Feeling Slightly Sheepish

Okay, it's been ages. I know, I know, I'm sorry. I've flitted in and out, but life's been crazy. But that doesn't mean I didn't appreciate the birthday wishes, because I most sincerely did. There's just been so much happening around here!

For starters, in early October, The Banker and I went to Santa Fe to check out my parents' new home with some dear friends of ours, while Boo stayed here exhausting her very kind grandparents. It was so much fun. Incredible food, beautiful art, great company. And The Banker was relieved that I didn't find a single piece of art that I couldn't live without. Talk about dodging an expensive bullet! But I did find something that made me go all goo-goo eyed:



Isn't he adorable?! We took a leisurely hike into the mountains with a fantastic guide and we had llamas that carried our packs. Such great, gentle creatures! I want one. (More accurately several, as they're social pack animals.) Perhaps when I get that land I've always wanted?

And as soon as we returned home refreshed and renewed life took us out at the knees--as it always seems to do when you return from vacation. There was strep throat, double ear infections, allergies, and other miserable fun to be had by all. My old company suddenly needed a lot of help and my freelance assignments were doubled (not that I'm complaining, mind you. In a sucky economy, I'll take all the work I can get). There were family parties (let's not go there, shall we? Let's just say The Banker's blowhard brother brought up politics. WHO DOES THAT AT DINNER?!), Halloween festivities, out-of-town visitors, and an election to survive. So these are just a few of the reasons I haven't sat down and weighed in as of late.

But I'm still here, albeit trying to get a handle on things before the insanity of the holidays descends. Which should happen in about three days by the way the retail establishments are looking. So before I'm bombarded with holiday cards, carols, and other obligations, I'll just leave you with this, a reminder why October, despite it's insanity, was really a great month:

My Updated List

So on the eve of my 30th birthday (enjoying my last day in my 20s, as my sister so snarkily reminded me), here's my updated list:

Done:
Bungee-Jumping
Sky Diving
Parasailing
Dog Sledding
Hot Air Ballooning
Snorkeling
Scuba Diving
White-Water Rafting
Skiing
Snow Mobiling
Water Skiing
Took a Road Trip
Drag Raced
Camping
Climbed Ayers Rock
Hiked the Inka Trail to Machu Picchu
Danced on Stage at a Bar
Seen an Opera, a Musical, a Play, and Alternative Dance Performances
Ridden a: Camel, Elephant, Dolphin, Horse, Mechanical Bull
Traveled to: Sweden, Italy, Germany, Australia, New Zealand, The Bahamas, Mexico, England, Ireland, Scotland, Peru, and Assorted States in the U.S.
Tried: Escargot, Tongue, Lime-Sorbet-Flavored Ants, Foie Gras, Ostrich, Crocodile, Kangaroo, Frog Legs, Caviar, and Truffles
Practiced Falconry
Fell in Love; Had my Heart Broken
Tried It on my Own
Graduated from College
Received Master’s Degree—Helped Publish a Start-up Magazine
Got Married
Bought a House (Times Two)
Got a Dog; Rescued a Cat
Moved to: Columbia, Missouri; Chicago, Illinois
Became a Contributing Writer for National Parenting Magazines
Became a Mother

To Do:
Travel the Rest of Europe
African Safari
Visit Egypt
Own a Horse
Ride on a Zipline
Write a Book (and get it Published)
Buy Land
Acquire Art
Do right by my Family
Live with NO Regrets
Stay True

A Retrospective

When I turned 25, I made a list of things I'd accomplished and things I wanted to do. Something about starting the latter part of my 20s filled me with a degree of angst, so writing the list helped put things in perspective and provide focus for the future. I've attached the list below for the sake of amusement (with only details that provide too much insight into my identity removed). So read on, laugh, and think of what would be on your list. In the meantime, I'm fine-tuning a revised list (also known as a Bucket List) for my pending 30th birthday. Anything anyone thinks I should add to my list? I'm open to suggestions.

Done:
Bungee-Jumping
Sky Diving
Parasailing
Dog Sledding
Hot Air Ballooning
Snorkeling
Scuba Diving
White-Water Rafting
Skiing
Snow Mobiling
Water Skiing
Took a Road Trip
Drag Raced
Camping
Climbed Ayers Rock
Danced on Stage at a Bar
Ridden a: Camel, Elephant, Dolphin, Horse
Traveled to: Sweden, Italy, Germany, Australia, New Zealand, The Bahamas, Mexico, and Assorted States in the U.S.
Tried: Escargot, Tongue, Lime-Sorbet-Flavored Ants, Foie Gras, Ostrich, Crocodile, Kangaroo, Frog Legs, Caviar, and Truffles
Fell in Love; Had my Heart Broken
Tried It on my Own
Graduated from College
Received Master’s Degree—Helped Publish a Start-up Magazine
Got Married
Bought a House
Got a Dog; Rescued a Cat
Moved States, Countries
Became a Contributing Writer for National Parenting Magazines

To Do:
Travel the Rest of Europe
African Safari
Own a Horse
Write a Book
Buy Land
Have a Family
Live with NO Regrets
Stay True

Nada much...and yet everything much

I guiltily admit that I've been away for a bit. Every time I've pulled up the screen and thought, "Geez, I should really post something..." the effort seemed too much, so I'd click elsewhere. Maybe because everything that's been going down here seems a bit mundane? Maybe because I think so many others have much, much, MUCH more interesting things about which to write? And maybe because I suck. Yep, I think it's safe to say that all three apply. Abundantly.

But I do owe a little someone this post. Because while I've always been awful at keeping a diary, this is the closest thing Peanut has to a collection of my thoughts and feelings prior to and since her birth. So this is for you, Boo.

Today, I took you in for your 18-month old appointment. I had lots of questions to pepper the doctor with, such as: Why does she yank on her hair? Why in the hell does she make herself puke every now and again? Why does she hit and throw tantrums? Why is it that she does all these things in a manor that makes me think she's doing it JUST TO PISS ME OFF?

It seems, much like your height, weight, head size, and vocabulary, you're a little more...advanced. And it seems that this also applies to your personality. Wait, that doesn't quite do it justice. P E R S O N A L I T Y. Yes, that comes closer.

"Some kids are put on this earth to sit there and look pretty," the doctor told me. "Others are here to change the world. Becca? She's most definitely here to change the world."

Okay, I get that this is probably a line regurgitated over and over again to anxious parents. But I have to admit, it made your mom feel better, kiddo. It made me hope that your strong will and excruciating ability to get my goat and challenge me in ways I never thought possible are because inside of you is an independent, brave, and unbelievably powerful person just waiting to come out.

So let's keep at it, Little One. Let's keep helping each other grow. And then let's always remember to use our power for good and not evil.

FYI, Mr. Highway Patrolman

If you should happen to see a woman in a Jeep going just a teeny bit over the speed limit on a deserted highway in the middle of BFE, and she has a screaming child in her backseat, milk spattered across the interior of the car, and she's on the verge of tears, have a frickin' heart and just give her a warning.

Or be a prick and don't and then leave said woman wondering how much she could sell her eggs for.

Where the "blahs" turn into more

It's been a bit rough around here lately. Not due to external forces, mostly, but due to internal ones.

I spent last weekend cramped into a too-small lake house with The Banker's family. We left the house only for dinner, really, and so the entire time I felt like the walls were closinginonme. There were three children and eight adults and while there was booze, even that didn't take the edge off. It was just too tight, too much, too long. And I found myself wanting to crawl out of my skin.

I fully expected this intense discomfort to pass upon our return home. But it didn't. Oddly enough, the anxiety seemed to build rather than dissipate. I'd a physical scheduled for Wednesday and in passing mentioned these symptoms to my doctor. Okay, not so much in passing. More like, "Geez, doc, what the hell is going on? Tightness of chest, insomnia, diminished appetite. WTF?!"

As it turns out, my encroaching 30th birthday has a lot to do with this. Because my hormones? They're taking a serious dive. I'd always heard that a woman's fertility drops in half at 30. Well, what they don't tell you is that this drop is caused by a serious diminishment of hormones, which leads to all the symptoms I was experiencing. The doctor assured me that my body would soon re-align itself to deal with the lower levels, however.

But come on! Like saying farewell to my 20s wasn't going to suck enough, it turns out that 30 welcomes me with an emotional roller coaster from hell. What a bitch.

A hardcore case of the blahs

I think I'm suffering from a hardcore case of the blahs. Too hot outside, and I'm always consumed by mosquitoes. Currently itching at some dozen-plus sites (and that was WITH jeans on!). Anxious kid and no Mother's Day Out until September. The terrible twos have also seemed to arrive early, which means we have our fair share of tantrums and time-outs to contend with. And I have freelance to write and no interest in either article. And my editors seemed to have dropped off the face of the planet, so I feel like I'm sending out queries into the nether. Ugh.

And The Banker and I are trying to get ourselves on a strict budget, now that the new-house spending hemorrhage has started to dwindle to droplets. In makes sense trying to reign in costs, given the whole sucky economy and all. But there's nothing quite as anxiety-ridden or mood-bumming as writing down the costs for everything. Zanax for anxious, fighting dogs: $14. Groceries, even with coupons: $124. Gas: $78. Yuck.

Both my sisters, who were in town this past weekend for The Race for the Cure, have returned to their respective homes. And I can feel their absence most heavily.

Thrown into this mix is the fact that this weekend I'm supposed to go to The Lake with The Banker's family. This family doesn't travel. Ever. So what prompted this get-together, I've no idea. But the boys will get to go golfing, leaving the wives with the screaming kids. Supposedly, there will be a trade-off and pedicures or something for the ladies. But what I REALLY want is time to myself. To work out. Read. And maybe buy my first pair of jeans in over two years. But that, I think, is not in the budget.

Fall better hurry up and get here.

It's official

This morning, as Becca grabbed a book from her bookshelf and sat down to flip through the pages, I attempted to read along to her. She leaned over, stretched out her arm, palm flat, and pressed it firmly against my face, pushing me away. Three days away from her 17 month, and she's decided that, Mom? Mom's pretty much not needed.

And the kitchen sink, too

After a whirlwind weekend to visit my dad's parents, some five days later my grandmother was promptly put into the hospital for almost a week. She'd looked so great during our visit, so strong and happy, but a variety of factors finally led her to desperately needing a break (from keeping up a house that's too large for them and for caring for my grandfather). The toll it took on my dad was crushing to see. I'm really shitty at seeing the people I love in pain. Coupled with my own fears and pain was the knowledge that I needed to step up and help. Make phone calls. Arrange for information from assisted living facilities to be sent out. Send out encouraging cards. Keep everyone in the loop. Keep the smiles and positive thoughts rolling.

Added to this was the responsibility of watching my parents' elderly dog, run errands for them while they were away, write four freelance articles, plan a small dinner party, keep atop a child who--despite a tumble down the stairs--STILL wants to go everywhere she shouldn't. I was feeling really, really overwhelmed. The oldest child, the only one in town, the mom, the daughter, the writer, the part-time worker, the house cleaner, the dog sitter, the chef, the wife. Wearing so many damn hats while trying to shoulder the emotional burden of this past week left me exhausted. And, I have to admit, a little angry. Because the selfish, crappy part of me, whimpered, "Isn't anyone going to help? Who's going to take care of ME?"

Thankfully, we're coming out the other side. My grandmother is out of the hospital and into rehab to get her strength back. My dad returns tomorrow. Two articles are, at least, roughly written. Dinner party a success. But the exhaustion and haggardness lingers. And in some ways, the battle has only begun. There will be arguments over facilities. Over cleaning out a house so cluttered from almost 30 years of life that closets are overflowing. There will be nastiness as siblings bicker.

Boy, I could use a vacation.

We interrupt this broadcast...

So I've been a bit quiet as of late, despite the abundance of topics about which to write. The trip with Becca to see my grandparents? The unpleasant weight of old age? An unexpected downturn? The somber increase in responsibility that comes with being the oldest child? How about being an unfortunate disseminator of information?

I could weigh in on all of these topics right about now, but I simply don't have the heart. Right now I'm charging into unknown territory. And right now I'm not ready to reflect about any of it in words.

A creative labor

One of the most aggravating parts of making a "living" as a writer/editor, is the relative ease friends and family treat what you do. I don't know how many times someone has cheerfully chided me to "just write that children's book already," as if to do so I would need merely to concentrate really hard and POP! out a manuscript, much like a chicken lays an egg. Viola! There it is. Such a marvel and produced so effortlessly. (Now I think if I'd shown an interest in writing a novel, than that would be a different story. That invokes images of angst-ridden time alone in some dimly lit room, writer's block hanging like an albatross about the neck, causing the gnashing of teeth and ripping of hair.) But no, writing a children's book must be so EASY. After all, every Hollywood star has managed to do it. How hard can that be?

I have trouble explaining to people that there's this small thing called inspiration, which I've been sadly lacking lately. And then there's the whole other issue of quiet, private time in which to write. I can't even go to the bathroom unassailed anymore let alone write much for myself. Between the parenting articles I spit out every month, the inane work I'm doing at my old Really Big Company (part-time brainless data entry that the other editors never get to because they're doing CREATIVE things), and the move, there's been precious little extra time.

But really, I'm making excuses. Because I have one story written and another two so well outlined that it would take little blood, sweat, or tears to bring a rough, rough draft into existence. It's the next step that has rendered me powerless.

I know enough to know that getting a book published is damn difficult. I know that self-publishing entails monetary freedom I don't have. I know that, for the most part, you have to have an agent to get published from a reputable publishing house--but to have an agent you need to be published. Catch-22, anyone? And I don't live in a publishing mecca. There are some small local publishing companies, but not many. And what few contacts I had while living in Chicago have grown so stale as to be useless. So I'm at a standstill. I've always, always wanted to publish something of my own, (and have all the writer's guides and background research to know a thing or two about the process), but knowing where to go from here has left me feeling creatively stalled.

Umm, hello again?

I know it's been awhile--almost a full month by my count. And to be honest, I've been avoiding this simply because I don't know how to encapsulate everything that's happened during this time. Do you have four hours and a drink?

Living at my parents' house for the two-and-a-half weeks before the new house was ready was stressful. Angst-ridden. Difficult. My parents have a gorgeously decorated house that doesn't exactly scream "Children and ill-behaved dogs! Come in! Play! Make yourself at home!" Because of this and because I knew we were inconveniencing my parents, I walked around on eggshells for two weeks. And can I tell you it took all of two days before one of the dogs peed on my parents' super-expensive white rug? Yeah. And it's hard when other people pipe in--as well meaning as they might be--on your marriage, parenting skills, and general lifestyle.

And then an unexpected angst came from living in my old neighborhood again. I never set out to be just like my mom, and here I am, 29 years later, a stay-at-home mom living in the EXACT. SAME. NEIGHBORHOOD. What would the 12-year-old me think of this? I think she might be disappointed.

And as I watched the neighborhood kids walk home from swim practice, something I did for 9 or 10 years myself, I was struck by the irony that even at that young of an age I didn't like my body. Oh, sweetheart, I wish I could tell myself. It really only goes downhill from there. Enjoy your taught belly for all it's worth before it turns stretch-marked and stretched out.

So those few weeks of internal and external onslaughts were tough. But we survived.

And then the movers came.

I could go on for hours about the incompetence of our movers. We used a well-known, professional moving company. They sent three men to load up our things, store them, and return our items to the new house. Sadly, these men were poorly motivated and educated. Our invoice is littered with terrible misspellings. (Did you know we have four blue tots in our house? We do! Except that's supposed to be blue totes...) While this made me incredibly sad, a number of other things made me fume with anger. Such as the process taking triple the time promised. Or the fact that EVERY SINGLE PIECE of wooden furniture was somehow scratched, dented, or otherwise marked up.

So as we struggle with the moving company, the cable guy who accidentally drilled a hole through our wall, the survey that shows our flower bed and sprinklers on our neighbor's yard, and the fence that is two weeks behind, I've kinda avoided posting. Because it looks like one major bitchfest.

But we're in the house. We're getting settled. We're establishing a new routine. Things are coming together. Artwork is being hung. And while there's still work to be done (painting! new ovens! new stovetop! selling a kidney to pay for all of this!), this place is beginning to resemble a home. Thank God.

A hard, hard farewell

As I sit and type this in my parents' kitchen, it's hard for me to encapsulate what the last two days have entailed. Yesterday, chaos consumed us as we moved, cleaned, moved, and watched warily as "professional" movers threw about our furniture. I made six trips over to my parents' house to drop things off (which cost $75 in gas--ugh).

The rain that pounded the night before gave way to a stifling humidity that left The Banker and me drenched in sweat (not to mention the movers, too, whom I could begin to differentiate by smell). We couldn't get everything out of the house by the buyers' walk-through yesterday evening. Still, the house was orderly and clean enough to pass snuff, and we returned this morning for three more trips hauling our junk.

For starters, I didn't realize we'd accumulated SO. MUCH. STUFF. Loads and loads and loads of boxes. And secondly, we weren't nearly as prepped as I thought we were. When we move into the new house, over a dozen boxes will lack labels and will hold a mish-mash of random things. And how I hate hodgepodge while I'm trying to neatly lay out a new home! But what caught me most by surprise was the heart wrenching sadness that took hold as I prepared my home for someone else. I sat on the empty floor of Becca's nursery and just balled--my sobs echoing off the hardwood floors and the naked walls.

These new people? I'm sure they're nice enough, but they're not good enough for this home. This place that we lovingly updated. This place that we filled with craziness and junk and love. I know every inch of that home, every squeak in the floorboards, every knot in the floor. And it's not mine anymore. My first home, the place I brought my daughter home from the hospital to...it's all gone now. And it still hurts enough to bring tears to my eyes. I know we couldn't stay where we were forever, but leaving hurt so damn bad. And I doubt I'll ever come to love another home as much again.

Bowled Over

There's simply too much to be accomplished and I'm running out of the necessary time and energy. Where are the promised vacation pics? Still in my camera...along with the better part of Becca's memory book. AND SHE'S ALMOST A YEAR-AND-A-HALF OLD. She'll never forgive me if I don't get going on that.

But she may also not forgive me for taking her to Mother's Day Out, where she got so thoroughly upset today that she vomited all over herself. I was putting in a few hours at the company I used to work for (what? and you're moving on THURSDAY? well, see if I didn't go in and work I would have been kicked off of Creative-On-Call, so I kinda had to, despite all the other chaos...). So I'm wracked with guilt, stress over freelance and Creative-On-Call hours, exhaustion from a family wedding this weekend, and a house that needs to be packed and cleaned. And did I mention The Banker turns 30 this weekend?

So what the hell am I doing on here?

I'll try to be back when this overwhelming chaos subsides. And if I promise pictures and fresh cookies, will you come back?

A Hasty Retreat

Was it just last week I departed for Grand Cayman? Where did the time go? And how can I adequately encompass all that that retreat entailed and meant? And do I really have time, given that I need to complete three freelance articles, pack up an entire home, get Becca to her first day of Mother's Day Out, and somehow make time to help out my old company?

Okay, so we'll give it a quick go: Private villa at the Ritz. Needless to say, a girl could get accustomed to that lifestyle. If she were made of money and $20 drinks didn't make her throat seize up. The beach was gorgeous, the digs incredibly posh, the sunsets amazing. I saw two sea turtles while scuba diving and touched sting rays and an eel while snorkeling. Loved, loved, loved it.

The company: I knew only one of the gals on this trip (an amazing friend who kindly asked me to join her. Um, THANK YOU). The other three were strangers to me--two single, one married. I think I could get along great with all of the gals, sans one, who'll we'll get to shortly.

The neighbors: Six married men in their 40s. All fathers. They spotted us on our patio (by the private plunge pool, natch), and invited us over for a drink. I hesitated, but the consensus was it was harmless fun, right? Well, it quickly became apparent that these millionaires (most of who graciously let us know their financial status), put higher stock in their investment funds than in their marriages. And that one aforementioned gal? The tall, beautiful party girl from L.A. who bedded a Coast Guard member during our stay? Well, apparently she took it upon herself to sleep with TWO of these men...unbeknownst to my friend and me, as we'd retired early in preparation for the next day's flight.

I'm disgusted by both the single party girl and the two married men. Not that these things overshadowed my incredible trip--far from it--but they did make me so very, very thankful for the family I have. Who were waiting excitedly at the airport for my return. Pictures later, but now, I have china and crystal to pack.

Grand Cayman, Here I Come

Monday morning at an obscenely early hour, while The Banker and Becca sleep, I'll sneak away to catch a flight to the Grand Cayman Island. For a week. With a gaggle of gals.

I've never taken a girl's vacation before, and, admittedly, the timing is less than ideal. But when someone dangles a FREE stay at a private residence at the Ritz Carlton, well, you'd be kinda insane to pass it up. And so I find myself in the usual Mommy Conundrum--How to go and enjoy myself without letting the guilt take over?

This trip, for all intensive purposes, is free (minus food, drink, and SHOPPING. Did I mention the SHOPPING?!?). But The Banker and I have some serious costs looming: moving expenses, new carpet for the house, fencing the yard, and all sorts of necessities to fill this larger house. But that guilt pales in comparison to abandoning my babe and very tolerant husband for five days. In the midst of packing hell.

I'm rationalizing that this will be the break I've been in desperate need of for, say, the last six months or so. And I'm hoping it will be renewing and reinvigorating enough so that I can return to pack, move, move again, and unpack all without losing my cool...too much. I'll do some scuba diving, some reading (yes, I know. So selfish. But all I want to do is READ. Uninterrupted. For more than 10 minutes at a time.), some beaching and pooling, and hopefully some delicious eating and drinking. And maybe some shopping. Maybe.

So I'll see you all again in on the 31st. Pray that The Banker, Becca, and I find this to be a good couple of days.

Grand Central Station

Three plumbers and three electricians (two trailing dried mud and spewing plaster) paraded through my house today. But it's finished--the electrical problems and the various other demands that the buyers had put forth. And so now the count is on till our closing, some 28 days. I cannot tell you how great it feels to have strange, messy men out of my house.

So while I'm still buried under one lingering bit of freelance, I can sort of see the light at the end of the tunnel. Sure, there's the packing, the moving, the shacking with the in-laws for a week, then two weeks with my parents, and then cleaning and moving into the new home...but before that is a promise of a get-away. Something I've never experienced before, something that will carry with it no small amount of guilt, but will also hold the renewing properties of warm sand, soft, lapping waves, and unexplored horizons. And I'll need all that peace to carry me through the next month.

Nightmare

The inspection lasted some three hours yesterday with the buyers and the real estate agent in tow. I had to entertain Becca, stay out of the way, but be on call to answer questions. That morning, my body finally screaming for mercy from all this stress, succumbed to a head cold and terrible sore throat.

The inspector (who was not a registered electrician), tried to trip a GFI outlet in our main-floor bathroom. In doing so, he shorted out some five lights (and the outlet). He left--without fixing the problem--and told me that by replacing the outlet the problem would be solved. The Banker returned from a golf tournament last night to one pissed-off wife. In short order, he too was angry. He replaced the outlet...and nothing.

An electrician has been here since 8:45 this morning (I barely had time to throw on a hat and jeans), and after over two hours, he can't solve the problem. He keeps asking if there's another GFI outlet somewhere in the house, but to our knowledge, there isn't one. Every light fixture and outlet in my house has been disconnected and is dangling, all the ugly wires exposed. The floor is filthy with plaster, dust, and whatever the electrician has tracked in.

My sore throat is now accompanied by the chills and sheer exhaustion. And tonight The Banker was going to take me to dinner and to see The Police for my Mother's Day gift. Neither of us feel like celebrating. This nightmare can kill our sale.

I'm trying to keep things in perspective. We're incredibly lucky and right now there's so much heartache in the world. But my own heart hurts, along with various other body parts. It's all too much. Please, Lord, help us!

Pins and needles

We accepted an offer on the house--for our full asking price!!--but we're not in the clear yet. We have to pass the appraisal and inspection hurdles, which leaves us on pins and needles. Even more nerve-wracking is the knowledge that this couple backed out on another house just a few weeks ago based on the inspection findings.

Hear that glub, glub? That's my stomach flip-flopping and my left over Cinco de Mayo meal slushing about. Come on clean inspection and appraisal equal to our selling price!!

Ugh, ugh, and more ugh

I can not adequately express my distaste for selling a home. We've had three open houses, several showings, and the sum result has been sheer exhaustion on my part. It's the constant cleaning. The constant hiding/putting away. The wrangling of the dogs, cat, and kid, while we open our home to a bunch of trudging strangers. The emotional toll as we hear, "Adorable home!" "So cute!" "Wish it had another bathroom/bedroom."

We live in a cute, little city, built after WWII for returning soldiers. These are not super large houses, though they can be expanded. We have three bedrooms, though admittedly one does serve better as an office. We have one-and-a-half baths. These are our limitations. But we have updated EVERYTHING, (granite! new appliances! refinished hardwoods! new carpet! new paint!), have the sweetest screened-in porch, great flow, and a large kitchen (for this neighborhood).

I'm not made for this. It's very hard for me to wrench open my door, invite strangers in to gawk, judge, and haggle. We fell in love with this house almost six years ago and made an offer within 20 minutes of seeing it. That was such a drastically different market! Now, the market is filled with, as one real estate agent put it, "a lot of bottom feeders keen on getting something for next to nothing."

Is it so much to ask that someone fall in love with this home? That someone would want to make it their starter home, to begin a new life in, to start a family in? It's been such a great home for us, and being who I am, I can't take the emotion out of this process (as I've been urged to do).

The summer months are already filling up with demands and responsibilities, and hanging like an albatross around my neck is this home that I adore. I'm beginning to feel frayed around the edges.

A $20-Grand Ouch

We got an offer on the house this week--some $20 grand below our asking price. Ugh. The Banker has looked at comps for houses in the neighborhood and our price was aggressive from the get-go. Several realtors who toured implied that they thought our price was too low. Still the interested party won't pony up even $10 grand more, which is needed to make our numbers work.

I hate to walk away from an offer. It leaves this sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. But it's really too low. Still the market sucks, and I'm worried that we're looking a gift horse in the mouth. Selling a home really, really stinks. Ugh...I can feel the weight of my breakfast at the back of my throat...

In over my head

I know I've been lax about updates here, mostly because there's so much happening that I'm not quite sure what to write about. My life right now feels like one very major to-do list, from which I'm desperately trying to check things off.

Santa Fe was fun, though low-key. I spent the better part of the time running to stores and waiting for deliveries and cleaning. My parents' home is incredible, and I"m so proud of them. This is something they've clearly earned, and it's beautiful. The Banker came up for a long weekend and we ate at some great restaurants and saw some amazing (read: expensive) art. And Becca was pretty well behaved for the entire ordeal.

We actually succumbed a bit to the Santa Fe mentality...and we bought the tiniest oil painting. It was cheap by art standards but not by ours. Still, it's so lovely--a single cotton blossom in full bloom. The painter is Simon Winegar, and our piece is called Spring Manifest. I also fell head-over-heels for a Dan Ostermiller, but since we don't have an odd $5 grand lying around I will have to content myself with the hope that maybe someday...if I sell a kidney.

Still reeling from our Santa Fe expenditures, we're now in total house-selling mode. We had two showings this week and will have an open house this Sunday. Many kind comments about how darling the house is, but at only one-and-a-half baths, I know it's not for everyone. Still the sooner we sell this house, the better off we'll be, even if that means moving into my parents' house until we can move into the new home come July 1st. So please cross your fingers and say a few prayers, because we could use the perfect home buyer!

And then there's the aforementioned to-do list: a handful of freelance articles, Becca's Mother's Day Out group, four weddings (come on people!! Can't you postpone your love until after we sell our house?!?!), three birthdays, a graduation, a new baby in the family, and countless things to do around the house. Eeeek.

Overload

Let's see, in the past two days, this is what happened:
Made a bid on house
Counter offer
Counter-counter offer
Cat escapes
Cat returns
Counter-counter offer accepted. Holy shit--just bought a house. Will now own TWO houses.
Must sell current home. ASAP!
Cat falls off roof
Cat catches self on gutter, scrambles back inside
Cat cut off from any open crevice
Prepping home for open house
Clean, clean, put away, hide
Pack for Santa Fe

So, the last few days have been a WHIRLWIND. I think I'm allowed to use all caps given the circumstances. I'd like to go on and on about how stressful this has been, how The Banker can't sleep due to it all, how I'm in denial mode, how we need to sell this house SOON or we'll be responsible for two mortgages and I'll have to sell my dispensable internal organs on the black market, and how all the smug neighborhood kids I grew up with are probably having a pretty god laugh at my expense about all this. But there's simply no time. I have to get the house ready for an open house tomorrow and Becca and I packed to fly to Santa Fe at 8 a.m. The laid-back atmosphere of Santa Fe sounds pretty good right now...so more later. But until then, this is (apparently) where I'll call home, come July 1st:

Wondering...

So The Banker has fallen in love with an in-between house (since our dream of a home with land is at this point too expensive), and by all accounts it's move-in ready. The yard is non-existent, so this would be a house we settle for until we can afford more. Oh, and there's one more problem: It's catty-corner to my parents' house. Anyone want to weigh in on the insanity of this idea?

Happy Second Easter, Little Bits

The Night I Turned into THAT Lady

Tonight I became that uncool, bitchy woman I'd always shaken my head at before. And you know what? It felt kinda good.

The Banker and I were driving home after picking Becca up from my parents (Thursday nights we volunteer at a therapeutic riding ranch), when we'd just entered our little neck of the "city." It was about 8:30, the streets still busy. I was in the backseat of the Jeep, turned to entice Becca into taking the last of her final bottle. Suddenly, The Banker shouted, his hand on the horn as he swerved and simultaneously slammed on the brakes. My body, twisted to the side, jerked forward awkwardly against the seatbelt. Becca uttered a cry of absolute panic. In front of us, four boys in a tan Honda had crossed four lanes of traffic and almost side-swiped us. Obviously embarrassed, the driver quickly turned the car off the street, only to reappear minutes later and cut us off to make a quick right-hand turn.

So you know what I did? I memorized the license plate, noted the street I last saw the Honda turn on, and called the police when we got home some five minutes later. The dispatcher, a very kind-sounding woman, looked up the plates and based on where I saw the car turning, surmised the kids were returning home and said she'd call the residence.

Becca, while shaken, is now sound asleep. Me? My neck and lower back ache something fierce. And my pride is both bruised and gloating. Part of me shakes my head that I've become that lady, the straight-laced kind who doesn't get it when kids are just trying to have some "fun." But in the end, I'm a mom, and if dare endanger my child I will take you down. Those kids are damn lucky I wasn't driving, because I probably would have followed them home and given them a good screaming. (Something my own mom has done.) And if I see their car again...well, let's just leave it at that.

Needless to say, I get it--the Mama Bear or Lioness comparisons. And so if I've become that lady, I guess that's okay. Because while I remember my carefree teenage days, there's no excuse for endangering my cub.

Teenage Angst in a One-Year-Old

Time and time again, people react with surprise when my daughter throws them a look like this:



Or, if she's been scolded, this:



I know this means I'm in for a lot of trouble. Of all the one-year-olds we're familiar with, only Becca pulls this sort of thing. I catch her watching expressions, trying to catch the eye of anyone close by. She's clearly tuned in, craving interaction--so much more so than other children I know. This is a point of pride and concern. This kid is stubborn. Tough. And so much more of a handful than I ever expected.

But by the same token, with the pouts and scowls, she's also perfected the art of hugging. She will toddle up to one of the animals--or me--and squeeze sooo tight. It's enough to make my heart feel as if it could burst. It's these moments I'm holding onto when Becca fights me over every meal. Or repeatedly throws her food on the ground despite constant reprimands. Or flips over mid-diaper-change and tries to crawl off. Or tosses me one of her new, perfected, looks.

ISO: Help in Hiding Veggies, Meat

Becca is absolutely refusing vegetables. And meat. She's sort of taking after her mom: all carbs, fruit, and cheese. And even though I've written parenting articles on similar subjects, I only have one or two recipes for hiding vegetables and absolutely zero for hiding meats. And umm, I don't want to spend all day in the kitchen. (Okay, full disclosure, I also really, really don't want to have to buy Jerry Seinfeld's wife's cookbook. Ugh.)

So if you, or anyone you know, have any ideas for outsmarting a really, really finicky one-year-old, I welcome the input. Because carrot cake can't be her sole source of vegetables.

Happy Birthday, Peanut!

This Saturday marked Becca's first birthday, and I think I'm still trying to wrap my mind around this fact. There are days when it feels as if she's been here for ages, that I can't imagine a life before Becca. But most days it seems so fast, an absolute flash. On my to-do list is a year-in-review letter of sorts to the Little Miss that she can look at when she's older. But first I have to get some freelance and other matters under control. So in the meantime, here's a quick peek at Saturday's gathering and the anniversary of Peanut's arrival:

I Don't Know Why I Bother

We got Becca this adorable little chair from Pottery Barn Kids for Christmas, and I had romantic notions it would be her reading chair--that she would sit lovingly next to me and we would read together. Thus far, this is the sum total of it's use:







Where, you might ask, is the Little Miss sitting? Well, right here, of course:



Yup, that's the one of the dog's beds. I blame The Banker's lineage for this. After all, his family was known as the Clampetts at their country club, and one of his siblings has been known to wear a tank-top and flip-flops to a funeral. I'm not even kidding.

Mother's Day Out

Finally! I can breathe through my nose and my body doesn't ache like it's been hit by a truck...repeatedly. And I only occasionally cough up my lungs. There's nothing like feeling well again after feeling so, so terrible to make you appreciate your health. Thank you, God. Now please, please help us all stay healthy through Becca's birthday this coming weekend.

Some interesting things happened while I was fighting influenza. For starters, I had to get up at the crack of dawn to stand in the frigid cold and fight off other desperate parents to enroll Becca in Mother's Day Out for this fall. (Becca, in the meantime, was spending the night at my parents. Where she slept soundly through the night. OF COURSE SHE DID.)

So there I was, cold creeping into my boots, trying to make small talk with other parents without coughing crap up all over them. I was about the tenth or so person to arrive. We were all freezing, desperate to get our kids enrolled, and trading tales of parenthood. (We were nice to one another because one brilliant father had brought a pad of paper and a pen so we could sign up as we arrived. Then we were able to chat kindly, knowing we weren't going to have to elbow each other in the face for a spot in line. Did I mention this brilliant father's wife made him get there at 5 a.m.? This man deserved a medal!)

One mom and I ended up chatting even after we were let into the church building and led down a long haul to wait some more at round tables. She was older than I with a two-year-old son and a nine-month-old daughter. She asked if I was a stay-at-home mom, and when I said I was, she let slip words that cut to my very core: "You know, it was so much harder staying at home than I'd anticipated. I went through this identity crisis. I'd always worked, I always had that, and suddenly I didn't anymore. I felt like when I talked to people, I had nothing to contribute. And I found it very isolating, being stuck in the house at the mercy to constant feeding and nap schedules."

I wanted to hug this complete stranger. I wanted to scream, "AMEN, SISTER!" But I didn't. Instead, I fervently nodded. I get it all. The isolation. The crisis of identity. The feeling of worthlessness. The knowledge that the only thing I have to add to a conversation are the antics of a wee person, and most people don't care to hear me go on and on about poop, feedings, naps, and crazy kid antics. It was so affirming to hear that I'm not the only one--that this staying at home thing? It's not all cuddles and roses. It's the hardest damn thing I've ever done. And probably the most important, too.

Sick, again.

As if this past week hasn't been nasty enough, as if this weekend wasn't hard enough given my grandmother's funeral, I'm now sick with the flu. The kind of flu where you shouldn't get out of bed for three or four days. Unless, of course, you have a child. Then you're forced to be up during the day--and if you're super lucky--from 1:30 a.m. on, too.

Sanctuary!

Another blown-out diaper and projectile vomiting. I'm seriously wondering if I have what it takes to be a stay-at-home mom. Because right now, I'd prefer to be almost anyplace but here.

A sincere thank you

There are days, much like today, when a kind comment can mean the world. Whether it's an encouraging note on a blog, an e-mail just to say hello, or a kind smile for a stranger at the grocery store--these social interactions matter. So thank you. You know who you are. Your supportive comments have such uplifting capabilities. I carry them with me like little nuggets that I can nurture myself when things get hard. Like yesterday, for instance. Or today.

My mom's mom started a steep decline yesterday. My parents, still in Santa Fe, had an evening flight home. I sat by my grandmother's bedside pleading she hold on so my mom could say goodbye. Thank God my parents caught on earlier flight enabling my mom to arrive by midday. I don't think I could have sat bedside, on death watch, by myself. So I put in several hours yesterday and then gratefully, selfishly, handed over the reigns to my mom and one of her sisters.

Then I had to hold it together for The Banker's grandmother's 85th birthday brunch. On our way home, Becca got quite ill. The kind of ill where her diaper was blown, her clothes, jacket, and car seat soaked. Despite the freezing cold, we alternated cracking the windows on the drive back home. It took an immense amount of control not to vomit. Then more heart-wrenching time at the nursing home. Then on to a gala dinner and dance--a bank function The Banker had to attend.

This morning, as I was on my way to bring my mom and her sister coffee, my grandmother finally passed, marking the end to an over-5 year battle with Alzheimer's.

But there's no rest for the weary. Or those with children. Those with a weak stomach, stop reading now. I'm very serious about this. Now.

Becca's virus continued into the night and this morning, just hours after I returned from my final visit to the nursing home, it hit an all-time first. I've seen projectile vomiting, but this was so, so much worse. The Banker was changing her diaper, already leaking from another round, and he called for my help. As he was switching out a clean diaper, Becca projectile diarrhead across the room, into the hallway, and across my body. She shot some 7 feet. It was like a water cannon went off. A water cannon full of liquid poop. The Banker and I looked at each other, our jaws on the floor. (In poop.) Then, because there was nothing else to do, we laughed. Hysterically. As we cleaned the bedspread, the floor, my clothes, and Becca, we laughed. Because the tears had already been spent and all that was left was the maniacal laughter of a mad person.

Now I'm off to rekindle a much-hated talent from my journalistic past: writing an obituary for a woman who was beautiful and adventurous. Who raised a family in Venezuela. Who loved to dance and party. Who lacked maternal instincts. And who always spoke her mind.

All quiet on the blogging front

I'e been meaning to jot down a note or two here, but I've been caught up on this whirlwind that is life and I can't seem to find the time. Or energy. Or motivation. First I was sick with the bug that's been going around, which left me feeling like I'd been jumped in a dark alley or hit by a bus...or both. But as my mom not-so-sympathetically declared, "There are no sick days for moms." And boy was she right. I slept when Becca slept, went to bed as soon as I felt things were under control in the evenings, but other than that, I just had to rough it out.

Then The Banker fell ill over the weekend (if you want to see what THAT was like, see "Man Cold" on YouTube. SO ACCURATE.), so I had less than the usual amount of help around the house. (While he didn't take any "sick days" from work, The Banker did get loads of naps during the weekend. Apparently, sometimes dads do get to take sick days...sort of.)

This week has already started to get away from me--freelance dangerously piling up, book club book to be read, and yes, still hoping to get Becca's memory book started before her first birthday, which is just around the corner. And why did the dogs decide NOW was the best time to start molting and leaving clumps of fur all over my formerly clean home? Let's not even mention my gym membership that expires in a week. I'm not sure I even remember the route to take to that mystical place called "the gym."

And last night Becca screamed from 3 a.m. to 5:30 a.m. This morning, she's got the worst runny nose and keeps sneezing. So it's off to the pediatrician's, but not before I stop by the Alzheimer's unit to try and feed my grandmother some lunch because my parents are out of town. And then tonight? The Banker has a work event I must attend looking properly groomed and smiling...on three hour's sleep.

Okay...back to eating bon-bons and sitting on the couch.

Rule of Nature #74

When you finally, after two rainchecks, take your kid into that really big company where you once worked--you know the one that people from all over the country spend years and countless portfolios and tests to get into?--to have lunch with your former managing editor, your usually sweet cherub will act like that kid, the kind who force people to give you glances urging you to remember to use birth control going forward.

Putting the FAT in Fat Tuesday

I love Fat Tuesday. I mean, on no other day does the world say, "Go ahead, eat and drink and be merry like it's the last day you'll get to let loose...at least for the next 40 days." (Except if you count Thanksgiving, which has less debauchery involved. Or Easter, which is mostly chocolate and egg based.)

Tonight I've opted for extra crispy fried chicken and red bean and rice from a fast-food joint. I don't ever eat fast food and never eat fried chicken, so this will be quite the treat. A big, greasy, gut-busting treat. And after that? Well tomorrow Lent begins and with it a hardcore push to lose the final lingering pounds of baby weight. To boot, The Banker and I are cutting out alcohol Mondays through Thursdays. This will be quite the feat, because in this house wine is kinda like toilet paper--if we run out, people get panicky.

Not-so-friendly skies

This is a portion of the letter I wrote to Frontier Airlines after our total crap flights to CanCun. I never, ever bother writing companies, but the people who work for Frontier so totally screwed us that I got angry enough to write:

My husband and I arrived early for a 7:15 a.m. flight to CanCun on Saturday, January 19th. It was our first flight with our 10-month-old and we wanted ample time to get settled. But we were forced to stand at the ticket counter for almost 50 minutes because no one knew how to charge us $12 for an infant tax. Three different employees over 45 minutes couldn’t figure out how to take pocket change from us and check our baggage. By the time they phoned someone with the training required to complete this task, there were only minutes to spare before our flight. We rushed through security and were among the last to board the flight—no ability to pre-board and settle for our first flight with a baby. It was a terrible and stressful way to start our vacation.

But Frontier didn’t disappoint on the return flight, either. Departing at 3:25 on Saturday, January 26th, we arrived with plenty of time to compensate for any ticketing problems. We were first in line for pre-boarding, but right as we were to step onto the plane we were told we would have to stand and wait—the flight attendants had yet to arrive. The entirety of the plane’s passengers stood for 15 minutes, waiting outside the plane’s door. It was insinuated to my husband by one of the ground crew that the flight attendants might have been caught up “shopping” in the duty-free stores. After the flight attendants’ eventual arrival, the plane sat on the tarmac for 40 minutes waiting to take off—providing no shortage of discomfort for the passengers. (One person in our party was almost forced to urinate herself due to the extended time without bathroom access.) After all this, the plane was an hour late arriving home.

The person in our party almost forced to pee herself? Yup, that would be ME. I'd gone to the bathroom right before boarding, but since we didn't depart for an hour after we were supposed to and because I'd drank a large bottle of water in attempts to rehydrate myself, well...it wasn't pretty. While we were waiting on the runway, the pilot announced it'd be another 16 minutes until we departed. I almost burst into tears--at this point I had a 20-pound baby on my lap (on my bladder) who would scream if anyone else held her. The Banker told me I'd better make a quick jump all of three rows to the restroom. The minute I stood up, though, two flight attendants (obviously grumpy because of the crap choices in the duty-free store) screamed like banshees at me. Total humiliation. If I'd had more guts, I would have peed myself to make a point.

And I didn't even mention how the return flight ran out of booze.

Proof the romance hasn't died

Last night as The Banker and I are brushing our teeth and getting ready for bed...

Me: What did we eat for dinner that was red?
The Banker: Nothing
Me: You mean this was stuck in my teeth since lunch?! Geez, I should brush more...
The Banker: Tell me about it!

A different sort of vacation

CanCun was, by all accounts, a great vacation. But here's the thing: it was a different sort of vacation. In the past, vacations meant freedom--from work schedules, the demands of the daily grind, and all the other responsibilities that keep one tethered and tired. Vacationing with a baby, or children, I would guess, is different in that you're still tied to the schedule. The feedings, the naps, the bedtime. Sure, there's some flexibility, but not much because altering the timeline too drastically means an ugly meltdown.

So when the rest of the family was sunning and drinking on the beach, we were headed up to the room to get the Little One out of the sun and down for a nap. This nap thing? It happens twice a day. And that bedtime thing? Well, Becca goes to bed between 7:30 and 8:00, which means long leisurely dinners are not an option. Hell, long and leisurely anything is not an option because attention spans and patience are short in wee ones.

I don't mean to bitch and boohoo I-had-to-take-my-kid-to-Mexico-feel-bad-for-me. That's not it. Seeing Becca on the beach was such a joy. And the trip was relaxing, in it's own way. It was simply different. It's odd that you think you've settled into this new role of parent and you think you know how it goes when suddenly something comes up and you're like, "Hmm, how to handle this now that there are three?"

(And since Becca learned to crawl--I mean chuck it across the room like a rocket--and pull herself up on anything and everything while we were on vacation, parenting as I've known it is ALL OVER. Constant line of sight and baby-proofing in full effect. God help me!)

Beach Baby

Here's a quick peek at how Miss Becca did while on vacation:





Needing to rail against Frontier Airlines and their stupidity and muse about how a vacation with a kid is not, by typical standards, a vacation, I'll be blogging...for at least a wee bit longer. Apparently something needs to seriously get my goat to compel me to write. But more on that later, for at the moment I desperately need to run to Target and give them a kidney in exchange for diapers, formula, and various other necessities.

A few notes

It seems time has been doing its thing--namely getting away from me. We're leaving for Mexico on Saturday (with my entire family, hopefully, hopefully), and there's packing and cleaning and so much else to do. But first I thought I'd take note of a few developments around here.

For starters, Becca has decided that despite how disdainful crawling seems, she'll do it...a little. When the motivation is right, she'll crawl at quite the clip across the room. However, it's not her preferred mode of transportation, which is to walk with assistance. She wants to be standing or walking ALL THE TIME. And fittingly, her new word is "up," which she utters constantly. I think it's become her catchphrase for "I want something." It's a bit hard to decipher if an "up" means "more bottle" or it actually means "up, you, and walk me about the house until your back gives out." But now that we're mobile I'm both relieved (Hooray! No explaining to the doc why my daughter refuses to crawl!) and suddenly more exhausted. Parenting just took on a whole new challenge.

She continues to be incredibly stubborn, which is at times funny and at others so exasperating that I want to run from the house to the nearest bottle of wine. Every other day she's on some sort of strike: formula strike, baby-food strike, nap strike. Staying one step ahead of this kid is harder than one would think. But at the same time she's a joy. Becca is funny and sweet and exhausting and all-encompassing. There are days when I think I made a mistake in staying home with her and other days when I know I did the right thing. Depending on what day you catch me, you get a whole different take on parenting. But I think that's part of the gig. The ups and downs, the steps forward and the steep slide backward.

And with this need for flexibility in mind, I'm mentally gearing up for Becca's first plane ride, first vacation, first dip in the ocean. I fervently pray everything will go smoothly. As to whether I'll continue this blog when I get back, I'm undecided. I wonder if it's serving its original purpose, and at times shouting into the abyss seems a bit fruitless. But until I'm back and have had time to decide the fate of my incoherent ramblings, cheers!

Cue the music

In all my various theological teachings from Catholic high school and CCD, limbo was always described in rather neutral terms. It's this place between heaven and hell, a place where you wait and see. What they don't tell you is that limbo, emotional limbo, is its own private form of hell where your emotions get jerked back and forth between hope and despair, often in only a matter of hours. It's exhausting. And just when you think you've gone numb, another wave of news sends you crashing. It's a place where all plans are tentative, all joys are slightly guilt-inducing, and all phone calls make you vaguely shudder.

But even in limbo, life goes on. Becca is oblivious to all the chaos around her and I don't think she fully understands what the tears are for. That or she's decided court jester will be her first call of duty. She smiles serenely or makes raspberry noises at inopportune moments. Like those last rites? Perfect time for making farting noises. (She obviously got her knack for timing from her father.) But more than anything she's a reminder that life goes on in this bizarre, funny, heartbreaking, amazing circle.

She is now 10 months old, sporting five teeth, a lust for walking and standing (assisted), and a general disdain for crawling. Becca loves the cat to no end. She also loves to repeatedly do the things that I've said "no" to. Don't throw my sippy cup off the tray? Are you sure? Because I really think one more toss is in the cards. Don't spit my food at you? But carrots make such a lovely spatter design on your shirt...

Discipline is now among the things we're trying to reinforce in the household. That and every time the phone rings, like Pavlov's dog, you must take a sip of wine.

A crap day

In what kind of world do you rush to the vet's after your mom calls to say that your childhood dog may be put down, only for a blessed reprieve...and in the same hour discover your grandmother, in the local Alzheimer's unit, is going downhill so rapidly that the priest has been called in to provide an anointing of the sick?

Mine, apparently.

Think the kid is a little spoiled?!

And this is just the haul from my parents' house.

Visions of sugarplums...

All in all, Becca did very well throughout the Christmas chaos. She went on nap strike on Christmas Eve and carried that through Christmas Day, which led to a handful of meltdowns, but I can hardly blame the girl given the number of places we dragged her and the number of people to whom we showed her off. And her efforts were rewarded with more loot than we have room for in this little house. If Toys for Tots were still accepting donations, they'd get quite an armload from me. As it is, many of the toys will remain in their boxes for later on in the year.

The sheer amount of colored plastic, loud songs/noises, and moving parts has formed a cacophony that makes The Banker nervous. This is a man who likes things neat, organized, and properly stored. (We had a kid. How he thinks his detest for clutter would survive, I've no idea.) So with three carloads of new stuff and a house that was already pleasantly snug at the seams, the house hunt now goes into high gear. The two lots we were eyeing won't be ready for development for another two years, which is just too long in The Banker's estimate. So one of our goals for 2008 will be to find a new place to roost. Let the craziness begin!

Merry Christmas...

to all and to all a good night!

Choice words

Although she's only 9 months old, Becca is really working on speaking. Her pediatrician has assured us that she's only mimicking and doesn't comprehend what she says. But I have to wonder at that, because every time she sees a cat (or a dog, or any other animals for that matter...), Becca breathlessly utters "titty tat." Yeah, she's dropping the "k" and "c" but her intention is unmistakable. This kid loves kitty cats. As for the butchering of the English language? Well, let's just say she's also a big fan of clocks...but she keeps dropping the "l"...yikes.

Past lives

It's funny how the tiniest thing--the tip of a boot--can trigger a memory so powerful that it floods your being, and suddenly part of you is screaming to shed your outer skin, to reclaim 10 years and be the person you once were, younger, free, living on exotic soil. Impossible to fulfill, the desire leaves you empty and sad, just for a moment.

A surprise in the bedroom

When The Banker came home late last night from one of his various board meetings, he went upstairs to change and begin to unwind from his long day. There was a little something waiting for him in the bedroom, though, something that caused no shortage of an uproar, let me tell you. It looked something like this:



She was just hanging from the molding around one of our windows, quite content to be in from the cold, thank you. But The Banker is not quite at ease with such wild things in his house, and with the fear of rabies, I can't quite blame him. Although I thought her rather cute and pet-able.

At that late of an hour the city's Animal Control office was closed, and it didn't seem worth calling the cops over, though by no uncertain terms would we be sleeping with that thing in the house. Thankfully, we have some incredible neighbors, one of which is a Nature Boy. He delights in catching the mice, ground squirrels, and other such creatures that occasionally end up inside our homes. (He's under continual call by our mutual neighbor--a single mom of two young girls. None of these ladies has much of a penchant for spiders, squirrels, and so on.) With a plastic pitcher and lid, he eased the little bat into a makeshift cage of sorts. After we all marveled at her (most likely a big brown bat from what I can find online, though she wasn't very big at all), we let her go down the block.

First thing to do this morning? Find someone to inspect the house and ensure we don't have any more such bedroom surprises. With Becca in the house, it's not something we can mess around with.

Protection

The train circling the Christmas tree is a new addition to our holiday decor. It was purchased last Christmas by my dad, who was just giddy at the thought of a grandson or granddaughter (and for the record, continues to be both giddy and adorable with Becca).

But Becca was less than enthralled with the train when we first showed it to her. In fact, it scared the shit out of her. Her whole body shook and then she turned and frantically grabbed--for me. She buried her head in my neck and held on for dear life. And while it was heartbreaking that the train scared her, I can't even begin to describe how it felt to be the one she wanted when frightened. Becca knows I'm her mom and that I'm there to protect her, and knowing that she knows that is just incredible.

Sparking my anger

I was all ready to post happy pictures of our tree--complete with train set--which we finally set up last night at about 10:30. Check it out:





But then this article on cnn.com caught my eye this morning. It details how Christmas tree light strands are just dripping with lead. Um, you mean the lights we playfully draped over Becca yesterday? Then took photos of?

This pisses me off more than I can adequately express. I am so careful with what I let come in contact with Becca. I researched the safest car seats, the safest crib, we don't let her watch TV, she eats organic when at all possible, we use distilled water in her bottles--which I carefully hand wash instead of throwing into the dishwasher where the heat can expedite the breakdown of the plastic. I get a fair amount of flak because I'm so neurotic. But Becca's our firstborn and until I'm worn down, this is how we'll function. The next kid will no doubt play with rattlesnakes in the middle of a highway, but for now, we're a cautious household. So I'm pissed I didn't know about Christmas lights and lead. I'm pissed that though we've known for decades that lead is bad for us, we continue to crank out products laden with the stuff. And I'm pissed that nothing seems safe anymore.

Maybe we're more paranoid as society. Maybe we just make more cheap junk that's bad for our health. Regardless of the reason, I don't think we should force our children to live in a world where their blood will have to be tested for lead as they grow. Aren't we smart enough to know better?

It ROCKED

It's not often that I bask in the glow of The Banker's job-related perks. For the most part, these "perks" entail a lot of dressing up in uncomfortable clothes and playing nice with customers. However, last night I thoroughly enjoyed The Banker's job. We were the recipients of two unused tickets--suite tickets--to Trans Siberian Orchestra. I love Christmas and I love Christmas carols. And I really love carols that wail with energy and electric guitar. And if I can help myself to limitless pinot noir, delectable sandwiches, and palm-sized shrimp while listening to this incredible music, well that's pretty darn close to a perfect night.

My new addiction

I love popcorn. I mean, I adore it. It's slightly salty, carb-filled, and not that fattening. I'll eat an entire bag for a meal. And right now I'm totally digging Paul Newman's Old Style Move Picture Popcorn. It's so dang yummy I have trouble not eating several bags a day. Mmmm.

"Let me juggle these flaming clubs..."

This is sort of what the holiday season feels like. It wasn't always this acrobatic juggling act where at any moment I could get burned. I used to love the holidays. Christmas was my favorite because of my family's traditions. But once another family was thrown in to the mix--one that's demanding and different from my own--the season came to mean stress, too much running, and the constant possibility of hurt feelings, and on occasion, tears. Happy Birthday, Jesus, indeed.

This year the stakes are particularly high, because it's Becca's first Christmas. In my head, this is the perfect time to start making our own family traditions. The perfect time to start saying "no." But here's the hypocrisy: I really only want to cut out the headaches on The Banker's side of the family. Not very charitable or understanding, is it? I know. It's shitty. I can be flexible as Gumby any other time of the year (okay, more or less), but this time of year is SO. DANG. HARD.

Typically, my family has a Christmas Eve brunch, almost the only time of the year I see my dad's brother and his family. Then there's the race to church, and the race to The Banker's uncle's annual Christmas Eve party. (The fact that The Banker is Irish and comes from a HUUUGE family should be kept in mind.) Then we usually spend the night at my parents', followed by Christmas morning there, then on to The Banker's parents' house, then back between the houses two more times for Christmas dinner. (Be thankful The Banker's family finally did away with the Christmas Day movie, which was another three-hour headache!) And this three-ring circus does not include a trip to The Banker's brother's house where his son gets a visit from Santa. The fact we weren't in attendance last year was greatly noted. (Much guilt + Pregnant me = Tears.)

And while this two-day ordeal is insane, I'm just not sure what "fat" can be cut without letting people down. The Banker's mom is particularly sensitive to any such slight and his family doesn't take well to anyone breaking away from the tried-and-true traditions to start their own.

Thus far we've decided to spend the night at our own home, with our own Christmas morning. But then there's still this insane back-and-forth between homes after that. To complicate matters, Christmas is my dad's birthday, so we've always tried to celebrate a bit on Christmas Eve (the man has spent almost 60 years getting screwed out of his b-day). We used to sneak that in between the Irish Christmas Eve party and an exhausted drop into bed at my parents' house. The new schedule has no time for this little added extra.

I do have this dangerous dream of reclaiming Christmas Eve from the Irish. When I was growing up, it was the perfect time to cuddle in with the family around the tree, put out cookies for Santa, and unwrap a new pair of pajamas. With the family's standing party, there's no room for this sort of thing. And I've seen how The Banker's cousins trudge into the party, make a beeline for the TV, and hunker down with some food. These kids don't enjoy the shindig at all. Why would I want to put Becca through that? But this is a sacred tradition and I could be risking life and limb to dare suggest that we not attend.

This is Becca's first Christmas, and I want it to be an enjoyable one. (Freudian typing: I originally typed "run." Yikes.) Juggling flaming clubs is something I've come to hate--and with it the entire holiday season. I just don't know how to reclaim the day and make it what it was intended to be: a time to celebrate, give thanks, and enjoy the love of family and friends.

A few years back...

The Banker and I were at one of those huge, obnoxious mega-stores. Rather than wait in the horrendous checkout lines, we opted to try the "Self-Checkout" machine. All was going well until The Banker swiped a coupon too quickly and jammed it into the (irretrievable) coupon slot.

"Ooohh--you did it too fast! The machine didn't read the coupon."

"So what?"

"The coupon was for FIVE BUCKS."

"Shit."

So as we waited for a human to lend us a hand, I turned to apologize to the woman waiting behind us. She gave me a stoned-looking smile and exclaimed, "Take all the time you need. This is like a vacation for me--my newborn is at home with my husband and I'm in the store by myself."

Then, I only vaguely could appreciate what this woman had to say. Today, I TOTALLY GET IT.

A case of the Mondays

Today sucked. Big time. Both my sisters are back in their respective states after the holidays and I feel their absence greatly. Becca is teething and refusing to eat. Every meal is a battle and her reams of saliva and screeching are winning. I'm feeling the crushing weight of cabin fever. What few trips to the gym I could muster these past few weeks aren't amounting to ANY weight loss. And out of nowhere this afternoon the glass globe over a kitchen light dropped from the ceiling and shattered everywhere. Thank goodness everyone was elsewhere in the house, but it was a big freaking mess to clean up.

Right now, I want to be somewhere else. Someone else. Ugh.

GO TIGERS!!!

'Nuff said.

Fun: Recalled

And Becca's big Christmas gift that I was so excited about has been recalled:




I swear, I'm thisclose to buying her nothing but wood blocks and cardboard boxes. At the moment, these seem to be the only totally safe toys.

Forgive me

This morning, I committed one of the cardinal sins of parenting, and it's only by the grace of God I'm here writing about it rather than sitting in an emergency room engulfed in guilt and tears.

In Becca's room, we have an antique brass bed. It's my childhood bed, our only place for visiting guests, and a functioning changing station for diapers and baby clothes--saving both the expense and space a proper changing station would have cost. As with most antique beds, it's a good three feet or so off the ground, and as Becca has become more mobile, it's become a bit more of a challenge. And a danger.

Since she's rolling now and can go from a sitting position through her legs onto her stomach, I never stray more than a foot or two from the bed while she's on it. But this morning, even that was too much. I'd moved Becca to the center of the bed, putting her a good two feet from the edge. I took two steps to retrieve a pair of socks, keeping an eye on her tired, sitting form. Suddenly, she sprung forward with such force that she was on the edge. She'd never before covered so much ground so quickly. And just like that, she rolled headfirst off the bed.

What happened next felt like it played out slowly, like trying to move against a strong tide. I took the two steps to the bed, catching Becca mid-air, cradling her around her middle with my arms, and before the momentum brought her face-first into the hardwood floors, flipping her so that in a split second she was standing on the floor supported by my arms. It was the most graceful acrobatic maneuver I've ever accomplished. And I firmly believe it wasn't really my doing. I lack the grace and talent to pull off such a move--Someone was looking out for me.

Becca looked at me and gave a small whimper, as if to say, "What the fuck?!" I stood there stunned, holding her until my entire body began to shake with the implications of just what could have happened. At best, Becca would have been bloodied, screaming, and we would have had to rush to the emergency room. At worst? Well, I can't even begin to think about that.

Every experienced mother knowingly warns you. And every new mother tries to be so careful, remembering the warnings, dreading what could happen. But in a split second what once worked no longer does. I should have known better. But the lull of routine made me careless. Guilt and fear sit like a rock in my stomach as I try to figure out a new routine that will keep this from every happening again.

I'm so sorry, baby girl.

A head cold from hell

Becca has her first true head cold, and it's managed to turn this household upside down. For the uninitiated, congestion in an infant is a far cry from the annoyance it is to an adult. See, as adults, we're aware that we can breath through our mouths. But babies don't have that recognition yet; they're hardwired to breathe through their noses (enabling them to chug happily away at a bottle or...whatever). So when babies are congested, they can't really eat, and--what may well be worse--they can't sleep, either. Last night we were up from roughly 1 a.m. to 4 a.m.

Medically, there's little that can be done. Recent recommendations by the AAP and FDA translate to no cold medicine for children under the age of 2. We can spray saline up Becca's nose, but doing that is akin to brushing a cat's teeth--it ain't pretty and it takes at least two people. In fact, our pediatrician gave me a look of utter shock when she tried to look in Becca's throat yesterday. "My God, she's so strong, so determined, and she's only eight months old!" This sort of reaction makes me dread the terrible twos, because temperament-wise, my kid already acts like one. And she's not been happy lately.

From the looks of it, tonight will be a repeat of last night. I can't wait till Becca can learn to blow her nose. I can't wait till she's old enough for medicine to help knock this sort of thing out of her system. Because until then, there's not much recourse, and I hate seeing her so miserable. Oh, and I hate trying to function on three-and-a-half hours of sleep, too.

Tick, tock

It's with some sad irony that I marvel at how Becca is currently infatuated with clocks. My parents have an assortment of antique clocks that ticktock and chime on the hour. Her head swivels as chimes mark the passage of time. She can find the clocks in every room of the home. (My mom is encouraging this to be her first word--as it was mine.)

Seems I, too, am acutely aware that time is marching on. Yesterday we returned many of the borrowed "baby" items to my brother- and sister-in-law...the sleeping "bumpers," the extra padding for the car seat, the life-saving swing in which she passed so many hours. She doesn't need them anymore. We've moved on to bigger and better things...the exersaucer, high chair, sitting up all by ourselves.

Becca's not a newborn anymore. She's a wee person. And I just don't know how she went from this tiny, helpless bundle into this opinionated whirling dervish of movement and sound.

Happy Halloween, Little Bits

Look at our cute little puppy!

Here we go again...

This weekend I went to D.C. to visit Sister #2, who's finishing up her Master's degree in the city of creepy business people. I couldn't mention it ahead of time because my presence and that of Sister #1 was a surprise. Sister #2 knew that my parents were heading out to visit her, but our arrival took her completely off guard. It was a great weekend full of sightseeing, scrumptious meals, and waaaay too much wine. (Mike Z--you're definitely right about the wine!) I'd vowed upon my return to go into detox, but due to current circumstances, that's been impossible.

The Banker did wonderful with Becca in my absence. It was with no shortage of angst that I left her. Alone. With her Dad. The man who can watch an action flick, drool streaming from the corner of his mouth, unaware the house is burning down around him. But The Banker rocked the single daddy thing. Although I think he was really glad to have me back after four days on the job...he greeted me in the front yard with his arms outstretched, Becca swinging in the breeze.

The lack of effective detox is due to The House Hunt. We've been here, done this. Right before I found out I was pregnant, we were thisclose to putting a bid in on a "country home" with a few acres. Resistance from family members and an unexpected pregnancy stopped us in our tracks, but The Banker has continued to keep an eye out and on occasion we tour a home that looks promising.

Last week we found such a home. Totally rehabbed, gorgeous living room and kitchen, two-and-a-half treed acres, much closer into town than anything we'd looked at previous. And my dad, breaking his long refusal to look at homes that don't meet his desired locale, took a peek at the home yesterday. The result was a wee bit soul crushing. This house is the same distance from his house as the one we're in now--20 minutes. It's in the best school district in the state. The house isn't perfect, but we're looking into making it better meet our needs. But my dad's inability to say anything positive and his usual complaints of "too much land, too far out there" were regurgitated. Again.

I'm an adult. I'm fully capable of purchasing a house without my parents' go-ahead. But my dad knows a great deal about home building and I wanted his expert opinion. But he just can't seem to get over his own desires for where we live.

So we're at it again: The Banker frustrated and me with this sinking feeling in my gut. Do we buy this house? Or do we look at finding a few acres (harder to find in all this urban sprawl) and try to build something ourselves? What can we truly afford? The housing market sucks. I don't want to think of moving in the frigid winter. Why, why, why is this so dang hard???

Whew...

Becca is battling what we think is the stomach flu. The Banker and I were up all night waiting for her stomach to return to some semblance of normal. (The nurse on call claims that she received hundreds of calls from distraught parents with similar complaints.) Today she's not puking, but I can tell she's not 100 percent.

And the house is still in turmoil after our return, and I can't find a number of items that I just saw. Laundry, yard work, and cleaning all need to be caught up with. My hopes for starting a photo album of our trip are postponed until...after Christmas? And I've a freelance article looming that still lacks even a single interview. This weekend is jam packed and offers no time for catch-up.

How do people do this? How do they balance work, home, babes, families, and all the other demands of life?

Happy Returns

Drowning in laundry, mail, e-mail, house cleaning, unpacking, and life in general. So I just don't have time for a proper update...yet. But we've returned safely, Becca had a blast at my parents', and the trip was a great success. Here's a little peek:


A little girl dressed in native finery


A street in Cusco, which was considered the center of the Inca Empire


Part of the ancient Inca trail through the Cloud Forest


The view from one of our camps


And after four days of hiking, Machu Picchu

A fond farewell for now...

We depart on Friday afternoon, but before then there's just so much that has to be accomplished. Having never traveled with the added responsibility of being a parent, I wasn't prepared for all the planning--large and small--that this trip would entail.

Wills were signed, in triplicate, this morning. Tomorrow I undergo the blood and urine tests necessary for life insurance (since leaving The Really Big Company, I'd had no coverage). Nine days worth of diapers, wipes, cereal, formula, distilled water, and pureed veggies, fruits, and meats, have been dropped off at my parent's. The house needs to be cleaned for the house/dog/cat sitter. And The Banker and I need to double and triple check our packing list--then actually pack--to make sure nothing important is left behind. Peru is not the sort of place were you can run into a Quick Trip at midnight for any last-minute necessity.

But with all the physical preparations, I've been neglecting mentally preparing for this trip. It wasn't till I was on the plane to Australia that it fully dawned on me that I was going to be away from my loved ones for almost a year. Postponed panicking is how I cope. But this time it's different--I need to come to terms with what this adventure means. I will be away from Becca for nine long days. Even when I run to the store alone, it sort of feels like I'm missing a limb.

Can I handle this? Can my parents handle this? I know they've successfully accomplished this three times over, but it's exhausting, and they're not young pups anymore. Are we fit enough for this excursion? Will everything be okay?

If you're the praying type, I'd appreciate a few for a safe and enjoyable adventure and a few more that Becca will be safe and happy with my parents. If you're not the praying type, crossed fingers would do. Until we meet again--farewell!