Straight From the Bottle

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: ...

Read More...

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 me, 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...

Read More...

Archer didn't walk until he was seventeen-months old. At the time, it seemed serious. Worrisome. All the other kids we met on play-dates and park slides were walking much earlier. 

"My son walked at ten-months."

"Mine at twelve."

"Mine was late and didn't walk until he was thirteen."

I have a whole chapter devoted to Archer's late walking in my book --  of being self-conscious, feeling like I had to explain myself, him

I was convinced he'd crawl forever - had dreams about him attending his first day of High School on hand and knee.

Archer finally walked on Halloween, 2006. He was seventeen-months old. 

After that I scolded myself for having spent so much time worrying. Pushing. Pleading with him to walk like the other kids his age. Just as I did when Archer talked late and suddenly started speaking full sentences. Regretted having spent so much unnecessary time and energy engaging my worry. Pressuring him and myself.

He was late but who cares? Why did I?

It is a mother's nature to worry, especially when everywhere she turns she is handed information about other children - statistics about what is "normal" and what is not. But the second time around, worry isn't as commonplace. At least it hasn't been for me...

Read More...

Ten years ago, I was celebrating The Millennium with my boyfriend-at-the-time, high on drugs at a warehouse rave in St. Louis, via his hometown of Springfield Missouri. I was eighteen years-old, freshly on my own, totally in love and out of my mind. The following four New Year Eve's went somewhat similarly. Drunk, high, tripping down boulevards in broken paper crowns, blowing cheap paper horns and boy friends soon to be ex. It was New Years eve and nothing mattered - not the past or the future - (especially not the immediate future) as evidenced by New Years days spent sick in bed, still drunk, buzzing from substances inhaled the night before. 

New Years' days were painful reminders of what "coming down" felt like, of waking up alone, surrounded by people. The hope for a happy New Year replaced with hunger. For breakfast. For love. Direction. Something else.

It's been six years since I've been out on New Years Eve. Hal, too. Our first New Year's Eve together, I was four-months pregnant with Archer so we stayed in. The years that followed we had newborn babies or lack of funds so we did our own thing. Hosted game nights with a handful of friends. Watched home-movies. Hung out with my parents.

This year we decided to go out. Ring in a new decade, holding hands, lost in the city we love - our home. Our first time out on New Years as a couple. My parents agreed to babysit the kids for the night. I even bought a party dress.

We looked into parties, set menus, hotel rooms to stumble home to after hours...

Read More...

Now that we've fully embraced Christmas as a family, I thought it only fitting that I get a cute photo of my kids in Santa's lap Archer and Fable meet with Santa, so last night we just did that. We journeyed to our favorite Encinitas haunt with my parents and sibings, roasted some 'mellows, sipped some Mulled wine (parents only) and stood in line for some festive Santa action. 

Archer with my brother, David

Fable with my dad

The line was surprisingly quick considering the vast assortment of children great and small scurrying around the gardens, and Archer waited patiently, standing on his tip-toes trying to sneak a peek at Santa through a thicket of lights and plants.

"Is there anything you want to ask Santa?" my mother asked.

Archer thought for a moment and then proclaimed excitedly, "Yes! I'd like to know how old he is!"

"Is there anything else you want to ask him? Like... what you want for Christmas, maybe?"

"Oh yeah! I forgot about that," he smiled. "But I also want to know how old he is." ...

Read More...

So after all the hair drama, Archer decided, over the weekend, that he was quite over not being able to see.

"Are you ready for a haircut?" I said."You'll be able to see, again. Might be kind of nice, don't you think?"

"Oooooookaaaaaay," 

Archer took me by the hand and happily walked us down the street and into our local barber shop. He sat down, hands at his sides, and smiled at himself in the mirror as the nice lady cut three inches of shag from around his head, bangs in his eyes included.

"What do you think?" we asked him when she finished and he climbed down off the barber chair.

Read More...

 When Hal and I first got together/pregnant/married (because it all happened, pretty much on the same day) we discussed whether or not we would raise our unborn baby Jewish. To Hal it was important we subscribe solely to Jewish tradition, dropping all the Hallmark mass-marketed Christmas crap, which I was cool with because YEAH! Screw Hallmark! Screw the man!

Raised in a predominantly Jewish household myself (my father is Jewish and my mother was raised celebrating all religions. Her father was Jewish which means I’m technically ¾ Jewish which means technically our kids are 7/8 Jewish which is pretty majority, then again, my mother’s mother wasn’t Jewish so technically, I’m not Jewish. Technically, I’m also very confused, but that's kind of per usual these days so eh.)

That being said, I've always identified culturally, even spiritually with Judaism, no matter how infrequently I attended Temple. (Twice a year?)

And yet, even still, there's no denying I’ve always been a HUGE Christmas person. I love caroling and dressing the Christmas tree and wrapping gifts in the home-made wrap I make out of recycled back-issues of Vogue. I listen to Christmas music the entire month of December and wear my Christmas socks year round. I love Christmas lights and wreaths and mistletoe and elves and bows and fake snow on the rooftops of nativity scenes. I love IT ALL.

So when Hal said to me, “No Christmas!” I said. “Okay, cool. I totally understand.” but inside I was screaming, “NOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!”

After many tears and much debate we compromised on celebrating Hanukkah in our house and Christmas with my family, which was fine with me and totally awesome because I would our kids would have the best of both worlds, I’d still get to inhale pine for one week out of the month and Archer could experience the magic of Christmas morning c/o presents from my parents.

We both agreed that Santa was out of the question, unnecessary and totally stupid. 

"Why would we lie to our kid about Santa? How lame!"

"Right? Stupid, stupid. So very silly."

That was before Archer was old enough to understand who Santa Claus truly was...

Read More...

This week Fable started standing. Without assistance, or holding onto a hand or a railing. All of a sudden, in the middle of my parent's tile floor she stood up on two feet. And then she did it again. And again. And again. Over and over as my family cheered and rooted her on and Archer was like, "look! Wanna see me stand? Wanna see me stand? See? See?"

But the thing about standing babes when they're not quite used to standing? They go bonk. Like, BONK. And then you pick them off the floor and they're screaming and OH GOD! Here it comes. HERE IT COMES! HER BRAIN IS HATCHING A GOOSE-EGG, NOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!

And you can almost see the bump appear and then grow in slow motion like some sort of Chia Injury. Ch-ch-ch-CHIA! And it grows and grows until finally it stops growing and you're horified on one hand but on the other (once she stops crying and you know for certain she isn't going to die from brain injury) that the bump is kind of a little bit hilarious. Sad and awful but also a wee smidge funny.  

Read More...

 1. “He needs a haircut.”

“I know.”

“So why don’t you cut his hair?”

“Because he doesn’t want a haircut.”

“But you’re his parent. You’re supposed to make the rules.”

“I do make the rules but he doesn’t want a haircut. What am I going to do, hold him down and cut his hair?”

“No. Just tell him he has to have a haircut.”

“I tried. But then he told me he wants to grow his hair long and I have to respect that. It is his hair. And it isn’t hurting anyone.”

“But he looks sloppy – like someone who needs a haircut.”

“Maybe. But who am I to tell him how to look?”

“You’re his parent.”

2. “Archer, you need a haircut.”

“No I don’t.”

“I can’t see your face.”

“I want to grow it long like yours.”

“But I can see. See?”

“I can see, too. See?”

“All your friends at school have haircuts.”

“So.”

“We could do something really cool. Something shaggy. A mohawk? A trim? You can pick out a style and we’ll bring it to the barber and he will make you look awesome!”

“I don’t want to pick out a style.”

“… Not even for a cupcake?"

“No, Mommy. I like my hair the way it is.”

“Whoa, really? More than an M&M cupcake from Crumbs?”

“I LOVE M&M CUPCAKES but no. No haircut I said!"

"Fine. Grow it down to your ankles for all I care."

"Fine!" ...

Read More...

Everyone I know is pregnant. It's kind of like how three years ago, everyone I know got married. Within a six week window. And it was like "COME ON! I am SO NOT going to wear this brown floor-length satin halter dress again. Or the "Lavender Mid-length." Or the "Salmon Strapless"

Ugh! Bridesmaid dresses! Ugh!

I digress. Even though I don't want to digress. Because bridesmaid dresses are too easy to write about. And I have a grip of those mofos hanging in my closet becoming more outdated as the days pass and what's a girl to do? Perhaps I should try them all on for James Marsden and then post a montage, here, in place of a blog post?

No? Okay then. Moving on.

As I was saying, everyone I know is pregnant. Which makes me very overly-attentive and interested in everyone. In a way that is probably annoying. Because I'm stalking every pregnant woman I know with baby names and unsolicited boxes of maternity clothes and "Hey? Were you sleeping? Just... checking in to see if you have morning sickness!"

"Actually, Bec? It's 6am. I was sleeping."

"But not for looooooooong... When that baby arrives you will be up at all hou...."

Click.

"... Hello? HELLOOOOOOOOOO?!"

Part of it has to do with excitement. I waited a long time and spent a lot of energy trying to brainwash my single friends into joining "the cult of parenthood" and now that everyone's joining I feel like I have to force-feed them kool-aid. 

But also? (And here's the kicker.) I miss being pregnant...

Read More...

I've been heavy on the Halloween posts these last few days but I couldn't let Halloween come and go without discussing the dos and don'ts of adult Halloween costumes and what to do when your kids are like, "WTF? Who are you and what have you done with my parents YOU CRAZY CRAZIES AHHH!"

Please note that Archer is wearing his pajamas in the above photo. On the weekend he wears pajamas because we don't have to be anywhere in the early mornings and we all hang out in our pajamas and read newspapers and eat bagels and high-five each other until it gets boring and we get dressed and leave the house. The end.

Now, mind you, Hal and I were especially scary looking this year. 

And although we planned our costumes weeks in advance we kinda sorta forgot to take under consideration the possibility that Archer and Fable might not be as amused as we. It wasn't until I slipped into Hal's clothes and he slipped into mine that we realized "oh, shit. This might actually disturb them."

And for a little while it did.

Okay so it was longer than a little while.

More like an hour. 

At first I thought we were going to have to make a costume change. It wasn't so much Fable, who just blinked at me blankly, blinked at Hal blankly and then blinked at us both blankly before crawling as far away from us as she could. Surprisingly it was Archer who threw a fit. He was PISSED. He refused to look at me without peeking at me through his fingers and instead of laughing at Hal as he flipped his wig and talked in my annoying California-y "like totally omigawd you guys" way, he frowned and threw his face into the couch. 

"Daddy!  You are NOT my mommy!" ....

Read More...

Let me start by saying this: Archer has been on time to school four times in the two years he's been attending. Thankfully, Archer's school has a thirty-minute window and also, thankfully, it's preschool so it doesn't *really* matter. But Kindergarten is coming. I am very aware of this because we're in apply-to-charter-and-magnet-school-mode, and being late will not be tolerated come Fall 2010. 

I blame myself partially. I'm hopeless in the morning and can never quite time the trip to school, especially as it ranges wildly. (Anywhere from ten minutes to forty-five depending on tree-trimming, road-fixing, show-shooting, and of course, cars-driving.) That being said, until two weeks ago, it wasn't ALL my fault that we were late every day. 

Archer happens to suffer from I-hate-to-get-dressed-in-the-morning-syndrome-especially-on-school-days and has for the past several months. 

In order to try to fix this exasperating situation, we took away his morning privileges. In the past he was able to watch one show (always Little Einsteins, his favorite) before school as Hal and I were getting the day prepared. 

"Fine!" I said one morning as Archer kicked and screamed and refused his clothes. "No more Einsteins!"

He cried louder. Kicked harder. But that was that. We haven't watched TV in the morning since. 

After that, I started a "star chart" so that every morning he got dressed without a fight, he got a star! (Every ten stars = cupcake or ice cream. Every one hundred stars = any toy he wants in our favorite local toy store.) At first the star chart was working brilliantly. Then, for whatever reason, it lost its charm. The tantrums returned with a vengeance. The refusal of getting dressed in the morning. The twenty-minute battle. EVERY. DAY. 

It wasn't until I had a panic attack in the middle of his worst tantrum ever that I decided to take serious action...

Read More...

It all started three hours before the wedding began.  Because that's how long it usually takes to get a family of four dressed, packed and out the door to such a function. For us it does.

I dressed myself first which is where the trouble began. 

It would seem the $30 vintage dress that I thought was SUCH A BARGAIN when I bought it wasn't so much a bargain at all. At closer inspection, in fact, it was broken, unraveling, completely coming apart. (Note to self: try on specialty-outfits the night before.) And because it takes me hours to so much as sew a button properly, I had to flag down my mother from the other room to sew me into my broken dress, Project Runway style. 

After that was done, it was time to get Archer dressed. Except the 5T tuxedo (also purchased second hand. Perhaps the lesson here is "buy new") was actually a 5T jacket and with a 2T vest and pants which.... Buzzkill! Especially after Fable spilled an entire bottle over her fancy wedding dress. And tights. And shoes.

"Ah, fuck it. It'll dry."

And it did.

The Archer suit situation, however, was a tad more panic-inducing. Besides the suit, I had nothing appropriate for him to wear to the wedding so Hal and Archer fled the scene. Their mission? To find suitable black pants. 

Moments later, upon their arrival at Target, Archer had a brilliant idea that consisted of him running away from Hal to hide beneath a rack of Finding Nemo pajamas which lead to Hal's desperate wails, poor man. Now he had to find his son AND a pair of black pants for a wedding that had already started? 

Brutal. 

Luckily, Hal's running around the store yelling "ARCHER! WHERE DO YOU KEEP YOUR BLACK PANTS!?" lead to the eventual finding of our son AS WELL as a pair of slightly-larger-than-usual-but-sure-what-the-hell-they'll-do pants thanks to a kind sales associate who felt sorry for poor Hal, and twenty minutes later they were back home.

Of course by that time Archer was like "NO! I don't want to go to a wedding! NO! I don't want to wear a suit! NO NO NO! AHHHH!"

So I made up an elaborate story about the magic powers of suit jackets and shiny shoes. 

Which worked. Because I'm a great liar. (That's a lie, actually.)

After four separate tantrums and two trips back to the house for bottles, diapers and deodorant (I tend to sweat profusely in large crowds. I get it from my dad.) we hit the road. Three minutes into our drive Archer passed out. Six minutes later, Fable was also asleep which meant that by the time we arrived at the wedding both kids were well into their REM sleep and there was NO WAY we were going to wake them. 

So we waited in the car for forty-minutes until they woke. 

And by the time we got everyone out of the car, the wedding was long over, but the good thing about weddings? They go on and on and on and on, so being two hours late, we were still plenty early as far as the reception was concerned. 

Better late than never, we proceeded, the four of us into the "cocktail party" space, just in time to down a few choice alcoholic beverages. 

Of course there's nothing for kids to do during cocktail hour besides spill everyones drinks and fish pennies out of the wishing well, so after twenty minutes of, "Sorry about that broken glass. What are you drinking? I'll get you another," Hal volunteered to take Archer on a walk to find a bribe. 

Unfortunately, all he could find was a raisin scone...

Read More...

Sunday night I came home to one very sick child. And when I say very sick, I mean, scary sick. A kind of sick I had yet to experience with either of my kids ever. Apparently it started Sunday morning but by Sunday evening, Archer was immobile. Refusing to leave the corner of my parent's couch. His eyes were swollen. He was shivering. 104 fever. Whimpering. 

"I think you should stay here," Hal said. "I don't know if traveling back to LA is such a good idea right now."

And he was right. So Hal took the train back home and I stayed with the kids at my parent's house.

Archer, the picture of health (and angst) before I left for the weekend.

"He probably has the Swine Flu," my mom said. 

"OH MY GOD! Really? Should we take him to the hospital? AHHHHHH!!!!"

"Nah, he'll be fine," she said. 

And she was right, of course, but Sunday night was the first time in a long time that I spent the night worrying. In between rounds of "Moon River" and dabbing Archer's face with cold washcloths, I lied awake, listening to my babe's heavy breathing, totally afraid. And I started to think about parents who tend to sick children all the time. About the sick kids I used to work with and how their parents spent YEARS worrying, dabbing, singing, rocking, being afraid...

Read More...

When Archer was born, I knew he wasn't going to be an only child. I knew this because we didn't want him to be an only child, because if we were going to have one child we were going to have two. That was the rule. Hell! I couldn't even have one dog without feeling like I was depriving him of a playmate. After having my dog, Cooper for four-months, I found him a sibling. And when Archer was 3.5, Fable was born. 

I always knew I wanted two kids. I never even thought to want more. I figured that regardless of their sex, two would be plenty of children for us. My entire pregnancy with Fable I kept thinking, it would be my last. The last time I'd ever be pregnant. The last time I'd ever give birth. Enjoy these last few months. Savor the suspense, revel in the excitement and the sweetness of newborn toes...

And that I did. I moped and whined and begged Fable to stay a baby because she was "our last." I recorded my pregnancy with photos and wrote tediously about my experience but then Fable was born and my second thought after: holy fuck, I love this girl more than I ever thought I could ever ...  was: holy fuck, we're not done. We're not all here. The feeling was so overwhelming to me, I almost felt guilty. How could I possibly be thinking of another child right now? There is a newborn baby in my arms and she's mine!

But the truth is that I did...

Read More...

Last month I wrote about our exciting next step as a family: buying a house. My excitement was palpable. I felt like an adult! A real live adult! An American dream-er. So incredibly mature and responsible and omg look at us! We're going to be homeowners!

What a difference a month makes.

As it turns out the market is not all that great. At all. The 900k two-bedroom up the street is now for sale for 880,000, which, is still quite out of our price-range, not to mention one-bedroom too small. So basically we're like "fuck it, let's just rent something," because, contrary to what people tell me, it isn't throwing money away to rent a house when you don't have $175,000 for a down payment. 

Sure, one of these days, we'll puncture the sky with our swords and the clouds will rain Benjamins but in the meantime? We're just a young family with a dream to live somewhere with three-bedrooms, a yard and central air-conditioning (Hello 100+ degree heatwave!) ...

Read More...

 Yesterday Archer came home from school and said a horrifying thing. 

Responding to the sound of laughing voices outside he turned to me and said, "don't worry, Mommy, I'm going to shoot the bad guys with my sword!"

My jaw dropped. Up until yesterday he had never mentioned "bad guys" nor had an affinity for swords. Or shooting.

"Where did you learn about bad guys?"

"Harry...*"

"And where did you learn about shooting?"

"Harry."

"What else is Harry teaching you."

"Nothing. We were just playing superheroes and superheroes kill the bad guys with shooting them, mommy. It's okay."

"Um... actually it's not okay. Shooting bad guys is not okay," I said, before stopping myself. "I mean... unless these bad guys are trying to shoot you, in which chase, uh... I mean... actually. You can't... You're not supposed to... I- I- I- I..."

Read More...

As you may know, we've been having serious sleep issues with Fable. She slept great on my boob those first nine months while we were co-sleeping, when she waking up five times a night was no big deal. She'd simply find my boob, latch on and pass out without me even knowing, nursing much of the night while we both dreamed sweet dreams .

She slept in her stroller for the last two months but would wake every two hours or so ALL NIGHT LONG which was brutal, not to mention the obvious: a stroller is no place for an almost-one-year old to sleep. Soon enough, she'd outgrow the space and what then? 

Of course it took until last week for us to finally throw in the towel and get her sleeping in her crib once and for all. We were in San Diego for the week and the whole stroller-to-bed thing was NOT working out. Hal and I stayed up pretty much the entire first and second night, rocking Fable and shushing her,  singing to her and strolling her around my parent's backyard in the wee hours between god-knows-when and fuck-is-that-the-sun?

It was then, sometime between 3am and 5 on night three of no sleep, that we admitted to each other and ourselves the awful truth: Fable was winning. She OWNED our asses. She had become our boss, our Ring Master, taking advantage of two lovesick fools easily manipulated by her magical, mystical cute-baby ways. 

In other words, the problem wasn't that Fable sucked at sleeping. It was that we sucked at getting her to sleep...

Read More...

I'm weaning. Still. Which I know I keep saying I will blog about but seriously, eventually I will. There's just a lot going on right now like for example, the insanity that has come with Fable's teeth which are ALL coming in. Right this second. A good thing in the long run but right now it is most definitely not a good thing. In fact, it's a horrible thing.  A terrible, horrible, no-good,very-bad thing. A cause of several all-nighters this week as well as all-around hard times. Parents need sleep, I now know. We say we're good on little sleep but we lie because holy shit, you guys, these last ten days Hal and I have been non-stop fighting. And it isn't his fault or my fault or even Fable's fault, poor lamb. It's those pesky teeth.

I've been venting non-stop to my fellow parent friends (and on this here blog, I do realize) and the best advice so far I has come from a friend and soon-to-be father of three. David, I'm looking at you, even though you don't read this blog. Hi, I'm still looking. Nice shirt! Thanks for the advice! Hope you're having a lovely Monday!

A proud homeopath, he recommended chamomilla and belladonna (not the porn star) to soothe and relieve Fable's teeth and gums. I'm a big believer in homeopathics, especially for babes and this, my friends, is good stuff...

Read More...

I feel like I'm coming full circle with this post as one of my very first SFTB posts was about childproofing the house for Archer, almost three years ago. The difference being, Archer was nine-months older than Fable at the time.

I heard that second children were faster to crawl, walk, talk, do pretty much everything, but I wasn't really prepared for the holy-shit-how-did-fable-crawl-into-the-bathroom-so-fast-to-teethe-on-the-toilet-seat-she-was-playing-at-my-feet-two-seconds-ago this early in her bobblerhood. (ed: bobbler = baby/toddler.) Archer didn't crawl until he was thirteen-months, walk until he was seventeen-months and even then he never got into anything dangerous and/or disgusting.

I seriously could have left him home alone for days and he would have likely played quietly by himself with his various baby toys, before putting himself down for three-hour naps and twelve-hour sleeps, never once getting involved with anything dangerous and/or disgusting.

Fable on the other hand...

...doesn't understand the point of toys whatsoever.

Teethers? Why put something clean and cute in her mouth when there are dirty shoes to lick the bottoms of?...

Read More...

Fable sucks at sleep. She's amazing at everything else but when it comes to sleep? She gets an F-. Maybe even an F--. Which is why it took us so long to finally set up her crib. From day one she refused her bassinet, only napping on my boob or in the Bjorn or BabyHawk and at night? She would happily fall asleep so long as she had my skin somehow, somewhere against hers. 

I figured she would grow out of it but 10+ months later, Fable still resists naps and wakes up 4-5 times a night AT LEAST. On average I'd say the girl gets about 9 hours of sleep total a day, which is insane I'm pretty sure. Aren't babies supposed to sleep for 16+? I'm pretty sure Archer slept close to 18 hours his entire first two years. No lie.

For the last few months, Fable has been napping solely in her stroller. In fact, it's the only way to get her down, which is why I'm five pounds thinner than I was before I got pregnant with her. ALL I DO IS WALK ALL DAY AND NIGHT WALK WALK WALK AHHHHH WALLLLLKKKKING WALK-WALK!

At night, we're basically down to two options now that she's not sleeping with us: ...

Read More...

Tomorrow afternoon we meet for the first time with our agent. Our real-estate agent which is as unbelievable to write as it is to say it aloud. Real-estate agent. Real Estate. Estate. Realtor. Home. Oh. Ner. Ship. What. The. Effing. Hell.

If you would have told me last year, as we scraped together pennies so I could afford to go on a partial book tour, that we would even for two-seconds think about buying a house in 2010, I would have punched you in the face and then kissed you and then punched you in the face again. In fact, until last month the notion of buying a house had never even crossed my mind. It was what adults did. And hello! I'm not an adult, I just play one on my blog(s). 

I was never interested in owning a home. I would quickly toss the real-estate section of the newspaper in the recycle bin without a second glance, preferring to scan craigslist for rentals, daydreaming of the $75,000 a month mansion in the hills because for some reason even THAT seemed more attainable than owning a home. Crazy, I know. 

It all started last month. Hal and I had been discussing wanting to move in the next year. Into something with central air-conditioning. A three-bedroom rental home with a potential office area out back, a little yard for Archer to play with his Jr. Golf set. We looked into a few rental properties, did a few drive-bys, emailed one another links to houses and even duplexes and came to the conclusion very quickly that to rent a house in our neighborhood  (we don't particularly want to live elsewhere as we have become attached to everything about our location) is to pay the same amount for a mortgage in our neighborhood and with tax-breaks and other such incentives for first-time home-buyers with perfect credit (I guess I am more responsible than I give myself credit for. OH! SNAP!) we're actually kind of qualified and totally eligible-ish to possibly, maybe even in the next year, buy our first home...

Read More...

About a month ago, I decided it was time to cut the cord. The day Fable turned nine-months old I suddenly felt the need to remove her from my breast, my body, and my bedroom. The feeling was overwhelming, like an instinct. It was time. Starting then I would slowly wean her, no longer put her to sleep in our bed, yes, even walk away from her from time to time, regardless of her screams of mamamamamamama! to pick her up. I was no longer enjoying being an extension of her. I wanted my body back, my space and perhaps more importantly, wanted her to learn how to sleep alone, entertain herself from time to time, and, yes, become more independent. 

A far cry from the way I felt months (even weeks!) earlier when I had a hard time leaving the room without her on my hip. When all I wanted to do was be with her. As close to her as possible without swallowing her whole.

I figured these last few weeks would be difficult and they have been. Fable refuses her crib with flailing hysterics and although her willpower is impressive, I will NOT let her win and so began hours-long, sometimes even all-night bedtime prep that I am proud to say has never ended with Fable sleeping in our bed but continues to frequently end with Fable sleeping in her stroller after long walks around the living room in circles at 2am, and me scolding myself the entire time for allowing her to sleep in our bed in the first place...

Read More...

Summer came fashionably late in L.A. this year but when she finally arrived? SHE ARRIVED. Angry, unapologetic and 75% humid. I am one of the nicest people you will ever meet when I'm not sweating balls. I hug strangers, fill empty meters, dance down the streets high-fiving Suits while birds sing songs on my shoulders. But when I'm hot and my thong is stuck to my ass with itchy sweat and my shirt is soaked through and my feet are covered with a film of heat-dust-wetness? I might just punch you in the face for no reason.

It's been in the 90's and beyond these last two weeks- some days have reached well into the 100s and contrary to the usual LA heatwave, it's been humid. Humidity is the single reason I could never live on the East coast. I will likely live and die on the West Coast of the US if only because I can't deal with moist summers. Of course, humid or not, I suck at being hot. I'm a sweater. I don't perspire like a lady, I sweat like a man. Like a LARGE, overweight man after a jog. It's too bad, really, especially considering my hairstyle (bangs tend to get a little... piecy in 100 degree weather) but mainly its just wildly uncomfortable. 

So all this to bring me to the following unfortunate truth...

Read More...

I haven't had a period in six-months. I know, I'm breastfeeding so you're probably like, well, duh! But actually? No. I started my period six weeks post-partum because my body is insane and thinks I'm some kind of breeding ground. In the good old days, pre birth control, I would likely have ten kids by the time I was twenty-one. Rough, that would have been but I digress.

Rebecca Woolf circa a long time ago, twenty-eight-year-old mother of 18.

It isn't a coincidence that IUD is DUI backwards. Driving drunk leads to crashing much like IUDs often do. That is, if you're me. Specifically me last week when I had an emotional breakdown followed by a bout of OMGI'mPregnantitis. I'm usually a pretty balanced girl. I'm not prone to mood swings or PMS. I have my moments of fog but seldom freak out. That was until two weeks ago when I started to feel funny. Hormonal funny. Emotional, on edge and totally beside myself with bouts of random tears, even anger. I felt like I was crashing after a nine-month high and maybe I was. But at the time, all I could think was, "Oh my God, what if I'm pregnant?"

I had soon convinced myself that my belly was huge and pregnant looking. I examined my naked body in the bathroom mirror in disbelief. 

"I look AT LEAST four-months pregnant, Oh my God."

It didn't stop there. My sense of smell was noticeably heightened when I evacuated my kids and dogs from our house because I smelled fire and was convinced it was coming from inside the walls.  We stood outside for ten minutes with Hal on the phone, before I realized that what I was smelling was coming from a down-the-street neighbor's charcoal barbeque...

Read More...