Straight from the Bottle

Breast Reduction: A Nipple's Lament

2008-07-21T04:24:00Z

Do you get it? I have a theme going! First vaginas. Now breasts. And next week....Penises! Wait... Never mind, this isn't that kind of blog. Bummer.

First of all, thank you so much for being so open (womp, womp) in the comments of my last post. Your stories, advice and words of wisdom were extremely helpful and I'm looking forward to what I hope to be an episiotomy-free, tear-free, birth experience with my second babe.

In the meantime, I was asked by several readers to write about my breast reduction(s). Yes, I had two. My first surgery was at age eighteen and my second, I was twenty. (My breasts either grew back or weren't fully finished growing at eighteen.)

After both surgeries I went from a 36FF-cup, which they DO NOT sell at Victoria's Secret, by the way, to a more practical 34D. (For those of you looking into breast reduction surgery, ask small. I actually asked to be a small C and ended up a D after all was said and healed.) On a normal day I'm a 5'8, size 8 so I feel fine about my cup-size and well-proportioned, but still... ask small. I'm not the only breast-reduction patient who ended up a full size larger than the size she asked for.

I was told that having breast-reduction surgery would most likely leave me with three the following three not-so-awesome things.

1. Loss of All Nipple Sensation: I was told that most likely my nipples and breasts would pretty much be numb to the touch and have little feeling. (This happens because in the surgery your nipples are removed completely and then reattached in a new location. Pretty, right?) This didn't really phase me because I already was suffering from no-feeling-in-nips disorder, which apparently is most common in women with large bazungas. Nipple stimulation has never existed for me. At least, not as long as my nipples were being stimulated.

2. Less Than Attractive Scarring: Breast Reduction surgery is hardcore surgery that takes weeks to recover from. (My mom literally had to wipe my ass after the surgery because I was unable to lift my arms.) Contrary to breast implants which involve a minor incision under or on the side of the breast, a breast reduction requires anchor-like scarring and full-removal of the nipples. Scars go around the breasts in a C shape and take years to fade. My scars, seven-years later are very faint but still visible in a triangle-top bikini.

3.. Inability to Breastfeed: This, at eighteen had no relevance to me whatsoever because, duh! I was eighteen and breastfeeding creeped me out to begin with. I figured I would probably have kids at forty-ish anyway, so whatever. Little did I know I'd be all knocked-up and shit a few short years later. I digress... It is this "inability to breastfeed" I wanted to write about today. Ask and ye shall receive, fine readers. Let's talk breastfeeding post reduction, shall we?

I realize that ones inability to breastfeed after a reduction differs case by case, so my experience may not be yours but from what I gather from most of my friends who have had breast reductions, my experience seems to be fairly common. For instance, one of my dearest friends has also had TWO breast reductions (hers grew back, too. I know, right? That's why we're friends) and her issues were identical to mine.

With Archer, I tried to breastfeed. I knew I would have to supplement and was happy to do so but I wanted to try, at least for the first few weeks. I tried breastfeeding at first and failed miserably, mainly because it was impossible to stimulate my numb-nipples, which was frustrating, Try as I might, I couldn't get the bastards to stick out. A nipple sheild did the trick, but at that point I realized that though I could produce milk, I was having a very hard time getting it out. Only a couple ducts worked per nipple so pumping, for example took me, sometimes hours, to get a single ounce. And half the time it was pink! From blood! Which... GROSS! And OUCH!

I managed to pump, while supplementing with formula (I'm a Enfamil fan. The smell of Similac makes me want to vomit) for the first six-weeks of Archer's life, feeding him one to two bottles of pumped breastmilk a day, which was my goal. With babe #2, I plan to do the same thing. Pump what I can and supplement with formula. For me, it was the ~~breast~~ best of both worlds.

Of course, there are women unable to breastfeed at all after a reduction as well as those who can breastfeed easy-peasy-no problemo after the surgery, so again, it IS case by case.

And although, it is kind of sucky (womp, womp) that I can't breastfeed solely, I wouldn't change a thing. I'm absolutely thrilled I had a breast-reduction and would do it again in a heartbeat. Having HUGE breasts can be painful, frustrating and socially dehabilitating to say the least. And formula, regardless of what the hyper-judgmental lactivists say isn't THE ENEMY! RARRRRGH!!!! Not even close. A happy mom makes a happy babe. This I can say from experience.

Breastfeeding-after-redux stories are welcome in the comments, below, as well as questions about breast-reduction surgery. You can also read more about my experience in my book or, here, in this post about body-issues and surgery being, for some women (self included) the only answer.

***

photocredit: wikipedia

Episiotomy: A Vagina's Lament

2008-07-11T23:29:00Z

Hi, my name is Rebecca Woolf and I had an episiotomy. Oh and also? It sucked. An episiotomy for any of you breeders-to-be is when the doctor, cuts your vagina during delivery to make it easier to get the baby out or if you, prefer a diagram, this. Some episiotomies I'm sure are warranted. Mine, I believe, was not and I'd like to take this opportunity to speak against episiotomy-happy doctors and ask you, my dear readers some birth-after-episiotomy questions.

Still with me? Okay then....

A little back-story on my particular birth experience: My former OBGYN sucked all kinds of ass. Not literally, as far as I know, but I like to imagine him in compromising positions because the dude was a complete asshole. You can read more about that, here, if you so desire. As for now, I'd like to talk about the episiotomy he gave me even though I told him I absolutely didn't want one. I pushed once, people (ONCE!!) before my doctor gave up on me and cut me to "get the baby out faster because it looks like you might tear..."

Once again, I was only pushing for two minutes before my doctor gave up and cut the shit out of my shit. No shit.

My episiotomy was not slight. It was severe and not only did it take me weeks before I could pee without crying, but it took me a year before I stopped itching my crotch. It was like a yeast-infection on speed as it was healing. Not fun at all. Not only that, but it STILL doesn't feel the same down there. He cut through the muscle tissue so the whole vag-area feels just very funky and sad.

Needless to say, I'm now with another doctor. A GREAT doctor who knows my story and also knows that I really, REALLY REALLYREALLYREALLY don't want another episiotomy, like, at all, but who also let me know that those that have had them before are more likely to tear pretty severely where the cut was previously made. This made me sad.

I realize the damage has been done but I REALLY don't want another episiotomy and I've heard conficting reports about tearing being a faster heal than being cut with scissors. Doctors seem to typically state that "epsiotomies heal better than tears" except little tears vs large episiotomies? No way. I don't buy it.

So enlighten me with your TMI stories, my fine female friends... Did you get an episiotomy during your first birth only to go on to have an episiotomy-free, (relatively) tear-free second birth or am I kidding myself with this dream of mine?

Share your VBAE* stories with me, will you?

(And for those mothers-to-be, please find a nice doctor who isn't episiotomy-happy. If you're giving birth in the LA area, I'm happy to supply you with the names of great OB's who don't suck. Knowledge is powah, bitches.)

***

*episiotomy

Weird Pregnancy Symptons: Volume Two

2008-07-06T23:54:00Z

(continued from Weird Pregnancy Symptoms: Volume One.)

4. Hyper-Nesting 5000

I do realize that nesting is quite normal for any and all pregnant women and men, too, for that matter. Mine, for the record, hasn't started nesting yet. I'm hoping to wake up one morning to a backyard paradise but as it stands, not so much. Our boat sandbox is currently lost in a sea of dirt but I digress... Nesting is one thing. Hyper-nesting is an entirely different situation. And mama is seriously hyper-nesting. Never mind the fact that I cleaned out the medicine cabinet this morning and I woke up the other night, sweating, because I had to SWEEP THE HALL RIGHT THIS VERY SECOND OR ELSE AHHHHHH! I'm pretty sure I was the same way with Archer. What has changed is my need to be so uber prepared, like, NOW.

For instance, yesterday, Hal, Archer and I trekked to Atwater Village to pick up a water table for Archer at Toys R Us which just happened to be attached to a Babies R Us, which let's be clear, I'm not typically fond of. The place gives me the heeves for some reason. Nothing depresses me more than a thousand variations of Carters pajama sets, mass-produced in nauseating pastels. But yesterday? I couldn't get enough of the place.

"I'm just going to peek over on the baby side, you know, check it out," I said, leaving my son and husband cross-legged in the puzzle aisle.

"Cool. We'll be here. See you in a few..."

Fast forward an hour later, when Hal, dragging the giant water table box and Archer clutching a rubber ball, happened upon me, in a heap of BPA free and glass bottles. I had decided on three varieties: these, these and these not including the half-dozen of these I picked up at The Little Seed a month ago. Bottles weren't all that was on my mind. I also had a nipple-sheild, breastpads, a bunch of first-aid items, a carseat head protector thing, newborn pacis, and like, every little newborn feeding, bathing accessory necessary. Yikes.

I even bought Dreft to wash the layette, because you know, THREE MONTHS EARLY doesn't mean a thing to me right now.

So, like, yeah. I'm done. If this baby came tomorrow we'd be set which is WHOA, on the verge of embarrassing. I don't think I had a single thing for Archer until he was crowning. No joke. Honestly, though? I've gone completely nuts over here. Please send help.

Well, hello, there. I'm crazy with a side of Dreft-washed laundry, how you doing?

5. Honey Dew Me

I don't want to eat anything but honeydew and other such summer melons. I've eaten entire watermelons in one sitting and just ten minutes ago polished off ANOTHER entire honeydew melon. (I actually craved honeydew with Archer as well and would buy them five at a time at the store and that was it. I'd literally have a cart full of honeydew and la la la... nothing to see, here!)

Today I managed to walk home from the farmer's market with the usual stash of fruits and veggies AND two huge honeydew melons because DAMNIT! Those suckaz were two for a fiver and I'd be damned if I was going to leave behind some good ass locally-grown honeydew because it was hot as shit outside and I was pregnant.

Ten minutes and three blocks later, I almost passed out. Again, send help.

6. Nip Not Hooray

I have no feeling in my nipples after having them surgically removed from my body twice (two breast reduction surgeries) so it's shocking to have the slightest sensation at all in/anywhere near my chest. Unfortunately the "sensation" I'm talking about is not pleasurable. At all. It fucking hurts. Anything rubs against my nips and OUCH! Which like, what the...? Even taking a shower hurts like a biotch. I've gone eight years without nipple sensation and seemingly, I wasn't missing anything at all.

On the flipside, I'm wondering if this means my nipples are plotting to actually work this time -- unlike last time when three ducts in each nipple BARELY worked and I was pumping bloody milk, at an average of an ounce per hour, which, yeah, not fun at all. Time will tell, I suppose. In the meantime, I'm all day feeling myself up to relieve the sting.

Nothing to see, here!

No, I'm serious, please look the other way.

***

Etsy, Here I Come?

2008-07-01T01:47:00Z

Okay so maybe I'm getting a teensy-tiny bit ahead of myself. It's not like I've even put the sewing machine to the fabric yet BUT I did take the first steps in establishing myself as a sewer-of-baby-dresses. Yes, that's right. After much thought and reading your various comments, I have realized my longtime dream: making (or my kids') clothes.

Yes, friends. I've decided to learn to sew, channeling my need-to-nest for the greater good of my unborn baby's style. (Girl clothes are far more sew-worthy than boy clothes, let's be clear.)

Now, please keep in mind I can't so much as sew a button but that doesn't mean I can't learn, so help me, and fuck if I'm not aware (after several people clued me in) that with a simple pattern and a single sewing lesson I could have made the oh-so-cute-but-so-expensive-green-baby-dress myself for $10.

Not to mention the fact that I'm quite picky when it comes to clothes and I'm having a hard time finding cute stuff that isn't pink and/or floral. No dig on pink OR floral. I just find the whole pink/purple/floral motif kind of... obvious? Boring-ish?

Sunday my mother and I took a trip to the local fabric shop to look for the easiest-pattern we could find that was also cute. We finally landed on this cute little smock-dress with pockets and buttons on the shoulders which I fell in love with instantly. I chose an amazing green and blue gingham tablecloth material, reminiscent of my late great-grandmother's dinner napkins and chose two orange and gold buttons to clash fabulously with the motif.

Inspired by the sound of music, I also made sure there was enough fabric to make Archer a matching tie in case he was ever, you know, in the mood to wear one.

I managed to cut out the pattern, pin the pattern down and cut out the fabric all by myself before I had to close-shop and drive back to L.A. So here I am, all excited and anxious, dying to get back to my parent's house to finish my little granny-dress, which I can't wait to sew* together:

Behold! The early stages of baby's Fall '09 granny-dress which will be trimmed and threaded with orange.

Sadly, I haven't a sewing machine at my house and am not in any place to invest in one. Not yet. First I have to become comfortable enough to sew on my own but after that? Sky's the limit. I may forgo the novel I'm currently working on to become a full time baby-clothes designer!

Okay, so maybe not, but how proud will I be to see my child all dressed up in something I made? I'm already proud and the dress hasn't even been sewn! Truly, you should see me right now. I'm beaming!

Not to mention the fact that Archer has himself a book-of-gush. The least I can do for baby #2 is give her a Fall 2009 collection.

I mean, really.

***

*My mother will be standing over me, teaching me the ropes of sew because she's awesome like that and also because she thinks it's about time I learned to do something domestic-ish.

** For the cutest online fabric store EVER, go here. I happen to know and adore the lady in charge and seriously? How could one not be inspired to sew after seeing this and this?

The Battle of the Middle Names

2008-06-24T06:06:00Z

When Hal and I finally decided on the first name of our unborn baby girl, I was relieved. Especially because the name was my idea, and wasn't something Hal (or anyone else for that matter) would have figured to be a name at all. The name grew on him like a weed and pretty soon, there wasn't a doubt in either of our minds that it was the right name. It felt right much like Archer did. Her middle name? Well, that's a whole 'notha story.

There were two middle names I loved. Two middle names that I felt fit with the first name we decided on. Two middle names to honor two people I adored.

"Two middle names? No way! She's not having two middle names!"

"But YES! She has to! It sounds so pretty! And the names totally flow!"

"NO! Archer only has one middle name! Everyone only has ONE middle name."

"Nu-uh. Lots of people have two middle names. OR TEN! It doesn't even matter anyway what everyone is doing. Jesus, Hal. What are you, some kind of lemming?"

"Two middle names sounds pretentious."

"Classic, you mean. Elegant and classic."

"You're insane."

"Pleeeeeeeaaaaseeeeee???"

"No! You already chose the first name! No."

"What? You LOVE the first name as much as I do! And besides, you get to give her YOUR last name. I should get to control what happens with the middle..."

"What? Are you seriously being serious right now?"

"Very seriously serious. Either I choose the middle names or she's a Woolf. The boys in the family can have your name and the girls can have mine. The end..."

"No! That's stupid!"

"Fine. Then I get my two middle names. Thank you and goodnight."

We didn't talk about the middle name situation for a good week before one night when I woke up in the wee hours of the morn, mid-dream. In my dream our child was born without a middle name and subsequently, without a face.

"Hal, Pssssst... Wake up!"

"What? What?"

"Please can she have two middle names?"

"Fine. Whatever. I'm not happy but I seem to have no say in this anyway, so, whatever. Congratulations, Bec. You win. Goodnight."

After that, I couldn't sleep. I wasn't being fair, I realized. I had spent the past week or two trying to talk my husband into middle-naming our child something he didn't like. I was being pushy and selfish and, yes, annoying. I inched my way over to Hal who was sleeping with his back to me.

"Goodnight," I said guiltily.

He grunted back at me in his sleep.

The next day I sat my husband down and apologized-- in my way. I told him that maybe he was right about the two middle name thing being too much, even though I was a little bit sad.

"I am willing to compromise," I said.

"So am I," Hal said, before choosing our daughter's only middle name from my top-five short list.

A compromise, indeed.

And one that made us both happy.

***

Weird Pregnancy Symptoms: Volume One

2008-06-18T16:44:00Z

(Ed: I'm hoping there won't be a volume two for obvious reasons.)

1. Itchy Toes: My toes itch like crazy mofos these last few weeks. I'm convinced it's because of the heat and the swelling in my ankles by the end of another 90-degree day but that's only because I have no idea about anything. Plain and simple, it sucks. I can't even get my legs around one revolution on the stationary bike without trying to itch my toes over my New Balances. Flip-flops are pretty much a must after 4pm and by 10pm, I'm whining for Hal to itch my toes, which has to be one of his least favorite hobbies ever. (Unless he has a foot fetish I don't know about it.)

2. Sex Allergy: I hear stories all the time about pregnancy being such a turn on to some women. How their sex lives "heat up" the second the minute they start incubating babies. I am not one of these people. I am normally a very horny, sex-starved young twenty-something but knock me up? Knock the kink out of my veins. My favorite sex positions are off limits. Everything is uncomfortable in there and I feel the opposite of "sexy". Perhaps if I was one of those "let's make love, lover," people, things would be different. Pregnancy is beautiful and for some, sex is too. Not for me. The words "make love" give me the hardcore heebies and slow, sensual, by candlelight sex has never been my thing. Sex (IMO) should be dirty and crazy and exciting and uh... lying on my side and sort of half-wiggling isn't really doing it for me these days. Thankfully, my husband's a great sport and hasn't given me one ounce of shit for being the "reluctant sex-partner" that I've been these last few months. (Maybe that's why he's okay itching my toes for an hour. That's about as much as he's getting these days. (Unless you count the various hookers I've ordered for him while I'm out of commission.)

3. Good Books (and) Foreign Films Allergy: I believe the same thing happened with my last pregnancy. I replaced my current bedside read, Don Delillo's Mao II, and started reading Entertainment Weekly, US Weekly and pretty much every other Weekly in existence.

Archer sinks to my level.

I also stopped watching anything with subtitles because "it was just too much work! My eyes!" I know I'm not the only one with this particular weird pregnancy symptom. Some of the most intelligent women I know couldn't even form complete sentences while pregnant. And at the OBGYN's office? I have yet to see one pregnant woman pick up a Harpers when there are so many back-issues of Cosmo hanging around. Surely there must be something about baby-making that makes us all intellectually lazy.

Anyone else dealing with the same pregnancy symptoms? Do you have any of your own to share?

***

Show Me the Mommies!

2008-06-12T01:17:00Z

Seventeen weeks to go. Seventeen effing weeks. That's like, a thousand weeks in pregnancy weeks by the way. (Pregnancy weeks are like regular weeks except every day that passes seems like ten because they're so damn LOOOONG. Seriously. Is it still Wednesday? It feels like last Wednesday. Or would it feel like next Wednesday? I don't even know anymore.)

...Twenty-three weeks pregnant? Sha! More like twenty-three YEARS...

I recently wrote about my new obsession with HGTV but that's like, soooo last week. This week I'm all about Discovery Health. The other night, while flipping channels, AKA, my new favorite SEVENTEEN-WEEKS-LEFT hobby, I came across this show, which shockingly was EXACTLY what I was looking for. Screw nesting. I want BIRTH STORIES! Show me the MOMMIES! Preferably in labor!

"Oh my God, Hal! You should get a job on THIS show! It's about women giving BIRTH!"

"Uh... Yeah, Bec. Sounds fun!"

And then, about five seconds later:

"Gee... Everyone in this show is so familiar for some reason...Weird"

And then I realized that duh! Of COURSE everyone in the show is familiar. The show takes place in my doctor's office. At my new-improved (sorry, Cedars) hospital.

"Look Hal! There's our receptionist! And my favorite nurse! Whoa! And there's that one chick that couldn't figure out my insurance card!"

Los Angeles is funny like that. You turn on the television and look, there's my house in the background of that commercial! or Hey! I met that guy on Nerve personals, back in 2001 and now he's on THAT show?

I should have known it was only time before my doctor's office got its own TV show.

Holy shitbitch! There's the ultrasound machine I saw my baby on for the first time. And the scale they weigh my pregnant ass on every month!

Needless to say, I've been TIVOing the show like a motha. I mean, I have seventeen-years until I birth this babe, I might as well get acquainted with the birthing rooms I'll soon be laboring in and the dude who will most likely be administering my epidural. Being that it's on TV and all.

Thank you Discovery Health Channel and Viva Los Angeles!

***

What's the Difference Between Boys and Girls? Hint: It's a Trick Question

2008-06-06T03:26:00Z

Archer knows he's a boy. He knows the baby in Mommy's tummy is a girl and he knows that Daddy is a boy and I KNOW he must know I'm a girl, even though yesterday when I asked he said "Mommy es a BOY! Yeah! A boy!"

He laughed, so, you know, he must have been kidding. Whatevs. I'm cool with being a boy. I always had a little penis envy, anyway, KD Lang style so call me what you will, friends.

Things got confusing, though, when we started talking about Archer's friends at school.

"Is Jane a boy or a girl?"

"Um... Boy!"

"No, Archer. Jane is a girl."

"No! Boy!"

And then I went on to explain to him how to tell boys and girls apart. It started with "boys have penises and girls have vaginas" but then I remembered that at school everyone walks around fully clothed. I mean, obviously. This may be Hollywood, but nudist preschools don't fly here either. As far as I know, anyway.

"So basically Archer, the way to tell boys and girls apart at school is... uh... well? Girls have long hair. I mean... wait! They don't all have long hair, I mean, some do and some don't! In fact, some boys have long hair, too so never mind. Scratch that! Girls wear... dresses and boys wear shorts! EXCEPT!? Not all girls wear dresses and sometimes boys wear dresses too so actually I just lied. Only some girls wear dresses. So never mind that, either..."

At this point Archer was totally over my rambling psychobabble. He continued to gaze out the window, exclaiming, "I'm a boy! I'm a boy... You a boy! Alex is a girl and Jane is a BOY! Yay!!"

This was going to be more difficult than I thought.

"You know how to tell boys from girls, Archer? Well, sometimes boys have lower voices than girls, but only when they're older. At this age you people all sound the same. But! You know what? Girls prefer pink and purple to blue. I mean... SHIT! No! Girls don't always wear pink and purple. Plenty of girls love blue and boys love pink and, wow, that was totally stupid of me to say. FUCK! I don't know, okay? Sometimes girls wear flowers on their clothes and boys wear cars but it isn't always this way and now I sound totally sexist and I have no idea how to help you with this. One day, when you're a little older, I have a feeling you'll be able to tell girls from boys JUST FINE. Until then, yes, Archer, I'm a boy. Jane's a boy. We're all boys. Okay?"

With that, I turned up the radio and spent the rest of our drive to school trying to figure out how to explain to Archer such a simple yet (very, very, VERY) complicated concept.

I mean, honestly, without being totally sexist, how can one explain the difference between (clothed) boys and girls? Am I just an idiot or is this seriously a tough one?

Because it's been two days now and I'm still looking for answers.

***

Shopping for Unborn Daughters

2008-06-01T03:59:00Z

Clothes. I love clothes. I always have and always will and spend far too much money I don't have on clothes. Clothes, clothes and mas clothes. I've obviously cut down on shopping-spree madness since becoming a mother -- only because frankly, I'd rather spend my clothes allowance on Archer's tees and pants outfits for whatever reason. The kid has style with or without the clothes on his back but it's sort of become a hobby of mine: picking out his clothes, planning for outfits daily. I do the same for myself and always have. In fact, when Hal and I first started dating he walked into my bedroom and gasped at my dozen or so outfits hanging around the room complete with shoes.

"Hi. Uh... You're weird."

"HI. Uh. Please still like me?"

For years I'd been planning out my outfits a week in advance, then hanging them variously around my room with post-its, which, yes, I realize is kind of embarrassing and odd. I think was especially weird for dudes who slept beside me in the darkness only to wake up booby-trapped with sundresses and scarves come morning.

I have done the same for Archer pretty much since he was born-- planning and folding the week's outfits neatly on his dresser. Because like Hal said/says, I'm weird. And also, and more simply, I'm easily amused by such things.

Yesterday, after finding out we were indeed pregnant with a little girl (yay!), I went straight to my local boutique to buy my unborn daughter a present.

This is what I bought her:

It was far too expensive for what it is but far too adorable not to buy. I fell in love with it and had to make it ~~mine~~ hers, even though she won't be able to wear it until the summer of 2010, which is like, yeah, long far away. There were ten plus other gorgeous dresses/jumpers that I fell totally in love with, all stuff I would totally wear myself had it been in my size. Dresses that would look adorable over leggings, with pockets to die, and jumpers made with vintage fabric from my OWN childhood. And OY VEY the pricetags. We're talking dresses for two-hundred bucks n shit. I need to start shopping in a new neighborhood me thinks.

I put everything back except for the green duck dress which I paid for with my eyes closed and then promptly came home to hang it on the wall. And then I called Hal and asked him to pick up a few lottery tickets on his way home, because, um, yeah.

If anyone else has any get-rich-quick ideas, please let me know. I have a feeling this daughter business is going to break my bank, because, people? I have no fucking restraint when it comes to clothes. Green duck dresses might just be the end of me.

Oh, Lord, give me ~~less expensive taste~~ strength.

***

Three

2008-05-23T07:07:00Z

Dear Archer,

Three years ago, today, you happened, and then I happened and then we happened. I don't remember the precise moment I knew you were the one. Moments are left unattended, life shape-shifts. Children grow up. I read about our past and cannot believe I have so easily forgotten so much of where you came from. I have photos to remind me. And blog entries. And scraps of paper and ideas and memories and old things I can't believe you used to fit into. Old hats with snakes in them that you wore last summer, or was it the summer before?

Wait. It was last summer. Now I remember.

I don't know why it is so easy to forget. I'm pretty sure that if I didn't document every last detail of your life I would be mourning all the yesterdays: faded memories floating skyward like The Red Balloon, and you as a newborn, baby, toddler, hanging by the string, waving at me with your tiny fingers.

If I didn't have photographs of you in your red hat against the blue sky, I might not be able to remember how cherubic you looked that afternoon, pouting in the shade, under the sun, that thoughtful look you get when you're watching people and birds and the world.

You have become your own person this year. Or I suppose it's just that I know you differently now. The more you communicate and disagree and fight me and love me and hate me and break my heart. The more you trust me, believe me, kick me when I'm trying to tell you it's time to leave because we have to go home. How you talk to animals not with words but by singing to them. Humming songs in their ears softly, gently.

Most recently you have become attached to the moon. You search the sky with such concern. "Noon?" you say. "Where you go so fast, Noon?" And then you turn to me and point out the window and frown and I say... "The moon is sleeping, baby. Sometimes it sleeps in the afternoon. Maybe you should give sleep a try...

But you stopped napping months ago. You only sleep when it's dark outside. And you fall asleep with your plastic lizard and your books and your music and the window drape cracked slightly so you can see the moon and I hear you say "nigh, nigh moon. night, nigh, zizard" before you fall asleep because sometimes I stand outside your door and spy on you. Sometimes I watch you sleep. Sometimes you catch me and sit up suddenly in the darkness, smile like a goose and then crash land into your pillow, pretending you are sleeping, making the fake-snoring sound with one-eye open and a cracked smile.

In the morning, you wake up calling my name, asking not for me but the moon.

"Mommy? Mommy? Where id it, Mommy? Where da noon?" you ask.

"I don't know."

Because I don't. I know nothing of moons and why sometimes they appear in the afternoon, linger in the mornings. In fact, one day you will find that I know very little. That I know nothing, really. And yet, now, when you're still small, I feel compelled to answer you. To make things up to make you happy. Give you answers. The ones you want to hear.

"The moon is going potty in the white bushes of the sky."

I don't know if this is the right approach. But I'm learning and trying and figuring it out as I go. Just as you are. With your speech and your songs and your life. And I still can't believe you exist. It's been three years and I guess I figured I would be used to you by now. But sometimes when I pick you up from school there is a moment, where I open the door and think "did I really have a child? Is he here? It wasn't just a very long dream?

And then you appear with scrapes on your knees and a half-eaten sandwich in your lunchbox and a Ziploc bag of homemade Play-Doh and yes, there you are. I remember now.

You are growing up so fast I can't stand it. Needing haircuts often and demanding bandaids and kisses and growing more and more aware of your world.

Like when you point to my belly and say, "Hi, baby" before turning away scowling, changing your mind: "No baby! I am baby?"

"You are baby always."

Because you always will be. Even when you grow so tall I have to stand on my toes to kiss your face. You'll always be the reason for everything changing in the best way possible. You'll always be my first. My baby.

Thank you for reminding me that anything is possible. That the moon is something to befriend and the animals are things to sing to. That time is short and life is long and there are so many things to be grateful for.

Number one, being you.

Happy 3rd Birthday, Archer Sagebrush, Pirate of the Snails.

Loving you like an insane person,

Mommy.

P.S. Here are some of my favorite shots of you from your first year. I dug these up the other day when I was weeping over your decision to grow up on me.

Misty watercolor memories, dude. Misty watercolor memories..

***

Potty Training is Actually Kind of Fun. Is That Weird?

2008-05-15T20:12:00Z

So here we are. Naked from the waist down. Brand new Cars underwear and pull-ups as far as the eye can see and a toilet that sings when you lift the seat, which sounds kind of like a recipe for disaster but no. I'm actually really having fun with this whole potty situation. Maybe because for now, we're keeping it indoors. Underwear is reserved for after school only (for now) and when we go on walks around the block Archer's rocking pull-ups again. But diapers? We are weaning those babies for good!

I was not so excited about the prospect of potty-training (come on, like who is?). I was especially unstoked because of Archer's communication issues and his difficulty articulating his needs re: toilet time. But now that Archer's talking more (and more) and I can understand him: "I go potty mommy! I go pee-pee now!" I figured the time had come. And apparently so did Archer.

Archer thinks going pee in the potty is the coolest thing ever. Poop? Not so much. He cries for his diaper when he has to go and I get sad and confused and don't know what to do. So I went online and bought these books:

Where's the Poop by Julie Markes and Everyone Poops by Taro Gomi.

I have learned that the secret of parenting Archer well is to let him take his time. He is not someone who should or can be pushed. In fact, the day he decided to use the potty was the day I stopped asking him to. He's like a teenage girl that way. So I don't want to scare, push or upset him into pooping on the potty. I just want to excite him by the awesome prospect of potty-pooping.

Potty-time excellent! Woo! Woo!

In the meantime, I'm enjoying this phase of Archer's life. The pleasure he takes in the simplest of tasks. The pride my son has in his pee on pot accomplishments. And the hope I cling to dearly that come October, Archer will be (pretty close to) potty trained. Surely one babe in diapers is enough.

***

As always, potty training pointers and "pooping-is-fun!" children's book recommendations are quite welcome. Also, for those of you who are or have potty-trained your kids, do/did you bring a portable toilet with you on outings? Is there a toilet that folds and fits into a large purse or diaper-bag or should I invent one?

Thank you in advance for your toilet-tips!

***

On the Eve of Knowing

2008-05-08T19:27:00Z

*UPDATED BELOW*

I'm closing in on nineteen-weeks pregnant which means, tomorrow, during my ultrasound I will most likely find out the sex of my baby. I am not one for surprises. I have no patience in this life and can't help but obsess over ALL of life's little question-marks so, ho-HO! The sex I will know.

"Do you have a preference," people often ask, which is one of those questions that makes me very uncomfortable, mainly because I don't know what I'm having yet. And I kind of just want to have whatever I'm having, you know? I prefer whatever is.

"I'd like a boy or a girl," I usually say. And I would, both for very different reasons.

When I was pregnant with Archer I absolutely had a preference. I wanted a son. I couldn't imagine myself mothering anything but boys, probably because socially I always felt more comfortable with boys and in a way, the thought of having a daughter scared me. In my experience, girls are, uh... more difficult than boys. I feel like I would have a hard time controlling a daughter mainly because I'm stll having a hard time trying to control my self.

This pregnancy all my dreams have been daughter dreams, which doesn't exactly gel with my doctor's prediction that I'm pregnant with another boy. My 12-week ultrasound my doctor said he thought he might have seen a penis. He even said he was "80% sure you are having a boy" but for whatever reason, in every one of my dreams: girl. So now I'm just feeling very confused. I have no clue what this baby is. My subconscious, obviously thinks girl. My practical-self believes the doc and is going with boy. Tomorrow, of course, I'll know for sure.

The last several weeks I've spent with friends who have daughters. I've helped their little girls get dressed. Played with their hair. Read them stories. And kind of in a way, hoped that maybe one day I could have that, too. That mother-daughter, girl on girl, slumber-party-in-barrettes thing. I honestly, for once saw myself mothering a daughter and being, well, not so bad at it.

Reading books with BMC's Foo in Portland

This is not to say I'd be absolutely tickled by having all boys. (We're planning on stopping after two. Er, at least I am. Hal wants, like, a thousand kids. Uh, yeah right, dude.) I get giddy at the thought of brothers rolling around in the dirt, playing kick-the-can, racing each other on skateboards. Not to mention them not hating me in highschool (or at least not HATING hating me.)

But for once, I'm not afraid of the alternative. Which means that maybe in a way, I'm growing up-ish.

***

Guess the baby's sex, below! I will pick one winner at random and send you a signed copy of my new book, Rockabye: From Wild to Child. All I need from you is to place your guess in the comments and link me to where you can be reached by email. Stay tuned for tomorrow's update and chosen winner! Good luck!

***

UPDATE: In classic true-to-life form, I do not have an answer. The doctor did say he was almost 100% percent postive I was having a girl, but I cannot trust an "almost" (especially after the 80% sure it's a boy prediction last ultrasound and uh.... well...) so I will wait until the next (more high-tech) ultrasound where I have actual photos of genitals and proof positive. Even so, I was shocked to hear "girl"... Shocked. And maybe I'm still a little shocked and that's why I want to absolutely certain before I start shopping for vintage sailor dresses and gingham bonnets and such. HOWEVER! To be fair, I will be choosing one "It's a boy" voter AND one "It's a girl voter," sending both picked-at-random winners a book and a GGC mix CD. I will be emailing both winners later this afternoon. Thank you all so much for playing and stay-tuned, for some photographic evidence and hopefully, an accurate call on le sex of le baby!

Congratulations to Lisa L. and Heather V. for winning GGC Mx-CD's and a signed copy of Rockabye. Rad of you all to participate! Stay tuned for more fun contest-like drawing-things!

Baby, I'm Coming Home (I Promise)

2008-05-04T05:54:00Z

Archer has long stopped ichatting with me. He refuses to speak to me on the phone. He's pissed and with good reason. I haven't seen Archer in over two weeks and it will be a few more days more before I come home. He's stopped calling for me at night and asking for me in the morning and going to the window and waiting for me after I tell him I'm coming home. Which makes me sad because I feel like the mom who cried wolf.

"Tell him I'll be home soon! Really! I promise"

On the road. Still....

But I think Archer's just over me. I think he's sad and I'm sad, too, honestly. I'm ready to come home. It's been really fun and fantastic and all-out amazing, don't get me wrong but it's been a long time now and living out of a suitcase away from my boys is starting to bum me out. I'm literally sick from burning the candle at fifteen different ends. Trying to hit up 10 cities in one month is rough on any bitch, but pregnancy doesn't make it any easier, I'll tell you what. And now that Archer's literally turning away from my face on ichat screaming "NOOOOO!!!" I'm feeling this crazy guilt/exhaustion combo situation.

The one person I love the most in the world is over me. He thinks I've ditched him, which is one of the worst feelings ever on earth. Sucks.

Three days and I'll be home, Arch. I promise and pinky-swear and regular swear. THREE DAYS! I love you infinity much...

***

Rockabye Appearance Update:

PORTLAND, OR: Monday, May 5th @ 7:30, Powell's Books: Main Store (on Burnside)

(Hope to see you there!)

Road Trippin'

2008-04-26T04:39:00Z

Life on the road is a pretty surreal place to be. I’ve been gone almost a week now and I feel like I’m operating in some kind of alternate, dream-like universe.

I speak to Hal every day and chat with Archer on the computer. But we’re all very busy and Archer seems to be more interested in playing with his train or riding his bike or coloring his CARS coloring book than kissing the computer screen when I ask him to.

He misses me of course. He calls out for me in the mornings to fetch him from his crib, Hal tells me, and at night I dream about him smiling at me from fogged-windows.

But still. At the end of the day or the hour or the moment, after I hang up the phone with Hal or close the computer on Archer's smiling face, I’m with someone else’s family. Being cooked for and cleaned after and cared for. And then at night I read about my kid and my husband and my family in front of friends and strangers and people ask where Archer is and I say “he’s with his Dad” and people ask if I miss him and I say “yes” because of course I miss him. It’s impossible not to miss him. But at the same time, whoa. This is a really special experience I’m having and it kind of feels right that I’m spending it alone.

I keep reminding myself, whenever I feel sad or guilty for leaving Archer, that this is my time. My moment. My experience and how very important that is. That just as important as it is for me to support and nurture my family I must also support and nurture myself. So I am. And I’m having a grand old time. Getting dressed up, getting manicures with Kendra. And having slumber parties with Erica and spending time with cousins and friends and meeting incredible people who show up to my events, true blue.

And it’s damn cool. It really is. I hope to do it again one day. It’s kind of like living in a dream.

I’m having this Carrie Bradshaw moment right now, typing away at the Oakland terminal in a beret and very high boots, smoking a water bottle and staring longingly out the window overlooking the long security line.

And I can’t help but wonder if one appreciates her solitude that much more after she has a family. Before Archer I don’t know that I ever would have felt so moved by such a mediocre airport café, drinking (let’s be honest) a pretty godawful smoothie and watching people follow one another through a metal detector.

But right now? I feel like this may just be the high point of my life. Or at the very least, one of my all-time top fives.

***

This Week's Appearances

Saturday, April 26th, 4:30pm Elliott Bay Books: SEATTLE

Tuesday, April 29th, 7:00pm Sophia Books, VANCOUVER

Packing Without a Suitcase

2008-04-17T16:59:00Z

I leave Sunday for two and a half weeks to promote Rockabye up the western coast. And I'm going by myself. At first, I had this fantasy of bringing Archer, of having a sort of caravan situation, but it wasn't realistic and if I've learned anything these past few signings, a book signing is no place for an almost-three year old. No place for my almost-three-year old.

Archer at my Book Soup reading in Los Angeles. He insisted on reading an excerpt himself. Cute but the kid's heavy and underneath those lights, man, was I ever sweating like a wrestler.

So I'm packing my stuff, even though I don't have a suitcase. My suitcases are all down south in San Diego in my parent's garage which is where I still store my stuff because I'm, like, eighteen still. Trapped in the pregnant body of a twenty-six year old. It feels weird packing for myself. I'm so used to packing for all of us. For Archer. His duffel bag remains empty. He's staying here with Hal, who still hasn't found a job since the writer's strike happened back in December. It's a struggle right now for all of us but the silver-lining is that Hal gets to be with his son. They get to have boy time, which is a lucky thing. We're all grateful for that. Hopeful that the job market might smile down upon us but grateful for the time it has allowed for my boys to bond like homies.

The last time I went to San Francisco I was pregnant with Archer so it feels kind of neat to return, pregnant with #2. It feels kind of like I'm going on an adventure not alone. And when Babe II is born I can tell him/her about his/her pre-life adventure up the coast with me in my pocket. From San Francisco to Vancouver and all the places in between and how I rubbed my belly for good luck.

If only I had a suitcase, though. Packing without a suitcase is difficult. I tend to over pack and without limitations I have, well, no limits.

I'm excited and nervous all at once. I have that poopy feeling in my stomach and it isn't gas. It's hard to pack alone. It used to be all I knew. And now? I can't stop glancing back at the empty red duffel with Archer's initials on the front pocket.

It would seem that life as a rent-a-car vagabond might not be as easy as it was before I became a mother.

***

Tour Update:

April 22nd: Oakland Reading/Signing @ A Great Good Place for Book @ 6:30pm

April 23rd: San Francisco Reading/Signing @ Books Inc, Marina Location @ 7.30pm

April 24th: Grass Valley Reading/Signing @ The Bookseller @ 5pm

For more dates and locations, click here.

Make New Friends

2008-04-11T02:52:00Z

Every day the same thing happens. I drop Archer off at school. He kisses me, waves and scurries off to the playground. I watch him from the window as he lands in the sand, looks around at the other children and suddenly becomes shy. Quiet. A very different boy than the one I see at home.

"Hi Archer," the other children say.

"Hi," Archer says back, kicking the dirt, looking down sheepishly.

I watch him until my five-minutes of parking in a drop-off zone are up and occasionally I cry because Archer's got that whole loner in the trenchcoat thing going and it's heartbreaking to watch my child sit alone, when the other children seem so happy to be together. I remember how it felt, as a young child, to be shy. Overwhelmed by crowds of children, I wandered aimlessly as well.

In the car, I always remind myself that Archer's happy. He's glad to be at school and on the playground even if he's playing alone. He's smiling. Always smiling. No need for me to worry about my happy little child.

"Does Archer have any friends yet," I ask.

The teacher always answers me in the same way. "All the children love Archer. He's like everyone's little brother... We all adore him. He's a gentle little soul..."

"But does he have a friend? Is there anyone in the class that he sits with or..."

The teacher smiles. "Not really," she says. "But he's happy. He loves to hold the flag and read books and he participates in all the activities."

It was true, of course. Archer is a sublimely happy child so it would only make sense he would be the same kind of happy at school. He loves school! Every morning Archer rushes the door when it's time to go, always thrilled to see his teachers and kiss me goodbye.

Last week, when I went to pick up Archer, I asked the teacher how he was doing.

"He's doing great," she said. "Oh! And guess what? He has a friend."

"He does? A real one?"

I wanted to cry. His very first friend he made on his own! Someone to play with at school! Who was he? I had to know all...

"This other boy, he is just like Archer. He's quiet and shy and usually plays alone. But one day! All of a sudden? These two boys were not alone! They were together! Sitting together and playing together and it was like they found each other! Two boys just the same!"

I listened, gathering Archer's lunchbox and stack of art-projects, crying behind my giant sunglasses. The thought of Archer making his own like-minded friend was too much for me to handle. The thought of two little boys, wandering the outskirts of the playground only to decide, one day, to wander together was just... yeah. Yeah.

Tonight, before bed, I asked Archer about his new friend. About school and whether or not he was excited to go tomorrow. Archer repeated the name of his new friend and smiled. And so did I.

I probably would have cried again, too, had I been wearing my humungous sunglasses.

***

Throwing Speech Therapy Out With...

2008-04-04T03:06:00Z

Last week we decided to pull Archer out of speech therapy, mainly because in the last six-months of speech therapy, no one has done their job well. We went through four therapists all of whom flaked on us half the time. I haven't decided who I want to blame. Regional Center or the therapists themselves. At first we had the speech therapists coming to us. But like I said before, only a fraction of the time did the therapist actually show. Traffic was always sooooo bad. Maybe next week!

Because of our issues with flaky at-home therapists we decided to go into an actual office once a week but the flakiness continued. Several times not even an hour before our appointment, I was called and canceled on. And when we weren't (canceled on) the therapists seemed to have no idea what they were doing.

Archer es muy frustrado. His mama tambien.

"How's he doing?" I asked after our last session.

The therapist just shrugged and giggled. "He's doing fine," she said.

Uh... and?

Ironically, our speech therapists seemed unable to articulate what was going on with Archer's progress. No "he's getting stronger ever week!" or "Sorry, sister. Outlook not good." Just smiles and shrugs and "see you next week!"

Honestly, I really wanted to be open to speech therapy. Lordy knows Archer needed it. He still needs it. He's making progress of course but still has major speech-issues. He's about a year-and-a-half behind, we think, which is cool, but help is surely necessary at this point.

The final straw came last week when after three weeks of being flaked on, we were flaked on a grand total of four times in a row. Deservedly pissed off, Hal called to cancel therapy for good. We decided to instead put Archer in school five days a week. Because preschool doesn't call and cancel an hour before it starts and anyway, school seems to be working FAR MORE than speech therapy ever did.

Come on, Mom. Let's blow this popsicle stand...

Right about now I'm feeling pretty bad about Los Angeles' state-funded speech therapy (can you tell?). I really wanted to give it a chance but frankly it's been nothing but a waste of time for all of us. If we could afford to hire a private therapist I would do so but alas, we must depend on state-funded intervention and apparently, you get what you pay for 'round these here parts.

So preschool five days a week is Archer's only speech therapy. He sings songs. He paints pictures. He attempts to communicate with the boys and girls in his class and he's happy.

I couldn't be prouder of the progress Archer has made. Progress that hasn't been interrupted by flaky incompetents who cannot even make eye-contact with a concerned parent and/or do his/her job. Free preschool has been the silver lining of this whole experience. We love Archer's school and feel very lucky to have the support and aid of his teachers who have been nothing but patient with Archer and his delays.

It's hard enough for a parent to acknowledge that his/her child needs professional assistance. Harder yet when professional assistance isn't at all professional. Oy to the ARGH.

So no more speech therapy for us. Not unless we decide to hire someone out of pocket who will actually show up and you know, therapize.

***

Appearance Update:

Los Angeles: Book Soup (this) Saturday April 5th, 5pm

San Diego: Borders Carlsbad Wednesday April 9th, 7pm

for more appearance dates/times click here.

Twelve Weeks Pregnant, About to Give Birth

2008-03-31T16:46:00Z

I haven't really slept for the past week and when I do I have the same recurring dream: I'm reading my book without my glasses, squinting and straining and trying to make out the words, to an audience of no one. And I'm trying to smile and speak as I would if I had an actual audience. When I've finished reading my passage I close my book and ask the empty chairs if anyone has any questions.

As it turns out, I am more insecure than previously realized. Which is annoying. I want my confidence back, please.

I've been sick all week and not because I'm pregnant. I've been paralyzed with a kind of fear that's unfamiliar. The kind of fear that makes me want to turn away from everything and sleep. I can't put my finger what most scares me about tomorrow, about the book coming out and in the hands of strangers. I have this blog, which exposes all kinds of in-grown hairs to many people I don't know... never will. But there is something safe about publishing online. Perhaps because when I catch a typo I can easily correct it. If a post is poorly-wrought, I can delete it. Erase it from the record. No one will ever know I thought such things. Wrote so poorly... Make bad jokes.

When the books arrived on my doorstep on Friday, I was supposed to be excited. When I sat down to read the book for the first time since I sent in my completed manuscript last summer, I was supposed to be happy. Instead, I had a panic attack. Asthmatic and gasping for breath, I put the book down and spent the next hour staring at the ceiling, hoping it might fall on my face. Then I passed out.

The Internet has spoiled me with its code-of-armor. It's "disable comments," and "delete" and "create a new post" buttons... Every day I can post about something new. I can mature as a writer, be a better mother, a more interesting person. I can grow up. Change my settings. Contradict my own waterfall of consciousness. (Because lordy knows, there's no stream here.) That isn't the way with a published manuscript. There are no such things as red pens and new drafts. There is no way to disable comments. The end.

Frankly, it's insane to be doubting myself now. And stupid. I should be excited. True, I'm not publishing the Great American Novel. But there's plenty of time for that, yes? Life is long. This is a good start. A hopeful beginning with many more books to come after a good decade of pushing and straining and creative breathing techniques. Keep pushing. There you go. Push harder! That's it! One more big push and...

...It's a...

BOOK!...

...All bloody and covered in guts and shit except it's not really mine. It belongs to everyone now. Out of my body and my hands and my control. Goodbye book. Take good care. I hope you make a lot of nice friends out there. Just remember there's a lot of bad and beware...

Maybe, then I just pinpointed what is most scary. Why I feel so sick. So vulnerable and weird and self-conscious. Because contrary to my recurring dream, there are people listening in the audience. People who paid the price of the book to listen. You and you and you. And you in the back with the purple scarf. You're all here in the audience even if I can't see your faces.

You're here and I so badly want you to be glad you came.

***

He Can Read! Music!

2008-03-23T04:34:00Z

No, really. My kid may be a few years behind as far as speech is concerned but who needs words when you have music? Archer's taken to sitting down with Hal's music books and just... reading. Humming along as he goes. Ch-check it:

Okay, okay, so he isn't *really* reading the music. But it's still cute and makes me wonder at what age music lessons are most common. Hal and I both played piano as children. I guess it's probably way too early (Archer turns 3 end of May) but the kid has been interested in music since the beginning. In fact, he can speak almost perfectly when in song. (If life was a musical, there's a good chance Archer wouldn't be so slow to the language scene.)

I can't help but wonder if perhaps music classes will help his speech. It kind of makes sense. Archer's confident when it comes to music. He responds to melodies in a unique way. (I think?) Does one nurture such passion, even at this early age or is it more appropriate to shoot mini-movies and gush over them on the internet?

I have no idea. Do you?

***

Puff The Most Depressing Dragon Ever

2008-03-15T03:11:00Z

I'm afraid Archer's going through his Morrissey phase (musically, I mean.) He has a new-found love for sadness and hauntingly depressing melodies and lyrics. For example, Archer knows all the melodies to the Once (Swell Season) soundtrack. He can even sing half the lyrics to Falling Slowly and did so during their moving performance at The Academy Awards. The room went silent when little Archer started singing along to the television, the only child in attendance (per usual) belting out "raise yo hooodoo voooy you ahhhh a dooooice" (raise your hopeful voice/ you have a choice) and any one who wasn't wiping the tears from their cheeks probably and most likely left their souls in El Segundo. With their wallets. Seriously. I was sobbing in my dip.

Usually, parents can rest assured that their Children's Music will be jubilant and even silly! In fact, in my experience kid's music is (usually) sublimely happy to the point of annoyance. Songs about Octopus' gardens and shaking one's sillies out, etc. But Puff the Magic Dragon? I wonder how many people offed themselves listening to Puff the Magic Dragon: the saddest, most depressing song ever written. And guess who's obsessed? OBSESSED. Archer could not be more in love with a song.

"Puff! Again! Puff! AGAIN!!!"

"Archer! NO! I cannot listen to that song again. I can't bear it!"

"Again! PUFF! AGAIN! AGAINAGAINAGAIN PUFF PUFF PUFF!"

"Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!"

Because, seriously folks, could anything be more depressing for a parent? To be reminded of the most certain fact that someday our children will grow up to be dragon-killers? Sheesh, louish.

A dragon lives forever but not so little girls and boys? Painted rings and giant's things make way for other toys? (Oh, God! No!) One gray night it happened, Jackie Paper came no more? (Why? Jackie Paper! COME BACK!!!) Puff that Mighty dragon he ceased his fearless roar? (Come on, Puff! Roar! Please roar!!!) His head was bent in sorrow? (God, noooooo!!!) Green scales fell like rain? (Can't you glue them back? Oh, Puff! Say you can!) Puff no longer came to play upon the cherry lane? (Somebody do something! SOMEBODY!) Without his lifelong friend, Puff could not be brave. So Puff that mighty dragon sadly slipped into his cave? (NOOOOOOOOOooooooooooooooo x infinity...)

I'm sorry, but if this song doesn't make you cry you have no soul. NO SOUL, I say!

Anyway, in the spirit of emo-Archer, do any of your kids have a heartbreaking favorite song? Anyone's kid rocking out to Nina Simone singing Mr. Bojangles? or Elliot Smith's Waltz #2? Gimme something to cry about, people.

***

Not Your Teacher

2008-03-09T23:19:00Z

Remember that one time, or maybe, if you're like me, it was many times, when you accidentally called your third-grade teacher "mom"? I can recall the very first time I did this. I was in fourth grade and mortified, especially because my teacher was a man. He was a man who wore a fanny-pack, if you must know. He was also the North American Cupstacking champion. So anyway, I called my fourth-grade Cupstacking-champ, fanny-pack wearing teacher "mom" and everyone laughed.

I went on to call every single one of my teachers "mom" until I graduated from High School, and had I not dropped out of college on my first day, I would have likely called my professors "mom" too. But I digress, I don't have this problem anymore. I don't confuse authority with my mother. I do call Archer by one of the dog's names, sometimes, and vice-versa. But whatever. Archer doesn't seem to mind.

I'm the one who minds. I mind that Archer has decided it's cool and kosher to call Hal and me "teacher" and not on accident. On purpose.

He seems to think all adults are "teacher" and since Hal and I are (kinda sorta) adults, we get to answer to "teacher" as well. Lucky us. Or not. Being called "teacher" sucks. It was kind of funny for like two minutes, but now it's just annoying. And a little bit creepy.

Archer, not surprisingly, woke up this morning screaming, "Teacher! Teacher! Ahhhhhh! Teacher, up! Hal and I argued over which "teacher" he was referring to before I vollunteered to act as early-morning martyr*.

"I'M NOT YOUR TEACHER! I'M YOUR MOMMY! MOOOOMMMMMMMY! OKAY? MOMMY! I WILL NOT TAKE YOU OUT OF BED UNTIL YOU START CALLING ME BY MY NAME! AH!"

Of course, Hal is used to being called "Hal" but even so, he's been just as annoyed as I by this whole "teacher" thing.

"ARCHER! I'M NOT YOUR TEACHER! I'M YOUR HAL! OKAY? YOUR HAAAAAALLLL."

I'm trying to understand what the hell happened. Is Archer just trying to spite us on purpose or did he misunderstand his real-life teacher and now think "teacher" is the "aloha" of grown-ups. You're a teacher. I'm a teacher. We're all teachers. Which is kind of true if you think about it, but come on, son. Why can't you just call us "mommy" and "daddy?" Is that such a crazy request?

I can only hope that one day Archer, like me, ends up calling all of his teachers, "mom." Just, you know, to achieve some kind of balance. Or it would be awesome to just drop the whole "teacher" thing and go back to the way it was. When life was simple and I got to answer to "mommy."

Sniff.

***

*Oooo! Good band name!

The Twenty-Two Hour Nap

2008-03-02T22:38:00Z

Uh... So... Yeah. I just slept twenty-two of twenty-four hours. I wish I were lying.

It all started when I accidentally slept until 1pm. I tried to have a day but, man, that plan backfired after passing out in front of full frontal fashion an hour later, dragging myself back into bed and waking up again at 7pm for a nice hour before going all narcoleptic on myself.

Archer says: wake-up and play with me, Mommy!

I wonder how people do this without help. Be pregnant, work, take care of a kid. I have a newfound respect for every woman who can fight the urge not to sleep for twenty-two of twenty-four hours. I obviously don't have it in me at all. Which is going to prove interesting next month when I hit the road for two and a half weeks of coastal driving (San Fran to Vancouver) all by myself. I have no idea how or why I thought I could pull off a pregnancy during a book tour/promotion but I wasn't thinking with my real brain. My fake brain, yes. I suppose I was just expecting the same no-nonsense pregnancy I had with Archer. Ha! Yeah, right! Not even close! Hence the twenty-two hour nap and me being totally out of commission during a time I kind of have to be on my game.

I'm not on my game. I'm gameless, people. Totally minus game.

My goal for today was to stay up an entire day without crashing out on my face. It's 2:43 in the pm and I'm still going strong. I think I'm safe so long as I steer clear of couches, beds and/or any comfortable places/locations. Today's goal is to make it to dinner. As in "eating dinner" because lordy knows cooking dinner is pretty much out of the question.

I'm extremely lucky that I work from home or else I would probably have to go all Clockwork Orange on dat ass.

Seriously, ladies? How the hell do you work/parent/work and parent while being pregnant? Do you have any tips for a pathetic unable-to-do-much-of-anything ladyperson like me? This is just a first trimester thing, right? (I realize I should know the answer to that, being that I've been pregnant before, but I honestly don't have the energy to remember what is typical behavior for each trimester.)

Okay so now it's 2:53 and OH MY GOD. Would it be cheating to take a one-hour power nap? Just an hour I swear! I knew it was a bad idea sitting in a chair to write this post. I should have written this standing up.

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