It’s Gettin’ A Little Shaky Round Here January 2, 2011

Last night in bed, I gave Lance a disheartening prophecy for this new year: our hometown will experience a devastating earthquake.  I’m sorry to just put it out there like that.   It was tough to deliver the news to him and now to you all is just hard to cope with.

I know it’s hard to tell but I’m being halfway serious.  A few days ago, southern Indiana had a 4.5 earthquake.  About a year ago here in my hometown, some of us woke up to our house rumbling.  Others rumbled but slept through it.  See exhibit Lance.

If you grew up around here, your whole life you learned in school that if we ever have an earthquake that it will be massively destructive.  I remember learning that in elementary school.  Probably because it freaked me out so bad that I dropped my trapper keeper every time.  At least it wasn’t the pencil box that had all the gadgets that popped out like a swiss army knife.

Fortunately for us, we all live over one of, if not the worst, fault lines in the ole’ U.S. of A.  To add insult to injury, our city pretty much sits on top of one of the world’s largest cave systems. Nothing like your home sitting on nice, sturdy hollow ground. mmmmmmmm.

About 5 years ago, a street just completely fell into the ground while cars were driving on it.  It was a hole the size of either a baseball field or football field.  I know that’s a big difference but when your car drops into the earth, who can get lost in such details?  You can’t.  You just get lost in the hole and basically that’s all.

Looks like we are headed for doom just like all of our teachers told us.  We are a ticking, shaking, cave time bomb. 

I was talking to a buddy about how I feel impending wobbling doom coming upon town and she said, “You know what to do in an earthquake, right?”

“Of course.  Get under my school desk.”

Our teachers terrified us all to just equip us with the survival skill of getting under a desk.  Guess I should purchase of few of those.  I’ll need a few in the style of school desks from 1993 because that is what they taught me is best and I follow my leaders.

Then I said, “Really, I know.  Stand in a door way in a jumping jack position.  But how can I do that with a baby?”

She replied, “I guess you’ll have to do it with one hand.”

“Okay buuuuut  I really hope I can hold my house up with just one hand.  Two I’m sure about but one…..”

Look at me, laughing at this peril knocking at our door. 

If this really does happen and I fall into the depths of my crawl space and die and then you read this blog and feel real sad because I was joking about it and then it got me in the end, don’t feel too bad.  I had a real good time writing this one.  Plus, I really believe in the strength of my strong hand and elbow.

Big ones, Tiny Ones, Even Brown Ones December 27, 2010

I hate sports. I hate big orange bouncy balls. I hate oblong leather brown balls. I hate little yellow ‘I hated tennis lesson’ balls. I hate, and I mean especially hate, little tiny white balls. I usually end up flinging the putter over and over Happy Gilmore style until I get 15 strokes a hole. That way I feel like I really got back at it and put it in it’s place. I truly hate hard to control ping pong balls. I hate volley balls that never go in the direction of my percise punches and jabs. I hate large heavy black solid balls that are, in fact, so heavy that I use kid sizes ON THE BUMPER LANE. Don’t judge me. I even hate cotton balls. Maybe even popcorn balls on a bad day.

Lance has been in fiercesome denial of this fact since our wedded bliss in August of 2004. He is always like, “Hey, hey, hey, watch this play!” Not intending to rhyme, of course, because that would be really un-mascqueline and thus, un-athletic. EVERY blasted time I say different versions of the same harsh reality which all revolve around the theme of “I don’t care!”

But still, for reasons still not known, he consistently calls me to the TV to watch some sort of play. The most maddening part about it all is that I tell him every time, “I don’t even know what’s going on?” He will say, “Look at Billy Stevens” or some players name and I”ll say, “Who is Billy Stevens? I don’t know who that is AND I don’t know what he is doing anyways!” Why does he still want to show me if it means nothing to me? The equivalent would be me calling to Lance when he is doing much more important things than what I am wanting to show him and he rushes to the living room to see a cross-stitching tournament in Japanese. Why are they quilting geese jumping over lambs? Who knows? What are they saying? It’s in Japanese. Who cares, I want you to watch this stupid thing whether it’s entertaining or not and I will repeatedly call you in here to witness the boring confusion. That is my example because I truly care about sports as much as grannies cracking their arthritic knuckles over pastel threads.

Poor brother, Lance. He loves these silly games so intensely. Sometimes I humor him and sit by him on the couch while he tantilizes his peepers with UK basketball. He will get the ocassional razzled feather and yell something mean to/about a player like,” What are you doing? Can you even catch a ball?!!!” I bring a rational and emotional touch to the game when I say, “That’s someone’s child. Even if you don’t know them, it’s no more right to make fun of them. What if you were their parent?” Somewhere in his soul I think he really appreciates the sensitive side I bring to televised sporting events.

Every now and then I go beyond suffering through sitting alongside him on the couch and do things like fill out March Madness brackets. I actually really enjoy this aspect of the torture-ish season where my TV is perpetually battered by constant images of men and their games. I enjoy even more that my bracket does better than many lads who treasure said basketball games. How do you do so well, some ask? See, you sports fanatics over-think it. I just look at the stats. Simple game of probability. I add in the occasional upset based on how the name hits me. Sometimes I’m drawn to names like, Elizabethtown Community College and put it in the Sweet 16. It’s like a psychic instinct of just feeling in my guts as to who is going to win. I know, know, ECC doesn’t play during March Madness but Larry Bird and Spud Webb haven’t played basketballs for years and years but it doesn’t stop me from answering every basketall trivia question with these guys. Kind of like when I played Shout About Movies with a girl who wasn’t from America. Every time she saw a boat in the scene she would guess Titanic. You just have to go with what you know and be confident that eventually, in sweet time, it will be the answer they game is looking for.

Tonight, as you might’ve guessed, Lance has interuptted me about a watching a basketball game and hence, this blog that has made your day. Commonly, he wants to show me something that a player does that’s impressive and I just think (and say) I DON’T KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT BASKETBALL BECAUSE I DON’T PLAY OR WATCH IT SO IT WON’T SEEM IMPRESSIVE TO ME. Show me a guy who can do a granny shot from half-court, an attempt I can relate to. Now that’s something I could really get behind.

I don’t think he even hears me anymore when I plead my case as to why it’s unnecessary for me to participate in viewing certain plays. It’s not even about me really. He may not even know I’m in the room. That leads me to some ideas on handling the matter….

I’ve told him that I don’t like little league, high school, college, or professional sports….no level…no matter the ball….no matter the age. I hate sports. One time I even got so flustered that I raised my voice and said with intricatley enuciated words, “I hate basketball. I wouldn’t even care if they never. made. another. basketball!” Can’t really be more direct than that. You can’t care less than not being concerned with the manufacturing of particular sports balls.

In a twist of perfect blogging irony, upon typing the prior sentence, I asked Lance if we could play a game and he walked in not with Bananagrams or Yahtzee, but with a DVD NCAA Basketball trivia game.

I smile to myself in brilliant “I’m so right about this guy” fashion and say, “You know what I’m going to answer every question with right?”

“Uh, Michael Jordan?”

“Fancier.”

A grin came across his face and he said, “Larry Bird?”

How can this game be fair and balanced when he sees all my cards? Fingers crossed.

If I only I was Spud Webb.  Then I’d always be a winner. 

And black. 

Double win.

Yes, I Do Think Like This All Day. November 15, 2010

Do you ever look at yourself when your hair is plain and you have no make-up on and think, I’d be really ugly as a Pilgrim.  Especially when you put on that big white sailor collar. I’d at least hope my dress was purple. Or stripey.  If it wasn’t, I’d probably just put a cornucopia on my head and stand in the corner.

There are exceptions to every rule and there are lots of rules.  For example, grown women can’t love 16 year-old boys.  I call this the Bieber exception.

If I told you I was going to stand in a basket and ride it into the skies, you would think I was insane.  Just something to think about, hot air balloons.

If you are what you eat, then say hello to your new best friend: Mrs. Asian Pear.

If you are sitting on your couch with a shirt on but no pants and someone comes to your door and sees you sitting there through the window, I think it’s okay to sit there and smile back at them politely.  You don’t have to do a pointing motion down towards your pantless legs.  Just smile at them.  Eventually, they will walk away because they feel uncomfortable but at least it’s not because they saw your bottom.

I think from now on when someone asks me whether my child wearing pink with a bow in her hair is a girl that I’ll just look back at them and say, “What are you?”  That way they feel weird and they don’t get to be the only one asking all the questions.

I still have and wear underwear from high school.  Lucky my thighs got bigger after baby or I might still be wearing them at our 20 year reunion.  I’m going to save one pair of undies and wear it to our ten year reunion next year.  That way when people come up and say, “Oh yeah, I remember you.”  I can get real serious, pull my underwear band up and say, “But do you remember these….?”  

On the note of panties, why was I wearing panties of any level of attractiveness as a teenager?  Eden will only be allowed to wear nuetral colored, high waisted briefs to protect her from any unmodest temptation.  I will start building her collection via the free panty give-a-way from Vicki’s Secret.  Eden’s only secret is gonna be that she has big ugly underwear. 

I hate waiting in the sick room at the pediatrician’s office.  Would it be weird if I wore some sort of facial mask?  When I got in to see the doc today, she asked if Eden has been around anyone sick in the home.  I thought, “No, but vomit kid and pertusis boy out there wasn’t helping anyone.”  I think we should all sit in seperate stalls like cattle.  When you walk out, the stalls sanitize themselves.  Write that down.

I don’t like it when people say, “Why do you already have your tree up?  It’s not even Thanksgiving!!”  Yesterday I had an ephiphany.  Answer:  Because Thanksgiving is a holdiay.  Christmas is a season.   Boo-yah!   The day turkies taste as good as hot chocolate and cookies, I’ll re-evaluate.  The day the a big fat gobbler looks good hanging from a pine, then I’ll have a real good talking with myself.  The day Thanksgiving comes with a big parcel of presents, SOLD.  Pilgrims would have to say something cool though in place of Santa’s ho ho ho.  Something like corn, corn, corn!  And then laugh at the end.

The Other Side of Motherhood: An Ex-PostPartum Mom’s Journey from Xanax to Overjoyed November 10, 2010

I was digging through the big tub of clothes that Eden wore her first few months, trying to see if there were any pieces I could give to someone from our church. Somewhere at the bottom, I thumbed through the onesies that Eden wore over and over her first few weeks here. When I first stumbled on them, my face got hot and I felt a sensation similar to suddenly running into someone who you haven’t seen in a while…someone that it’s really awkward to see. Does that make sense? That feeling of being flushed, nervous, and uncomfortable, feeling the emotions that lead the situation to be uncomfortable in the first place….

I remember when I first bought some of those clothes. I was ecstatic for the little white one with red and hot pink strawberries. I had her wear that a lot when people came to see her. I thought when I bought that outfit that my memories of those days with her in it would be incredibly different. Seeing those clothes now triggered almost a flashback response of panic. An overwhelming sense of, in fact, how overwhelmed I was. When I told my sister about the incident, she asked me if I gave those outfits away, almost certain that I would have. I didn’t though. They are literally hard for me to look at but they were some of her first outfits and she was precious in them. Even if I was falling apart and they remind me of that, they remind me of her too and she was and still is a blessing.

I think what is so disorienting about that time is that I don’t know what feelings came from what. I can’t separate what was just normal new mom feelings and what was the postpartum. I guess in talking with other moms who didn’t go down the road I did, I know many things that are standard: anxiety, crying, sleep deprivation, and the sense of living in a fog. I just wonder sometimes when I look back, if I didn’t have PPD would I have felt many of the same things?

I’ll be totally honest with you. With a lot of guilt for a lot of months, I didn’t feel like ‘it was all worth it’. You hear moms all of the time say, “It was hard but I’d do it all over again.” Or some other passionate expression of their over powering love for their children. I loved Eden. I did. But with a lot of shame inside, I felt the truth of it all, at least initially, was that I didn’t feel like those moms. I didn’t feel like ‘I’d do it all over again’ or that ‘it was all worth it’. In those months, it probably made me feel even more depressed to know that I felt that way “but shouldn’t have”. At least according to the book of what a mom is supposed to be like from the get-go.

It was bizarre. I wanted Eden. I wanted to be her mom. I just wanted someone else to care for her and let me have her back when it was time to cuddle. I guess what I was saying is that I wanted to be Eden’s grandmother. I chuckle saying that because I think this is the first time I’m realizing what I was really desiring. I felt that way because I didn’t have the strength to cope with the shock of becoming an instant 24/7 caregiver overnight. I wanted her. I loved her because she was mine but I didn’t feel like I was tough enough to take care of her. Thankfully, that changed. And actually changed fairly quickly but when you feel like I did, time crawled. Sometimes it all but stood still.

In the beginning, it’s weird because you’ve always dreamed of the moment when the doctor hands you you’re baby and says, “Here she is, mom!”. And trust me, that moment was every ounce of what I had imagined and then some. BUT, I always watched A Baby Story on TLC and I remembered how every mom was like, “It’s instant love. Love like I’ve never felt.” Etc.

I had instant love for her, no doubt, but it was a different instant love. The kind of love that you have for someone because you have responsibility for them. Love because you labored for them and sacrificed for them. Love because they are beautiful. Love because it’s your family and you made them with your husband. There was a lot of that kind of love. What I didn’t feel though is love like I had known love. I know people always say that ‘it’s a love like they’ve never experienced’ but put that fluff to the side because that’s not what I’m talking about. Love before my child was always because of a relationship. Because I knew someone and built a relationship with them full of knowing them intimately and full of memories that made me love them. I was expecting that kind of love with Eden right away. But wait….I didn’t know her! She is a little face that’s reminiscent of family but she was a stranger. I didn’t know why she cried. She didn’t smile at me. She screamed and cried at me mostly. I couldn’t really interact with her at least in a reciprocated sense because, hey, she was only 5 minutes old.

So while I loved Eden, I didn’t know her. While I loved her, there wasn’t a bond…yet. There was a maternal bond but not bonding like I previously knew it. I think I felt troubled by that but the more I talk to other moms both PPD and non-PPD moms, I hear many singing the same tune. I don’t feel like anyone ever talks about it though. I know it really is that great for some women but it can’t be for all. We moms are supposed to be these all loving and perfectly maternal beings that pop a baby out with tears in their eyes with their baby in one hand and a tray of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies in the other hand. We are the superheros of life. Literal life. Not much room left for looking at your baby with an ownership love and connection one minute and then looking across the living room the next minute thinking, “Who is that strange baby laying on the couch? Call the police! Someone left their baby at my house!!!” No one ever says that on a Baby Story. TLC should’ve had me on there. It would’ve been their most memorable episode. You could’ve been a star, TLC.

I’m telling you, both a Baby Story and Bringing Home Baby are as toxic to your expectations as Cinderella and Prince Charming to little girls learning about what to expect with a man.  No one even cries on that show except for the babies.  Give me a break.

In a non-TLC reality, I remember getting a letter from a mom who said, “It’s okay if you aren’t crazy about Mrs. E right now.” Funny, I hadn’t said I wasn’t. Again, I was but in that grandmother sort of way. I was crazy but a little crazy in the wrong the direction. I felt a bond and constant maternal desire to care for her and hold her to me but that drive mixed with anxiety and sleep deprivation was a lethal cocktail exploding in a mess of tears, panic attacks, and not knowing if it all felt worth it. It was nice to hear a normal mother of two on the other side of motherhood telling me that I was allowed to not be dancing around the crib singing praises of infants and my new parenting lifestyle.

Fast forward to a few months after that letter.

I remember when she laughed at me for the first time when she was 15 weeks old. I was holding her over my head while Lance took a picture and she giggled and my heart swelled ten times. There was healing to me in that laughter. I had been out of the fog for a while and enjoying motherhood but even after the weeks of her smiling at me, there was something extra about that laugh that really humanized her to me. I didn’t realize how much I craved that from her until she looked at me and laughed. I was desperate to hear it again because it was thrilling and THAT is what made the bond start to take off. Yes, smiling was such a reward but to have this little girl with a sense of humor that responded to things that really are only funny to a baby….it was amazing.

I can now say it was really all worth it.  The crying.  The laughing.  The screaming baths.  The pills.  The breastpumping sessions for 1/2 an ounce.  The doctors visits.  The pajamas I wore for 2 days with baby poop on them.   

I feel fearful to say I’d do it all over because just the thought of living through that experience again makes my heart beat rapidly as I type it. Still, I guess I would because I really look forward to another baby down the road and this time, I’ll have a toddler, too. Now I’m really getting cocky!

Ultimately,  what I would relive doesn’t matter because God doesn’t measure our love for our children or our devotion to them by what awful things we are willing to endure for them at our expense. Although I would endure a great many and awful things, I  no longer feel guilty that I’m not the first one to raise my hand and say, “I’ll do PPD again because I love my kid thhhhhhaaaaatttt much!”  Beat that mother’s of the world!!!!  (insert eye roll)

I love Eden. I truly, truly love her. I love her now in both ways: Because she’s mine and made of me and Lance AND because I know her. I know what makes her laugh and I’m one of the few people who can. I know which blanket she wants and what to do with her Zebra to make her smile. I know when I hear a certain sigh that she’s asleep in her car seat. I don’t even have to look.

When I see her trying to sleep in the car and the sun is shining on her squinted shut-eyes, I know I love her when I switch lanes to move the shade across her face.

I know I love her when I look for a tooth every day for weeks and then I find one and my cheeks hurt with a big smile and then my heart sort of breaks because she’s getting bigger. I know I love her because every day that passes, is one I wish I could have back. And those aren’t things that happen right when they hand you your precious wrinkly newborn and lay her on your chest. Some love is instant and some, takes time.

I may never know what it’s like to bring home a baby and experience as the “normal” version of me. I might always ask which of the things I experienced would I still have felt if I hadn’t had postpartum. But I suppose I’m no less the mother and a mother I wanted to be no matter how I got there. Maybe next time I’ll call TLC and see if they want to an 8-episode series on me called “Crazy In Love”. Pun Intended. Now THAT’S a reality show!

One of my favorite quotes is, “There are two roads in life. One is hard, and one is easy and the only reward of the easy road was that it was simple.”

I may have unwillingly taken the country back roads on a rickety old moped wearing ripped sweats pants and a cracked helmet following an incorrect map from goggle maps but, hey, I got there!  And the reward at the end was multiplied. I worked for the love that now is the clichéd love of my life………..all daddies aside.

Traumatic strawberry onesies and all, I’m so glad I made it. There is nothing…nothing as sweet as motherhood.  And in true TLC fashion, I’ve never lived or loved like this.

The laugh.

Ding Dong the Gina’s Dead November 4, 2010

Just in case you read the title incorrectly, it’s not Gina (Jeen-uh) like a girl’s name. It’s a half nick name version of vagina….Gina. (nod my head in reassurance) You understand.

So let’s revisit…

Ding dong the gina’s dead, the broken crotch of the south is dead. It’s true. It use to be funny and now it’s just a big messy body part.

I went to the doctor today for the sixteenth thousandth time since giving birth. I go about every 6 weeks. I’m for reals. This is my first time back since my surgery which we’ll say…didn’t work out for me. But I did get to spend about 1,000 dollars on the surgery so at least some good came from it.

I kid….I guess. I mean, I guess I had to have it to see if it would work. Now that it didn’t, I’m like Jay-Z and on to the next one.

My doctor  is going to call another doc at a prominent surrounding area hospital to see if they can help me. She asked me just in case if I’d be willing to go out-of-state for care and I was like, “Oh brother, what kind of crotch do we have on our hands here????” Who knew that giving birth to a fleshy bowling ball could be so destructive?  You know who did?  The bowling ball and Gina herself.

She also said that she feels like this could be a long-term issue for me which concerns her because I’m such a young lassie. DANG. That made me use words in her office like I and feel and like and crying.

Now I’m wondering if we’ll be able to try to have a baby in the time frame we originally wanted to but let’s not think that far ahead. Although, we haven’t been able to stick a feather in a cap and call it macaroni for almost 7 months now. Maybe it’s not thinking too far ahead after all.

I know I’m joking around a lot.  This is for two reasons:

I’m hilarious.

and

You can only take vaginas so seriously…..

But I am a little disheartened about it to say the least. Initially, it was impressive to say to my friends because I felt like the crazy Guinness World Record holder for saddest vagina but now…now I’m really like, “Okay guys jokes over. You can fix the kid now.”

In my wildest fantasy dreams I get to a specialist and they say, “Why this is the silliest thing I’ve ever seen and we can fix it with something really basic” like with a pack of Skittles or something. And no I don’t mean a pack of my torti cat Skittles. I mean the taste the rainbow kind. A double rainbow even.

I’m hoping that when someone extra-learned in the arts of crotches sees it that it won’t be as complex as what it seems to be now. Furthermore, I hope we can keep the care close to home. Forthlymore, I hope this is over in approximately one more month. Lastly, I know that won’t happen. At least the fourthlymore part.

Truth be told, I’d do it all over to have my cute little baby. If I got better and had another child and knew this would happen again, I’d still bring forth more glorious children from my loins. Right now I just want to know that I have the option to do anything with my gina that I want as I should be able to do at 28. If I want to dress it up like a police man, BOOM…I can. If I want to go on walks with it, Boom, Done! The funny part is that we always go on walks. I just want it to be like the old days where we could walk innocently down the lane without a care for each other. Those were the days. The gina free days.

So, the saga continues as I get to spread joy to the world in a new city with my record holding baby maker. Becca’s Gina, coming to a city near you.  May not be suitable for kids under 13.

Mountains of Mystery Cats October 17, 2010

Breaking news, a mountain lion was spotted in our hometown during the day at a local campground that’s kind of in the city.  This is a fantastic mystery!!!!  Where for art did thou lioness come?  We have no mountains for your lion-y ways.  BUT don’t leave!!!!  I find you tantalizing.

Just when you think you have nothing left to write about a lion comes to town.  I am so lucky.

So this is how it went down.  A man who works for the campground saw this large cat come out of the woods and walk into the field during the day.  Like any intelligent person would do, he jumped onto his golf cart and drove up to the beast.  He got about 25 feet away from it which allowed him to confirm that it was in fact a mountain lion.  ROOARRRRRRRRR 

ROAAARRRRRRRR

ROAAARRRRRRRRR.

I promise you that so much of that impact and humor was lost because you couldn’t hear me actually doing that.

Anyways, my favorite part about this guy is that he was quoted in the news as saying that he brought his coffee mug for defense just in case he needed to use it. 

More breaking news, he’s a mountain lion.  Starbucks ceramics can not help you. 

Breaking news, he’s not a house cat.  He is in exhibits at zoos.

Breaking news, they eat humans.  They eat entire cows for lunch.

This just in, they can run faster than golf carts.

This also in, the cup would only tick him off more causing him to be more likely to make you a half rack of ribs. 

The news that night would’ve read,

“Mountain lion eats almost a whole man and puts the leftovers in a mug for later.”

Whew…I just gave a lot of headlines off of one ridiculous quote.

This is a mountain lion/cougar/puma (All the same animal.  Fact of the day:  This mammal goes by more official names than any other in the animal kingdom). 

Here he is:

And you chose…..

I chose this image of a mug because I’m sure the images on the mug where seriously heavily considered as his second best choice for line of defense.  I would hope he would use scissors but deep inside….I know it’s paper.

Attacking a mountain lion with a mug is like spanking a dinosaur with a spatula.  Try again, buddy.  I’m just really glad you didn’t get a chance to use your cup skills.

Even better than this guy was a quick review of the message board of comments on the news article from the surrounding locals who say they have seen a cougar around their house.  Deep breath.  This is starting to sound like big foot sightings.  You did not, I repeat DID NOT see a cougar hanging out around your house.  I’ll buy one lone large kitty but not several because they aren’t really supposed to be around here.  What you are describing is a bob cat.  That, you have seen.  Those are around here and are larger cats that hunt but they ain’t no lion of the mountains.  The park dude that identified the cat said he looked to be about 100 pounds which is kind of like me with huge muscles and massive fangs and a big delicious roar….. just in case you can’t conceive a 100 pound predator cat.  Bob cats, on the average size are 15 pounds.  On the big side, 30 pounds…at least the type around here.  So these locals were almost right.  Just about 85 pounds and the face of a lion off.  You were almost right except for not at all.

A clever funny dude at the end of the message board responded to these people by saying that we ‘really need to get a hold of this meth problem in our area’.  Now this is the kind of guy I can really get behind.  If he saw a mountain lion, he would use something more effective for defense like a bazooka.

ROARRRRRRRRRR.  ROOOOOAAAARRRRR.  RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRROOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR.

Hide your cows, hide ya kids, cause this lion be eating everyone out here!

Eden and I Dance: Part 2 October 7, 2010

I am offering a new service called: How to teach your baby to dance and be cultural and supreme above all babies. I wanted this video to show my extreme versatility. I added captions so that you won’t overlook some of my different styles. You may need to watch it several times to see it all. I know you’ll want me to teach your baby the first watch though. In just one lesson, I can have your baby doing the moonwalk for one simple payment of 50.00. Eight times.

Try not to get lost in the intricate detailing. You can get overwhelmed if you take my talent as a whole.

This would be a great Christmas present.

Think it over.

PS- Make sure the captions are on.

PPS- You’ll want to watch this big screen time so click on the icon on the bottom right of the video that has 4 little arrows going in different directions.  This way you can see the said detailing and captions.  However, if it’s jerky than you should watch the regular size one. Enjoy and your welcome.

Me, Myself, and Hallelujah October 6, 2010

Lance left me all alone with Eden for approximately three days. I hated to see him go because I like the guy but also, he’s helpful to have around. When it nears 5 pm everyday, I wait for him (sometimes in the driveway) like a little kid waiting for the ice cream truck. I pass Eden off like the baton in one of those relay races that active people run in.

Sometimes the days are so long. Even if she’s dang cute. Even if she’s gallons fun. We all need a break. Just like Oprah says, “Being a good stay-at-home mom is the hardest job in the world.”  Oprah, guys.  This is serious. 

She’s right. 

Of course.  (That just made my husband gag. He’s not exactly a “big fan”.  Not exactly going to be screaming in the crowd during Oprah’s Favorite Things. That one was for you, Lancer. )

Anyways, back to how amazing us moms are….

I’m in a perpetual state of awe of four types of women:

1-Women with lots of kids such as 2.
2- Single moms. Can I get a holler for these ladies?!
3- Teen moms. Can I get a fist pump and a prom dress, stat?!!!
4- Women with crappy husbands or dead-beat boyfriends. Can I get a whoot whoot and a babysitter, please?!!!!

Motherhood is some hard biz-nassssss.

You know what’s so weird though? Even though I ice cream truck my husband and even though the days are non-stop work….there is something about being at home without a husband that is nice, too. Sorry Lance. It’s not personal.

I almost feel like it’s a little vacation. Like the kind where you don’t really have breaks but still, it’s like a tiny holiday as the Brits would say.

I think the reason I feel that way is because for however long I want, I can be all alone after she’s in bed. I’m never really alone anymore. Even on lonely stay-at-home mom days, there’s a difference to this kind of alone. I guess even when you want to be with your husband, after a long day there’s this pressure to still make sure you hurry up with your shower so you can spend time together etc.. It’s a great deadline but whatever happened to no deadlines? You know, when time is yours to squander? Sometimes that’s just nice. You really don’t know how much time you had until you have a baby. And I only have one human! I’m sure I don’t know how much time I have now…she says while writing a blog. I suppose two kids will teach me that lesson.

Even if I don’t have time, I will say though that I feel so accomplished  and fulfilled at the end of the day. Let me rephrase that, sometimes it’s at the end of the week. Occasionally, at the end of the day I’m too tired for productive gold medals to be awarded.

I just feel like a total woman now. Sometimes I will look at pictures of myself since I’ve had Eden and I think, “You don’t even look like your vagina is hurting in that picture!” Just kidding I don’t do that.

I think,”You had a baby! You gave birth! You are a mom and you are such a woman!!!!!!!!!!”

I’ve never had more respect for myself or my body.

My life has changed so much now that I wake-up all day (and all night) and I’m just a mom. 24/7, 365…a mom. I don’t even think about it most of the time. It’s amazing the things we women do and can handle from day-to-day. I’m such in a new life and a new mode that I often think that if I remembered what it was like to not be a mom, I’d be so impressed with how much I do now. How I work on little sleep and keep going, and going, and going…. The old me is proud of the new me, I’m sure. Again though, I don’t think you realize how much you do as a mom because it just becomes your new normal and you love it.

It’s a whole lot of what I thought it would be but, at times, way more than I bargained for but I think it’s always that for every mom. Motherhood is a gorgeous shock to your system.

When I was in high school, I got ready every day like I was going to the club. When I was in college, I started dressing more comfortably and cute on the weekends. Today, I wore the same pajamas I woke up in and didn’t touch my face, hair, or dare I say, teeth til after Oprah. That’s 5 pm my time folks.

It’s very different.

It’s also very awesomer-ish.

I ended tonight with a huge baby barf all over me, the couch, the carpet, her jammies, her face, eyes, and hair. First, I took some pictures and mass texted them out. Then, I cleaned it up. Put her to bed. And now I sit under the glow of my neighbors purple, orange, and black inflatable spider that’s on their roof and type a blog. I’m not really under it but it’s shining through the windows. And plus, I can’t be under it because there’s a one story spider web that reaches from the roof to their yard. Obviously.

I just ate stupid double-stuffed Oreos that I loathe. I’m wearing a new pair of pajama pants. I know…fancy. They are maternity though so not fancy. Medium fancy.

The house is quiet. And I’m alone on my little vacation. No one needs me.  No one to help.  No one to cater to.  No one making noise.  No diapers.  No barf.  No bibs.  No arguments over who needs to go let Skittles out.  No one to snore during the times of night that Eden isn’t crying.  Just me and silence.  Just me and more me again. There is so much me that I keep bumping into myself.   Hello, old friend.

Inhale.

Carefree, slow exhale. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh.

My house sure is nice this time of year.

I married a white boy (accidently) October 3, 2010

I realize I’m a white girl and I realized that I was marrying a white boy. It’s cool. You have to remember though that Lance won me singing R and B a long, long time ago. Then he went flip mode squad on me and started singing what I refer to as ‘guitar music’. Tricky tricky, Lance, tricky tricky. I guess you don’t have many instruments to choose from that are soulful if you want to play and sing other than the piano. And who can forget the Bassoon but it’s hard to play and sing that instrument in an impossible sort of way. Lanceshould have learned to play the beat machine. Instead, he fell to full-fledged cracker white boy guitars.

On the other hand, there’s me.

I love to sing R and B music. I love to Dougie.  I love all forms of vivacious rap. I love the slang. I love skills of our fellow brothers and sisters: great athletes and first and foremost, the best singers. Some of the most amazing singers you may say are white: Christina Aguliera, Marey Carey, Celien White Girl Dion….

Jokes on you…none of them are fully white except for ole’ Dion and she’s Canadian, not American. Some of us white
American girls just lose. If you are a good singer and you’re black, then you are the best singer in all the lands.

At any rate, I’m not really all that un-white. Afterall, I did just use the phrase at any rate, as well as, afterall. And I love to shop at Old Navy. Plus, I was in a big city where I was the minority and I realized that I’m totally white. Both outside and inside. It was a disappointing day for me.

However, black people do seem to like me. Some of them at least. Our church is in the projects and, as lame as it sounds, I’m most intimidated by some of the teenagers because they don’t try to let you feel cool or accepted. I tried talking to some girls one time at an event  we had and they called me white girl so I called them black girl and they weren’t happy. Just kidding. But they for real called me white girl in a not friendly sort of way. When I walked over, one of them said to the other,

“Every time white girl comes around it starts raining…”

Segregation is painful.

All this to say that it’s not so much that my husband and I are both cheesy white people but more to say, this partial soul-loving white child thinks you, Lance, are super white so I think all of this validates my opinions even more that if I think it and I’m at least a little black….you are REALLY white.

1. You harmonize with rap songs. Nothing like a nice octave blending with melodic talking.

2. You think you can make beats “for real”. Every time you beat box you make a sound effect that was used in hip-hop songs in the 70′s that sort of sounds like a busted speaker. You know, you just trill your lips and let air come out like you’re making a horse sound. Hopefully you know what I’m talking about because if you do, there’s no reason to continue to reinforce this point.

3. When you free-style rap, which is unusually painful for me, you start every song with, “Every time I come around…” EVERY song. Thug life forever, Lance.

4.  You wore Birkenstock sandals with every summer outfit for the first 3 years of our marriage.  And so does Dwight Schrute.  Show me the brothers wearing Birkenstocks.  Show me.

5.  When I play for you an old or new rap song that is obviously was or is the best, you analyze the lyrics. 

“Many a day has passed, the night has gone by
But still I find the time to put that bump off in your eye…”
Just let it be.

6.  You own short-sleeved, plaid polos that button from top to bottom.  One time we were in a store together and overheard a girl tell her boyfriend that the makers of those shirts should be shot.  You were brave and wore them for many years anyways.

7.  And now for the hardest one to say…

You wore pleated dress pants for 4 years of our marriage.  Even worse, you defended it because you went shopping with your dad and a man at the store told you they were nice.   I’m so proud to say that we’ve moved passed this. We did it honey. 

We made it.

Beetle Juice September 23, 2010

I woke up this morning to a text from my friend saying that Similac formula had been recalled. Rats. That’s the only brand Eden can use. This reminded me that this can’t happen with breast milk which made me start my day with a discontented grunting sound.

She explained to me how it was contaminated and I said, “Now, how do you get needles in baby formula, anyways?”

She said, “Not needles….BEETLES.”

Oh now that’s very different. I can handle beetle milk. But then I suppose it depends on the beetle. If it’s a roach, then that’s disgusting, but a few beautiful June Bugs never hurt anyone. Just imagine the gorgeous iridescent shades of her excrement. Radiant turquoise and emerald-green. Now that’s a recall!

Then I later heard that they found larvae in it too. That’s more like it. That’s more the disgusting, shocking news I was expecting to hear originally. Actually, I thought it was going to be much worse like a chemical or something that had gotten into the cans. Again, I can handle a beetle or two, although, it’s not desired.

We actually eat bugs in everything we eat anyways. The FDA has a limit to how many bug particles can be in our cereals, etc. How do I know this? I took a nutrition class in college and the professor had us do lame presentations with posters and everything and we were supposed to talk about some sort of nutritional study or research. I wasn’t about to pull out my 4th grade food pyramid project so I asked if I could do my own special idea which was a report about eating bugs and the benefit of doing that.

All the students would get up and be like, “The effects of eating less sugar is blah, blah, blah…..

“The olean in chips that prevent fat absorption does a yah-dah, yah-dah bing bang…..”

Then I got up and pulled out my grasshopper poster like Napoleon Dynamite and was like,

“Did you know that there are 5 grams of protein in the common grasshopper? Did you know a liger is my favorite animal bred for it’s skills and magic?” You know, something like that……

So the point of the tale is, a few ladybugs in my stew never hurt me so what will it do to my baby? It might actually be a nutritious line of baby powder. All of you snobby breastfeeders out there, probably just barfed and shook your instruments of jealousy in my face. You all high and mighty with milky, milks with a bouncy-bounce here and a drippy, drip there….

Well this just in…there’s been a recall on your breasts, losers!

Your milk has caterpillars in it.

You disgust me.