Straight from the Bottle

Got Shots: Part Deux

2010-10-13T05:35:00Z

First of all, this title has nothing to do with the post other than the fact that the post is about taking my deux-year old to "get shots"... I set off to write a very different post than this ended up being, which happens sometimes. Okay then! Onward!

The guiltxiety one feels before taking her child to get shots is not unlike the OMG-I-can't-do-this-but-oh-fuck-I-have-to feeling reserved for breaking up with a significant other. For confrontation-phobes such as myself the idea of breaking up with someone used to be so horrific that I'd wait months of sleepless nights to break up a relationship no matter how long the relationship even lasted. A one week relationship would quickly turn into three months on account of my being allergic to confrontation, paralyzingly afraid of inflicting pain on anyone, douchebag or otherwise.

Until finally, I'd give in. "We need to talk," I'd say before lighting four cigarettes at once.

Even though it's been a cazillion years since I was a young'n lookin' for love in all the wrong places, I still remember the feeling well, the feeling of knowing something they didn't. Of knowing that our "getting together to talk at the coffee shop" wasn't because I wanted to discuss the latest episode of Friends or whatever but because, I was about to do something painful and mean, that even though it was, "for the best! We are clearly a terrible fit," it would seem, at the time, for the worst. It was vomit inducing at best. I've never broken up without throwing up. True story. So gross. The end.

Last Tuesday, the morning of Fable's two-year-six-shots-due-check-up, I woke up in the morning panicked. My guilt was palpable, so palpable in fact that I spent twenty minutes on the toilet tending to my stomach issues. Sorry TMI but that's what happens to me when I feel like shit. I personify "pun intended."

That morning Fable and I cuddled for at least seventeen minutes longer than usual. And then we read Olivia sixteen times to our usual twelve. I let her have a cereal bar for breakfast, filled my purse with animal cookies, let her bring her baby dolls (and stroller) in the car with us, played her Lady Gaga's Paparazzi on repeat, sang along with her, drove the slow way down La Cienega... Parked three blocks from the doctor's office so we could enjoy the fresh air, fallen leaves.

And then I broke the news. "Fable," I said. "You're about to get shots. A lot of shots. And it's going to hurt and you'll likely cry. It's okay. I'll most likely cry, too. It's not you, it's me. I don't want you to get sick and/or die from any preventable diseases and one day you'll be able to understand what I'm talking. For instance, your Gooey almost died of polio when she was little and that sucked and now she has a two inch leg difference which is a super big pain in her ass. Anyway. You're just going to have to love me despite the fact that I'm hurting you right now."

But Fable wasn't listening. Here I was finally with the balls to tell her the truth and she didn't want to hear it! And clearly she knew what I was talking about because my children are geniuses. They can hear everything in such an advanced way.

I used to beg Hal to take Archer to get his shots. He was a difficult baby at the doctor. Hated having his ears checked and his temperature taken. Refused to get on the scale. It was always a battle no matter how painless the procedure.

Fable is not her brother. She LOVES the doctor and her stethoscope. She loves the scale, being measured, giggles when the doctor takes her temperature, checks her pulses, shines bright lights in her eyes. She even gladly opens her mouth to say "Ahhhhhh..." when the doctor asks. (See? Such advanced listening skills. She's like 97 percentile in hearing comprehension and listening mathematics.)

Which makes knowing what's coming next even worse. With Archer, the damage was already done. He was PISSED, crying angry tears and "get me the hell out of here" before having any knowledge of the incoming shots. He was already like, "fuck you! I hate you!" which is an easier scenario to be in because you've already lost. It's like telling someone that hates you that you're going to punch them in the arm. They already hate you so.... not much is going to change when you punch their arms. Not that I would every punch anyone in the arm, hater or not, but you know what I mean. It's a lot harder to break bad news to a happy person than it is an angry one. Real talk.

And Fable could not have been more in love with me, the doctors, the nurses... Even the tray of 7897983198 syringes was a wonderful thing.

I tried to warn her.

"NO! YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND! IT'S OVER! IT'S ALL OVER!"

"What's over? What? Huh? I love and trust everybody in the whole world and am quite happy to see you and your needle friends!? What's a needle again? Oh, it doesn't matter. Love and rainbows happily ever after the end."

"Fable? This is going to hurt a little. See the band aids?"

"Yaaaah," she said, still smiling.

They pricked me first. I needed a TB test in order to volunteer in Archer's class. Fable watched and smiled. She thought it looked like... fun? I guess?

Until it was her turn.

I held her in my lap and closed my eyes.

Boom!

But there were no tears.

"No." she said, angrily. She gave the nurse the "step off me bitch" hand but did not cry.

Shot two?

"NO!"

Shot three?

"NO! Mama? Nonononono!" Once again, she pointed her finger at the nurse. Scowled. But again, no tears.

She made it through all 9,874 shots without crying. Clearly a Christmas miracle. It wasn't until they pricked her finger for her anemia test that the tears finally came, followed (of course) by my own tears and "I'm so sorry I'm so sorry, I'm the sorriest mother in all the land..."

But then, as it so often is, it was over.

"We're done, yes?" I asked the nurse.

"Finished."

The nurse gathered her things and left Fable and me alone. Alone to blow our noses, wipe away our tears, eat the cookies in my purse, feel relief. FINALLY, relief.

Relief because the worst was over. Relief because it went over better than I thought it would. Relief that I was doing the right thing. Relief that we were in the clear. No more shots. Not for a while at least.

She sniffled. I exhaled. Phew.

We finished the cookies, both of us stronger and more independent than we were before, held hands down the hallway and into the elevator where we then said our goodbyes, exchanged borrowed CDs, Bukowski books and went our separate ways.

Just kidding about the separate ways part.

***

Sleep Training... Myself

2010-09-09T17:36:00Z

I am not a morning person. Totally embarrassed to admit this but I typically don't get out of bed until 8:00 am 8:30 most mornings. Sometimes as late as 9:00 9:30. AM. (And I say "AM" because there's been some confusion in the past.) Ths MUST change because Archer starts kindergarten on Monday when I will be leaving the house no later than ~~7:45~~ 7:30 sharp to take him to school.

That is some scary shit.

In my defense, the reason I'm such an awful morning person is because I'm an awesome night person (Hey now!). The earliest I'm able to get to bed is 12:30. Er, the earliest I USED TO BE ABLE to go to bed was 12:30. I've spent the last week "sleep training" myself to get into bed at 11:00 with an 11:30 eyes-closed-head-on-pillow policy. Alarm set for 7:00am.

Yes, drill sarge! Er... not so fast.

So far I have failed. Every. Single. Night. And every. Single. Morning. I'm. Just. Going. To type. Like this. From now. On. No, I'm not. Just. Kidding. I will say though, although it's true I have failed, I have at least been up earlier than usual. And in bed by midnight. Which is, you know, progress. And yet, still problematic.

I'll have what she's having.

Lately, and maybe it's because I'm trying to sleep train myself, I've become obsessed with other people's sleep habits. I stalk twitter after midnight to see who else is awake. I probe every friend, even stranger I meet at the park re: their bedtimes.

"Hi! Cute kid! Love your stroller and also, when do you usually go to sleep?"

"No, we're not using that swing. Go ahead! And by the way, what time did you wake up this morning?"

"Where is your son going to kindergarten and also how many hours of sleep do you need in order to function as a healthy human being?"

"Your child just stole my kid's shovel! How do you sleep at night?!! No, seriously. How do you literally sleep at night? I'm genuinely curious."

I'll have what she's having, too.

Sleep is one of those things, kind of like pooping, that, even though we all do it, is relatively personal and seldom discussed. Also, much like poop, I think it's fascinating! Two girls, one sleeping pill? The internet sensation of the future! And yet, most people, I find, are ashamed, even embarrassed of their sleep habits. Myself included. I always thought there was something wrong with me that I couldn't get my ass out of bed - that I still can't. And when I finally drag my lazybonesjonesass out from under my comforter? It takes me HOURS to fully wake up, even after fifteen minutes of fall-out-of-bed-onto-yoga-mat-stretching and a massive cafe con soy leche.

I spent many years as an insomniac, took Tylenol PM every night at 3am only to wake up at 9am the following morning, late for work... again. Six hours was all I needed back then but now six hours isn't enough. At least, it hasn't been enough. I only have four more days until Archer's school starts. Wait. What if I just pretended I was on East Coast time and that my exhaustion is jet lag? Perfect solution! Genius, even! Why did it take me until writing this post to think of that?

While I'm writing up my own perscription for morning-personness by way of "fake jet lag," I'd love to hear from you. (Yes, I ask a lot of questions on this blog but it's only because I have a lot of questions. And you guys always have wisdom and it's very helpful to me and others.) So! If you don't mind: How do you sleep at night? What's your typical bedtime vs wake-up? Any helpful wake-up tips? Any born-again morning people out there? Seriously. This is not a ludicrous conversation. This is LIFE and what we spend a third of our lives doing! Sleep needs more attention! A "sleeping" blog community!

Okay so maybe I'm just tired.

It is, like, ~~7:00~~ 10:23am.

***

bodies are like, so random

2010-08-20T06:55:00Z

Okay. So. Remember back in January when I threw a fit because my Mirena was making my hair fall out? Okay so it wasn't just my hair. I was also dealing with a dead libido. (Non related: I still confuse the words "libido" and "lipid. It's been a source of embarrassment since my 9th grade Foods class. Non related #2: Until I was twenty-one years old I thought "quitting cold turkey" meant quitting with the aid of cold turkey. As in, years ago, an ex-boyfriend said he was going to "quit smoking, cold turkey" so I went to the Supermarket and bought him a shitload of cold turkey meat to help him... uh... quit?) There was also a yeast infection issue that was disgusting and totally not my style. (ED: "Yeast infection" is the second most unattractive word-coupling after "making love.")

Anyway. Sorry about all of the parentheses. And everything else you're about to read. It was a long day/week and it's late. And I'm writing this post in a shower cap because eventually I'd like to take a shower if that's cool.

Anyway. Regrouping to announce that contrary to earlier assumptions, I'm now convinced that Mirena had little to do with my hair falling out in clumps. And that's because, nine months after having my Mirena removed, my hair is STILL falling out of my head.

In clumps.

The messy bun? Is to cover my scalp which reveals way more TMI than I'd like.

... Meaning, I'm afraid I blamed Mirena for something that might have been my body's fault all along and because I'm fair, I felt the need to let everyone know that my hair loss may be my own issue. For instance: I've been very stressed out lately c/o much work + little time, family + career = what happens when writing about your family is your career + my life is a series of events I am more concerned with recording than experiencing + what am I doing and why am I doing it + my DVR is piling up with Mad Men episodes I'd really like to watch someday + it's summer and I'd like to take a few days off, maybe even a week but I can't STOP because I'm a crazy person + etc + etc + more etc = AHHHHHH!

In the last year my hair has started going grey so it only makes sense that the shit would want to fall out, too. So, sorry Mirena. I may hate you but the truth is? No one but ME deserves to be blamed for my recent hair loss.

(ED: This picture is from Halloween.)

According to my doctor, my hair's recent thinning could also have something to do with post-pregnancy hormones as well. So, it may actually be Fable's fault, too. Totes no fair.

That being said, I still hate Mirena and would never use the damn thing again. Besides. Hal and I seem to be handling the condoms ~~"pull out and pray"~~ method pretty well. So far = no pregnany. Which is a good thing because we accidentally upgraded our expenses to "red" whilst still making a "yellow" living. (ED: We DO have plans to start "trying" for babe three but not until I can get a handle on what it is I want to do with my life besides spending it writing about myself all day. I am sick to death of hearing myself type "me" and "my" and "us" and I need a vacation... from... my... self... or something. Because, this is not healthy and I have exposed myself to the point of wtf. No one wants to see a nudist naked because .... it's redundant and I'm feeling a little like a naked nudist these days.)

If that doesn't make any sense, I know. I have no idea what I'm talking about anymore either.

(Related: abstinence via exhaustion is the best form of birth control. They should just give teenagers tons of work for little pay and an insane financial overhead to keep them good and tired + allow their hair to fall out so that they will be less attractive to the opposite sex. No offense to Hal who is bald and so adorably fuckable. See? There I go again! Being a naked nudist.)

And while I'm on the subject of losing hair and losing sleep and losing my mind, can we please talk about post-nursing lactation? Because I stopped nursing Fable nine months ago and I can still squirt milk out of my boobs, like, across the room.

Weird?

Random?

So random?

Is this a breast reduction thing? Stress? Does baldness cause milk production? Am I eating too much quinoa? What the fuck.

Having babies does very strange things to your body, am I right? ~~Just like staying up for four days straight does very strange things to your mind.~~

~~Forgive me for everything you've read here tonight. I have no idea where I am or who I'm going.~~

I'm going to go ahead and end this post now.

And step away from the computer for a few days.

Good ~~day~~ night.

***

Mother of Four

2010-08-13T03:57:00Z

Yes, it's true. I'm a proud mother of four these days.

Sort of.

Fable does most of the care taking around these parts and even though by day's end I always seem to be clutching her babes in my armpits, trying to cross the street balancing two hands, three purses and a Venti soy latte, Fable's ON mama duty AT LEAST twenty-two of twenty-four hours every day.

She's dedicated, this one.

She feeds them:

...And takes them shopping:

Puts them down for naps:

Even kisses them goodnight:

This is all a recent occurrence. Before last month Fable dabbled in doll-rearing, fostering various dolls and toys, cars and blankets but in the last few weeks "Baby" and "Baby" have become inseparable friends of Fable's. (She started with "Baby" and then picked "Baby" at the store after Fable decided "Baby" needed a sister.) And that's not all! Fable has also recently taken to purse-carrying, sunglass wearing (even indoors, bathtub and naptime included) not to mention an obsession with hats that are too small for her and sort of half sit on her head all yarmulke-like.

But the babies are BY FAR the most high-maintenance. We lose hats, purses and other various daily-attachments seemingly on the hour. But the babies? OH NO. If Baby or Baby disappear from sight for even a second? Fable FLIPS her lid.

Kind of like a real mother would should she lose track of her own kids.

Dozens of times a day I hear this:

"AHHHHHHHHHHHHAKJSDHKAHDKAJHDKAJDSHKADKASJHDK!!!!" only to find Fable wandering the house with her hands on her head looking for her long, lost babies which, I kid you not, are usually at her feet.

Kind of like me with my sunglasses on my head.

- cell phone in my hand.

-keys in my pocket.

-etc...

She's all girl, this one.

"Fable! Dude! Baby and Baby are RIGHT HERE."

And then she smiles and bangs their faces together to kiss. And then throws her babies across the room, laughs and goes to pick them up again. Aw.

I will say, though, no matter how many purses I have to carry around these days to compensate for Baby and Baby's needs (Baby and Baby need bottles and various plastic animals, stuffed baby-owls, sometimes even snacks of their own where 'er we go.) and no matter how many family gatherings we've lately attended with me holding dolls in my lap whilst trying to engage in serious conversations... There is nothing sweeter in all the land than watching my baby mother...

...in sunglasses as big as smart cars.

The way Fable loves her babes makes me think I must be doing something right-ish as her mom.

(Minus the face-banging, throwing them across the room stuff.)

***

ED: The babies are Corolle and they're my favorite. They smell amazing and are totally soft and wonderful. Highly recommended for the baby/child in your life.

Uniforms

2010-07-30T05:06:00Z

Yesterday I ordered Archer's school uniforms for kindergarten. I was a mess of emotions and not just because "my baby is growing up." I never thought I'd be the kind of parent who sent my kid to a school where uniforms were mandatory. (Archer will be attending a uniform-enforced public elementary school in the Fall.)

I won't lie. It was the uniforms that originally attracted us to the school. And by us, I mean Hal. Hal is a huge proponent for uniforms in schools. Most likely because of an article he read one time in The Atlantic. Just kidding. Kind of. (Hal LOVES talking about all the articles he reads in The Atlantic. Hal LOOOOOOOOOVES The Atlantic. Wants to MAAAAARRRRRRRY The Atlantic.) I for one was always skeptical but willing to keep an open mind. And that I did.

The principal had newly instated the uniform-only policy as a way to unite kids that might otherwise segregate. As with most urban public schools, class is a huge divide and in our neck of the woods, where parents' incomes range from below-the-poverty-line to numbers in the god-only-knows... millions? Squillions? Uniforming the kids was a way to fill the chasm.

We liked that idea. We liked that it was a diverse school in a great neighborhood five-minutes away from our house. We loved the school's vegetable gardens, administration and faculty, its emphasis on creativity (one of the perks of living in Los Angeles? The arts aren't going anywhere. Sure, we all have to pitch in cash money and participate in loads of fund-raisers but the importance of arts will never be questioned by a community who mostly make their living as creatives themselves.) ED: The California public school system is in such disarray that parents HAVE to pitch in financially. It has almost become mandatory to keep the schools from completely imploding. We were told at orientation that we are expected to donate monthly to maintain status quo at our school.

And yet... still: Uniforms

Uniforms? Uniforms.

I grew up in public schools where the word "uniforms" didn't even cross our minds let alone our mouths. Fashion was how we identified ourselves, whether that was good or bad I don't necessarily know... it just was. Getting dressed in the morning was a thrill and I don't know how I feel about my kids not having those experiences.

I guess it's just hard for me to imagine a childhood without borrowing clothes from friends, making puffy-painted shirts to show off in class, "twin day" ...

And yet, here I am. Charging $210.43 worth of blue shorts, white polos and v-neck cardigans to my debit card. Limiting Archer's creative self-expression through fashion to after school hours and weekends. I don't know, you guys. I just don't know.

I've discussed it with Archer of course, who for the time being could care less, but what if that changes? What if, like me, Archer develops of fear of uniformity? Of sameness? I don't ever want my kids to feel like they can't express themselves. And yet... here I am sending my son to his first day of elementary school in a uniform where he will be dressed like everyone else. Same shirts. Same shorts. Same sweater vest on cold days. And in three years, I will likely send Fable to the same school. Fable who is already, at twenty-two months obsessed with all things fashion - she who picks her dresses in the morning - she who refuses to leave the house without her sunglassses and hat.

"But he can wear whatever shoes he wants, so whatever!" said a friend, responding to my uncertainty.

And she's right. At the very least he can still rock purple shoes.

"Uniforms have been proven to be extremely effective in urban environments," Hal continues to tell me and yes, once again, he is also right.

I just... I guess I would have a hard time with it if I was Archer. And it's hard to put your child in a position (even if you know it's what's best for him) that you yourself would hate. And I would have fucking hated uniforms. I would have.

That being said, self-expression is about so much more than clothes and style and puffy-painted twin days. Archer is unique in so many ways and he wears all of his strengths and quirks and ideas on his sleeve, even if that sleeve belongs to a white polo shirt with a school logo on its breast pocket.

It's just...

... uniforms, you guys. Uniforms.

***

Did you go to a school with uniforms growing up? Do you send your kids to a school with uniforms? Are you pro-uniform? Anti? Does your husband also have an unhealthy obsession with The Atlantic? Would love to hear from those with uniform experience if you're willing to share...

After School Special

2010-07-21T04:41:00Z

I'll be honest, I wasn't looking forward to summer. I've never been a fan. The heat gives me migraines, not to mention rashes and bacne but beyond the superficial obvious, I only just recently mastered the art of time/life/family/work management and was worried this summer business might just fuck it all up.

I had a routine. We all did. A routine that looked a little something like this.

Archer = School Monday- Fridays 8:30-2:30 (all other hours with me.)

Fable = Mommy alone time: Monday & Tuesday 8:30-2:30. Francisca (our part-time nanny, full-time hero) time: Wednesday, Thursday, Friday 9:30-2:30pm

Me = Take Archer to school in the mornings. Spend Monday & Tuesday with Fable. Wednesday, Thursday & Friday with work. Pick Archer up from school every day at 2:30 and spend afternoons with kids. Go back to work after kids are asleep.

This schedule has been a win for everyone involved. Fable and I get alone time two days a week - go to music class, have playdates, take walks around the 'hood... and every day I get to pick Archer up from school. Some days we have after-school activities. Other days, we just come home and hang here, and every now and then, Francisca stays later and I take Archer out for ice cream or some such other after-school treat. Tre fab.

And even though our new summer schedule wouldn't be SO different, I was still a litte "eh" on the prospect of changing up what we had going on for the last two-years because schedules are delicate things for families. Oh, yes.

The only thing that's changed, of course are our Mondays and Tuesdays which now include Archer home with us and HOLYSHIT has it been fun. Sure, we've had our moments of OMGNOOOOOOO... markers on faces and fighting over books and "Mommy! Fable broke my Lego castle!" and etcetcetctectetcdshajdh. But most of the time? It's been a total funfest of awesome.

Between having a backyard and (for the first time in ten years) central air-conditioning (we had a heat wave last weekend well into the 100s. Brutal.) this summer has been totally lovely. There's magic, here. In this house. I really do think so. And where, last summer I spent every day schlepping the kids from one activity to the next, museums and parks and indoor playspaces OH MY, this summer we've spent all our time at the house - playing games and coloring pictures and sprawling all over the floor in piles of blankets and broken toys and doing... well... I honestly have no idea.

Every day Hal comes home from work and is like, "what did you crazy kids get into today?" and I'm like... "Uh... Archer? What did we do today?" And Archer's like, "Uh... Four plus three equals seven. I ate all my strawberries."

Besides swimming lessons, we've dropped out of all afterschool acivities. Tae Kwon Do was fun for a minute but became too far a drive when the teacher moved his class. And music class, er, I mean, "school"...? Was a nightmare of parental crazies. (I will post about this later on because WHOA do I have so much to say about "prestigious music schools for children." At least, one particular "prestigious music school" Whoa, whoawhoawhoa.)

In the past I've been very concerned with making memories - wanting for my kids what I had as a child. Magic and adventure and the marvelous mayhem of a life amused. But ever since we moved into our new place, I've sort of just... whatever'd when it comes to making sure our days are spent DOING! DOING! GOING! GO!

As it turns out? The best part about summer has been THIS. This house with its space and yard and happy vibes. Where last summer after school was about "killing time" before bed. This summer? After school has become special. So have our free days of free play and bubbles in the backyard and Archer's fresh-squeezed orange-juice and four plus three equals seven.

Lesson of the month? Doing nothing can be the very best kind of something.

Happy summer, all!

***

Birthday Cake for Breakfast

2010-07-08T03:35:00Z

Last week, for Hal's birthday I bought him a cake. Archer and I went to our favorite local bakery, picked a cake from behind the glass display case and drove it home slowly as not to damage the expert sweet-lady-icing job. The plan was to surprise Hal with his fancy cake after the dinner we were hosting for some out-of-town guests. Unfortunately Hal's unknowing of our fancy cake surprise lead to him agreeing that his friends would bring dessert to our soiree.

"Don't worry about dessert," Hal called me on his way home from work. "Michael's bringing cupcakes."

"WHAT!? WHY! NO!!!! Call him back right now and tell him he doesn't need to bring anything! How RUDE!"

"What? Why?"

"Because! I have a plan and you're screwing it up!"

But by the time Hal called his friend back, it was too late. Cupcakes had already been purchased and were en route.

"We'll do birthday cake tomorrow night," Hal said later as I pouted in the kitchen like a four-year-old.

"We can't tomorrow night! I'm taking you to dinner!"

"Fine! Then we'll have breakfast cake."

I flashed Hal the look I so often flash him when he brings home candy and/or processed snacks from (the production) set. My eating philosophy differs greatly from his and we often argue to the point of screaming at each other when it comes to food and what will and will not fly when it comes to kid-appropriate cuisine. Last weekend Archer had his first (beef!!!) hot dog care of Hal who didn't see what the big deal was UNTIL I TOLD HIM WHAT THE BIG DEAL LIKE WHOA, JOEY LAWRENCE.

"What? We were at the fair and he was hungry!"

"HAKSJDHAKJFHKJHKJHHFASKJIMSOANGRYICOULDJUSTAHAKJSDHAJKDHA!!!!!!"

Anyway, back to the cake.

"We can't have breakfast cake! That's just... I dunno... gross. And wrong. And no! Absolutely not!"

"Fine," said Hal. "I'll have breakfast cake alone then."

"Okay then."

"Okay."

The next morning, as promised, Hal poured himself a cup of coffee and pulled the cake-box out of the fridge.

"Wait!" said I. "You can't cut your own birthday cake, and besides, we need to sing Happy Birthday to you. I mean, duh slash heeello."

Archer and Fable soon came running, pulling on my shirt to get a look at the cake as one by one I lit the candles.

And then we sang.

By the time Hal had blown his wish across the meticulously frosted cake-top, both kids had climbed into their chairs, their eyes huge to match their smiles and I had forgotten why cake for breakfast was such a terrible idea. Sure it was "too much sugar" and "dessert without first eating a balanced meal" but it was also, and most importantly in that moment, "a special occasion."

All of a sudden, cake for breakfast seemed like the greatest idea ever, maybe even of all time. I sliced Archer the second piece followed by a tiny slice for Fable before serving myself.

Moments later we were all seated around the breakfast table, devouring chocolate cake at 7:45 am and it was perfect. One of the most enjoyable moments of my entire life. Whether from the rebellion of breaking my own rules or the joy of creating, in a moment, a lasting family tradition, I don't know. I assume both.

"I think we should have cake for breakfast every year," I said.

"For every birthday," Hal agreed.

"This was fun!" Archer smiled.

"Yeeeees!" Fable squeeled.

And so it is. And so it shall be forevermore: cake for breakfast on family birthdays.

***

"Last" Day of Preschool

2010-06-24T20:43:00Z

Yesterday was technically Archer's last day of preschool and I sat all day at my desk with poopy-stomach trying to wrap my head around what it means to see him off at a new school, introduce him to a new world with new friends and strangers, teachers... parents.

We've been discussing the changes afoot for weeks now. The new school which Archer says he "can't wait for!" even if it means a whole new set of students, teachers, friends... But when I picked him up from school yesterday, Archer looked angry.

"Ready to go?" I asked.

Archer glared at me and crossed his arms.

"Are you bummed school's over?" I asked.

"No!" he crossed his arms tighter. "I'm glad it's over!"

"It's normal to be a little sad. Saying goodbye to people and places and things is the hardest part of being a human."

"I'm not sad!" he said, sniffling. "I just want the picture off my cubby!"

"But you'll be back at school in two weeks so you don't need to take your picture...We're doing summer school three days a..."

"YES I DO! I NEED MY PICTURE!"

Moments later we were in full on won't-get-into-the-car won't-get-out-of-the-car "no! no! no!" meltdown mode.

Part of me wanted to join him. Instead, I drove home saying nothing, parked the car, went to the freezer and retrieved a box of ice-cream sandwiches, which we then proceeded to dine on, silently brooding.

Several months ago I was on the hunt for summer camps, trying to find some permanent structure for Archer this summer. I can't exactly take time off in my profession and have a very active dude on my hands so keeping him home all summer long wasn't an option. After much research I found that summer camps were either far too expensive or too far a drive so we decided to send Archer to "summer school" at his Preschool which begins mid-July.

It seemed like our only option at the time and I was a bit reluctant to send him back to school, once it ended. Of course, now? I'm totally relieved. I think, in a way, so is Archer, who is like me in many ways - more ways than I can even understand sometimes.

Goodbyes are tough and I think for a couple of wildly emotional dudes like ourselves, we need to wean ourselves slowly off the past before we can get excited about the future.

Feels less overwhelming this way, less emotional.

Easier to stomach. Less ice cream necessary.

***

Nunus and Babas

2010-06-15T18:42:00Z

Every night Fable takes her bottle. She curls up next to me, puts her hand against my face, eyes rolling back in her head and sucks away. She does the same thing before nap every afternoon. And occasionally, has a third bottle when she wakes in the middle of the night.

"She's getting old for that bottle," people tell me. "Might be time to call it quits. Trade the bottle for a sippy cup. She's going to be two soon..."

"Yeah. I know. You're right," I hear myself say but to myself I'm saying, "No! You're actually not right at all. Yes, she's going to be two soon. Two. TWO. Let the baby be a baby, please. I mean, sheesh louishe. What's the rush?"

Up until the eve of his fifth birthday, Archer slept with a pacifier. A "nunu" as he called it. He had no need for it outside of his bed, but when it came time to say goodnight, he reached onto the bedstand, plucked the pacifier from its place beside the stereo and stuck it in his mouth, his eyes closing, closing... BAM. Asleep.

We figured, it wasn't hurting anyone letting him sleep with it so we let it go. Until he turned four and we sat him down to discuss that the time had come to say goodbye to his nunu.

"You're getting older, dude. Maybe it's time you think about giving up the nunu at bedtime. What do you say?"

"I'm not ready," he said. "But when I'm five? When I'm five I won't need it anymore."

Pretty soon "five" became the age when everything was possible.

"I'll try pasta salad when I'm five."

"I'll eat brocolli when I'm five."

"I'll do swimming lessons when I'm five."

"I'll be a better listener.."

He had decided that "age five" was when everything would change for him. It was his "grown-up" age and we went with it. We went with it because he had us and himself convinced.

I never understood the push. It's not our style as parents, I guess and although we think it's important to set rules and boundaries, our focus is on raising kind, confident, independent humans, with or without bottles and pacifiers before bed. AKA, we pick our battles.

(ED: Archer's dentist said that "Archer sleeping with a pacifier was fine and wouldn't at all affect his teeth, orthodontics, etc.)

No one can deny that all children are different. That each child walks and talks and sleeps through the night at different ages and stages. Fable never took a pacifier and Archer weaned from bottles at nine-months. When he was ready. Because, eventually they all become ready. Ready to crawl and walk and poop in the toilet. Ready to say goodbye to their pacifiers, bottles, blankies. (I slept with my blankie until High School.) So? We don't push. We discuss, sure. We introduce alternatives but we do not force or push or take away.

Archer needed some extra time to say goodbye to his nunu. So? He got it. And if Fable needs some extra time with her baba? That's okay, too. Because letting go is one of life's most important lessons. Every day a part us dies and giving a child the opportunity to "quit" their first (harmless) "vices" is an important lesson in self-discipline me thinks.

I figure, much like with Archer's pacifier, same will go for Fable. One day she won't want a bottle before bed anymore. She won't need one. She'll be done with all that. She, with our help, will be able to prepare herself for a new bottle-less life and that will be the end of our milk-stained-sheets-period.

The day before Archer turned five he reminded us that "this will be the last night I will ever sleep with my nunu. Tomorrow it will disappear and I won't need it anymore."

He was right. The next morning, Archer woke up five-years old, polished off an entire bowl of pasta salad with brocolli for lunch, happily accompanied me to swim lesson sign-ups and never, ever once asked for his nunu again.

***

Talking Three

2010-06-07T19:42:00Z

The other day Hal texted me a baby name. It wasn't totally out of the blue - we'd been discussing for the past few months our want for a third child someday but it always felt more "I love you SO much and our kids are SO great, let's make MORE BABIES! YEAH! KISS ME! UH!" than "Wife? Let's have intercourse and make another human."

Not that Hal was asking me for human-making intercourse but he was dropping baby names, which, in my head was the same diff.

And although I wasn't particularly thrilled with his baby name, I agreed it would be lovely ... for the middle name... of Archer's pet fish.

The choice to have a third child is indeed a controversial one. I come from a family where on one side, having more than two children is considered "environmentally irresponsible" and have been lectured at length so that I understand the ramifications of bringing more than two human units into the world. (In summary = I might as well drive a stretch-hummer, collect plastic bottles to throw in the regular trash can, raise corn-fed cattle on obliterated rain forests whilst buying stock in BP.)

On the other side, having less than three children is a slap in the face to the world population of Jews/people with Jewish last names. Understandably so. As a descendent of European (Polish, German, Hungarian) Jews, most of whom were killed during the Holocaust, the cultural Jew in me (all 3/4ths of her) wants to breed like a rabbit on behalf of every never-had-the-chance-to-be-born European family member. The environmentalist in me? Believes it's my ethical duty to get my tubes tied now and be done with it as not to worsen the world population crisis.

Such is my current conundrum as I clock the hundreds of hours I've now spent arguing with myself, discussing with Hal this particular matter.

Here's the thing: Moments after Fable was born, I was consumed with the thought that there was another one out there. That we weren't complete... not yet. It was bizarre and completely caught me by surprise because I never thought I'd want more than two children. Ever. Especially after being blessed with the best of both worlds.

And yet? I do. We do. All four of us do.

Recently Archer told us that "Fable wasn't a baby anymore and could we please go get a new one at the Baby Store?" ... Hal and I talked to him about whether or not he desired another baby, whether or not he felt like we were all here. "Fable wants to be a big sister," he told us. "How do you know?" we asked. Archer shrugged.

"Having three is a lot harder than two," my mother said when I brought up our desire to maybe try to get pregnant again in the next year. "It's amazing and I can't imagine not having three (ed: my little sister, her third child, was a fabulously unplanned surprise baby.) but its a lot harder than having two. Harder on the body (my mom had serious physical complications during her third birth) the wallet, and much more difficult in terms of what you can do, where you can go... your day to day life."

And she's right. I grew up one of three so I remember the changing dynamic. I also know how much work it is to have two children and am perfectly aware that three children would pose a thousand new challenges. But also? A thousand new joys. And selfish as it may sound, I cannot, much as I've tried, fight the instinct I have - the instinct I've HAD since Fable's birth that there's a babe out there waiting in the wings. Especially when Hal feels it too. And Archer. And Fable, according to her translator.

Wanting another child is easy. (For us, at least.) It's the figuring out how we can raise three children in a financially stable environment, with time, lifestyle, career(s) permitting that's tough. It's understanding the ramifications of adapting to a new kind of juggle - changing the dynamic of the family and a million other variables. All things we never had to worry about with Archer because one day I woke up pregnant and that was that. Even with Fable we never really *discussed* seriously "trying" for a second baby until New Years Eve 2007. Nine months later? Fable was born.

But this? This conversation we have had weekly of not daily for the last several months is becoming hilariously insane. For two people who aren't planners by any means, in any arena, we can't help but make fun of each other's responsible-ness this time around.

"If we're going to try for three in early 2011, we must first make X amount of dollars more a month."

"And I must have solidified X and one of us must first know that X is going to happen for sure and hours X,Y and Z must be free and E=MC2."

I'm certain this is how most people family plan, and with good reason, but for us? This is all very new - this checking calendars and trying to figure out the "right time" and "age gap" and "bank balance" to get pregnant again.

And that's not even taking into account the days when I'm like, "I must be CRAZY to consider another child! What the hell am I thinking!?" or the nights (like last night) when Hal spelled out how much it would cost to send three kids to private school. (Which we will most likely HAVE to do for middle school and high school, if we stay here in Hollywood.)

"I dunno, Bec. For the first time in our lives, we are living comfortably as a family of four..."

I couldn't argue because everything he said was true. And a part of me was like, "Yes! Thank you. We're so totally blessed as we are. Let's appreciate all that we have, the four of us..."

We fell asleep agreeing that two was "all we ever wanted, needed, I love you, goodnight."

Of course, early the next morning Hal changed his tune.

"We HAVE to have another baby. We have to! We just do!"

And I was like, "Oh, thank God! Yes! I know! I'm so glad you changed your mind! HOLD ME! Oh, YES!"

All of this back and forth is only a fraction of the emotional wrangling that has and will occur the closer we get to getting knocked up again, (if in fact we do). And that's not even taking into consideration the family/peer guilt re: overpopulating the world. Judgment I've already felt casually mentioning "a possible third" in passing.

Luckily, I've spent five years being judged and have learned to care a little less with each passing day what people think. Liberating, that is. Thank you, blog. Still, I understand the skeptics and am empathetic to their reasoning. Hell, my biggest skeptics are members of my family and my BFFS! How could I not love them to bits no the matter?

Still.

Whatever.

Fuck it.

It's SO on...

I think.

We think.

90% sure, I'd say...

And if _______ never comes? And X and Y and _______, _____ and ______ never pan out? And we do decide that we can't financially handle raising three kids here and now and XYZ, TBD and LYLAS BRB?

At least we'll be set with a pretty extensive list of names for... uh... Archer's fish.

***

Condolences to Katie

2010-06-04T18:36:00Z

As many of you may know, Katie Granju, a fellow blogger here at Babble who pens the blog Live/Work lost her eighteen-year-old son this week. His name was Henry, beautiful, kind-eyed, loved to play guitar. Please direct prayers, strength and thoughts of love in her direction today, tomorrow, whenever you can.

We are blessed every day to be alive, among the people we love.

Love and continued strength to you and your beautiful family, Katie.

***

The Post Birthday Word

2010-05-29T04:25:00Z

Last Sunday we celebrated Archer's 5th birthday. We celebrated in our backyard with dozens of our closest ~~strangers~~ friends - AKA Archer's entire preschool class. And also other people that are friends in real life.

This is something I'd like to talk about for a second. Archer happens to have an adorable class full of cutes but still - the idea that one has to invite an entire class to their kid's birthday party is a little much. I understand why. I understand that kids would feel left out. I do! I do! I never got invited to anyone's birthday party when I was a kid sans for my cousins'. And yet, somehow? I lived to see another day!

Archer's class boasts twenty-five kids. Which means, in order to have a birthday party we must expect to host at least fifty people - considering ONE parent shows. In our case, we had seventy people at our house. SEVENTY. And we knew, maybe twenty of them. It felt kind of like high school and how you invite a few of your closest friends and then the entire school shows up. Except in this case we had to invite the entire school or else we would get in serious trouble. I think we even had to sign something in red ink when we enrolled Archer in school. Not kidding.

So. Seventy people and six-hundred-zillion dollars later, our low-key backyard birthday party ended up ... well... not being all that low-key, Except somehow (and I say, somehow, because I usually HATE hosting parties, cry all the way through them and/or throw up) I had more fun than perhaps ever in my entire life...

Archer was so happy. SO sososososo happy. My parents came up. And grandparents. Even Hal's parents flew out from New York. It was the first time we were able to gather with family and friends in our own space. Which was amazing. We had a bouncer, which I peed in. We also hired a local balloon-performer who happens to be not only a GENIUS with balloons but one of the most amazing human beings ever in the world. He's putting himself through USC working his magic and I highly recommend him to all my LA readers. (He doesn't have a website yet but you will be damn sure I'll be linking to it as soon as humanly possible. I will also be adopting him as soon as the paperwork goes through.)

All in all, the party was a fantastic success. Although, I think next year we'll go bowling with five of Archer's closest friends.

Either that or we're going to have to start a birthday fund in order to afford to pay for another one of these suckers.

***

Extracurricular Activities

2010-05-20T19:08:00Z

This summer we have plans. And by plans I mean classes/lessons/extracurricular activities. Trouble is? I think we may have booked too much. Or maybe not. I have no idea actually.

In the past we've spent much of our summers in San Diego, hanging beachside with my parents. But this summer, we're going to be spending much of it here and after researching summer camps and finding few affordable options, we decided to do three days of summer-school a week (at his preschool) and extracurricular activities on other days.

Swimming lessons were obvious. I've been slacking getting him into swimming because he "doesn't want to go!" except he HAS to go because duh. So I took him to the YMCA, introduced him to the "giant awesome so cool" pool and signed him up for swim lessons twice a week starting next month. And then I signed him up for Basketball. And Taekwondo. And music lessons. All of which were Archer's idea which = awesome! I'm all for it! Except I fear I may exhaust him. And myself trying to shlep him all over L.A. to various lessons and thises and thats all the summertime long.

As a kid I was always busy. Piano lessons, softball (which I sucked at) soccer (which I also sucked at) ballet (which I loved but probably sucked at) tap dance, zoo-camp (I was obsessed with all things animal) horse-back riding, various farm camps where my parents paid top dollar for me to pick up cow poop all day in the middle of nowhere... the list goes on. I LOVED activities but remember equally loving staying home and kicking back with my mom, toys and neighborhood pals.

The thing is? I work. And although my work isn't particularly conventional it still exists and I can't really take more than a few days off. Which means? I have no choice but to keep Archer in school (at least partially) during the summer. And I figured booking Archer in tons of fun extracurricular will lessen the pressure for me to saddle up every day with picnics and plans for grand adventuring.

(My mother set the bar VERY high for being a hands-on, amazing day-trip parent and sometimes I feel as if I'll never quite be able to live up to that.)

In conclusion, I'm curious to know what you have planned for you kids this summer. Summer school? Summer camp? Loads of activities? No activities? Do you plan daily activities? And if you work full time, do you feel pressure to adventure on the weekends? Do you choose day camps over summer school? How do you manage after-school activities? It's overwhelming how many options exist. What works for your family? Your kid? You?

***

Outback Newhouse

2010-05-12T18:02:00Z

We have a backyard now. I'm literally sitting in it as I type this. With a cup of coffee as Fable naps away in the room she shares with her brother.

I am here. Outside my office. Listening to birds and sirens from the busy streets that surround our cozy little nook. The last few weeks have been an amazing collaboration of excitement and anxiety - me rushing around busily to various places trying to make this house a home - nesting in the way I never was able to when I was pregnant with Archer in 500 square feet, or even Fable.

But today, after posting this and reading it embarrassingly two-mornings after, I've pushed myself out into the yard I haven't allowed myself to fully enjoy and appreciate yet and just. Sat.

Happy, again. Relieved. Breathing.

When I ask Archer what his favorite part of our new house is, he says, "the backyard!" I think Fable, who wanders after Archer, setting up cones to kick his soccer ball through might agree. Even Hal who comes home from work on his early nights to shoot hoops as the kids run around him - and the dogs, who have spent the last eight plus years of their lives in apartments.

We keep joking that this is their retirement home - the place they have come to die. Where they can lie around in the grass and chase squirrels toward the fence and sleep on the sidewalk under the sun.

But for me, probably the most fun has been having friends come over. We didn't have the space in our old place for playdates. We do now and this week will have had four in five days - friends of mine, friends of Archer's, friends of Fable's too - who can comfortably wander and eat snacks at the table under the umbrella, get nice and dirty among the lemon trees.

Watch everyone happily run around until an injury, exhaustion or darkness reminds us its time to go inside.

I used to think people were crazy for giving up city living to move to the country, or even the' burbs. I told Hal the other day, I totally get it now. Kids need space to run around.

What a blessing to be able to provide that for them, here.

Without getting into a car every day to seek it out.

Next Sunday we will celebrate Archer's birthday at home - a first for us. We ordered a bounce-house to put in the backyard and invited all of Archer's friends from school and beyond.

Archer can't wait.

Niether can I.

***

Between Boxes

2010-04-29T06:41:00Z

Recently, my favorite coffee shop closed. I had been writing there since the summer of '99, when I first moved to Los Angeles.

It was as much an extension of me as any place I've ever been - my one constant home no matter the what. So when it suddenly closed, inexplicably, I was shattered. Heartbroken. Depressed and emotional and angry and sad. I started going to a new coffee shop - one that was local, in walking distance to my house - it was Hal's coffee shop - the place he liked to write, but he was about to go back to work after a month-long hiatus, so it was kosher for me take his place. (Hal and I have always worked at separate spaces - he has his cafe posse. I have mine.)

I easily fell for the new coffee shop like one typically does after a painful break-up. I was rebounding in a big way but it was more than that. I had mourned my past, prepared myself to move on. And within a week? Had fallen in love with my new space. It felt like home. A new home. I was happy there.

A week later, my old coffee shop inexplicably re-opened. I should have been thrilled. Instead I felt like my best friend just faked her own death. I was furious. I felt manipulated and dicked around. My friends all returned to the coffee shop but I stayed behind. At my new cafe.

I've since been back a few times since it reopened but never has it felt the same. My favorite table, always taken. The IPOD my friend and I bought and filled for the owner, disappeared, radio commercials crackling instead. I no longer felt inspired there.

It had changed and so had I. And that was sad. But also a relief. Because eleven years is a long time to be monogamous with a cafe. The touch of new tables and baristas hands was something I didn't realize I needed until I was forced to stray.

This week has been hard for me - confusing - I'm obviously beyond thrilled to move and yet? I've been sad. Angry. Overwhelmed and stressed, pacing the space like a zoo animal, banging my head against boxes. For the last four and a half years, this has been my home. With all of its idiosyncrasies, home. And not only my home but OUR home - the only home my kids have ever known.

And it's hard. Harder than I thought. I suck at goodbyes. I emote very easily. The other day Archer told me he didn't want to move. And Hal said "Yes you do! Our new house has a yard! And a playroom! And we can get a bike andandandand..." and I got all snappy and told Hal to "Shh! He can be sad if he wants to be. This is very sad in a way!" and Hal looked at me like I was crazy but it's true. I watch Archer scamper through the yards of neighbors holding hands with his local friends and am heartbroken. Even though our moving out means moving up. Moving on.

I'm not looking forward to Saturday. To driving the kids away from their home and starting from scratch. That will change of course. I keep reminding myself about the coffee shop and how I didn't want to leave. Until the doors locked behind me and suddenly I found myself staring into the eyes of DIFFERENT - fresh rooms and new beginnings. Not to mention tables that weren't wobbly.

And now? I don't really want to go back.

I understand what's happening. I know what's going on. I remind myself over and over the following:

1. Nostalgia is deadly when you're living between boxes.

2. Nostalgia quickly dies once all the boxes dissapear.

3. To be continued.

***

Advice for Moving with Small Children

2010-04-14T04:35:00Z

The last time we moved Archer was five-months old and Fable didn't exist, which, can we just talk about that for a second? How crazy is that to think about? Sometimes Hal and I rock back and forth on our porch, smoke corn-cob pipes and talk about how Fable is our super lotto jackpot after sticking out the "bummer period" of our marriage.

Jackpot, indeed.

Moving on, then.

I have never moved with two children before. Last time we moved Archer was five-months old, which was an easy age because he just slept in his stroller the entire time while Hal, me and my dad lugged my fifty boxes of books and our bed from our tiny one-bedroom to our current place of residence.

We had nothing then. No couch. No television. No dining room table. No desk. We had a bed, one dresser, an electric piano, a crib in a box and a broken changing table. Over the years, of course, we've managed to accumulate shitloads of crap including furniture et al. Not to mention two older-than-five-month-old-children.

Yes, we hired movers this time but other than that? We're on our own. Which means packing and unpacking just the two of us, with two children trying to climb into the boxes. Because boxes are fun. Except when you're an adult and you have to pack what feels like hundreds of them.

Thousands, more like.

"Moving with kids sucks. Good luck with that," seems to be the stock response when I tell people we're moving May 1st. Which is starting to freak me out. Because I don't like when things suck. I like when things unsuck.

So what do I do, oh wise-readers-with-experience-moving-with-kids? Do I hire a babysitter on moving day to help me entertain them? Do I take the kids to the park and let Hal deal with it? Do I plop them in front of a DVD on my laptop and roll up my sleeves? Do I let the kids box themselves so I don't have to worry about it?

Advice for moving with small children, please, if you have it?

In the meantime, here are a few pictures of Archer riding a bike really fast.

***

After the IUD - An Update

2010-04-07T19:32:00Z

Ever since my collection of Mirena/IUD posts I have become a bit of a poster-child for Anti-Mirena, which let's be clear, I HATED mine. But I'd also like to reiterate what I've said in the past: If Mirena works for you? Fantastic. Just because I've had a bit of a FAIL with it doesn't mean everyone has to. In fact? Many of you use Mirena and love it. (Although lately it seems that most of you are having yours removed - which - I totally support but it also makes me nervous because I don't want to be responsible for any unplanned pregnancies, including my own!)

Which, I'll have you know - I'm absolutely NOT pregnant. In fact, we've been doing incredibly well with the whole condom thing. They're actually not that bad! So many options!

I guess what I'm trying to say is: we're all different. We all react differently to these things. I just want everyone to be happy and healthy and comfortable. Amen.

Which brings me to what I originally set out to post about:

After the Mirena ... three-ish months later:

Here's what's happening:

1. Hair - It takes time for hair to come back. Mine is no exception, obviously. Today my entire head of hair is up-did by way of four bobby-pins but my lovely friend who cuts my hair told me that the "little guys" seem to be pushing through. That my hair will be back to its normal luster someday soon.

2. Yeast Infections - Have completely gone away since getting my IUD removed. Thank goodness. That was so gross. Bleck

3. Periods - They came back immediately after getting my IUD removed along with the hormonal acne I've had since forever. Apparently, my body didn't get the memo that I'm twenty-eight years old. I realize to many this may sound like a negative but I'm actually kind of relieved to be back to my natural state. Even if it means sleeping with toothpaste on my face one week out of the month and having to occasionally bleach my white leggings.

4. Weight Gain - After doing tons of research I found that many people gain weight with Mirena. I did not. I feel like if anything I've gained weight since it's been removed - but that also might have something to do with the fact that I started eating gluten again and haven't been as active as I usually am.

5. Pain during Sex - obviously the penis-poker is no longer so this is an easy one. And the bright side? Condoms don't seem nearly as bad as they used to seem. In the words of Hal - "I'd rather bag it than get stabbed... it." Also? Sex is WAY more enjoyable for me, too, these days. Maybe because I'm no longer afraid of stabbing Hal with my "uterine sword."

6. Sex drive - Not only has my sex drive returned (although I'll admit - not as sexed as it was pre-pregnancy with Fable) but over the last three months I've become strangely attracted to women in a way I've NEVER been before. Not, like, throw-down in the ladies-room attracted but... "hey, pretty lady. How 'bout I buy you a drink?" attracted. Whether this has to do with hormonal shifts or something else, I find it odd that as soon as the IUD came out, so did my love for the ladies. Weird.

7. Feeling like myself again - Yes, yes and yes. My body is happy. My mind is happy. My man is happy. I'm hormone free and loving life.

Cue happy family photo at holiday gathering:

And when my hair comes back? All will be right in the world again.

I'd love to hear from you guys. Especially those of you who've had your IUDs removed in the last few months. Have you noticed a change? Do you feel different? How so? I'd also love to hear from those of you who have switched out your Mirenas for the Copper (hormone-free) IUD. Thanks, as always, for your insight and honesty and education.

***

Waiting by the Home

2010-03-25T19:29:00Z

*Updated, below*

Last week we fell in love with a house. We'd been looking for several weeks, even months - close to a year of scanning and scoping, searching and book-marking, touring and open-house(ing) -- taking our time -- waiting and hoping that eventually the time would be right - the space would be right - the school district would be right - and we could take the next step as a family: house rentership.

And right now? It's ALL right. The timing. The house. The everything. As much as it can be, that is. And so? I have become obsessed. I can't eat. I can't sleep. I can't stop decorating the living room in my head. Staring at photos of the house's Spanish-tiled kitchen, online, its french-doored office - its ... omgomgomg BACKYARD! (ED: I haven't had a backyard since I lived at home 10+ years ago. This has been a DREAM of mine since always, especially since becoming a parent.)

Every day for the last two weeks I've driven by the house. Parked against the curb to gaze at its FOR RENT sigh, imagining what life would be like coming home to a home. A house. With three-bedrooms and a garage to convert into a studio. With lemon trees and elevated boxes to plant vegetables with the kids. With an actual office space to store my computer and hundreds of books. Whoa.

Frankly, the last two weeks have made it hard to think of much else.

In High School I used to fall in love quite on the often side. Mainly from afar, I'll admit. I once stalked a boy for close to two years. He played guitar at a coffee shop my friends and I used to flock to and even though he never knew my name - my love for him knew no bounds. I'd drive by the coffee shop, even when he wasn't performing, even if I had a boyfriend at the time. He was, decidedly my soulmate, and I KNEW that one day he'd love me back and we'd live happily ever after, him playing his guitar, with his long surf-streaked hair and rain rock in a rustic cafe, and me writing poetry about the way the wind combed his hair... la la swear... la la beware... la la wooden chair... (Ed: Years later, the same boy would become a local L.A. newscaster. A far cry from the bohemian cafe-guitarist I fell quietly in love with. Still way cute, though.)

I digress...

This house? Is kind of the equivalent of THAT boy - except it hasn't been two years, it's been two weeks - and yet? It feels like... an eteeeeeeeernittyyyyyyyyyyyyy... with our withooooooooout you... please don't go... don't gooooooooooo ... don't goooo awaaaaay...

And right now? I'm totally freaking the eff out. Because tomorrow? We find out if we get the house. If the landlord chooses us out of all the many people who want to rent the property. (Apparently, Los Angeles didn't get the recession memo because it's COMPETITIVE as all hell out there, sheesh.) Because, in typical Hollywood fashion, we must wait in the lobby for our call-back.

In the meantime? We make plans to attend open-houses over the weekend. And I write this post to keep myself from stalking the property like a crazy sixteen-year-old.

And if tomorrow, our name isn't called? I'll bow out gracefully. Sad, yes. But with the knowledge that our perfect-for-us house is out there. That, whatever which way this works out -- We'll be able to stargaze in our very own backyard soon enough.

... at the three visible stars up in the sky. La la la I will not cry. La la la, we're ~~doing ten drive-bys a day~~ standing by...

***

*We got the house, you guys. WE. GOT. THE. HOUSE. Moving in May 1st. More to come! MORE TO COME! Thank you so much for your good vibes and well wishes and kindness. We are so grateful!

...and then one day she walked and that was that

2010-03-17T03:13:00Z

Last Thursday Fable started walking. She stood up and walked down the hall. Walked down the street. Around the block. Walked and hasn't stopped since. I'd been reluctant to say anything until I was absolutely sure. Last time she walked, I got all excited, shouted the news to the rooftops and then, the next day, back to knee-walking was she.

Not this time.

This time Fable stood cautiously at first, reaching for my hand every few steps in the house and then outside, on the pavement squares. She was careful and watchful and concentrated. She was unsure, yet steady:

...and then, the next day, walked confidently on. And on. And on. Down the street and around the next block, into the grass where she gathered and blew her first dandelion, its seeds getting caught in her lips and my fingers when I tried to fish them out.

By day three, she was pushing my hand away. I've got this one, mom. Thanks, anyway. Walking so fast she practically ran, and me chasing after her, herding her away from the streets, toward the sidewalk, howling, "danger! danger! the street is danger!"

On day four, Archer joined us and for the first time it was Fable who lead her big brother down the street. Little guide. A moment I was able to capture with my camera. A moment I have marveled at ever since:

...For there she was leading him. Leading me and Hal and all of us. Just like that.

No need for a stroller on our daily jaunts around the neighborhood anymore.

Today we spent the day in the sun, climbing neighbor's stoops and falling on our knees in the lawn, skipping Fable's morning nap so we could chase birds. So SHE could chase birds.

Hal came home, hours later, to find us, halfway down the block, scraped-kneed and dirty-faced, dresses askew ...

"What are you two crazies doing?" Hal asked.

And for the very first time I got to say, "taking a walk. Just us girls."

Because, we were.

Simple as that.

Two girls on a walk. ~~Ahhhh!!! She's walking! So fun omg ahhhh!!!!~~ No big deal.

***

Fear of Fooding

2010-03-09T05:05:00Z

I have a confession. I'm afraid of dining out. In a restaurant. With the kids.

It's a strange phobia and totally unlike me (who is very pro exposing-my-kids-to-everything-rad-and-interesting) but when it comes to dining out? I'd much rather it be a date night with my husband or out with my girlfriends -- no kids allowed.

Case in point, Sunday morning, when we were asked to join family for a restaurant brunch with the kids, we politely ~~were like ARE YOU KIDDING? NO WAY! FUCK THAT! ARE YOU CRAZY?~~ declined.

And it's not because our kids aren't well-behaved. More often than not, they're perfectly angelic-ish. And honestly? The three (yes, three) times we've taken them out to dinner with us in the seventeen months since Fable was born, they've been awesome. They ate their food and ~~played under the table~~ sat in their seats and Archer colored on Hal's arm and Fable ate my lipstick and it was actually kind of lovely.

Still.

Twice in seventeen months is all I'm up for, because here's the (quite embarrassing, really) thing: I care what people think.

At least, I care what people think in restaurants and coffee shops when I can feel their eyes burning holes in the back of my head. And then I get awkward and weird and spill things all over myself. And then it's not the kids I have to worry about but my own neurosis - because all of a sudden I'm apologizing to everyone I see -even when there's nothing to apologize for - just in case something happens that might offend, annoy or put them off, and pretty soon I'M the one who's spilling food all over someone's lap.

I wrote about my little eat-out-in-public-with-kids-conundrum a couple years back. And at the time, was very "fuck the man! I can bring my kid with me everywhere, yo!" I kind of still agree -- if only I was as strong in the flesh as I am on the computer.

Or not.

Frankly, I'd rather save the money, eat at home as a family every night and splurge once every month or two on a fanciful feast at a restaurant where I don't have to chase children through the hallways -- where I can sit still and drink wine and eat truffled things, cross my legs under the table, enjoy my food.

And one day? When the kids are old enough to do the same? They can come with us.

Until then? Party of two, hold the crayons.

***

Lean on Knee: Milestone Edition

2010-02-27T20:07:00Z

On Tuesday Fable will be seventeen-months old and, most likely, not yet walking on foot. She knows how to walk. She walks a few steps on her own, every day, but for the most part? She walks on her knees.

Like this:

And unless Fable gets up and walks sometime next week? Archer will be the earlier of our two children, first walking at seventeen-months.

Which, until now, I thought was SOOOOOOO LATE OMG. And now I'm realizing that actually? It's not that late. In fact, it clocks in at "average" in our family.

I figured Fable would be an early bloomer because Archer was so late. That's how it was with my brother and me. I peaked early, talking (claims my mother) fluently by my first birthday. Meanwhile, my brother struggled with his speech for years only to outrun me in every way by his third birthday. Case in point: dude recently wrote this.

Like I said, I peaked early.

Archer was much like my brother. It took him until his third birthday to find his words and come into his own. But now? The child is mind-blowingly genius-ish. I know I'm his mother and it's my job to think so but oh my, is his mind ever a treasure-map to the universe's greatest secrets. Every day with him feels like a gift from the gods of inspiration.

So, I'm not worried about Fable. Like I've written before, I'm relieved to be a different parent this time around, trusting in her ability to come to her own conclusions about readiness.

But! I am very much in the know when it comes to the pressure of parenthood, specifically milestone markers. Milestone markers that mean EVERYTHING even though we kinda sorta have no idea what they're measured against.

After googling for answers to all questions Mirena IUD, I realized the best way to find genuine, truthful information c/o people I respect, was to open a dialogue, here, where we could all share/discuss/inform/lean on one another and YOU GUYS? Hooked it UP, MAN. You helped me and each other and strangers on google-quest for answers.

So I thought now would be a great opportunity to do the same. Because too many times I hear from people worried about their kids because they're not hitting the "right marks" at the "right times," and as a parent who used to ALSO worry about these things, I thought a share-forum might be in order.

Yes?

Because, much like with my IUD post, I'm starting to realize the doctors don't tell us the WHOLE story and I think it might be helpful for those of you stressing about your "late bloomer" to realize that maybe your "late bloomer" is right on schedule.

The spread is vast when it comes to averages and "what is normal" in terms of milestones. I know you guys can help me showcase that.

Here, I'll go first:

Archer:

Crawled @ 13 months

Walked @ 17 months

Talked in sentences @ 3+

Fable:

Crawled @ 10 months

Walked @ TBD

Talked in sentences @ TBD* (has a handful of words at seventeen-months. Ten maybe?)

I know I'm not alone when I say, I'd LOVE to hear from you...

***

Thank Heaven for Little Girls

2010-02-17T05:38:00Z

I've written about my ginormous breasts before. About my two breast-reduction surgeries. About my issues with body image and plastic surgery. And nursing after redux. But I've never gone into detail re: my quest for little-ish boobs because before now? There was no happy ending to the story.

At my largest, I wore a 36 FF. I was seventeen and miserable. I hated my body, my custom-made bathing-suits, my extra-large shirts.

But that's not where my journey began. No ma'am.

In 8th grade, I was made honorary president of Diegueno Jr. High's "Itty Bitty Titty Committee." I was the last of my friends to start my period and subsequently grow boobs. The boys made fun of me. Girls called me names. I rocked an ultra-padded 32 AAA until 9th grade when I landed my first B cup.

Rockin AA soccer and a B cup, 9th grade

By 10th grade I was rocking a D, which wasn't that big a deal. Plenty of girls I knew had large boobs. I just happened to be one of them.

Junior year was when everything went south. Literally. It didn't matter that I was sixteen. My "girls" were low-riders. They had no choice. They were massive pendulums from hell. Forces of nature, not to be reckoned with.

Unless of course, you were gravity.

In which case, they were fucked.

trying to contain my cleavage, Halloween, Senior year.

Before my first reduction, I asked my surgeon to give me a small C cup. For the first month or so after the surgery my breasts were indeed a C, albeit a large C. Breast reduction surgery is NOT an exact science. Swelling and even after-growth affect the size you actually end-up with, but for me, it was more than that. I was eighteen when I had my first surgery and apparently fell victim to the fact that my breasts weren't finished growing.

By my 20th birthday, my boobs were so pissed off at me for paying a surgeon to chop them off, they grew back. Not to their full potential, mind you, but at 36 DD they were still pretty huge. My doctor insisted on re-doing my reduction, so he did. And I got to deal with the aftermath of not being able to wipe my own ass for six weeks, all over again.

Two years after my second surgery, my breasts were once again D cups. And D cups they have been ever since, through my pregnancy with Archer, Fable, and beyond... It wasn't until about three months ago that I noticed a change. My D bras were suddenly gapping and everywhere I went people were commenting about my weight-loss, which wasn't nearly as drastic as it apparently looked.

It wasn't until a few weeks ago when my friend asked me if "I had recently stopped breastfeeding" that I realized how much smaller I was.

"No offense but your boobs have disappeared. They're gone. You look like a boy."

It was one of the nicest things anybody had ever said to me.

I bought him a coffee and an hour of WiFi.

And that day? I went home and tried on all the bras that Hal shrunk over the years by accidentally drying them.

Sure enough? They all fit. Unfortunately they were too disfigured to wear comfortably without stab-wounds. But still. I was elated.

And so? I did something that I haven't done in many, many years: I went bra shopping.

"When was the last time you got sized?" the nice lady at Nordstrom asked me.

"Um.... 1999?"

"Let's seee heeeeeeeere," she said, wrapping her tape around my rib cage.

"Uh huh! Just as I suspected. 34C."

It was a Christmas miracle. In the middle of February. I started to cry.

"Don't cry, honey!" she said, signaling to my postpartum shriveled-up little booblets. "Your girls are just darling."

"I know it!" I cheered.

Finally.

Ten years of surgeries and discomfort, custom-made bathing-suits, psychological wtfuckedupness and thousands of dollars trying to stop my effing tits from regenerating like alligator-lizard tails, and my girls are FINALLY darling.

Cue Maurice Chevalier.

***

Part Three in the TrIUDlogy: Womb Squad successfully detonates IED in Hurt Locker

2010-02-10T06:43:00Z

Last week I went and had my IUD removed.

"How long have you had it?" the nurse asked, taking my blood pressure.

"Just over a year."

"Ah, yes," she admitted. "Most patients get them removed within the year, I've found."

"Huh. Interesting," said I, disrobing, before thumbing through the ONLY magazine in the room wtf.

When my doctor finally arrived, I explained to him why I wanted it out.

"So, basically, my hair's falling out. I have yeast infections, complete loss of sex drive, pregnancy paranoia caused by having no period, loopy hormonal weirdness AND to top it all off (puns are ALWAYS intended) IUD strings that poke my husband in the penis face whenever we have sex, which is seldom to begin with because of the yeah."

"I'm so sorry to hear this. We'll take it out right away, okay?"

He went on to say that IUDs aren't for everyone but "don't discount that everything (besides the penis poking) could be attributed to post-partum hormonal shiftage..."

Which I knew. Because I read all your fantastic comments here and here.

But.

BUT.

"After Archer's birth, I didn't lose hair. My sex drive wasn't affected at all. In fact? By four-weeks post-partum I was a raging sexwanter, breaking the doctor's orders, even after the Episiotomy of Broken Dreams!!!"

"I see. Well? We'll see how it goes!" doc shrugged, yanking out that son-of-a-bitch and dangling it above my head like the devil's mobile.

"Now, then. What will you two crazy kids be using for birth control now that the IUD's no more."

"Uh... condoms?"

"And that's cool with you guys? Your husband doesn't mind?"

"My husband says, and I quote, it will be better than getting stabbed by the "IED" in her "Hurt Locker."

"????????????????????"

"That's what Hal calls my IUD. He's a real word player."

My doctor and I quickly chatted about other options beside condoms, but at the end of the day, I told my doctor, I was quite done with hormonal birth control thankyouverymuch. He understood.

"Vastectomy?"

One again, the answer was no. I'd like to have another child someday, preferably with Hal. And besides that, what if something happened to me and Hal wanted to breed with someone else? Not to mention the fact that dude practically faints at the thought of burning objects anywhere near his balls. Which I totally get. I do. I've had nightmares about getting Lasik ever since my dad came home with those giant Fly-goggles when I was fifteen.

I should have felt relieved leaving the doctor's office but instead? I felt paranoid and insecure.

What if I made the wrong decision? What if condoms aren't enough and I end up pregnant before we're ready?

Twas it a a crime of passion getting the thing pulled???

Maybe hair loss isn't so bad? Hal seems perfectly happy bald!

And not having a sex drive? Eventually that would change!? Maybe. Right?

I sulked for the rest of the day. And then that night? Not twelve hours after getting my Mirena pulled, I started my period. My first period in two years. Five pounds of rolled-up toilet paper in my underwear later, I was sulking once again, doubting myself and my body and my decision. Except this time? I was crampy and wanted chocolate Pinkberry. With mint shavings.

But then? Two days later? A miracle happened:

I woke up horny.

Call it a Placebo Effect. Call it, "How Becca Got Her Groove Back" but there you have it.

And now? On my week anniversary of IUD removal, I'm proud to TMI your asses with a rather exciting fact: I've had sex more in the last three days than I have in the last three months.

Literally.

Of course, it's going to take a minute for my hair to come back, to get used to Tampax and Trojans and period cramps, oh my. But it's a worthwhile trade-off to feeling inept and unfeminine and sexually blah.

In other words? I'd much rather party like it's 1999 than not party at all.

BOOM.

***

IUDisasterville: Epiblogue

2010-01-29T07:42:00Z

First off, I'd like to thank all of you for being so totally amazing - open and willing to get all TMI on my (and everyone else's) ass. It is beyond refreshing, rad and totally gush-worthy. I feel incredibly privileged to be among such amazing women (and men! Hi, men! If you're there, hi!) and so lucky to have the opportunity to learn from your experiences.

After reading through your one-hundred and eighty-something comments, I've decided to get my Mirena removed immediately and will be doing so next week.

We'll be kicking it old school with condoms, which do not have hormones. And although they suck and I hate them, they sound like paradise compared to what we've been through IUD wise.

I forgot to post about this last week, remembering belatedly as I was reading through your comments, so I will post about it now.

1. Yeast Infections:

Before my Mirena insertion last January, I had NEVER in my life experienced a yeast infection. Twenty-seven point five years yeast infection free, thankyouverymuch BUT in the last year? I've had them back to back to back, up and down and all around and itchy-itchy-scratch-scratch-YUCK.

Nothankyouverymuch.

2. Mirena has made my hair thin. And by thin, I mean, lose HALF if not MORE of my hair's natural thickness in twelve-months.

And here I thought I was just extremely stressed (even though I haven't felt particularly that way) but after reading about Mr. Lady's experience with hair loss (in the comments) I googled and found that hair loss is a common side effect in hormonal birth controls, specifically Mirena. Before the device was installed my hair was CRAZY thick - the kind of thick I had to have thinned when I went in for haircuts! Now? It's barely styleable. In fact, over the last six months, people have asked me about "my new layers!" when, nope! No haircut! Just au natural thinning.

Except it's not natural. Not at all.

My hair in December 08, the month before my IUD insertion:

(don't ask what I was taking this picture for but thank goodness I took it! You can really tell how huge and amazing my hair used to be back in the good-hair days. Also? A nursing bra in the background = BONUS POINTS!)

Annnnnnd, here is my hair tonight. In a ponytail:

That's not a pigtail. THAT'S MY ENTIRE HAIR, people. All of it.

Oh! And here's the top of my head! Lovely!

And here I'd thought I was stressed out and didn't know it! Nope. ACTUALLY? I WAS PERFECTLY STRESS-FREE AND YET MY HAIR WAS FALLING OUT IN CLUMPS, CLOGGING THE SHOWER DRAIN LIKE A DEMO ON AN INFOMERCIAL! NOT AWESOME!

Sigh.

At least I now know that for me? Hormones = not my friend = Mirena = dunzo.

So, there is that silver lining.

All of this to say... thank you. Again. For everything. Your comments on my last post and your emails and tweets. Thank you for taking time to share your experiences with me and everyone else. You're my soul sisters and I love you.

Now if you will, please except this rose.

You, too.

And you.

I'm sorry, Mirena.

That means you're out.

Please take a moment.

And say your goodbyes....

...to my uterus.

Dick.

***

IUDisasterville

2010-01-19T19:21:00Z

Okay, so I think I hate my IUD. I realize this is contrary, perhaps to my earlier posts about loving how easy .... loving that I have no period... loving that I don't have to take a pill... etc, etc, etc..

Yeah, no.

Here's why I changed my mind:

This week marks my one-year anniversary with my Mirena - the IUD with a leetle beet of hormone. Hormone my OB promised wouldn't affect me at all. And I believed him. Even though he was like, "you may not ever have a period again as long as you're on it!" and I was like, "Oh! Cool! That seems natural for the female body! Stick 'er in there, sir!"

Because I'm not very smart.

And he was right! No period! No period for an entire year, now. But guess what happens when hormones fuck with your body's natural SITUATION - you aren't yourself. And for me? The casualty of IUD has been my sex drive. My poor once-hypercharged horny-for-your-love sex drive has been reduced to a raisin in the sun - dry as a bone. (NO PUN INTENDED! Ew, boners are GROSS!)

My poor husband. My poor hand. My poor YouPorn account.

Seriously.

I've been meaning to blog about this for months now because my original post was so IUD = HOORAY! And you know what? Some IUDs may be awesome. The copper one? I hear great things about. Besides a heavier period, they supposedly rock. (Although, now that I have an IUD, I realize I hate the idea of having a T-shaped contraption shoved up my vag, stuck for a decade in my uterus.) But the Mirena? Is not my BFF. Not at all.

Besides the whole hormones fucking up my sex drive - turning me into a complete prude, devoid of my former ability to come hither at a moment's notice, my man can feel the strings during sex, which ... ouch for him. (Not that we're even having sex. Last night I threatened to call the police when Hal tried to take my pants off. I even went so far as calling him a mate-rapist.)

I was warned by many of you re: Mirena's unholy traits and now I get it. I understand the controversy, I do. I'm a late-twenties woman (in her supposed sexual-prime!!!) lacking a sex-drive, threatening to sue her husband for sexual harassment every time he grabs her ass. I live in a tamponless household, for bloody sake! (Pun intended! Ha, ha!) I have a T-shaped penis-poker stuck up inside my body for four more cruel years.

And so? I'm pulling that fucker. As soon as I can figure out what the hell to use in its place.