kind of cake, I went to Whole Foods to knock out the whole list. No go. They don't have concentrated apple juice there. I sent my Dad to get the juice at another grocery store and returned home with my Mom with two very full bags.

Saturday morning, I woke up after a very long night. Yoda, who generally sleeps through the night, must've been particularly excited about her birthday, because she was a jack in the box all night long. She's gotten to a place where she can sit up in the crib, but sometimes does it half asleep and then wigs herself out. She's also cutting three more teeth, so we spent the night playing "guess whats wrong". MT and I only got about 4 hours of sleep, but, no prob, you know? There were two aunts, two uncles, two Grandmas and one Gramps on hand for indentured party-servitude.

My Dad started off the morning by asking if he could have some of the condensed apple juice he bought to make some juice. "No" I replied. "I need it all for the recipe." "But I neeeeed juice to go with my bagelllll" he whined. My Dad, God love him, can be like a four year old with juice and desserts. "Tough luck" I said, taking out the juice. Looking for the second can and not finding it, I realised he only bought half of what I asked for. "Todays your lucky day" I said. "You need to go back to the store and can get yourself some juice there."

After my Dad finished whining that he would no longer WANT juice after he got back from the store, I set about making the cake. Now, I got this recipe out of "What to Expect the First Year", and they are VERY clear in the book that the first birthday should be simple. "Don't do anything that will overwhelm you or the baby" they warn. "Make sure you work around the baby's schedule and keep things simple" they go on to stay about 14 times in 12 different chapters. So, with all of those warnings, one can assume that the recipe THEY include for "baby's first cake" would be a simple process, right? Ah, notsomuch.

"Simmer the carrots in a small saucepan for 25 minutes!" I read out loud. What the hey-hey? I'm making a cake, not a stir fry! "After carrots are soft, transfer to a food processor". Shit. I just started reading and already was up to using three kitchen appliances. "Didn't you read the recipe before now?" McTasty asked. "You are not seriously asking me this question after hearing the disbelief in my voice regarding the saucepan, are you?" I replied.

I toiled on. It took me about two hours before I got the cupcakes into the oven. I then moved on to the frosting, because, you know, I have a death wish. "Mix gelatin with two tablespoons of juice. Lightly simmer until gelatin is dissolved." What the f#%k!?

The party started at one and I was working on the cakes until a little after 12. The only reason I even got a shower was because I put one of the aunts on cupcake duty after one of the Grandmas nearly lost a thumb in the food processor. No one was allowed to sit the entire morning. "Hey could you?" was my mantra for the day, and no one escaped. Balloons, fruit plates, dips and chips were all picked up, decorations were hung, house cleaned, kiddie pool was blown up and filled, and we all stood there, dressed and ready to go by 1:01. Turning to me, MT said, "How does this always happen? How come nothing is ever simple with us?" "I don't know babe" I said. "I think this is our new simple."

The party was a smash, although the guest of honor was a little pooped and needed to be held (by only me) for 90% of the afternoon. Although I woke up the next day feeling like I had been working out with 200 lb weights, it was nice that she needed me close to her on her special day. I can't imagine that she'll need me that near her on her 12th birthday, which is good, because I think she's maxing the weight limit I can tolerate for hours on end now.

All in all, a very good day. A happy, happy day. Happy birthday sweet baby girl, my little Yoda, and many, many more.

Things I Never Thought I'd Say...

2010-05-11T18:00:00.000-07:00

In honor of Yoda's upcoming first birthday Saturday and Mother's Day this past Sunday (Mother's DAY?? Let's shoot for Mother's MONTH!), I thought I'd post a list of 10

random things I've found myself say in the past year, often to my dismay.

"Hon, when you get a chance, could you take the baby? I think I have poop in my hair".
(Regarding going to a wrap party with Orlando Bloom) "It isn't that I'm not excited to go, it's just that I think I'd rather stay at home and watch the Oscars in my pjs & eat pizza."
"Smell her butt and tell me what you think."
(After dinner) "I'm hungry."
"Size two and happiness aren't synonomous."
(After dinner and a snack) "I'm still hungry."
"Wait...am I 35 or 36?"
"Do what you need to do...but I'm going to sleep."
"I miss small boobs."
"I think we're finally on a schedule."

Happy Mother's Month, Mamas!

God I hope I get it, I hope I get it!

2010-05-10T14:32:00.000-07:00

Last night during dinner, McTasty suggested that we begin speaking only in English accents at home, so that Yoda would have an accent growing up. "Count me in, Gov'na!" I quipped. He stared at me. "That is the worst Eliza Doolittle impersonation I've ever 'eard" he said.

Ah well, it's been awhile since I've trod the boards. And I don't have an ear for accents anyway. If it's a one off line for voiceover, I can usually hold my own. Otherwise, I really need time to practice and work out the kinks. The only thing that's readily accessible is my southern accent, probably because FOUR of the last shows I did all had the same regional dialect (Kentucky - ish) and I worked with a coach all four times. Come to think of it, I have NEVER used an English accent for anything, save for maybe a monologue in college. I've just never been cast in anything that needed one. Whore? Check. Ex-con? Check. Uneducated, poor, pregnant-by-a-man-other-than-my-husband? Check, check, check. English aristocracy? Notsomuch. I'm "low-rent", people!

I needed a quick Australian accent for an audio book audition a few weeks ago. "G'day, mate!" "Fosters! Australian for beer, mate!" I went about the house intoning. I listened to Nicole Kidman for awhile and then laid down the tracks. I've gotta say, it turned out pretty good. Not, I'm worried I'm going to be arrested for not having a Visa to work in this country good, but, passable. Which is pretty important to me, because it's the biggest artistic outlet I have, at present.

I have been taking a hiatus from my commercial agency, as when I first went back after Yoda was a few months old, every commercial audition thrust me into a crying jag because my brain simply couldn't handle the logistics of it. I didn't feel the freedom I had always previously felt leaving work for auditions because I felt (and was) being scrutinized. While at home, even though I was only working half days, I struggled to fit in 4 hours of work, take care of Yoda and run out for auditions. I finally realized that I didn't much care for commercial auditioning anyway, and besides it being a glorious paycheck, it didn't fulfill any creative needs, so why was I killing myself for something I didn't really care about anyway? (This isn't really anything new, as most actors I know feel the same way. If you DO meet an actor who loves commercial acting? It's because they book ALL THE TIME, and yeah, then I'd love it too.)

In the meantime, I haven't been auditioning for theatrical work or theater. For those of you that are not in the know, acting is NOT a passive game. It is a merry-go-round of constantly getting yourself out there and it is a VERY rare thing to be the pursued instead of pursuer. But I figure, for now, if something drops in my lap, great. If not, for the time being, I'll pour everything I've got into voiceover, which the brunt of which I can audition for from my home studio (read: master bedroom closet). Which brings us back to the accents.

Besides sometimes bugging MT, ("why does the microphone have to live in front of MY stuff instead of yours??") voiceover is the perfect fit for me right now. That's not to say I don't have pangs of missing doing a show when I see (or more often) hear about a good one, or see friends booking stuff and moving up in their careers. And I do miss the feedback (most of the time you don't hear anything with VO unless you book - and aren't even totally sure what auditions your agent is sending on to casting). It's hard to maintain the "artist" mantle when you aren't out there shakin' it up everyday. It's part of being a journeyman, I suppose, but that doesn't mean it's not tough. Especially when it's not recognized by those around you. A friend recently mentioned that MT was still an actor, but that I was just being a mom for now. Pardon moi, Gov'na? I understand the distinction, but besides not being true, it stung. If a tree falls in the forest, it's still a tree...right? Right??

At my "day job" we have some mentally challenged adults who work via a program with us. "Today my name is Beatrice" one of them told me the other day. Right on, Beatrice. Don't let them define you.

Today, my name is Deborah. And I'm still an artist, Gov'na.

G'day, mate!

Ha, ha, ha Pump It!

2010-05-06T18:00:00.000-07:00

I realize I have been amiss. Yoda is nearing her first birthday, and I have yet to do a pumping post. As pumping will soon be in my past, I wanted to pump out a pump post post-hastily.

What surprises me most now, is that I no longer hate it with the same vengeance I did when I first started. The first time I pumped, my instinct was to fling the thing across the room and scream. For those of you that haven't had the pleasure, watching your nipples get stretched down a CLEAR plastic tube, over and over again is a little...dismaying. The main thing I remember thinking is, "A man designed this!" (I mean, please, CLEAR plastic? Who needs to see THAT?) and "I certainly hope these babies snap back!" (So far, so good, I'm pleased to say.)

In my (almost) year of pumping, I've heard stories of people who've pumped in the car while driving (!!!), who've parked and pumped, pumped and dumped, pumped with one hand in their (unlocked!) office whilst doing legal briefs with the other. I have been a little more demure in my pumping places - using the "wellness room" at work or a very private room at home (I really don't see the point of subjecting anyone else to my nipples in that state whenever I can help it. I'm not even that wild about McTasty being there, but theres only so much one can do about that). It has become more of an irritant when I'm at home (and I'm only pumping at home now because I am trying, desperately, to get Yoda to her first birthday and lately it's been like trying to get blood from a stone), and the work pumps are actually kind of nice. I go away for two 15 minute breaks, play a little Scrabble...and believe me, when folks see you marching upstairs with that black bag, NO ONE stops you. It's kind of awesome. In fact, I may continue to bring that fashion forward black bag with me even after pumping is a thing of the past.

Even with all the "pumping privileges" I can't really say I'll be sad to stop. It's not like nursing, where you have that awesome quiet time with the babes. I don't bathe, swaddle or sing to my pump, although maybe I should. It has allowed me to be there in a way that was really important to me for Yoda, and has let me feel connected to her even on the days I'm working. So, in that spirit, perhaps I should do something kind for my pump, once its past it's last pump.

I'm thinking Viking funeral in the kiddie pool.

Leavin' on a Jet Plane...

2010-04-25T15:50:00.000-07:00

don't know when I'll be back again...

Just had a friend of email and ask me for advice on air travel with a six month old. "Heavy drinking" I replied. "Water, formula or bmilk for him, whatever strikes your fancy for you." (Unless you are breastfeeding of course, then you are relegated to water, juice or formula yourself, too. Nothing worse than being 3 thousand feet up and having ying and yang on a vino holiday).

The question though, brought me back to Yoda's first and only plane trip thus far for Christmas last year. We stacked the deck; bought her a seat, fed her on take-0ff and landing, brought all kinds of fun and age appropriate toys, pacifiers, yadda, yadda. The trip there was a D-R-E-A-M! McTasty and I high fived each other upon landing and congratulated ourselves on having such a perfect little traveler with awesome jet setting 'rents.

Coming HOME, we found was a little more trying then the outbound. Yoda had caught a cold from the proverbial Christmas baby pass and was deep into it upon our arrival to the airport. We had her good to go, all strapped in, when our taxing came to a halt and the Capt. came on announcing that our take-off would be delayed by 20-30 minutes. Since it was close to feeding time at the O.K. corral, I decided to pass the time by getting started. I took her out of her car seat, did the standard sniff test to see if she needed to be changed, passed her to MT, and heard him exclaim, "what's on the back of her!?"

Ah yes. It was a diaper explosion in the first degree. My nose must've been a little off, too. "Crap!" I yelled and began barking orders to MT. The three of us scurried off to the tiny airplane bathroom, diaper bag in tow. "Ah, I don't think you all are going to fit in there" the stewardess said from her bathroom adjacent seat. I pulled down the baby changer and gasped. The thing was huge! "Take the diaper bag and give me Yoda" I said frantically to MT whilst holding the tiny bathroom cubicle open with my foot. I grabbed 20 seat covers and a disposable pad and tried to cover the entire bathroom. Putting Yoda down, I realized that this was a scissors change. You know the kind - where you realize there is NO salvaging an outfit and you are better served cutting off the onesie than trying to get it over the baby's head. But THIS was an airplane, and cutting through the onesie with a plastic knife and fork was not an option.

It is now that I launched into "surgeon mode" and begin yelling instructions to MT. "Wipees, stat!" I finally got the outfit off and proceeded to give her a full sponge bath, when the Capt. came on the loudspeaker again. "Good news, ladies and gentlemen. We've been cleared for take-off and are second in line. We'll be taking off momentarily...." "Nooooooo!" I screeched as I finish wiping Yoda down. "DIAPER, ONESIE, PANTS, VODKA!" I yell to McTasty.

We scoop up Yoda, throw everything else in the trash, jump into our seats as the plane begins to ascend. "I didn't think you were going to make it!" yells the flight attendant from the back. Thank you for your assistance.

Thus began our trip from hell, and the first of not one, not TWO, but FOUR, count 'em FOUR poopie diapers on the flight home. Add to that, that she didn't sleep a blink and was so uncomfortable for the last 90 minutes of the flight that the poor little thing was inconsolable. (And when she finally DID settle down, another member of the flying nursery would start up, keeping us in perpetual crying motion). A woman a few seats up called back to MT, "would she like some pineapple?" "Um, thank you, but she's a little too young for that" he said. "Oh I KNOW, I just figured she could, you know, suck on it or something." Misplaced, but kind. Something I'd take any day over the woman who sat across from us glaring daggers our way. (Upon finding her seat initially, she looked around noticing that there were four babies in her vicinity and started to lament to MT how awful the baby that sat next to her on the first leg of her trip was, to which MT replied, "well this is really gonna suck for you then, isn't it?)

We completed the trip by leaving my brand new iphone on the plane, something I didn't even notice until the next day, so anxious was I to get home and pull the covers over my head. We all made it, safe and sound, albeit fried.

Having THAT as the most recent travel event in our recent history, I am shuddering about the two plane trips we are scheduled to take this summer, ONE of them possibly being a duet instead of a trio. So for those of you who HAVE navigated these murky waters, what do YOU suggest for my friend who naively asked me??

And, We're Back

2010-04-19T12:45:00.000-07:00

The last few weeks, I've felt a bit like Sleeping Beauty, awaking from a long sleep. Essentially Christmas on, I've been in a fog, trying to figure out what was going to happen with work. Not knowing if I would have a job or not, I took on not one, not two, but THREE teaching gigs - and then when my job DIDN'T end January 1st like I thought it might, I had, shall we say, a lot to do.

Now though, the classes are finished, my job went to part time as of March 1 and I've started feeling like a human being. I actually was able to start exercising consistently again and, wait for it...got a HAIRCUT on Saturday. I had it cut short(er), because God only knows when I'll be able to go again.

Upon emerging from the dark cave in which I have been hiding, I've found two things: one, almost everyone I know is now currently pregnant (so remind me to avoid THAT particular cup of water) and two: I am no longer a multi-tasker.

Now, before you start thinking that upon becoming a parent it's reasonable for a multi-tasker to cease the multi-tasking for awhile, let me assure you that I was never a run of the mill multi-tasker before. Juggling multiple projects, conversations, groups, etc. was something I was not simply good at: I was PROFOUNDLY good at it. In fact, my mind would get bored if I didn't have a zillion things to do all at once. I knew my limits and I didn't often get stressed, it was just how I liked to do things. I'd finish the 5 ongoing projects all at once and then kick back with a book, a tv show and an intimate conversation. And I REALLY knew what was going on with all three simultaneously. No, seriously. Now, however, my concentration is broken by a feather on the wind and wait - was that Yoda crying? What was I saying again?

Further, my mind simply cannot DO more than one thing at a time anymore, I need absolute quiet to concentrate on the complex plot points of Twilight and multitasking has become peeing in the shower. (Noooooo, of course I don't!)

Even now, having some time back, which, don't get me wrong is WONDERFUL, I don't find that I have any free time. So, mystifying to me is, the friends who also have children and jobs who somehow DO. Or at least LOOK like they do. Unless some of these women no longer need to sleep, even the former multi-tasker extraordinaire in me is stumped. Halloween cards? Really? Organically grown, personally picked homemade baby food at every meal? Floors that are steam cleaned and sanitized EVERY night after dinner?? ET Tu Brute?

But mystification aside, things are GOOD. Every Yoda smile, and wave and point (eh?) is amazing. While I still don't have the schedule that allows for a scheduled baby pottery class or baby basket weaving 205, we now have the time to have impromptu "piano lessons", we water the newly planted herb garden and we take the time nearly every day to smell the roses together. And THATS pretty sweet.

When it's time to change you've got to re-arrange...

2009-11-12T15:29:00.000-08:00

...movin' your heart into what you're gonna be (sha na na na na na na na na, sha na na na na)

SO MANY THINGS. First trip. First solid food. First Halloween (a pink bunny!), first T-day and a new house. All in the space of about a month. Oh and also - new job.

Well, not quite yet. Let me back up a bit. Things at work had been going famously - my two "half work days from home" a week were crazy, to be sure, and being away from Yoda on M-W-F was very difficult, but I had nearly perfected my, "I'll be home tomorrow, Daddy's at home today" mantra and happiness abounded. My boss was happy with the situation, nearly falling out of his chair upon seeing me online working at 7:45 a.m. (I've always been more of a running in at 9:01 kind of gal). The boss is happy, I'm happy, Yoda's happy, McTasty is happy, happy, happy, happy. So, what's there to complain about? BWAHAHAHAHAHA!

What was wrong with this happy little picture? Two little words. Women co-workers. And no - no one was yelling because my situation changed their work load, or because the quality of my work had suffered, but because "not everyone in the division is allowed to work from home, so why should SHE get to?" Wha?

Interestingly enough, every guy I work with has told me how great they think my work situation is and how well they think it's been working out. So just as a shout out in general - ladies, can we perhaps just cut one another a break? It makes me sad that other women - who should or DO know how hard it all is don't make the choice to support a sister, but instead undermine a situation to the point of ruining it. Pffffft to you! (That was a raspberry, in case you are wondering).

Anyway, I felt pretty certain that it would all blow over. After all, I've worked for this company for 10 years, am valued and felt like the bottom line would be that its working for me and my boss and if I could put up with a little tension in the work place, odds were I could continue on in the same vein. But when you are working at an executive level and it comes up on the radar... well, let's just say that has about as much hope blowing over as that fight you had with your husband about the stripper at the last bachelor party he went to. Ain't gonna happen.

So, our sweet little set up is ending. As I had made it previously clear that being away from Yoda more than I already am would "suck my soul out through my nose", McTasty didn't even want to discuss me working outside the home any more than I already am. If Mama ain't happy.....So, we've been looking at our options and all they entail - amoung them, me trying to find work as a consultant, me trying to find a casual position, and me keeping the home fires burning (i.e. firing the housekeeper and cleaning our own damn toliets) whilest McTasty finds something more full full time that still allows him some flexibilty for auditions and whatnot.

Sha na na na na na na....

I had until recently, kept relatively calm about the situation, looking at the half full glass (getting to spend more time at home and working for less of it), instead of the half empty (did you know that private health plans don't cover maternity?), but lately my body is giving me away. I sprouted 5 cold sores all at one time (don't hate me because I'm beautiful, hate me because I look like someone just punched me in the face), and I'm tearing up everytime Yoda flips out (Today was fun. She decided that naps were "so yesterday" and therefore didn't take a single one.) But, that which does not kill us....

I am very, very strong.

Sha na na na na!

I'm a little bit mental, you're a little bit too...

2009-10-16T18:00:00.000-07:00

...we're both a little bit mental, admitting it is not an easy thing to do...

I had a chat with a fellow actor friend several months back, where we talked about the fact that artistic genius seemed to usually be tied to some sort of mental disorder. We had both laughed at the time, lamenting and acknowledging that we were both too sane to ever have our work qualify as "genius". Good, yes. Sometimes great. But genius? Daniel Day Lewis we were not.

Well, as it turns out, it seems I can now qualify as borderline genius. Yay for me.

I left off in the last blog with finding a therapist that would soon lead me back to my happy place in 12 easy peasy steps. After all, I was fine, FINE I say, save for those annoying teary breakdowns at every little thing as well as dreaming up all kinds of weird anxieties to torment myself with at every turn. As usual, not quite as basic a task as I originally thought.

"You know you are OCD, right?" my therapist asked in the middle of my first appointment.

Me? OCD? Ah, no. McTasty is OCD. Not me. He has everything in a neat little order - something that thrilled me to no end when we first started dating. Not because I wanted more order in my life, but because I could mess with him by doing things like putting the pens back on the OPPOSITE side of the computer or by moving his Bert's chapstick to the RIGHT side of the coins. "I'm not even that neat" I said to my therapist. "Don't I at least have to be sort of neat to be OCD?"

As it turns out, not so much. OCD (Obsessive Compulsive Disorder) can be anything that you compulsively obsess about. To be fair, by definition, it needs to entail obsessing for at least an hour or more a day about one thing in particular, so I'm not clinically OCD, just sorta OCD. And sorta genius.

Part of OCD is also something called, "bizarre thoughts", which is just what it sounds like. Creating massive anxiety for yourself by thinking of random, weird things that you would never actually do. (i.e. sleepwalking in the middle of the night, taking Yoda on a walk, leaving her to be raised by wolves and returning from said walk alone.) "I had a patient once" my therapist said "that would be driving along the freeway and for no reason at all would think, 'what if I just crashed into the car next to me or ran my car off the bridge'". I blinked at her. "Well, everyone does that" I said. She blinked back. "C'mon. They don't?? Normal people don't ever 'what if' things like that?? That's OCD?" I asked. She answered in the affirmative and went on to say that she was pretty darn sure that with the stories he makes up, Stephen King is OCD too. As are most doctors and lawyers. And, as it turns out, virtually EVERYONE I KNOW!

"I read your depression blog and it was hilarious" a visiting friend told me recently. "I've had a lot of those same thoughts. I think everyone does and is just afraid to say anything." Amen, sister, amen. Maybe it's because my circle contains mostly artists, maybe I'm just attracted to people who are a little whacko so that I'm in good company, but it's only since I've been feeling so abnormal that I've found out how normal I am.

Anywho, I'm working really hard now to rationally deal with the irrational and talk myself down from the high places when I get there. I'll never get rid of the magical "what if" that is ingrained in me, and as an actor I don't really want to. But I'm figuring out what things I can do that give my brain some peace without giving into the craziness. And if I get THERE, well then, that WILL be genius.

Am I blue, am I blue...

2009-09-22T18:00:00.000-07:00

...yes I'm blue, I'm true blue, how 'bout you?

On a very special episode of "What You Don't Expect When You're Expecting": Post part 'em depression, it's all the rage.

I've been tinkering with this post in my head for a long while now because I haven't been quite sure how to lay 'er all out there. I also know that some women really struggle with horrid depression issues, and in comparison, mine didn't seem all that bad. I had expected to have some "baby blues", as they say, and McTasty and I looked for all the big bad warning clues they tell you about in your baby prep classes - problem is, I was somewhere in between all of that.

I knew my emotional make-up had changed the day after Yoda was born; I was sitting on the edge of the hospital bed watching McTasty change a diaper. He had just finished with the meconium mess she had laid out and as he turned back to her with a fresh diaper he hysterically yelled out, "Oh no! She's pooping at me! It's crowning! It's crowning! What do I do?!"

I, as any sane person would do, collapsed laughing. I laughed until I cried; but I don't mean like the laughing caused my tears, I mean, somewhere in the middle of joyously laughing, I began sobbing with sadness - like the wires got crossed or something. I stopped. Wow, that was weird. I took it all in stride though - after all, I was tired, in a bit of pain and overwhelmed emotionally. I figured that all, or at least most women go through some bouts of tears and I would get back to my old self in no time flat. Over the next weeks and months, it never got TOO too bad, but it never went away completely. I was eating and sleeping as well as could be possible, and I didn't think too much of it.

At the same time though, there were other, newer things to worry about.

First, those of you who have not lived with me should know that I have always had a particular little habit concerning the toaster and/or the curling iron. It is a lovely trait that I inherited from my Mother, who inherited it from her dear old Dad. As long as I can remember, I have needed to unplug the toaster before leaving the house. Nothing else needed to be unplugged mind you; just the toaster. I'm not really sure why the toaster got singled out - its not as if 8 of every 10 house fires are caused by a toaster - but for whatever reason toaster=fire= mayhem, death and destruction.

I carried this little toaster obsession with me until several years ago when I dated a guy who thought the toaster thing was too weird for my own good and took to plugging the toaster back in right before we left my apartment, only to tell me about it when we were too far away from my apartment for me to do anything about it. (He would also be driving in this scenario, so I wouldn't have any recourse except to grin and bear it all. Or should I say grin and bitch at him until we returned to my apartment where I could unplug said toaster again?) We could all delve into all the levels of this relationship, but say what you will, he broke me of my "oh my God the toaster is plugged in!" cold sweats. Mind you, if you come to my house, you will observe that the toaster is still kept unplugged, but that's become more habit, less obsession now.

Fast forward to my curling iron obsession. This came after, and seemed to replace the toaster. I had, of course, curled my hair growing up to achieve those big 80's bangs and never had much anxiety then about whether or not the "stick of fire" was left plugged in on the counter, waiting to ignite a nearby towel, so I'm not sure when I made the obsessive leap to the curling iron, but I do remember it began after the toaster. (I was always a one obsession at a time kind of gal.)Everyone who has ever lived with me has at one time or another has received the "hey...I'm pretty sure I unplugged it, but could you check..." call. The really fantastic part of all of this, is I have NEVER, EVER left the curling iron plugged in. The curling iron has never shot sparks at me, nor have I seen a Lifetime Presentation where someone killed off their whole family by inadvertently leaving the curling iron plugged in. And yes, I have the auto shut off kind.

Anywho, once little Yoda entered our life, the anty was upped. Here was this creature, completely and totally dependant on us, and there were curling irons lurking around every corner. It also didn't help that my Mom would call and say things like, "I had a dream that you forgot to feed Yoda four times in a row!" Or, "I had a dream that you left her with me and I left her with a babysitter and that babysitter let her fall off the changing table!" Or my personal favorite, "I just saw a seven year old with a pacifier...when are you guys going to take away the binky?!" I couldn't deal with my Mom's anxieties as I was having my OWN curling iron problems. I woke McTasty up every single night with, "where is the baby? I think we fell asleep holding the baby!" Even going so far as to pass him my neck pillow to prove that indeed, the baby was in the bed. (Yeah, that scared the shit out of him. But I AM an actor, I come bearing props.) Finally, he convinced me to check the baby monitor before waking him up, which helped until I began having dreams that my Mom came to visit and brought another baby with her, and THAT was the baby I was seeing on the monitor, NOT Yoda, who was obviously in our bed in the form of a neck pillow. Whee!

The mental torment I was putting myself through continued from there, giving me all kinds of anxiety, which, coupled with the depression, coupled with the lack of sleep, coupled with the hormones, was putting a hitch in my step. "Do you think I need to see someone?" I asked McTasty. "You had me at hello" he replied.

So, I began the quest for someone who would lock me up and throw away the key. I started with my O.B. whom I am in love with. (It's okay, McTasty has a total crush on her too, as she is a total rock star). On the phone, my voice warbled as I spoke to the nurse. "Can you have the Dr. call me as soon as possible? I think I need a referral for post partum depression."

She called me back in no time flat. No one, I repeat, no one, takes post part 'em lightly. She listened as I outlined all the stuff I was going through and laughed in all the right places. Another star to her for getting my jokes. "This is all pretty normal stuff" she said. "I think you need to just see a therapist and talk it all out. I don't think you'll need medication, but if you do, the therapist can let me know and we'll take care of it." Talking to her made me feel 20 times better, but before I could let her go, I needed to know one more thing. "I've been freaking out that I'm going to do something in my sleep. Like, try to give Yoda a bath or take her on a walk and then forget about her and go back to bed." "Do you even sleepwalk?" She asked. "No!" I wailed, "not since I was a little girl! I just need to hear from someone with a medical license that I'm not going to suddenly START sleepwalking and leave my child out in the wilderness to be raised by Darryl Hannah and a pack of wolves." Good ol' rock star doctor calmed me again by answering, "Well, I have a medical license and I can tell you that that's absolutely not going to happen. I can also tell you that a lot of women have various and strange fears after having children - talk to some of your friends who are Moms and you'll see."

We hung up and I wanted to marry her - even if it's no longer legal in this state. I ceremoniously put in calls to all three therapist names she had given me, leaving messages for the first and the third, and opting out of leaving a message for the second on the list, as her voice on her voicemail annoyed me. Hey, it's how I roll. If I'm gonna shell out $150 an hour, I don't want to be annoyed. (I know several people who already annoy me for free...no, it's not you). This was a Friday and no one called me back until Monday evening, which is a story in itself (always nice when you finally get the balls up to spill the beans on what horrifies you most and no one responds), but late Monday night I finally spoke to the woman who is now my therapist.

There is more of the story to come of course, but for now, suffice to say that I am writing this from "the outside" and as usual, the more I talk about it, the more I find I am not alone and am, as my O.B. stated, totally "normal".... Chyeah.

Hello again, hello. Just called to let you know...

2009-08-28T23:29:00.000-07:00

...I think about you every night, and I know it's late, but I just can't wait. Hello.

My old friend Mr. Mastitis came aknockin' again on Friday afternoon. Since the last bout, Yoda has been fussy at the trough and I've been chugging Mother's Milk tea and Guiness because I thought maybe my production was still down. So as I was driving home from work feeling a bit uncomfy I thought, "Aha! Mine cup runneth overeth!" (I was feeling high Victorian). But alas, once my "cups" were empty, the discomfort was not.

Crap. I ran desperately through the gauntlet of fixes - heat pads, cold packs, showers, baths. No go. I warned McTasty that his Volleyball game might be out the next morning if I woke up with 102 temperature again and headed off to bed.

Woke up in the morning, still in pain, but not yet sick. I had arranged to go on a long walk with some friends down the street and their kidlet and figured I could navigate the walk to stop by the local Vallarta (a Hispanic food Market) on the way home for the final weapon in my breast infection arsenal. "Do you think they'll have cabbage?" I asked McTasty. "I think so" he answered. "You put cabbage in tacos. I pretty much figure they have everything there that goes in a taco."

Strange reasoning, for sure, but pretty apt, all the same.

So, I left for our walk. I called the friends I was meeting on the way to ask if they had any cabbage in their fridge. "No cabbage. But we've got some cilantro. Would that help?" Ah, no. But maybe later I could use it to make some guac in my bra?

The walk was wonderous - in the park, not too hot, although the humidity was starting to rise, and both babies were in good spirits. I left the store visit for the way back though, which was a bit of a mistake. Yoda started getting a bit restless just as the store came into view. "You run ahead and grab the cabbage and we'll walk with Yoda" my friend said. So I grabbed my wallet and jogged ahead.

Note to self (and you); no bra + breast infection + jogging = bad.

I managed to quickly grab the head of cabbage and run to the front of the store. There was a line of a few people ahead of me with enough food per person to feed all of China. Mexico. Whatever. "Excuse me? Hi. Would you mind if I went in front of you?"

What a site I must've been - sweating, breathing hard, wincing in pain and clutching a head of cabbage. Everyone kindly let me squeeze by. Probably because they all thought I was loco de la cabeza.

Got Yoda home without further ado, got her fed and situated and I cabbaged up. McTasty got home a short time later and I announced that I wasn't feeling well at this point and was going to take a nap. I decided if when I woke up things hadn't changed for the better, I was calling the Dr. for more antibiotics. Hate to take 'em, but I can't have lefty fall off either. That would be bad.

When I woke up, I was starting to feel feverish and achy so I called for a prescription. My Dr. was out of town so the service ended up paging the on call doc.

"Have you tried a hot compress?" she asked. "Yes" I replied. "And baths, showers, massage, and I currently have a cabbage leaf in my bra." Silence. "You, know I figured whatever works..." I trailed off. Forgot she didn't know me. One more point for team "loco de la cabeza."

So I'm back on the hard stuff and I'm healing up nicely. Still on the cabbage leaves too, because whatever works, works - and hey - you'll never know when you'll need a taco.

I Like Big Butts and I Cannot Lie...

2009-08-23T21:00:00.000-07:00

Had another fun bout with good 'ole Mr. Mastitis this weekend and didn't get around to a new post. More on THAT later. However, I wanted to post something and I thought it would be fun to make this post a little interactive. Whoo!

Before the dust settles and I forget all the neat stuff that was said to me during my pregnancy, I wanted to share my two absolute "fav" comments. So here goes:

The first was a few weeks before I left work for my maternity leave. A coworker called me over to her desk from across the building and said (and I quote), "You are really starting to waddle!"

Um, how does one reply?

The second was a few days before my due date when I was at my nail salon getting a pedicure. As I walked (WADDLED!) by, the receptionist said, "Oh! Are you having twins??"

Nice. Anyhow, there were several others goodies and I assume you all have some as well, so give it up. Whats the worst comment you made to someone or someone made to you while you were trying to get pregnant/pregnant/just dropped said child?

C'mon - everybody's doin' it!

Heigh ho, heigh ho...

2009-08-15T19:00:00.000-07:00

...it's off to work I go...

Or rather, went. Started back to work this week and whoo dog, am I tired. There was much angst leading up to my return, many tears and a couple of therapy appointments, but I went, I saw, and no one's ass was kicked.

I had decided to return mid-week so that I wouldn't be too overwhelmed. With all the back-to-school commercials currently running, I felt like I was starting the 12th grade or something. I even picked out an outfit the night before. (This was due in part to wanting to look good and in part to the fact that I don't really have that many work things I can currently wear as I am still between sizes - where I've been, and where I'm going).

The morning kicked off with a feeding while McTasty took Aries on a run. After I fed Yoda, she and I had some girl chat. I told her what a great time she and her Dad were going to have while I was gone, and that I would be back before she knew it. She responded by having what I am currently dubbing as a "shitstorm" in her diaper. I'm not sure if McTasty had booby trapped the baby in an attempt to get me to stay home one more day, or if in his sleepiness just didn't pull it up high enough, but in one "foul" swoop, she managed to dirty her diaper, her outfit, the blanket and our bed. Thus ending the girl chat.

The unexpected shitstorm put a bit of a wrinkle in the overall schedule of the morning, something that seems to be happening more and more. The very word "schedule" is a bit laughable now, since the schedule seems to be anything but. Anyway, I somehow managed to clean everything up, grab something to eat and get dressed. Poor McTasty had to change and clean the sheets on our bed as soon as he came back from his run, so if he had been working on some grand scheme, it clearly backfired.

All too soon, it was time for me to go. While McTasty did the car dance outside (we have a single driveway), I picked Yoda up and stroked her fuzzy little head. "I'm gonna miss you so much, little one!" I said to her. She smiled, and I started crying. McTasty came back inside and I cried, "take the baby, take the baby, I hafta go and I just put my make-up on." He took her from me and came outside to wave good bye as I pulled away.

As I backed out, Yoda was ready for a nap and rubbing her eyes, but looked pretty content. As I looked at McTasty though, I realised that he looked as shell shocked as I did. Through all of this, I had been concentrating on how hard it was going to be for me to be away from her for a whole day. I never realised that he had never been at home alone with her for a whole day. I wasn't nervous in the slightest about him taking care of her - he's a better diaper-er and swaddler than I by far, but I realised HE was nervous. Babies ARE daunting.

I am pleased to say though, that we all got through the day unscathed. My boss bought me flowers to welcome me back, and my co-workers couldn't have been kinder. We were having an employee training and celebration week and it felt a little like going to camp. Every time I went to pump, McTasty was also feeding Yoda and we spoke "hands-free" on our cells. We helped one another through.

In the end, the first day back was harder and easier than I imagined, just like every part of being a parent. It's all quite a juggling act, but in the end, being on "Team Yoda" is better than anything I could have dreamed of.

You Ain't Nothin' But a Hound Dog: A dog's reply

2009-08-13T16:00:00.000-07:00

Look, I am a hairy, hairy freakin' dog. Every book, article and person will tell you the same about each and every Husky. You people decided to rescue my particular breed anyway, so don't get all up in arms when I shed. I shed, therefore I am. Not that I'm not really happy that you chose me to rescue. We've had a great run of it. Sure, there were some behavior issues to contend with in the beginning, but you folks were patient with me and I got it. Much appreciated. Of course, all I ever wanted in return for my good behavior was non diet dog food, walks every hour on the hour, a siren to howl at now and again and you not minding that I was like velcro to your leg.

So imagine MY dismay, when one afternoon fairly recently you two wandered in the house with this little creature who howls louder than me. I'm not quite sure what it is yet, as you won't let me get very close, but I do know is it's usurping my walks, playtime and sleep. For sure, if I got up that many times during the night, you people would put me out in the yard. But no, this thing not only has you jumping up in the middle of the night, you give her treats for doing so.

Since it seems I need t occupy my own self these days, I've decided to go through your purse while you were out, as well as rip up the signed copy of the play you premiered, Gulf View Drive , ingest the page with your name listed as part of the original cast and stuff the rest behind the couch cushions.

I decided to eat the paper in your purse since this stupid diet dog food is NOT cutting it, damn it. I need a little filler. Fear not, I did leave you the prescription your doctor wrote you for birth control pills. We can't let this crap happen again.

Aries

I'm Gonna Love You Forever...

2009-08-03T11:35:00.000-07:00

...forever & ever amen. As long as old men sit & talk about the weather, as long as old women sit & talk about old men...

Before having Yoda, I really wasn't sure what to expect upon seeing her for the first time. I'm not a "love at first sight" kind of girl, preferring instead "getting to know you, getting to know all about you" first before taking the plunge of even minor crushes. Pretty much though, once I'm hooked, I'm sunk. The shortest relationship I ever had was two months long, and that is taking into account EVERY relationship EVER. After that, I think the next shortest one jumped to a year, a year and a half. Hell, I'm even committed to crushes, having one that spanned over two decades. Yes, seriously. So you see, a pretty face isn't a clincher for me like it is for some gals.

My first glimpse of Yoda (not taking into account the really cool 3-d ultra sound picture we got), was of her ear sticking out 90 degrees from her head under a blanket. My first thought upon seeing my daughter was, "Holy crap, McTasty is gonna have a cow." Just as I had never wished my thighs upon my daughter, he had never wished his ears. This line of thought was quickly interrupted by the NICU whisking Yoda away, as there had been some concern upon her entry into the world. My next recollection was a few seconds later, when I heard her cry from the side of the room where they were working on her to ask if she was OK. She, thankfully, was. She just wanted to create a little drama in her first moments of life. Wonder where she got that from?

After THAT, the next thing I remember, she was being placed in my arms. "Oh don't give her to me! I'm shaking too bad, I don't want to drop her!" I said. "You won't drop her." My Dr. said. I wasn't so sure. Thankfully, I didn't, 'cause that would have been a terrible way to start off the whole Motherhood thing. As I looked at her little face, numbed by all that had taken place in the past NINETEEN HOURS, I felt fiercely protective and totally awed. But was I a goo-pot of love...no. That's not to say that I didn't intellectually fall for her immediately, I did. But the emotions of it all were akin to nothing I had felt thus far.

Hours later, back in our hospital room, I stared at her through the plexi-glass of her bassinet. I couldn't stop looking at her, exhausted as I was. I also couldn't believe that after all the monitoring, poking and prodding everyone suddenly just left us alone with the baby. Hello, this is a newborn baby! Shouldn't someone be checking something or something!? I felt like I needed to stand armed guard - that after 10 months of having constant physical contact with one another, that this thin wall of plastic between us somehow made her less safe. She too was checking me out, staring back at me as if to say, "what the hell just happened??"

Over the next 24 hours, my parents and my MIL came in and out of the room, clucking and ah-ing. MT and I, I think, were more stunned than anything. Dads have the even harder job of everything changing on a dime. Women at least have the slow and steady build of more of a relationship. For guys it must seem like going to bed with a one night stand and waking up married.

Our hospital stay was over fairly quickly (thank goodness!) and I remember getting packed up and ready to go. McTasty left the room to pull the car to the front and the nurse left to get a wheelchair. I sat alone in the room holding my new daughter in my arms. For the first time, the awe and the shock of it all lifted just a bit and I whispered to her, " We're going home little one. Me, you and Daddy are a little family now." And then I lost it. Totally. Heck, I lost it again right now just typing that. Every gooey, lovey, let-me-kiss-every-inch-of-your-body love bloomed in that moment. And I knew every part of me was "in" forever and ever, amen.

All of this is not to say that from the first view of her little ear I wouldn't have laid down in front of a speeding train for her. I would have. Now, I've felt like that before for other family members and for MT, but there were always mental quantifications with it (like, could I have a shot of scotch first, or what if neither of us had to get in front of the train? What if we both just got nicked by a scooter or something?) But with Yoda, it was - speeding train to save her? Yup, sign me up. (And no, thankfully, that hasn't been a gauntlet thrown down for me, but this is just how my little mind works).

Each day now, my love for her grows and I think back to what my parents said to me, "just wait until you have children!" I don't know if they meant it regarding the whole "love" thing as I think the statement usually appeared when I did something horrid, but the shoe fit. As much as I love my parents, my siblings, my sweet, sweet husband - there is nothing to compare the love for my child to. It's just...different. I read yesterday that there are 11 Hebrew words for "love" in the Bible, the rarest of which is used to describe God's love for his kids.

I think that maybe now, I get it.

You Ain't Nothin' But a Hound Dog

2009-07-31T12:15:00.000-07:00

Cryin' all the time...

When I was, say 12 or so, I often went garage sale-ing with my Mom during the summer. I can't imagine now, anything MORE horrid than garage sale-ing in 100 plus degree weather, but back then, we did it for fun from time to time. Anyway, my Mom who is a teacher and nutso-cuckoo for kids and I were driving home from garage sale-ing late one Saturday morning, when we passed a family playing out in front of their house. The scene was complete with Mom, Dad, toddler, baby and family dog. My Mom exclaimed, "Oh! How adorable!" I looked out my window and said, "Aw, how cute! I wonder what kind of dog that is?"

I don't tell you this so that you'll think that I don't enjoy babies. I do - I always did. But always in a more reserved, contained sort of way. I won't cross a room to coo at a baby, whereas I WOULD to see a dog. Especially a puppy. I babysat a few times when I was younger - dog sitting was my bread and butter. I knew that when I grew up, I would always have a dog. Preferably 19 of them.

Anyway, when I found out I was pregnant, I couldn't imagine that that would change my love of all things doggy at all. Didn't even cross my mind. Now, we have a very handsome 7 year old Husky named Aries, who is the epitome of coolness. He is a cool dog. The one very un-cool thing about him is his hair. He sheds A LOT. I know a lot of you think you have dogs that shed a lot, but, unless you have had a Husky, you cannot possibly understand what shedding means. (I had a golden for years and I thought I knew - oh, how naive was I.) This fact has always bugged me a little - you can't walk out of the house without rollering yourself off and everything I cook tends to have a little extra added fiber to it, but all in all my irritation was contained. Until now.

Now that we have a wee one at home I'm a little neurotic about cleaning. McTasty would say I'm A LOT neurotic, but I've seen how some of my female friends are and I maintain, I'm a LITTLE neurotic. Sure, I've always liked a clean house, but the only thing I was really whack-o about was raw chicken, a trait I inherited from my Mom. I kid you not, after she cooks chicken, she whips out her hazmat suit and sprays the kitchen down. Everything she owns has a bleach stain on it from this over-zealous chicken habit. I, I admit, am not far behind. (Minus the bleach stains - you know how much these jeans were, be-yotch?)

Anyway, I have now graduated from chicken to dog hair. The problem is, I am picking it off of me, off my boobs, out of my daughter's mouth. The other day, I thought she was going gray already. Nope! Just more dog hair. So when MT walked in this morning while I was trying to do Pilates, (seriously, I have No. Ab. Muscles.) amidst much dog hair, I said to him, "something has to be done about this dog hair. It's absolutely ridiculous." (I use "absolutely" when I really mean something). "What would you have us do?" he asked. "He's blowing his coat and we're already sweeping and vacuuming a ton." "I don't know," I replied, "but we have to do something. I really can't take this. Its disgusting." I was really getting amped up. "What do you want to do, get rid of him?" MT asked sarcastically. "Yes. I want to get rid of our dog." I replied, with equal sarcasm.

MT left the room and I burst into tears. (Since having a baby, this is a common occurrence for me). Although I was being sarcastic, a part of me WAS sick of having the dog around. How large a part of me varied from moment to moment, but I just didn't have the energy for all the new stuff PLUS the dog. I was fantasizing about finding him a new home. And I felt horrid about it.

Later MT and I talked about it again and I admitted to him that part of me did want to get rid of the dog. That no, I didn't actually want to get rid of the dog, but a large part of me was wishing on it. The next day, I woke from a nap to find MT "swiffering". Now, MT is a bit OCD and needs things organized, but a cleaner he is not. So, his "swiffering" indicated that he heard me loud and clear. "I would have vacuumed instead" he explained, "but I didn't want to wake you up. I'll do that later."

I guess my point is how quickly we can change. That minor irritations can become huge and irrational once the center of our world changes. That we can change from doggie-nut to daughter-nut on a dime, but they don't need to be mutually exclusive. And lastly, and most importantly, that when we speak our hearts, that sometimes someone rushes in to help us...and "Swiffers".

My, My, My, Mastitis

2009-07-23T18:17:00.000-07:00

Why, Why, Why, Mastitis?

I had, I believe, a pretty healthy attitude regarding the whole breastfeeding thing. I have friends who've done it, friends who tried it and friends who swore there was no freakin' way. Keeping in mind that sometimes breastfeeding makes everyone unhappy, I had the goal going into the whole "bearing child" thing of six months of bfeeding and then we'll see. Understanding that it would be difficult, MT and I signed up for the Breastfeeding class at the hospital along with the myriad of other classes my Dr. suggested.

Our classes were, for the most part, all pretty great. I liked the classes and teachers we took first (Childbirth Prep, Anesthesia & C-section, Breastfeeding) better than the teachers and classes we took towards the end (Baby care, Infant CPR). Could be that I was HUGE and swollen like a grape towards the end, or it could have been that I'm a total safety nerd and didn't like the way the teacher was teaching the CPR class. (I've been certified for about 10 years and was taking the class again so MT wouldn't have to go alone). "That's so NOT true" I said about 15 times as my hand shot up over and over again to question the teacher as MT discretely slid under the desk.

Anyway, the breastfeeding classes were pretty good and covered as much as a bfeeding class can cover. My favorite part however, was not the information, but the way the instructor got attacked when she said something the women deemed questionable. Mean, I know, but funny. Nothing like seeing a room full of pregnant women get all up in arms. The teacher was a sweet little thing, pregnant and probably in her late 20's. The best class ever was when she announced that one of the things you should not eat while bfeeding was sushi. I sat back, amused. I had already cleared the sushi thing with my doctor, but was wondering how the rest of the class would react. "If I can't have sushi, I'm not breastfeeding! I've given it up for 9 months already, and this is RIDICULOUS!" The woman in front of us indignantly snorted. Women around MT and I started nodding vigorously and I envisioned the old salsa commercial on t.v. where someone asks where the salsa is made and is told "New York City." He retorts, "New York City? Get a rope!"

The angry mob was quelled by the instructor stammering something about the fact that you can have sushi, the problem is not the sushi itself, but the possibility of getting sick from said sushi, thereby rendering yourself unavailable to your child because you are yaking in the bathroom. "Where is she going for her sushi that it's making her barf?" I whispered to McTasty. He shrugged, not as amused by the outburst as I was.

So, going into the hospital for delivery, I was aware that even though I was armed with some knowledge, it was going to take some time to get adjusted to the whole feeding thing. I just wasn't prepared for how much it was going to hurt.

After the first few times I fed little Yoda (not her real name, which I realize I DO have to stipulate, as I live in L.A.) aka "The Booby Monster" (also not her real name), I was convinced that I was doing something wrong. At the hospital I delivered at, each mom has a lactation consultant that meets with her before leaving the hospital if she desires. I desired. "This shouldn't hurt this much. She said in the class that it wouldn't hurt if the baby was latched on correctly." I cried to MT. "I don't know hon, it looks right to me." So the conversation went until the lactation lady finally arrived.

Turns out, lactation lady was our class instructor! Turns out lactation lady never had had a child before! Huh? A lactation consultant thats never lactated? What the hizzle?

She worked with us for a few minutes, confirming that we were, in fact, doing everything correctly and showing MT how to help a sister out. I've gotta say though, I was a little deflated. "It doesn't hurt, my ass!" I said to MT after lactation lady left. "Wait until she has a little sucker fish going after HER nipples!"

But, my doctor promised me that it would get better after the first 10 days, and a friend promised me that I would be home free after 6 weeks...and they were both right. After 6 weeks, I really started enjoying my time with her. Not that I didn't get any enjoyment out of it prior, but it's easier for me to enjoy things when I'm not wincing in pain, letting out a string of obscenities or crying. But thats just how I roll.

So since I'm now at 10 weeks, post part 'em, I have had a few delight filled breastfeeding weeks with my little barracuda. Since everything was going so swimmingly, I was a little confused when "ying" of "ying and yang" started to hurt a bit. On top of that, I was really, really tired. And I mean more tired than it seems I always am these days. "I've gotta lay down" I told MT.

By the time I got up, I had the chills (it's over 100 degrees here), ached like I'd been mowed down by a flat bed truck and had red streaks running up "ying" into my armpit. Nice. I self diagnosed myself with a breast infection and called the doctor, who had already left for the day. Crap. I contemplated how to get through the next 18 hours. The books on my nightstand suggested dipping your boob in a bowl of hot water, an image that would have made me laugh if I hadn't felt so shitty. Nothing like boob soup. I opted instead for hot compresses and hot showers.

The hours dragged by while my fever went up and up and I felt worse and worse. I had heard of breast infections before, but I hadn't realized that they entailed all this nonsense. "Things were going so well for you I didn't want to tell you about this" my Mom said on the phone. Another thing no one tells you! I vaguely remembered my Mom sobbing and taking hot showers years ago after my brother was born (he's 12 years my junior). Now, mi comprende.

I did obviously make it through to the other side (I don't think heaven is set up for internet service yet - Gods old school), but it took some doing. I got some antibiotics from my Dr's husband who was covering for her (I'm pretty sure he's a Dr. too, so it's alright). "Is there anything I can do to keep this from happening again?" I asked him. "Not really" he said. Great. Fandamntastic. "When should I start feeling better?" I asked. "After about 24 hours" he said. "How much do you weigh?" I told him. "Okay," he said, "I'll give you the big girl dose." Um, ok - what does THAT mean? I was too sick to be offended. Well, almost.

So, I went home, took my little blue pills every 6 hours and waited for 24 to pass. In between I slept as much as I could, handing Yoda off to MT and my MIL who was visiting from out of town and marveled at the fact that now, as a Mom, no matter how crappy you feel, you are never totally "off-duty".

After 24 hours, the flu symptoms went away, but the pain still hadn't subsided - in fact, it had gotten worse. Apparently, the infection part was gone, but the blockage was still there. This made bfeeding REALLY enjoyable. So, I brought out the big guns. The doctor had just told me to apply heat, but some ladies on the internet swore by alternating cold and heat, so I did that. One of my Mom's friends suggested cabbage leaves in the 'old bra, so I sent my MIL to the store. "I just bought you half a head" she said upon her return. Don't know why that was so funny to me, but it was.

On the third day of waking up to a salad in the sack, I turned the corner. "Man. I do NOT want to do THAT again" I told MT. "Look at the bright side," he said. "Now you have a new blog entry." Indeed. So now we are back to glorious breastfeeding bliss with all the biting, pulling and yelling out it entails (me, not her). As good as we've gotten, it's not the serene picture I had in my head. But finally, at 10 weeks, naw, it doesn't hurt and it's pretty dang cool. I think of my lactation lady. She was due right around this time. Heh.

Part Time Lover

2009-07-23T15:27:00.000-07:00

Knowing it’s so wrong, but feeling so right…

McTasty and I had a discussion this morning regarding something I’ve been thinking about for almost the entire pregnancy. I can begin feeling the return to work breathing down my neck, and I have yet to figure out how to manage my time during the day to include both showering and checking my email. How the hell am I going to be a Mom, work as a secretary part time to bring home said bacon and still be an actor?

We have the best case scenario of a set-up. McTasty is also an actor, with more of a viable career at this point than I have. (Not to say that it won’t make me totally prickle when people ask him how it’s going and totally avoid asking me, but that’s another story). He also works from home doing transcription. And yes, he mocks my typing. I work as a secretary for a large entertainment company and have done so for…many years and have the best boss in the world. When I do go back, I will be working in the office on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays and working half days from home on Tuesdays and Thursdays. MT or I will be with Yoda 7 days a week, which was my stipulation to having kids in the first place, which is (one of) the reasons we waited so long. Still, that doesn’t leave a lot of time for all of the necessary crap it takes to be a struggling actor, even forgetting the “working actor” part. Workshops, classes, mailings, auditions, meetings, blah, blah, blah. This is a business, kids, and the marketing part of it is what kills ya. Where else would you spend thousands of dollars with the hope that your return is one 3 minute audition?

Now that I’m a Mom, I don’t want to take a minute away from watching this little creature change. I’ll go to work those three days a week because I have to, but as stellar as my boss is, its gonna be tragically difficult. It was difficult before when it was the means to the end of my chosen career. Now it’s the means to the ends of being an adult, a provider, a Mom, and somewhere way down the line…an actor. I didn’t get into secretarial work for the creative stimulation.

So where do I go from here? Does the part of me that trained and studied and worked so hard for so long just get put on simmer on the back burner for now? Do I just do little bits here and there as I can to keep that part of me alive? I know that as much as being an actor is part of my soul and who I am, there is nothing so good that would make me want to step away from that little creature that’s currently swinging in her swing sucking her fingers…aside from the occasional night out with MT for sushi and wine.

In the end, I guess it’s what it’s always been – a waiting game. Only now one that will be filled with first laughs, steps and coos. Waiting for something to come along that replaces my income as senorita secretary and still gives me ample time with the little one, or something that comes along for MT allowing me to stay at home full time and grow my own baby food in the back yard. Right now, I’m pulling for the carrots.

I am Woman

2009-07-20T18:06:00.000-07:00

Hear me roar…

I, like most women I have met in my life, have had body image issues as long as I can remember. I’ve never been what anyone would ever really call overweight, I realize, but I have danced with chunky a few times. Most of the time though, I have been perfectly ensconced in healthfully thin-ish. Not skinny mind you, (save for once after I had mono in high school and right before my wedding when my collar bones actually made me look a little like a chicken), but thin. Ish. It seems like I’ve spent my life looking back at pictures and saying, “wait, I didn’t look fat then, what was I thinking?” and then gone back to lamenting how awful my butt looked in my size 4 jeans.

And though I was aware at the fact that I didn’t really appear even mildly fat-ish to anyone else, it pissed me off that I wasn’t thought of as “skinny”. My sister, who works really hard at skinny and eats nothing but tofu tacos was constantly being hounded by my mother for how unhealthfully skinny she was. “Talk to her”, she’d say. My sister in law who didn’t work at being thin but who rarely ate much of anything was constantly hounded by our mother in law. “You look too thin” she’d say. “Deborah, give her some of your food.”

Forget the fact that my Mom and my MIL were trying to say that my sister and SIL didn’t look good to them and that I did. Forget the fact that they both commented on how healthfully MT and I always ate and how I was exercising in a decent and non maniacal manner. I detested those comments. They made me feel really, really bad, fat and most of all…jealous.

How insane is it that as women we want people to cluck at how crazy-skinny we are. That skinny is, to most women, the utmost compliment. After all, when you have no curves, you can wear matchstick pants, wear a push-up bra or get a boob job. Loosing the curves is much harder.

Now though, for the first time in my life, at my heaviest (non pregnant) weight ever, I am somewhat comfortable in my own skin. I am proud of my body for rocking out this little monster creature. I am amazed at the fact that I feed her from my body and what it can, has and will withstand. 15 extra pounds and all.

I had MT get my pre-maternity clothes out of the garage yesterday. I was still wearing a combo of maternity pants, maternity and regular tops and I thought I was ready to face the music of what the bin in the garage held. I started with the easiest part, which was putting away the maternity clothes that had gotten too big for me for (gulp) the next pregnancy. I had deflated rather quickly, dropping 30 lbs immediately, but was holding on tightly to the last 15. I wish I could say I had a great secret for those first 30 lbs, but the truth is, I exercised to the end, ate well and gained a vast amount of water weight in the last few weeks, so most of the weight I quickly lost was the liquid variety.

After putting the easy part behind me, I began to sort through my new old clothes. Staring at a few pairs of jeans that I recalled had been snug before I got pregnant; I immediately put them in the “give-away” pile. And it felt great. Next I began trying on all my non work pants. Instead of getting down at myself when things didn’t fit, I simply either put them back in the bin, for things that would probably fit after I lose a little more weight, or put them in my drawer if I could get them buttoned up and would easily fit into them in another five pounds. MT walked in while I was doing all this, and when he realized what I was doing, a cold sweat broke out on his forehead. We have played, “Do I look fat in this?” many, many times. “I think I may need to go shopping, hon.” I said. “Oh yeah?" He said cautiously and non-commitally. “I think my body has changed a bit and some of this stuff, especially the pants, probably won’t ever fit me again even if I do lose all 15 pounds.” He blinked, looking for the trap. “I’ve decided that my body is a pretty cool thing and that it’s ok if I only get back down to a size 6 instead of a size 4.” It was probably at around this time he began wondering where his wife was. “Well, it would make a lot of sense if your body changed. You had an 8 pound baby.” “Yup.” I answered. He wandered off, probably to call missing persons.

I don’t expect that I’ll feel this way every day – am sure that when I have to go back to work or out to a party that I’ll have those old crap fat feelings creep in. But, hopefully those days will be vastly outnumbered by this new outlook of feeling strong and a little awed by the coolness of my body. A body that eats well, exercises, is not a size two anymore and relishes it’s daily serving of Dreyer’s double churned 100 calorie light ice cream. At least, that is, when the pediatrician allows me to put dairy back in my diet.

To all the Girls I’ve Loved Before, part deux

2009-07-17T17:17:00.000-07:00

Let’s start from the very beginning, since, as Julie points out, it’s a very good place to start. My labor started at about 2:30 a.m. with what felt like really bad menstrual cramps. I had no idea the party could get started that way. I laid in bed for about a half an hour trying to time them, which is impossible, since they are cramps, not contractions. I woke MT up at 3:00, and then HE tried to time them, which again, is impossible. We got a little freaked because anything we could time was about 2 minutes apart. “Maybe we should shower and get ready to go” he suggested. I don’t think he wanted to deliver our daughter on the bathroom floor. He, unlike me hadn’t read the directions on delivering a baby in emergency situation with a roll of duct tape, an old shoelace and bottle of whiskey on the internet like I had before we went to Mexico for my sister’s wedding.

Anyway, we showered and got dressed and I called the Doctor. I can’t imagine getting routine calls at 4:00 a.m., but she says delivering babies is the best job in the world, 4:00 a.m. and all. She told me to take some Tylenol to take the edge off, as this was the prologue to the big show. She also told me to stay at home until I had 2 contractions in a row that were painful enough that I would want something for the pain on the next one. This was great advice as I was much more comfy at home than I was hooked up to a monitor in bed in the LDR. I didn’t realize that contractions could get stronger & stronger & then dissipate a bit as you progress. They can be very random - not a steady climb, like I thought. It took hours at home, but really wasn't terrible. (Another good reason to stay at home as long as possible is you can keep up on the small snacks for energy, which you can’t do at the hospital. Me likey to eat and the bastards at the hospital wouldn’t even allow me Preggie Pops. Just ice. Whoo.).

Find out if your Dr. will call ahead to the hospital for you to let them know you are coming & what their orders will be on your epidural ( if you can have one on demand, or if they want you to wait to a certain dilation, etc). When you get to the hospital tell them in no uncertain terms what you want and what your Dr. called in for you. My Dr. DID call ahead and told me I could have the epi on demand, but I was being too polite about it, saying things like - “I think I’d like my epidural soon, please.” It wasn’t until I said, “I want my epidural NOW - WHERE is freakin’ Dr??” That they said he would be in right away).

After your bambino makes his or her grand entrance, and you’ve gotten a chance to oo, ah and maybe take a little nap, its time to try feeding the wee one, if you are breastfeeding. It’s an odd thing, because you’ve just birthed this little thing, you’ve got her in your arms and after hours of people telling you to turn on your left side, turn on your right, push, don’t push…nobody tells you anything. “Excuse me,” I called out to no one in particular “should I try to feed her now?” “Why don’t you take a little rest” my doctor called back from where she was sewing up my nether regions, “she can wait a little while.”

So I waited a little while more, but the little one seemed like she disagreed with the Dr’s assessment of her need profile. She was rooting around like a pig in a truffle fever. I’ll write more about breastfeeding later, but for this post I’ll just say, have the lactation consultant in the hospital show your hubbies how to help you get the girls latched on before leaving the hospital. MT was a rock star at helping me check for proper latch on, as well as holding her little talons out of the way of my newly sensitive bits. It’s NOT fun getting scratched by a newborn’s nails. Which reminds me - bring a fine nail file to the hospital to file her/his nails - NOT a clipper like I was told in my classes. I cut her little finger with the clipper & traumatized myself for life.

While I’m on the subject of eating and all that goes with it, make sure you stock up on breast pads and the cloth wipes that you use for newborn diaper changes before going to the hospital. You go through a lot of them and not a lot of places sell them (the wipes, not the pads). We went through a pack of 150 a week. Yes, a week. (Enter poop, stage left.) The cloth wipes are a new fangled thing, or reasonably so, as I can remember wiping my 12 years younger brother’s butt with tree bark. Now they want you to use cotton cloths and warm water. I thought it would be grosser for some reason, but it’s really not. (Then again MT was changing 10 diapers to my 1 in those early days so I could be wrong).

When you (finally!) do go home, have someone stay with you who doesn't mind doing whatever needs to be done (cooking, cleaning, laundry, etc.) My Mom stayed for 3 weeks and it was great - MT and I would have been on the floor crying amidst piles of dog hair if my mom wasn't here. Lots of people are willing to help you hold the baby - but what you REALLY need is someone to wash and fold your underwear. You really have no time for anything but the essentials - care for her and the bare minimum of care for yourself. I managed to get a shower each day, which kept me feeling human, but there were days I forgot to brush my teeth until 1:00 in the afternoon.

Even if you are taking care of yourself/being taken care of, be aware that you will cry for no apparent reason - while you are bfeeding, while you are singing, while you are watching a moving TV ad. She pooped on MT in the hospital and I laughed so hard I started sobbing.

One more thing before I move on from the birthing story tidbits/advice section of this whole blogging thing - I was under the delusion that the swelling in my legs and feet would go away right after birth. Not true. The swelling actually gets a little worse most of the time as your body is trying to figure out the breastfeeding thing. I guess it holds onto fluids to make sure you have enough. Not terrible since you aren't up a ton anyway – but bring really, really roomy shoes or slippers to the hospital! Hopefully, you'll avoid this, but I had marshmallow feet. I looked like the girl who had to be “juiced” in Willy Wonka. Seriously. Let me tell you though - sleeping on your back again feels INCREDIBLE and having that little girl out in the world is pretty cool too! To demystify everything a bit more - labor is nothing to be afraid of…especially with an epidural!

To All the Girls I've Loved Before...

2009-07-15T14:45:00.000-07:00

Who've traveled in and out my door, I'm glad they came along, I dedicate this song...

Being amongst the first of several friends who either is currently dropping or imminently due to drop their first munchkin into the world, I have gotten several questions about the whole birthing experience in general. The most popular questions being, “Did the epidural work?” and “Did you poop on the table?” I’ll get to those first, as they seem to be high on the list of friends who are going into labor, but there are also several other things that I have been pointing out to my pre-labor friends – stuff that none of the books or the classes warned me about. Since I have no (or very little) shame, I thought I’d post them here for anyone else who is about to embark on the great mystery of childbirth, or friends who just like gross stuff.

Okay, I’ll start with the most important ones today and post the rest tomorrow for anyone who is leaving for the hospital right now: The Epidural. I will admit that the whole thing kind of freaked me out a bit. Not that feeling every little bit of pain didn’t freak me out more, but I didn’t like the idea of not being able to feel anything from the waist down. I told my friend “C”, who has a 2 year old about my fear and she said, “I hear ya! My first thought when the epidural kicked in was, ‘Oh my God! What if there’s a fire!?’” This is why “C” and I are friends.

Anyway – the epidural. It sure has my vote. Forgetting the fact that when they started my epidural I was at a five and by the time they completed it I was a nine, I can report I am much in favor. No, my epidural didn’t take hours to administer, my body just apparently decided to reject the whole slow progression thing and jumped 4 degrees of separation in a matter of minutes, if you catch my drift. However, I have been assured that this kind of thing never happens, especially to first time Moms and it will not happen to me again, if and when we have a second child. And yes, I do plan to get that in writing before going into labor a second time.

That said, once the epidural kicked in, pushing didn’t hurt a bit. It was just really exhausting. I could feel the contractions just below my ribcage, but no pain. I was also amazed that I still had sensation from the waist down, as I thought I would be completely numb from the epi - but I could still feel when someone was touching me and also had some range of motion in my legs and feet - but again, no pain. Awesome!! Of course, I had a rock star anesthesiologist, and from other stories I’ve heard, everyone is a bit different as to how their bodies react to it, so your story may not go exactly the same. However every account I have heard ends with epidural equals awesome!

So next – the poop on…poop. My husband (herein referred to as McTasty) and I had an agreement before I went into labor. “Look” I told him, “I am sure that there will be all kinds of things going on and flying around the room while I’m pushing our kid out. I’m acknowledging that I know all this as well as the fact that you will be privy to more of what is actually flying around than I will, but I want you to promise me that you will promptly forget anything gross that you see and that we will never speak of it again.” Originally, our deal had been that in the delivery room MT would stand above the Mason Dixon line, but according to friends who had just had a baby, er naturally, there is no Mason Dixon line. And no sheet like you see in the movies. I repeat, there is NO SHEET.

MT agreed, and to this day, we haven’t actually discussed anything that he saw. “But did you poop on the table?” my sister insistently asked again. “Cause that’s what I am afraid of.” Look ladies, I’m sure I did and I’m sure most of us do, although I never asked for confirmation and I suggest you don’t either. My child was eight pounds and in distress and so I was pushing with every Pilate muscle I had to get her out of her bachelorette apartment in my womb. I do know that my Doctor had to do three costume changes and by the end looked as though she sat in the “soak zone” at SeaWorld without the handy umbrellas they sell. So I assume, yes, that I did in fact push out some poop on the table, as well as one of the fillings I had in my back molar.

Tomorrow: breast pads, nail clippers and sobbing, oh my!

Who Am I, Anyway?

2009-07-15T14:34:00.000-07:00

Am I my resume? Who is this picture of a person I don’t know?

I am, I fully realize, a little behind the times with the whole blog thing. I decided to start this blog after months of emailing with friends about the craziness of pregnancy, acting and life in general. One of those friends, “D”, suggested I write a book. “I’ll help you market it. You gotta do something with this stuff, it’s hilarious.” I showed my husband her email . “See” I said “It’s confirmed. I'm hilarious. I told you.” While he didn’t quite buy into my hilarity like “D” did, he confirmed I could turn a phrase. (He didn’t put it like that, as he is not a writer. I am also, for the record, A LOT funnier than he is.) Still, a book seemed out of reach. “I could do a blog” I emailed “D”, thoughtfully. She didn’t email back, probably because she was in labor. Whateve.

But it did occur to me that a lot of my friends are becoming “older” parents now – that most of my friends are struggling artists in one way, shape or form, and all of them are beginning to realize how human they are – via parenthood, age or whatever else. It also occurred to me that, as I have always loved to write, a blog would be a good creative outlet for me and a fun way to banter. After all, I no longer have the time as a new Mom for that epic novel I’ve always meant to write, I suck at writing dialogue, so a screenplay that I can chip away at is out of the question, and my acting endeavors (read, equity waiver plays) are going to be out of the question for awhile, so, a blog seemed the thing.

Keep in mind please, I don’t have a degree in writing or in parenthood. My degree is in theater (which has only gotten me a secretarial job thus far) and the only parenting book I read before getting pregnant was Stefanie Wilder Taylor’s, “Sippy Cups Are Not for Chardonnay.” A great book with great tips that’s funny as hell, but Dr. Spock, she’s not. (Nor would she want to be I would image. Weird ears.)

So anyway, I, a mid thirties new Mom/Wife/Actor/Secretary am setting out to document my trials and tribulations of all four parts of my split personality for your, or at least, my reading pleasure. Because, what’s it all worth if you can’t have some laughs for being human along the way, eh?