Straight From the Bottle

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...

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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 sleep habits.

"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."

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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...

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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!...

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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...

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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...

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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...

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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...

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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...

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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...

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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.

***

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...

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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...

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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 enjoy 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...

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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...

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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...

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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: ...

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*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...

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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!"

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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...:

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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 on 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...

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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...

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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."

"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?"

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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: ...

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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...

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