Anything Said: January 2007

Tuesday, January 30, 2007

Bid again now

So this weekend, I rediscovered my crippling Ebay addiction.

For years, I had been in recovery. My first bout with the illness was back in 2002, when I was in graduate school and thought it appropriate to spend my student loan money on videos full of Kids Incorporated episodes taped from the TV. I would spend hours bidding on random shit like old school Amish dolls, the kind without faces, and wallets with pictures of pugs on them. Then I would log off and bury myself under covers of shame. The husband and I were living in sin at the time but not yet sharing our finances, so it was easy enough to hide my purchases. Except for the Kids Incorporated tapes. I made him watch those babies.

I'm not sure what recent events led to my relapse. Maybe it's the winter weather holding me hostage indoors, keeping me from taking to the streets in search of more practical shopping endeavors. Maybe it's the four stir-crazy days I spend at home each week with Her Highness, the Mistress of Fuss (who is currently sitting in her father's lap, making the delicate guttural grunts that indicate a particularly special dump). I don't know. But whatever is to blame, I am now the "winner" of the following:

- A vintage Fisher Price Little People barn, complete with farm animals, fence, and barn door that moos when you open it. These are the real deal Little People. the limbless ones that are all body and head, the ones that were recently redesigned due to being deemed a "choking hazard." I say a great big whatever to all that: I played the hell out of this thing for years when I was growing up, and not once did I swallow a wee legless farmer. Not once.

- Vintage Tupperware toys, specifically a set of Zoo-it-yourself animals and one of those red and blue shape-sorter balls. Because my mom rocked a lot of Tupperware parties when I was little, and who am I to deny my own daughter the same benefits?

- A box of baby board books. In hindsight, used books that have been chewed and slobbered on by strange children in a faraway state may not have been an optimal purchase to make on behalf of my child. But she sucks daily on pacifiers bearing teeth marks from the dog, so this is probably just more of the same...

In addition, I am awaiting word of my inevitable winner status in regards to the following:

- A two-cd set of weirdly religious songs sung by animal characters who teach moral lessons and ride around in a suspiciously devlish "music machine." I loved them when I was growing up. Plus the baby needs some Godly influence to counterbalance the three episodes of The Sopranos I made her watch with me today.

- A copy of this awesome book, Caps for Sale, for which I bid an entire penny.

- Some candles. Because I like to pretend that my home is not just a mini-fridge away from being a dorm room.

Sadly, I was outbid by one of those hovering last-minute Ebay vultures on my coveted faux-retro Specktone ipod port. And also on my heaping box of Berenstein Bears paperbacks. And my Traders Joe's gift card.

All of these bids in one weekend. Really, I don't see how this turn of events can be anything but bad news. I'm holding out hopes for an intervention. I mean, since apparently they've got rehab for homophobia these days, surely there's something in the works for new mothers who spend the diaper money on other people's old crap.

Thursday, January 25, 2007

Ten things that are on my mind

1. My 4-month-old daughter weighs 18.7 pounds, is 26 and 1/2 inches long, and wears clothes intended for one-year-olds. Just wanted to put that out there.

2. My husband just made me barbecued chicken breasts with mushrooms and swiss cheese for dinner, except that instead of serving them on a plate, he knocked over his skillet and dumped them onto the floor. He scraped off the dirt and dog-related grime and we ate them anyway. Time's a-wastin'.

3. Because I value our friendship, I am not going to lie to you about my deep love for American Idol. You can bask in your moral superiority and I won't think any less of you. But just know that over at my house, my Tivo and I are busily fast-forwarding through the commercials and the product placements and the Very Special Contestants so that we can more efficiently seek out and predict the next adorable pop music sensation. My ipod holds two Kelly Clarkson albums and a Carrie Underwood joint and I will not be shamed.

4. My ipod also holds about 7 Johnny Cash albums that I interlibrary-loaned at work. Do people who don't work at libraries fully appreciate the power of the interlibrary loan? Go to your public library and tell them what you want. Unless it's real gross, they'll probably get it for you.

5. I know this guy. We grew up in the same town. I totally used to smoke pot with him in random Indiana basements, and now he makes movies and goes to Sundance and knows John Cusack and I rent a 2-bedroom and read Entertainment Weekly.

6. I think that Abigail Breslin's Oscar nomination for Little Miss Sunshine is cutesy bullshit. I liked the movie, I loved all the Superfreak business, but what is she, 9? All she had to do was scream and dance and be adorable. Can she even cross the street by herself?

7. The months leading up to the 2008 election are going to be rough, I think. I just signed up to volunteer for Hillary, because I love her and have always pledged that if she ran, I would do anything I could to support her. But it's not like I don't want to support Obama, you know?

8. Do we think that fucking Jeb Bush is going to run? There's some new biography out about him, and it keeps getting reviewed in all the journals you have to read when you're a librarian who buys stuff for a living, and I know I'm supposed to be all impartial and get a copy for my library, but I just. can't. do. it.

9. I did, however, buy a copy of my sister-in-law's book about beavers for the library. And you all should too.

10. This healthy eating business is hard. Who knew brown rice took so long to cook? And why can't fruit be more easily accessible? I rock a busy lifestyle. I don't have time to peel. Do any of you have ideas for healthy snacks that are A) easy (and I mean actually easy, not involving a special trip to Whole Foods for ingredients I have to mortgage), and B) don't taste like Essense of Shoe?

Monday, January 22, 2007

MWF seeking BFF

A young woman who attends my local moms' group recently told me about how, during a particularly harried trip with her 6-month-old to the DMV, the intense isolation of new motherhood almost drove her to scary levels of stalkerdom. She had just moved to the area from Pennsylvania and was trying to obtain a new driver's license. When she approached the counter and introduced herself, a staffperson nodded and said, "Oh yeah, you're the woman who called earlier, right?" Confused, she shook her head; she hadn't called. The staffperson clarified: apparently another young Pennsylvania transplant with an infant daughter had phoned the office earlier with an inquiry.

Instantly, my friend told me, all she could think of was: another new mom? From Philly? WITH A DAUGHTER THE SAME AGE AS MINE? Give me her phone number, you tools of local government!! She managed to contain herself -- that is, until she turned around and saw a woman entering the building, struggling to maneuver a bulky stroller through the sliding glass door. She recounted that it was as if everything else around her had ground to a halt. "It was her, I just KNEW it," she said. "She had a baby, she had big Philadelphia ghetto hair, it was her it was HER!" All rational thoughts disappeared, all fears of possible restraining orders went out the window, and the only thing on earth that mattered was blocking the path of this woman and BECOMING HER BEST FRIEND THIS VERY INSTANT.

Everyone else at the moms' group meeting sat listening to the story, nodding and mmm-hmmming , half-ashamed at just how acutely we related. Being a new parent is like suddenly waking up as an alien: you're rocking the same planet as before, except now your skin feels all funny and you've got horns coming out of your head. You don't fit in like you used to. Sometimes people can't understand what you're saying. And you spend a lot of time alone.

Making mom friends is hard work. I'm sure I've mentioned before the degree to which I am Not A Joiner. I also suck at small talk, try way too hard to please, and am instantly and irrationally annoyed by about 75% of the people I meet. Add to that the fact that mom-friendships are truly delicate endeavors. New moms look to each other in desperation, asking questions, comparing breathless stories. It's all so intense. Validate me! Affirm my choices! Give me something, anything, to make me feel like I am not completely fucking this up! We share hours of conversation about our children's body fluids, diaper brands, and the exact amount of sleep - to the minute - that we got the previous night before we even stop to find out each other's last names, or what we do (or did) for a living. We feel instantly connected before we even know a thing about one another. It reminds me of summer camp friends, except without the lanyard braiding and the mean girls who made fun of my swimsuit.

I'm trying really, really hard at this, people. I am bundling up the baby and going to the coffee shop when it would be so much easier to stay home and bounce the baby on my knee while shopping for old school Fisher Price toys on ebay. I am making myself talk to Real Live Actual people instead of the ones on Buffy. I am trying to be friendly and nice even when all the people around me are talking about how they never let their inept husbands hold their babies. I worry that my eagerness, my gaping need is transparent and appalling. I am reaching out for companionship and simultaneously pushing it away in my mind. I want it, I can feel a visceral longing for it, and at the same time I find myself infuriatingly dissatisfied with it.

Growl. I am heavily issue-laden today.

Here: while I cower in this corner and obsess, you can grab a baby thigh and suck on it. It heals what ails you.

Rad outfit courtesy of Maven.

Thursday, January 18, 2007

Right here waiting for you

Friends, we survived the plague. Thank you for your kind thoughts and virtual Pepto Bismol. This was our first Official Family Sickness, meaning all but the pug were afflicted. The husband's case was mild and he rocked it proactively, vegging out on the couch at the first signs of discomfort. Cletus' poop-river ran green and lush through the weekend, finally drying up with the help of a couple bottles of ambiguously-flavored ("Fruit"? What kind of fruit? How is that a flavor?) Pedialite, which she downed like a champ. I was feeling much better by the end of the weekend, but then I went and drank two cups of Theraflu and ate half a frozen lasagna. Not my finest hour. I slept it off. Life is better this week.

In other news: people! I am so geared up to lose this baby weight (frozen lasagna notwithstanding)! My office is sponsoring a Weight Watchers group. No, I'm not joining. It's all a little too Trust Falls and Big Paper for me. Plus I hate the whole idea of women watching each other stand on scales. HOWEVER. One of my co-workers spent some time explaining the Weight Watchers Core plan to me, and I have to say -- it's surprisingly logical. "Hey, here's a list of food items that are good for you. You can stuff your face full of said items all the live long day. Plus, you can have a couple of unhealthy things in moderation, but only as a treat." Read: Melinda, a donut and a handful of Cheez-Its does not a breakfast make. Have a banana, Squishy.

So I went to the grocery store tonight and loaded up on veggies and fruit, chicken breasts and Morningstar "meat", brown rice and whole wheat pasta. I even traded in my beloved 2% for skim milk. Now let's see if I can get myself to stop drinking it out of the jug.

Also, tomorrow I'm getting a much-needed haircut after three months of neglect. People with short hair should not procrastinate when it comes to trims. I look like Richard Marx.

That is all.

Sunday, January 14, 2007

This shit blows.

I have met the enemy, and it is diarrhea.

For, like, a month now I have had all these good intentions for updating this blog more often. I see or hear something funny and I think to myself, "That's a blog entry!" I set aside blocks of time for sitting in front of the computer. And then projectile poop comes out of my child's butt and everything gets put on hold.

On Wednesday night I got sick. One minute I was watching Top Chef, the next I was standing in front of the toilet in a panic, trying to decide which need was more pressing (read: kneel or squat?). I was up all night running from couch to bathroom, home in bed all the next day. Cletus the Former Fetus spent the day at daycare. I slept and sipped ginger ale, woke up Friday feeling spent but in control, tried to touch the baby as little as possible.

By Saturday, though, Cletus was shitting rivers. Polluted rivers, green and putrid, with empty beer cans floating in them. This is the most alarming sound of parenthood so far: the sound of my child's explosive diapers. It's like a muffled machine gun. And you don't just hear it -- you feel it. These poops have power. They could totally take you in a fight.

So what I'm telling you is this: I meant to call you, but I was busy using kitchen shears to cut the filth-slimed outfits off of my daughter. Maybe we can hang out next weekend?

Tuesday, January 09, 2007

Someone should teach a class

Back when I lived in Boston, I used to take the subway to work every day. The subway in Boston, like most subways in major metropolitan areas it seems, was unreliable, infuriating, and filled with crazies. I always used to say that someone (namely, of course: me) should teach a class, required for all commuters and leisure travelers upon purchase of their tokens, highlighting the basics of Proper Subway Etiquette. I would sit on the train and daydream a course outline. Session 1: Just Because You Are Fat Doesn't Mean You Get Four Seats. Session 2: Just Because You Are Important And Successful Doesn't Mean You Get Four Seats. Session 3: Did Your Backpack Buy A Token, Too? Session 4: Your Cell Phone Won't Work UNDERGROUND, Asshole. Session 5: Take A Shower.

Lately, I've been thinking similar thoughts about message boards. Someone should offer a class on appropriate message board behavior, and successful completion should be required of all individuals wishing to publish their thoughts on the internets. Especially when it comes to parenting message boards. Because seriously people. Why so rude?

If I taught the class, I would first weed out all the bitches who log on to Baby Center just to brag about their baby's angelic sleep habits. I mean, bully for you, how awesome your life must be, congrats and all that. But if I'm actively seeking out and then reading a 5-page thread with the subject line "How can I get my 3-month old to go to bed at night?" I think it's safe to assume that I'm looking for suggestions, strategies, war stories from other parents on the frontlines. NOT some 24-year-old chirpster who chimes in with something like: "Wow, you gals have it rough! LOL. Little Braeden Aidan-Jaden has been sleeping from 6 PM to 9 AM every night since birth. He also rolled over while still in the hospital nursery, and he takes his breastmilk from a sippy cup that he holds ALL BY HIMSELF. At 6 weeks old!! We're so blessed. :) :) :)"

Then I would weed out the breast nazis. I'm not talking about moms who love and advocate for breastfeeding; I'm talking about psychos who want to make formula a controlled substance. A couple of months ago, when I was mucking through my 2nd mastitis-thrush cocktail and agonizing over the decision to wean from breast to bottle, I spent a lot of time online looking for information that would help me make the transition safely, without traumatizing my child or my already traumatized boobs. I scoured message boards looking for stories from other moms who had gone through the same situation. I found threads with subject lines like "Having trouble weaning - need help" and "Is it safe to wean right after mastitis?" Eagerly, I would dive into the pages and pages of responses only to find that, almost without fail, the discussion had disintegrated into a war of Breast Vs. Bottle, Good Vs. Evil. Some mom would log on, all breastier than thou, and spout her agenda all over what was previously a helpful forum. "You know, you REALLY shouldn't be giving your baby formula this early. No, it won't hurt your baby, but it's second best. Do you want your baby to settle for second best?" Or "Give it time. Breastfeeding gets so much easier with practice. I breastfed my little Ava Madison until she was 9, and I feel sooooooooo close to her. Have you tried the football hold? And maybe feeding her every 20 minutes instead of every hour?" Because, of course, it's all about validating women's choices. Unless, of course, your choice is to not breastfeed. In which case: Daniel? Meet the lion's den.

Lately, I've been looking for information on introducing solids. Cletus the Former Fetus is getting so huge, and she seems so hungry all the time, that I'm wondering whether starting her on some "real food" might help. She's going in to the doctor for her 4-month checkup next week, so I'll ask about it then, but in the meantime I've been trying to do some reading about what other parents have done. My mistake. "RICE CEREAL is the only way to go." "Rice cereal will make your child shit blood. Do you want your child to shit blood? DO YOU WANT YOUR CHILD TO KILL PUPPIES AND BE A SCHOOL SHOOTER?" "I only feed my baby homemade puree of organic sweet potatoes, and I didn't start that until he was 2." People!! Go to your corners. You all totally just flunked my class.

(Also? People should stop logging onto the Television Without Pity forums to talk about Clay Aiken. Clay Aiken was so four seasons ago. He is not "so cyoot," plus he will never be your boyfriend unless you are a dude. Find a relevant pop-culture obsession and run with it.)

Of course, someone should also teach a class on not continually going back to the same message boards if you don't like them. Class roster: um, me.

Sunday, January 07, 2007

My body myself

Apparently I am 75 years old, because my hair is falling out.

Back when I was reading pregnancy books, back when I had time to scour the Baby Center message boards all day, back before I had a gargantuan 3-month-old sweetly drooling on me for half of my waking hours, I remember reading that this would happen. It's something to do with hormones, I don't know, anyway the point is I ignored it, just like I ignored it when they told me about the leg cramps, and about the signs of preterm labor, and about how labor would break my vagina.

Now every time I brush my hair there are big fat clumps left behind in the brush. Every time I take a shower I have to practically hose down the tub afterwards to part the sea of discarded strands. And what's left on my head is half-gray anyway so, basically, I look like a hot mess.

Oh, and can we talk about the ponch? The extra ten pounds of baby-padding currently hanging out like a slab of ham over the waistline of my jeans? I am neither vain nor obsessed with appearance -- I don't wear makeup, I rock a hairstyle that on off-days resembles that of an Amish schoolboy, I've been wearing the same pair of gray cords for the past 3 days. But I will say this: I am not used to carrying around extra weight, and I. Don't. Like. It. One of my few true genetic blessings has always been my ability to eat whatever I want and still stay thin. Don't hate; congratulate. When I was a kid this was kind of a curse, as it led me to develop an early taste for junk food AND prompted all the little punk boys in my class to call me "Beanpole." But as an adult it's been a blessing, except that it apparently set me up for a major fall in my post-pregnancy life. Namely: my body is different now. My body has a ponch now. And I'm actually going to have to get off my ass and do something to make it go away.

Last week I went clothes-shopping, which is right up there with self-mutilation and pooping in the woods on my list of favorite things to do. I tried on four pairs of pants, each of them at least my pre-pregnancy size or larger, and not one of them fit. Not even close. With a couple of them I couldn't even pull up the zipper, and the others left me fully camel-toed and ass-squeezed. I was so depressed that I couldn't even go home and eat my feelings. Ok, that's a lie, I totally could and did. But still. It was totally depressing.

I made the husband promise to help me stick to a workout schedule, reminding me to go to the gym at least 3 times a week. So far I've gone...well, so far I haven't gone. But I will. I swear. Just as soon as I cuddle this baby** and then eat a bowl of cereal. Or two.

**Note: As I write this entry, my husband is changing the baby's diaper in the other room. In the brief time he's been at this activity, I have heard him sing to her the following lines from childhood classics:
"She's dressed in yellow/ She says hello/ Come sit next to me, you fine fellow."
AND
"Girl you're my angel/ You're my darling, angel/ Closer than my peeps you are to me."

Just thought I'd share.

Monday, January 01, 2007

Doing the math

2.5: Number of hours it takes to drive from Chicago to my parents' place in Indiana.

0: Number of hours during said drive that I was allowed to listen to the Lite FM station that plays nothing but Christmas music for the entire month of December. Because my husband hates good cheer, mistletoe, and babies in mangers.

2: Number of lottery tickets purchased for each of eight family members' Christmas stockings.

4: In dollars, highest amount won by any of the aforementioned tickets.

3: Number of treeside squirts of Easy Cheez applied to the pug's nose as a special lickin'-shit-off-my-face holiday treat.

2: Number of Baby's First Christmas ensembles worn by my daughter over the holiday weekend. One of them didn't even really fit, but we shoved her into it sausage-style anyway. Which brings me to --

16: Number of pounds my 3-month-old weighs. SixTEEN. At three months. She is wearing outfits designed for 9-month-olds. She's as tall as a toddler. She has about seven chins. And all seven of them, along with the rest of her deliciously meaty body, demand to be carried around like a tote bag for significant portions of the day.

10: Number of post-pregnancy pounds I plan to lose by carrying around my tote-bag-baby. I've even developed a routine in which I strap the child to my leg and do lunges. Kidding. But only just.

1: Number of New Years Eve parties we attended with baby in tow.

2: Number of people we knew at the party well enough to converse beyond the level of small-talk. Therefore...

1,857: Number of conversations we took part in that were initiated by some form of "So! You've got a baby! How's that going?" I mean, we were the only people in attendance toting a wee one, so it was an obvious starter. A freebie, if you will. But still, I wonder -- we don't know many people in Chicago who are parents. Is this how parties will be for us from now on? Should I come prepared with a mental list of hot topics, so that when someone says "Oh, what a cute baby, how old is she?", I can counter with "Three months old, but WHAT ABOUT DARFUR??"

1: Number of well-intentioned strangers at the party who pointed to my daughter and asked "Can I hold it?"

1: Number of times the party's host, my good friend RB, complimented the baby as only an experienced children's librarian can: "Ohhhh, I'm SO not secretly worried that she has special needs!"

2: Number of glasses of $3.99 Andre's champagne the husband and I each consumed later that night, back home on the couch at 11:00, watching Buffy on DVD.

2: Number of totally awesome songs I played on the Guitar Hero II over at Jen's house the next afternoon. If you must know: Cherry Pie, and Shout at the Devil. While the baby looked on. I assure you, she'll be exposed to worse.

Happy 2007!