Monday, August 31, 2009
Sunday, August 30, 2009
The Suite Life of Zadie and Lydia: 7/1
- We were sick: The family, as a whole. We were sick we were sick we were sick we were sick we were sick we were sick we were sick we were sick we were sick we were sick we were sick we were sick we were sick we were sick we were sick.
- Did I mention that we were sick?: And that Brandon gave us this disgusting cold? And then got better after two days? And the girls are pooping out the last of the bug. And I have a killer sinus infection. Why? Why? Is it because I post messages about people eating NRA Acid on Sarah Pain tour? Or L-O-V-E that one (or four) Britney Spears song(s)? Or because I am going to reveal some hideous top secret level ten confidential drawings about the nature of my breasts in this post? Or because the only reason that I don't want to make passionate love to Thom Yorke is because of his stink-eye? Or because I sometimes trick Brandon into thinking that I'm not pooping and get him to come into the bathroom and then he realizes that I am pooping and IT'S THE FUNNIEST THING THAT YOU HAVE EVER SEEN? AGGGGGHHHCHOOOOOO!! Sniff, sniff, bllOOOOOOw. Ouch.
- How. Cheif Wappum Like Indian Noise: Okay, the girls have been doing their Indian trick for a while. AH WAH WAH WAH WAH. Right? But now Zadie has upped the bar by DOING THIS BY HERSELF. That's right, readers, Zadie takes the back of her hand and slaps herself in the mouth and AH WAH WAHs all by herself. Which makes her look extraordinarily smart. Except that she has the coordination of an infant and doesn't always hit her target. Sometimes she just slaps her forehead or cheek. What's worst was this morning when she was slamming her wrist into her chest and I was all "Zadie, if you keep hitting your shoulder people are going to think that your IQ is less than 60." (did I succeed in making that comment PC?)
- The Nature of Gravity and Heavy Things That Hang Within Stretchy Casings: I have giant breasts. I always think I know JUST HOW GIANT, but then I go to Belk in Gastonia to get fitted for a bra and I have to threaten the manager to get someone with a measuring tape and then the woman with the tape wants to talk about herself and I'm "JUST MEASURE MY GIANTS TITS FOR CHRIST'S SAKES" and when she does she is spiteful because she tells me that I am . . . . . . wait for it . . . . . . . not a 36D. Not a 36DD. But a 36DDD. Three Ds. My breasts could hardly be ANY MORE THREE DIMENSIONAL. And then they were. So I try on 36DD sizes, because that's my milking size, I can not POSSIBLY be larger than that. And those bras fit like Dolly Parton in my mother's bra. Or more like ME in my mother's bra, because MY BREASTS ARE LARGER THAN DOLLY PARTON'S!!!! She was right, not spiteful. One, two, three, D. Let's back up . . . so I asked Facebook what kind of bra could support Dolly's aching back and Facebook didn't let me down . . . like it usually does when people ask me to do something with their Farming Veggie Tales or start the day with a positive scripture. Facebook suggested all sorts of wonderful bra ideas, because, let's face it, if you are rubbing nipples with Dolly, you are going to help a fellow aching back. And apparently I have giant breasted friends. So after researching FB results, I decided on the Maidenform Lillyette. And finally made it to Belk today. And then the self absorbed measurer of breasts pronounces me a part of the Dolly Club and SHE IS RIGHT. She suggests the most grandmawish bolder holder in the entire store. The one with four seams for maximum SUPPORT, padded straps and forty seven clasps in the back and IS THIS REALLY NECESSARY??? But my babies are crying because they are just babies and don't understand what I am saying when I tell them at least once an hour that they have RUINED the breasts that weren't all that great to begin with-- BUT THEY WERE NOTHING LIKE THIS! CHRIST! So I buy three of these bras and when I get home I model a bra that could serve as a car seat for BOTH of my children, because when you buy a 36DDD you have to laugh about it. And so does your husband. So, I put it on and WHOA! my boobs are in a very different place. A very comfortable place that feels good and I like the way it looks but whose small breasts are those and why are they so high and why doesn't this bra feel all awkward and miserable like EVERY OTHER BRA I'VE EVER WORN? And then I put a tshirt over the bra and sit with Zadie on the floor and the poor child doesn't recognize me. I used to lay the girls on the floor and breast feed them while folding clothes and she's SITTING UP and trying to snuggle with my fun bags but nuzzles my ribs. She looks up at me and looks at my boobs and she KNOWS that something is not right. She keeps checking my face to make sure that I am her mother and she's all you SMELL like my mother but she just can't figure out where my boobs have gone and what these tiny things on my neck are.
- Mobility Update: Blah, blah, they both rock and crawl a little and you can't leave dirty diapers or heroin on the floor anymore who cares? My boobs are ON MY NECK!
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Friday, August 28, 2009
back in the day.
Ever since I can remember, I have been suffering from generalized anxiety. There are a gajillion childhood memories that affirm the prescribed medication that enables me to see and think without swatting the swooping bats around me.
My family left Oakdale Street when I was eight years old. That is how my childhood time line is divided: Pre-Oakdale= 8 and younger. Post-Oakdale= 8 and older.
This story is Pre-Oakdale. This is a very early memory, probably around five? Sixish?? Maybe even younger.
I overheard a story about rats. It was in the news, but my mother was also talking about it. Not to me, of course, but I was always listening. Giant sewer rats. Sewers have tunnels and those tunnels connect to your toilet. An open hole just waiting for rats to follow the light. These rodents did just that. And someone, somewhere, was bitten on the balls. And there was even someone else that sat down to relieve themselves only to have an unexpected chunk taken out of their ass.
This was going to happen to me. That's what everyone with an anxiety disorder thinks: it happened, so it will happen to me. There is a bridge, over water, my car will go into the water. My car will go into the pole. My car will go into the oncoming headlights. It's going to happen to me.
Knowing that the sewer rats were waiting for my pasty little booty, I prepared. Devised a plan. Set up defenses. I was not going to be among the vermin victims, oh no, the Joy-child was smarter than that. And ready for those bastards.
My brother had a plastic baseball hat, I would bet that it was an Atlanta Braves hat because I remember it being navy blue and we were a Braves/Redskins/Tarheel household. Rednecks. Not no uppity Duke, rude Yankees or asshole Cowboys fans, oh no. We were the Bruce Springsteen of sports-fans.
This plastic hat had a few small holes in the top. I can not tell you where I found this hat or when or how it occurred to me that this was the perfect defense, but I had found my way to beat the sewer rats.
From that day forward I peed in the hat.
That's right readers, the hat served as a strong, hard, protective barrier that no unexpected creature could bite through. But what about number two? Number two? Just poop in the hat, dump it in the toilet and rinse it out. And sit it beside of the toilet for next time.
I can't say how long I used this hat. I can only tell you that I would have peed and pooped in the kitchen floor before using the toilet without it. And I felt so sure that I'd kept it a secret. But how did no one notice the stinky hat beside of the toilet? There were only two bathrooms for six people. Surely someone had to wonder why the hard hat was tucked into a bathroom cranny and smelling of a month's worth of feces. Really, how well can a six year old rinse out a hat? Without soap?
Every time I used the bathroom my heart raced and I imagined those rats coming up to get me. ME. ME. I was terrified. At some point I rationalized enough to put the hat back where I'd originally found it. This could have been weeks or months, I can't say.
But I STILL, to this very day, think about those rats. Giant rats, flying through the pipes and searching for their escape. Never rationalizing that rats are not amphibious and how do they breathe under water? I just see a blur with sharp teeth. I sit on the toilet, imagining, then instead of using a plastic barrier, I use methods that my therapist has taught me.
Breathe in . . . out . . . nice and slow . . . deep breaths . . .
My family left Oakdale Street when I was eight years old. That is how my childhood time line is divided: Pre-Oakdale= 8 and younger. Post-Oakdale= 8 and older.
This story is Pre-Oakdale. This is a very early memory, probably around five? Sixish?? Maybe even younger.
I overheard a story about rats. It was in the news, but my mother was also talking about it. Not to me, of course, but I was always listening. Giant sewer rats. Sewers have tunnels and those tunnels connect to your toilet. An open hole just waiting for rats to follow the light. These rodents did just that. And someone, somewhere, was bitten on the balls. And there was even someone else that sat down to relieve themselves only to have an unexpected chunk taken out of their ass.
This was going to happen to me. That's what everyone with an anxiety disorder thinks: it happened, so it will happen to me. There is a bridge, over water, my car will go into the water. My car will go into the pole. My car will go into the oncoming headlights. It's going to happen to me.
Knowing that the sewer rats were waiting for my pasty little booty, I prepared. Devised a plan. Set up defenses. I was not going to be among the vermin victims, oh no, the Joy-child was smarter than that. And ready for those bastards.
My brother had a plastic baseball hat, I would bet that it was an Atlanta Braves hat because I remember it being navy blue and we were a Braves/Redskins/Tarheel household. Rednecks. Not no uppity Duke, rude Yankees or asshole Cowboys fans, oh no. We were the Bruce Springsteen of sports-fans.
This plastic hat had a few small holes in the top. I can not tell you where I found this hat or when or how it occurred to me that this was the perfect defense, but I had found my way to beat the sewer rats.
From that day forward I peed in the hat.
That's right readers, the hat served as a strong, hard, protective barrier that no unexpected creature could bite through. But what about number two? Number two? Just poop in the hat, dump it in the toilet and rinse it out. And sit it beside of the toilet for next time.
I can't say how long I used this hat. I can only tell you that I would have peed and pooped in the kitchen floor before using the toilet without it. And I felt so sure that I'd kept it a secret. But how did no one notice the stinky hat beside of the toilet? There were only two bathrooms for six people. Surely someone had to wonder why the hard hat was tucked into a bathroom cranny and smelling of a month's worth of feces. Really, how well can a six year old rinse out a hat? Without soap?
Every time I used the bathroom my heart raced and I imagined those rats coming up to get me. ME. ME. I was terrified. At some point I rationalized enough to put the hat back where I'd originally found it. This could have been weeks or months, I can't say.
But I STILL, to this very day, think about those rats. Giant rats, flying through the pipes and searching for their escape. Never rationalizing that rats are not amphibious and how do they breathe under water? I just see a blur with sharp teeth. I sit on the toilet, imagining, then instead of using a plastic barrier, I use methods that my therapist has taught me.
Breathe in . . . out . . . nice and slow . . . deep breaths . . .
Thursday, August 27, 2009
The American Dream
I had the most American dream last night. I'm not sure how hard it will be to get there but bear with me.
Brandon and I were vacationing in Central America. We'll say Costa Rica. The waters were a beautiful, crystal blue and Brandon had an itinerary full of activities to fill the next two days before traveling back home. At some point in the dream it occurred to us that we'd brought Layla along. Just as in reality, we forget that we are responsible for a dog until the last minute. Shit, what are we going to do with Layla? We tied her to some beached driftwood while we snorkeled, wrapped her leash around the trunk of a sturdy tree during a boating expedition. She'll be fine . . . While discussing our last day of tropical fun, we relaxed in our wood-paneled cabana. Dinner reservations were made at a posh restaurant and no, dogs weren't allowed to dine.
What are we going to do with Layla?
Our blond beast of slobber and shedding fur has a bit of a detachment problem. To walk out of the door, and her not follow, could create an atrocity of noise pollution for our vacationing neighbors.
I should mention that my dreams contain shape-shifters. One minute you are debating with a rooster about the benefits of breast over bottle and the next you are slllllooooowwwwlllyy fist fighting your brother for touching your boob.
Layla watches as we scramble for an idea. She knows we are leaving her behind. Then, without notice, she becomes Zadie.
I guess we could just put her in the Johnny Jump-Up. Then we wouldn't have to worry about her getting into anything dangerous.
We scratch our heads, imagine coming home from dinner to find our baby sleeping with her head nodded forward, body suspended in air, mouth open, peaceful, comfortable, toes pointing and dragging the floor.
I don't know, maybe she should just be able to roam freely.
And suddenly, as if to warn us against this, a gray cat appears on the recliner beside of the baby. The cat licks it's paws. Stares at Zadie. Everything about the cat is sharp and pointy.
Well shit.
Now I am in the breezeway of the hotel. It is bright. Afternoon. A thirtysomething man passes me, looks uncomfortable. He is tall, long, has greasy hair, everything about the man is sharp and pointy.
Hey lady, you got a buck you can spare?
What NOW? Because I'm American, I'm rich? I have money to throw away on the locals?
Sorry, it's my last day here, I'm broke.
We part our separate ways down the breezeway. I enter a crowded street and spot our truck with what was once Layla, then Zadie, and is now my giant pit bull in the back. Sweet girl. After walking to the truck-bed I spot the sharp, pointy man approaching me with mischief on his face. I am surrounded by locals. I am nervous. He struts up to my pit bull's face and begins taunting her, ruffing her ears and smacking at her cheeks. I realize that I don't know this pit bull, don't know if it will bite his pointy lips off.
Stop it, stop!
Upon my protest the man stabs his finger in my face and yells to the crowded street, This woman is an American!
Slow motion: everyone freezes, stares, looks of horror and fear. As if I am the intruding undercover American in their resort of vacationing Central American secrets.
I throw up my hands, surrender. It's true. I AM an American. And I chose to come HERE to spend my money.
I wait for their response. What will they do now that they know that I, a real American, have graced their village and spent REAL AMERICAN MONEY here. That I chose to keep THEM alive, of all people, of all places. That I rubbed my money in their infected palms and healed their ailments, fed their children, ended the war on terror and established a democratic government. I vacationed here. Will they bite the star and striped covered hand that feeds them?
The first movement comes from a middle aged woman. Dark hair. Tattered clothes. She slowly goes to the ground. Kneels, head down, arms stretched towards me. She is praising me. And then everyone falls to the ground. They are all silently worshiping me. The entire street. Multitudes of people. I clasp my open mouth, shed a tear. Some kneeling Americans look around and realize that I'm not saving their lives, hell, they are on vacation, stand and walk to the beach.
I had this overwhelming feeling that I had actually saved these people. I was the Christ of Christians, Buddha of Buddhists. This was a well deserved praise, though I was ultimately so humbled by it.
And I woke up thinking: Is that some American shit or what?
Stop it, stop!
Upon my protest the man stabs his finger in my face and yells to the crowded street, This woman is an American!
Slow motion: everyone freezes, stares, looks of horror and fear. As if I am the intruding undercover American in their resort of vacationing Central American secrets.
I throw up my hands, surrender. It's true. I AM an American. And I chose to come HERE to spend my money.
I wait for their response. What will they do now that they know that I, a real American, have graced their village and spent REAL AMERICAN MONEY here. That I chose to keep THEM alive, of all people, of all places. That I rubbed my money in their infected palms and healed their ailments, fed their children, ended the war on terror and established a democratic government. I vacationed here. Will they bite the star and striped covered hand that feeds them?
The first movement comes from a middle aged woman. Dark hair. Tattered clothes. She slowly goes to the ground. Kneels, head down, arms stretched towards me. She is praising me. And then everyone falls to the ground. They are all silently worshiping me. The entire street. Multitudes of people. I clasp my open mouth, shed a tear. Some kneeling Americans look around and realize that I'm not saving their lives, hell, they are on vacation, stand and walk to the beach.
I had this overwhelming feeling that I had actually saved these people. I was the Christ of Christians, Buddha of Buddhists. This was a well deserved praise, though I was ultimately so humbled by it.
And I woke up thinking: Is that some American shit or what?
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
The Suite Life of Zadie and Lydia: 7/0
- I Had An Absolutely Hilarious Number One: About stupid twin questions, Hispanic men with staring problems (yes I went there, WHAT?), red headed babies that scream from their cribs, across the room, after naps . . . at each other, that ended with a reference to tin cups and Jail Bar Blues. But I lost it in publishing. Son-of-a-Honky-Horn-Blowing-Mother-Bass-Playing-Flute-Baby. Shit.
- I'm Sorry I Called It a Fat Rash: because it spread from her fat neck up to her juicy peach cheeks, chin and upper lip. Her upper lip is not fat, believe it or not. Turns out it is simply a moisture rash from SURPRISE! drooling. And while Hydrocortizone will not make you skinny, it will smooth irritated peachy preciousness back to fuzz.
- Mama's Kitchen: A Southern family just isn't so without greasengravy on the table. Seeing as how Earth's Best doesn't offer Stage Two Organic Fried Pork Chops or Pureed Collards and Hot Sauce, I have been forced to start making my own baby food. Not only am I saving money, but I know exactly what is going into my wee bird's chirpers. So far we've made peas, carrots, pears, apples, butternut squash and bananas. Oh, and Pickled Pig's Feet with Peaches.
- There Were Four in the Bed and the Little One Said Move Over, Move Over: We were told by The Vampire Doctor (remember Fur Burger's friend?) not to let them scream after 6:00 in the morning. I guess this implies that we should wake up and feed them then. Well, I have a better idea. How about you babies come into mommy and daddy's bed if you happen to wake up before hmmm . . . let's say 9:00. Not the easiest task when your husband leaves for work at 6:30, but, hey, a boob in Zadie's mouth and a paci held in Lydia's and sometimes I can fit in another hour of sleep. Yes, I have learned to even sleep while multitasking. This should be an invaluable skill when I pursue a new career.
- Mobility Update: Rock, Rock, Rock . . . That's my Lydia Jane. No need to feel sorry for her anymore . . . she's figuring things out. That fat booty hunches up in the air and she's on all fours, rocking back and forth. Rock, rock, rock . . . then belly and backwards. Look people, it's progress, okay? Zadie is starting ballet next week.
My Mouth is Foul. Layers of Foulness. Multifaceted Layers.
There is a reason that I have avoided other children.
Kids in day care.
Bathroom floors.
Hands.
Breath.
Prostitutes.
Doctor's offices.
There is a reason that a sign reading "Wash Hands" hung on the entrance to my house for three months.
Little did I know, I was sleeping with the enemy. He bathed my children, held them, fed them. The lips of destruction kissed my face every morning. Whispered, "Have a good day baby."
Whispered, "Did you know that I was up with Zadie this morning?"
HE WAS UP WITH ZADIE THIS MORNING BECAUSE HE INFECTED HER! HE INFECTED US! THE CULPRIT IS MY HUSBAND, THE FATHER OF MY CHILDREN. THE EVIL RODE INTO OUR HOUSE UNNOTICED AND INFECTED US ALL!
Basically, this is a very dramatic way of saying that we are in the midst of our very first Family Cold. What a milestone!
It has been as delightful as I'd hoped. The first night I was up with Zadie, um, the entire night. Babies, like real people, have trouble breathing when they are sick. No kidding! My dad replied to this, "I just spray some Afrin up my nose." Then laughed. Because HAHAHA! you can't spray Afrin up a baby's nose! My sister-in-law suggested propping Zadie on a pillow to sleep between us. Apparently Zadie doesn't like being propped. The nurse on call recommended saline drops and a bulb syringe. Zadie's nose began bleeding when I did this. Thanks for the recommendation, NURSE ON CALL. My mom knew that I would be holding her through the night. I held her through the night. On my chest. She snuffled. She screamed and cried through the snot about once an hour. She stared into my eyes and thanked me. Honestly, she thanked me. She thanked me and loved me for holding her when she felt so cruddy. She didn't even know that I felt just as bad. And refused to take any cold-head-meds so that I could be attentive to her.
Last night at dinner, right before I went to bed, B and I tossed a coin to see who had second shift. The 2:00-6:00 shift. The one that truly sucks. I won. Damn right I won, bitches. At 1:45 I heard a cry. Fifteen minutes until my shift ends. Geez, I guess I'll have to go pick up the baby . . . The baby that is WHAT? not the sick baby. The baby that is WHAT? Lydia. The baby that is WHAT? snuffling, crying and sick. Brandon is no longer sick. Zadie is. Lydia is. Mommy is.
2:00. Tag, bitch, you're it.
Brandon manages both babies until he leaves for work this morning. I could say, "That's what you get for making out with women at work." Or, "Maybe next time you'll think before you touch that doorknob."
But I say thank you.
I say I love you.
Kids in day care.
Bathroom floors.
Hands.
Breath.
Prostitutes.
Doctor's offices.
There is a reason that a sign reading "Wash Hands" hung on the entrance to my house for three months.
Little did I know, I was sleeping with the enemy. He bathed my children, held them, fed them. The lips of destruction kissed my face every morning. Whispered, "Have a good day baby."
Whispered, "Did you know that I was up with Zadie this morning?"
HE WAS UP WITH ZADIE THIS MORNING BECAUSE HE INFECTED HER! HE INFECTED US! THE CULPRIT IS MY HUSBAND, THE FATHER OF MY CHILDREN. THE EVIL RODE INTO OUR HOUSE UNNOTICED AND INFECTED US ALL!
Basically, this is a very dramatic way of saying that we are in the midst of our very first Family Cold. What a milestone!
It has been as delightful as I'd hoped. The first night I was up with Zadie, um, the entire night. Babies, like real people, have trouble breathing when they are sick. No kidding! My dad replied to this, "I just spray some Afrin up my nose." Then laughed. Because HAHAHA! you can't spray Afrin up a baby's nose! My sister-in-law suggested propping Zadie on a pillow to sleep between us. Apparently Zadie doesn't like being propped. The nurse on call recommended saline drops and a bulb syringe. Zadie's nose began bleeding when I did this. Thanks for the recommendation, NURSE ON CALL. My mom knew that I would be holding her through the night. I held her through the night. On my chest. She snuffled. She screamed and cried through the snot about once an hour. She stared into my eyes and thanked me. Honestly, she thanked me. She thanked me and loved me for holding her when she felt so cruddy. She didn't even know that I felt just as bad. And refused to take any cold-head-meds so that I could be attentive to her.
Last night at dinner, right before I went to bed, B and I tossed a coin to see who had second shift. The 2:00-6:00 shift. The one that truly sucks. I won. Damn right I won, bitches. At 1:45 I heard a cry. Fifteen minutes until my shift ends. Geez, I guess I'll have to go pick up the baby . . . The baby that is WHAT? not the sick baby. The baby that is WHAT? Lydia. The baby that is WHAT? snuffling, crying and sick. Brandon is no longer sick. Zadie is. Lydia is. Mommy is.
2:00. Tag, bitch, you're it.
Brandon manages both babies until he leaves for work this morning. I could say, "That's what you get for making out with women at work." Or, "Maybe next time you'll think before you touch that doorknob."
But I say thank you.
I say I love you.
Monday, August 24, 2009
On Baby-proofing
The doctor broke the news to us with an eat-shit smile on his face. "You're going to need to start baby-proofing the house. They will be mobile before you know it!"
That was a month ago.
I have plugged the outlets by the ceiling and wrapped the blind cords up at the base but still haven't figured out what to do with the electric cords under the crib that Lydia keeps chewing on. Forget blocks, flashing suns and singing dogs, Zadie's favorite toy is a dirty diaper and Lydia's is the extension cord under her crib.
Upon rummaging through the closet for extra outlet plug covers for the socket above the bathroom vanity, I discovered the answer to our Home Safety needs:
Not only is this baby safe, but it is also belongs to the safest home of all: Heaven. Dressed as what Brandon coined, "A GRECIAN PIMP BABY."
(I must add that this baby pimp is missing the wads of dollar bills and an angel's robe reading, "Greek Money").
Thank you, Kidz IDz, and thank you God, for giving us everything we need to keep our little Grecian Pimp Babies safe.
That was a month ago.
I have plugged the outlets by the ceiling and wrapped the blind cords up at the base but still haven't figured out what to do with the electric cords under the crib that Lydia keeps chewing on. Forget blocks, flashing suns and singing dogs, Zadie's favorite toy is a dirty diaper and Lydia's is the extension cord under her crib.
Upon rummaging through the closet for extra outlet plug covers for the socket above the bathroom vanity, I discovered the answer to our Home Safety needs:
Not only is this baby safe, but it is also belongs to the safest home of all: Heaven. Dressed as what Brandon coined, "A GRECIAN PIMP BABY."
(I must add that this baby pimp is missing the wads of dollar bills and an angel's robe reading, "Greek Money").
Thank you, Kidz IDz, and thank you God, for giving us everything we need to keep our little Grecian Pimp Babies safe.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Friday, August 21, 2009
Pink Keys on Pink Kites Part One
Brandon gave me the day off.
I have been at the local fresh market since 2:00. It is 5:22. They serve beer.
Just me, Radiohead, Two Hearted Ale and my brain since 2:00. Glorious. I feel sure that people are talking about me. I can not hear them because Thom Yorke woos me. I do not care because Thom Yorke woos me.
Shifts have turned over and a woman from the kitchen brought me bread and cheese saying, "Well, you have to eat something . . ."
I had a late lunch.
Now the dinner crowd is coming in.
I've gone through Kid A, OK Computer and now I'm on In Rainbows.
The table next to me is sat for the first time in three hours. A woman and two men. Seventyish. The woman smells like fragranced powder. She has pink cheeks. Pink polyester slacks. A pink polyester button up blouse. A pink leather purse with gold grommets on the strap. She wears the strap over her knee under the table. Pink church shoes. And yes, a pink hair-bow. All the exact same coordinating shade of baby pink. She must've been confused for a boy when she was an infant. As my children are. Is this what I'm setting them up for? She hammers her leg as if she is nervous. Of course, I assume that it's me. A woman of breeding age sitting next to her on the computer, drinking beer after beer, and OH! THE RACKET! that she is listening to on those ear thingies! She must be deaf! She talks to the waitress a lot. I can't hear her. I assume she is complaining. I do not know. The men sit and eat. The waitress brings me free beers. Of love or pity? Who cares.
Okay, back to her pink hair bow. Think toddler. Think craft show. Think Benjamen Franklin. Benjamin Franklin? you ask. Yes, Benjamen Franklin. This woman's stylist is an avid lover of light bulbs and kites. Short. Slightly curly around the scalp. With a ponytail that we'll call "Stubbs" clipped by a pink hair bow.
I'll attach the pictures that I took with my phone as soon as I figure out how to download from my phone.
I have been at the local fresh market since 2:00. It is 5:22. They serve beer.
Just me, Radiohead, Two Hearted Ale and my brain since 2:00. Glorious. I feel sure that people are talking about me. I can not hear them because Thom Yorke woos me. I do not care because Thom Yorke woos me.
Shifts have turned over and a woman from the kitchen brought me bread and cheese saying, "Well, you have to eat something . . ."
I had a late lunch.
Now the dinner crowd is coming in.
I've gone through Kid A, OK Computer and now I'm on In Rainbows.
The table next to me is sat for the first time in three hours. A woman and two men. Seventyish. The woman smells like fragranced powder. She has pink cheeks. Pink polyester slacks. A pink polyester button up blouse. A pink leather purse with gold grommets on the strap. She wears the strap over her knee under the table. Pink church shoes. And yes, a pink hair-bow. All the exact same coordinating shade of baby pink. She must've been confused for a boy when she was an infant. As my children are. Is this what I'm setting them up for? She hammers her leg as if she is nervous. Of course, I assume that it's me. A woman of breeding age sitting next to her on the computer, drinking beer after beer, and OH! THE RACKET! that she is listening to on those ear thingies! She must be deaf! She talks to the waitress a lot. I can't hear her. I assume she is complaining. I do not know. The men sit and eat. The waitress brings me free beers. Of love or pity? Who cares.
Okay, back to her pink hair bow. Think toddler. Think craft show. Think Benjamen Franklin. Benjamin Franklin? you ask. Yes, Benjamen Franklin. This woman's stylist is an avid lover of light bulbs and kites. Short. Slightly curly around the scalp. With a ponytail that we'll call "Stubbs" clipped by a pink hair bow.
I'll attach the pictures that I took with my phone as soon as I figure out how to download from my phone.
Forgot to Bloom
There is a crepe myrtle in my front yard. I bought it last year on May 20. One year after Lydia's death. A tree seems like such a befitting memorial for a loved one that you will never see again. I went to a local nursery to browse their crepe myrtles. See, Lydia always said that she and her Nani would line the driveway of the house where she would have a family with these beautiful trees. It seemed like the only proper tree to honor her with. I bought the smallest. And the most expensive. It is a Dynamite Crepe Myrtle. A tiny dwarf of a tree with the name "Dynamite." Lydia all the way.
I carefully and methodically loved this tree. I planted it while listening to Madonna. Pouring sweat in the heat. Eyes stinging. It felt right. I didn't know that I was pregnant. As instructed, I watered the tree every three days. "Let the roots search for water." That's what the tree-man said. I would count the days, pour the hose over my tree for at least five minutes. Drenching. Giving life. Providing an opportunity to grow and live and experience a lifetime spent in front of my house, watching my children play and offering beautiful gifts of dynamite red flowers. I would stand and compare the height of the small tree to my own five feet, eight inches. When I wasn't watering, I was examining budding blooms. Criticizing feasting insects. Taking joy in their death, watching them slow after a pesticide treatment, flicking their dry bodies with deep pleasure.
And then, she bloomed. A small spot of red in front of the yard where the hundred year old pine was uprooted and thrown by a tornado only a month before. I enjoyed her flowers. There was such a sense of mothering and grooming with this tree. And I couldn't help but to look forward to years of a deeper red. Supposedly the depth of the flower only ripens with age. As all living things do.
This year our fuchsia crepe myrtle bloomed by the road. I waited. I waited to see a deeper, more vibrant red in the yard with stories of the life it lived since we parted. I grew children in my belly. I birthed them. I had changed. I looked forward to listening to tales of our time spent apart with a broader experience in it's tone.
It never bloomed.
Was it because I left her?
Was it because I never told her that she hurt me?
Or because I hurt her with my neglect?
There were moments when things felt so right. It felt like we were sisters again. I never had a sister. She was my sister. She cried. I held her. I laughed. She smiled. I felt her. Her mouth moved when I touched her face in the hospital. It resembled a smile. The nurse told me it was just reflexes. Nerves. The skin on her face reacting to the skin on my fingertips. They were familiar. Sisters. Now gone. In a cemetery in Gastonia where she would have never moved back given the choice. A rectangle marked with a stone among thousands of other skins on faces. With winding roads and statues of saints and a pond where young children toss bread to ugly ducks. Where I used to drive around and get high. Where I used to drive around and look through my camera lens to get a new perspective on the world that I had grown up tossing bread to ugly ducks. She was buried in the ground and now there are ants crawling and building lives around her headstone. I couldn't do anything. She couldn't stop it or give warning. She fell in the hall. On the hardwood floor. The index and middle fingernail on her right hand were chipped. She still had the toenail polish on from my wedding. She didn't like wearing fingernail polish but did for my wedding. A light caramel bronze color. She picked up the flowers from the florist with me before my wedding and then her ex boyfriend ordered six dozen roses from that florist for her funeral. A dozen for every year they were together. He made sure that they went home with her Nani.
Was it because I wasn't the friend I should have been?
Was it because I took her for granted?
Was it because I didn't always answer her calls?
Was it because I never appreciated her?
Why didn't her tree bloom?
I carefully and methodically loved this tree. I planted it while listening to Madonna. Pouring sweat in the heat. Eyes stinging. It felt right. I didn't know that I was pregnant. As instructed, I watered the tree every three days. "Let the roots search for water." That's what the tree-man said. I would count the days, pour the hose over my tree for at least five minutes. Drenching. Giving life. Providing an opportunity to grow and live and experience a lifetime spent in front of my house, watching my children play and offering beautiful gifts of dynamite red flowers. I would stand and compare the height of the small tree to my own five feet, eight inches. When I wasn't watering, I was examining budding blooms. Criticizing feasting insects. Taking joy in their death, watching them slow after a pesticide treatment, flicking their dry bodies with deep pleasure.
And then, she bloomed. A small spot of red in front of the yard where the hundred year old pine was uprooted and thrown by a tornado only a month before. I enjoyed her flowers. There was such a sense of mothering and grooming with this tree. And I couldn't help but to look forward to years of a deeper red. Supposedly the depth of the flower only ripens with age. As all living things do.
This year our fuchsia crepe myrtle bloomed by the road. I waited. I waited to see a deeper, more vibrant red in the yard with stories of the life it lived since we parted. I grew children in my belly. I birthed them. I had changed. I looked forward to listening to tales of our time spent apart with a broader experience in it's tone.
It never bloomed.
Was it because I left her?
Was it because I never told her that she hurt me?
Or because I hurt her with my neglect?
There were moments when things felt so right. It felt like we were sisters again. I never had a sister. She was my sister. She cried. I held her. I laughed. She smiled. I felt her. Her mouth moved when I touched her face in the hospital. It resembled a smile. The nurse told me it was just reflexes. Nerves. The skin on her face reacting to the skin on my fingertips. They were familiar. Sisters. Now gone. In a cemetery in Gastonia where she would have never moved back given the choice. A rectangle marked with a stone among thousands of other skins on faces. With winding roads and statues of saints and a pond where young children toss bread to ugly ducks. Where I used to drive around and get high. Where I used to drive around and look through my camera lens to get a new perspective on the world that I had grown up tossing bread to ugly ducks. She was buried in the ground and now there are ants crawling and building lives around her headstone. I couldn't do anything. She couldn't stop it or give warning. She fell in the hall. On the hardwood floor. The index and middle fingernail on her right hand were chipped. She still had the toenail polish on from my wedding. She didn't like wearing fingernail polish but did for my wedding. A light caramel bronze color. She picked up the flowers from the florist with me before my wedding and then her ex boyfriend ordered six dozen roses from that florist for her funeral. A dozen for every year they were together. He made sure that they went home with her Nani.
Was it because I wasn't the friend I should have been?
Was it because I took her for granted?
Was it because I didn't always answer her calls?
Was it because I never appreciated her?
Why didn't her tree bloom?
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
SNAPS august 13, 2009
This is my friend, Meneika
And this is my other friend, Jennyfer
They came to visit me on Friday. Yes, my faithful readers, clouds parted and a bright orange ray of light shone down upon my house. My friends visited.
They made me laugh. They made my babies laugh. It was so much fun. Then they became a bit defensive because I had a new friend. And that new friend babysat the previous night. And so I loved that new friend very much and was going on and on about how fabulous and helpful she was. Meineka and Jennyfer said that they would babysit-- THEY WOULD-- and I suppose this was supposed to make me love them as much as my new friend. I love all friends equally. There.
We were all in the nursery and I turned my back on Zadie for one minute. I'd told them how much Zadie loved her Johnny Jump Up and I turn back around to find this:
That is my child who I ALWAYS dress in a shirt, pants AND shoes to play with Johnny. Also, I usually only put her LEG through the leg-hole.
Well, ladies . . . I'll call you when I'm desperate.
(Only kidding, I live in constant desperation!)
Well, ladies . . . I'll call you when I'm desperate.
(Only kidding, I live in constant desperation!)
The Stay At Home Bomb.
That is what I feel like.
Tick, tick, tick, tick . . .
This morning I made myself take a shower. The first since last Thursday.
Yesterday my mom was all GO TAKE ONE RIGHT NOW!
But I told her that I
couldn't
get
up
off
of
the
couch.
The babies were napping.
I'd had a full nine hours of sleep the night before.
Brandon came home twenty minutes late yesterday.
Tick, tick, tick.
And I say that I just want A MINUTE TO MYSELF! but really, would a minute help? An hour?
The thing is, it's not the kids. They are actually what keeps me happy and smiling and breathing and lifting my head off of the pillow in the morning. They have transcended from the problem to the solution.
I am bored.
I am slightly depressed.
I tell my mother STOP TALKING TO ME LIKE THAT, YOU MAKE ME FEEL LIKE I HAVE A PROBLEM.
She says I do have a problem.
I tell her that LOTS OF OTHER MOTHERS FEEL THIS WAY. ESPECIALLY MOTHERS OF TWINS.
She says she never went a week without bathing just because it took too much energy. She says that staying at home with four kids was hard but she never stopped bathing. She says my meds aren't working right.
I said I DON'T WANT TO BE ON MEDS ANYMORE. I WANT TO FEEL NORMAL WITHOUT MEDS. I WANT TO FEEL NORMAL.
Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick.
She says tomorrow is another day.
TOMORROW IS WEDNESDAY. TOMORROW IS TWO DAYS FROM FRIDAY. THIS IS STILL THE BEGINNING OF THE WEEK. TOMORROW IS WEDNESDAY!
I am bored.
Of this routine.
I want to tell mothers to go back to work if they can afford it.
I want to tell mothers to leave the flippin house.
I want to feel normal.
Tick, tick, tick.
And if you are or ever have been a stay at home bomb, or even a working bomb, I would really appreciate a comment of encouragement here. What? You have to enter an email address to comment? What do you think is going to happen? Sarah Palin is already asking for your money and Hot Asian Chics are begging you to meet them! You've taken that risk just by coming to my site (oh, btw, I deleted all adverts forever after seeing an offer for "FREE: ANN COULTER" because I really have to object . . . FREE is one thing that that crazy bitch will NEVER be).
Tick.
Tick, tick, tick, tick . . .
This morning I made myself take a shower. The first since last Thursday.
Yesterday my mom was all GO TAKE ONE RIGHT NOW!
But I told her that I
couldn't
get
up
off
of
the
couch.
The babies were napping.
I'd had a full nine hours of sleep the night before.
Brandon came home twenty minutes late yesterday.
Tick, tick, tick.
And I say that I just want A MINUTE TO MYSELF! but really, would a minute help? An hour?
The thing is, it's not the kids. They are actually what keeps me happy and smiling and breathing and lifting my head off of the pillow in the morning. They have transcended from the problem to the solution.
I am bored.
I am slightly depressed.
I tell my mother STOP TALKING TO ME LIKE THAT, YOU MAKE ME FEEL LIKE I HAVE A PROBLEM.
She says I do have a problem.
I tell her that LOTS OF OTHER MOTHERS FEEL THIS WAY. ESPECIALLY MOTHERS OF TWINS.
She says she never went a week without bathing just because it took too much energy. She says that staying at home with four kids was hard but she never stopped bathing. She says my meds aren't working right.
I said I DON'T WANT TO BE ON MEDS ANYMORE. I WANT TO FEEL NORMAL WITHOUT MEDS. I WANT TO FEEL NORMAL.
Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick.
She says tomorrow is another day.
TOMORROW IS WEDNESDAY. TOMORROW IS TWO DAYS FROM FRIDAY. THIS IS STILL THE BEGINNING OF THE WEEK. TOMORROW IS WEDNESDAY!
I am bored.
Of this routine.
I want to tell mothers to go back to work if they can afford it.
I want to tell mothers to leave the flippin house.
I want to feel normal.
Tick, tick, tick.
And if you are or ever have been a stay at home bomb, or even a working bomb, I would really appreciate a comment of encouragement here. What? You have to enter an email address to comment? What do you think is going to happen? Sarah Palin is already asking for your money and Hot Asian Chics are begging you to meet them! You've taken that risk just by coming to my site (oh, btw, I deleted all adverts forever after seeing an offer for "FREE: ANN COULTER" because I really have to object . . . FREE is one thing that that crazy bitch will NEVER be).
Tick.
WHOO HOO! AWESOME PEOPLE ARE AWESOME WITH ALL OF THEIR AWESOMENESS!
FINALLY, some awesome (keyword here) people are ordering the grrrl. line for their wee ones. Keep in mind that if you don't see the size that you need, simply CUSTOM ORDER for yo baybeh. Yes, I will actually drive to Target or Hobby Lobby to buy a onesie/shirt to applique just for you. Believe it.
Have I mentioned that 100% of the proceeds go to Team Sheesha (Alicia's official cheerleading section)?? Thought so . . .
I have added a boy style since all of you people keep breeding these little buggahs . . .
Have I mentioned that 100% of the proceeds go to Team Sheesha (Alicia's official cheerleading section)?? Thought so . . .
I have added a boy style since all of you people keep breeding these little buggahs . . .
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
SNAPS august 11, 2009
Here we are pretending that I play with Layla.That I actually go outside and throw things for her.
That nothing has changed.
Monday, August 17, 2009
Are you begging for a break?
While pregnant and considering the songs that I would sing to my children, no traditional lullabies came to mind. Because HELLOOOOOO!!! I am far too cool for that stupid shit.
My nephewish little buddy, Finn-Star, was my girls' age when I tried to walk and sing him to sleep outside of his house last summer. Hmmmm . . . what songs should I sing?? Only one song came to my head.
Are you hungry?
Are you sick?
Are you begging for a break?
Are you sweet?
Are you fresh?
Are you strung up by the wrists?
We want the young blood
When I first heard Radiohead's Hail to the Thief, I never thought of it as a collection of songs in which children should drift into peaceful slumber. But there we were. Me singing. Finn-Star drifting. Thom cringing. Jesus Christ cringing. My mother cringing. Republicans cringing.
We want the sweeeeeeeeet meat . . . .
Back when I had Zadie and Lydia and I was in the hospital-- back when I was on day three of breastfeeding two five pound babies-- when I was beginning to realize that something just wasn't exactly right with my brain and PLEASE DON'T SEND ME HOME TO TAKE CARE OF THESE THINGS BY MYSELF!!!!-- I was visited by a lovely woman named Millie. Millie worked at the hospital as a family service rep. There I was, laying in my bed, wallowing in craziness but too afraid to tell anyone, and this spunky little woman with a voice of raw confidence marches into the room, no introduction, just, "HONEY, I KNOW WHAT YOU'RE GOING THROUGH-- I BREASTFED TRIPLETS."
(PRESENT TIME): I, just this minute, had to stop and stare at the keyboard. And wince back a full blown weep.
That's how much that single sentence meant to me: I breastfed triplets. And look at her! She could walk. And put on make-up in the morning. She was alive and in a social setting. She breastfed triplets. From that day forward, Millie was my example of Christ: if she could wake up at 4:00 in the morning after waking up at 2:00 and 12:00 to feed THREE babies, I can do it to feed TWO. She was a stay-at-home-mother of TRIPLETS. I can handle TWINS. I would call her from home when things got crazy. I CAN'T GET THEM TO SLEEP! I CAN'T GET THEM TO STOP CRYING! I CAN'T DO THIS! I'M GOING CRAZY! AAGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHH! Millie would walk me through all of the different things that I could possibly do to soothe them. She would give me ideas that she had used religiously with her babies. I was important to her. My success was important. Like a suicide hotline, Millie would talk me off of the ledge, then calm me into the building and assure me that I could face another day. Another minute. And when things got crazy I would remind myself about the cross . . . Millie breastfed triplets.
She once told me a story that was declared to be her "rock bottom". Unfortunately she could not escape to the pleasures of rehab upon this realization:
She had to use the bathroom. So she put up a make-shift fenced area where the three babies would be safe while she left them alone in the next room. While her bowels were slowly moving, a scream from her smallest baby was heard. A continuous scream of anguish. And what can you do as a mother? Your baby is obviously in pain-- YOU MUST STOP THIS PAIN. She runs into the next room. Her giant boy was laying on top of her tiny girl. She moves him and begins back to the toilet when PLOP! she realizes that something has escaped her body. Yes. She shit in the floor.
There is no warm up or cool down for my bowels. They simply move within a moment's notice. This morning they noticed. Lydia was very fussy and I (for some reason) could not hold her while I pooped. There was no time for strategies or game plans, I placed her on the floor beside her sister, threw a slew of toys in her direction and ran to the bathroom across from the nursery. I expected her to disapprove, so when she stated her obvious disapproval I was prepared. But then she heave-cried. Scream-cried. And while I was working on this much-more-tedious-than-most-bowel-movement, I could only think of one thing: Millie shitting in the floor. I was not going to shit in the floor. I am an adult. I will finish this adult bowel movement. With honor and not beside of a singing stuffed dog and a pile of rainbow colored blocks. But she is CRYING and SCREAMING and WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO??? I HAVE TO STOP IT!!
While my children enjoy the cheerful glee of Thom Yorke's croons, nothing brightens the day like a good ole Itsy Bitsy Spider. That's right. Never say never, my un-childed fool. And so the Itsy Bitsy Spider Straining Procession begins. "THE ITSY BITAGGGGHHHSY SPIDER CLIMBED UP THE WATER SPOUT . . ." I sang this song at the top of my lungs to be sure that my crying baby would hear me in the nursery. The crying stopped. Zadie squealed with delight. I stopped singing and pushed. Lydia started crying again. And on . . . "THE ITSY BITSY SPIDER . . . " Silence. This lasted for at LEAST a solid ten minutes. Think about that song. Not a long song. Ten minutes. While pooping. It is incredibly difficult to poop while singing Itsy Bitsy Spider at Lollapalooza. But alas, I did not shit in the floor. And my child stopped crying.
And tonight I am reflecting on my afternoon while listening to Radiohead . . .
Are you hungry?
Are you sick?
Are you begging for a break?
My nephewish little buddy, Finn-Star, was my girls' age when I tried to walk and sing him to sleep outside of his house last summer. Hmmmm . . . what songs should I sing?? Only one song came to my head.
Are you hungry?
Are you sick?
Are you begging for a break?
Are you sweet?
Are you fresh?
Are you strung up by the wrists?
We want the young blood
When I first heard Radiohead's Hail to the Thief, I never thought of it as a collection of songs in which children should drift into peaceful slumber. But there we were. Me singing. Finn-Star drifting. Thom cringing. Jesus Christ cringing. My mother cringing. Republicans cringing.
We want the sweeeeeeeeet meat . . . .
Back when I had Zadie and Lydia and I was in the hospital-- back when I was on day three of breastfeeding two five pound babies-- when I was beginning to realize that something just wasn't exactly right with my brain and PLEASE DON'T SEND ME HOME TO TAKE CARE OF THESE THINGS BY MYSELF!!!!-- I was visited by a lovely woman named Millie. Millie worked at the hospital as a family service rep. There I was, laying in my bed, wallowing in craziness but too afraid to tell anyone, and this spunky little woman with a voice of raw confidence marches into the room, no introduction, just, "HONEY, I KNOW WHAT YOU'RE GOING THROUGH-- I BREASTFED TRIPLETS."
(PRESENT TIME): I, just this minute, had to stop and stare at the keyboard. And wince back a full blown weep.
That's how much that single sentence meant to me: I breastfed triplets. And look at her! She could walk. And put on make-up in the morning. She was alive and in a social setting. She breastfed triplets. From that day forward, Millie was my example of Christ: if she could wake up at 4:00 in the morning after waking up at 2:00 and 12:00 to feed THREE babies, I can do it to feed TWO. She was a stay-at-home-mother of TRIPLETS. I can handle TWINS. I would call her from home when things got crazy. I CAN'T GET THEM TO SLEEP! I CAN'T GET THEM TO STOP CRYING! I CAN'T DO THIS! I'M GOING CRAZY! AAGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHH! Millie would walk me through all of the different things that I could possibly do to soothe them. She would give me ideas that she had used religiously with her babies. I was important to her. My success was important. Like a suicide hotline, Millie would talk me off of the ledge, then calm me into the building and assure me that I could face another day. Another minute. And when things got crazy I would remind myself about the cross . . . Millie breastfed triplets.
She once told me a story that was declared to be her "rock bottom". Unfortunately she could not escape to the pleasures of rehab upon this realization:
She had to use the bathroom. So she put up a make-shift fenced area where the three babies would be safe while she left them alone in the next room. While her bowels were slowly moving, a scream from her smallest baby was heard. A continuous scream of anguish. And what can you do as a mother? Your baby is obviously in pain-- YOU MUST STOP THIS PAIN. She runs into the next room. Her giant boy was laying on top of her tiny girl. She moves him and begins back to the toilet when PLOP! she realizes that something has escaped her body. Yes. She shit in the floor.
There is no warm up or cool down for my bowels. They simply move within a moment's notice. This morning they noticed. Lydia was very fussy and I (for some reason) could not hold her while I pooped. There was no time for strategies or game plans, I placed her on the floor beside her sister, threw a slew of toys in her direction and ran to the bathroom across from the nursery. I expected her to disapprove, so when she stated her obvious disapproval I was prepared. But then she heave-cried. Scream-cried. And while I was working on this much-more-tedious-than-most-bowel-movement, I could only think of one thing: Millie shitting in the floor. I was not going to shit in the floor. I am an adult. I will finish this adult bowel movement. With honor and not beside of a singing stuffed dog and a pile of rainbow colored blocks. But she is CRYING and SCREAMING and WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO??? I HAVE TO STOP IT!!
While my children enjoy the cheerful glee of Thom Yorke's croons, nothing brightens the day like a good ole Itsy Bitsy Spider. That's right. Never say never, my un-childed fool. And so the Itsy Bitsy Spider Straining Procession begins. "THE ITSY BITAGGGGHHHSY SPIDER CLIMBED UP THE WATER SPOUT . . ." I sang this song at the top of my lungs to be sure that my crying baby would hear me in the nursery. The crying stopped. Zadie squealed with delight. I stopped singing and pushed. Lydia started crying again. And on . . . "THE ITSY BITSY SPIDER . . . " Silence. This lasted for at LEAST a solid ten minutes. Think about that song. Not a long song. Ten minutes. While pooping. It is incredibly difficult to poop while singing Itsy Bitsy Spider at Lollapalooza. But alas, I did not shit in the floor. And my child stopped crying.
And tonight I am reflecting on my afternoon while listening to Radiohead . . .
Are you hungry?
Are you sick?
Are you begging for a break?
grrrl.
This hardcore wee onesie is part of my new grrrl. line. 100% of the proceeds from this line of clothing will go to Alicia Huff. Alicia is a friend from high school and also a 25 year old cancer patient. Yes, 100% of proceeds-- that means that after etsy/materials/paypal dues, ALL of the money goes to a beautiful young woman that is going to have hella medical bills once she beats this nasty cancer. SO BUY IT FOR CHRIST'S SAKE! SURELY YOU WILL KNOW A BABY GIRL THIS SIZE AT SOME POINT IN YOUR LIFE. OR JUST HAVE ME MAKE ONE IN YOUR CHILD'S SIZE! OR YOUR SIZE! OR PUT IT ON YOUR DOG. OR PLANT! OR JUST HANG IT ON YOUR FRIDGE IF YOU NEVER PLAN TO HAVE ANYTHING SMALL IN YOUR LIFE EVER AGAIN! . . . GEEEEEEEZ!
Click here to buy (or just view . . . if you are a lame-O).
Sunday, August 16, 2009
SNAPS august 10, 2009
I manage to get some of the most beautiful photographs of the girls when I am shooting for my ETSY store.
Even if people aren't buying . . . . at least I'm getting some wicked awesome pictures (and some beautiful clothes to decorate my dining room table)!
SNAPS august 8, 2009
Blocks, blocks, blocks . . .
I can't say enough about how much these girls love blocks.
Thank you Heidi!
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
things.
Some things make you happy.Some things secure your marriage.
I purchased this ridiculously fabulous vintage tee as a Christmas present
for B from The Reuse Rescue.
But how could this possibly wait until Christmas?
words.
SEPTEMBER 27
I don't understand
the poem about
the red wheelbarrow
and the white chickens
and why so much depends upon
them.
If that is a poem
about the red wheelbarrow
and the white chickens
then any words
can be a poem.
You've just got to
make
short
lines.
from Sharon Creech's Love That Dog
I don't understand
the poem about
the red wheelbarrow
and the white chickens
and why so much depends upon
them.
If that is a poem
about the red wheelbarrow
and the white chickens
then any words
can be a poem.
You've just got to
make
short
lines.
from Sharon Creech's Love That Dog
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
"Edelweiss" and other (possible) Songs of Freedom
I just can not explain the pain or emotional burden of breastfeeding to someone that has not experienced it themselves. A woman might be worth the trouble: she has mammary glands and the natural instinct to soothe and nurture. But for a man, I can only think of crude, offhanded metaphors. Such as a blistery penis being beaten with a hammer for thirty minutes straight, every two hours on the dot. Finished? Think again, my boy, because CONGRATULATIONS! you have twins! BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG . . . . Good job, now let me take that baby. And, oh, here is a penis pump that we will set on high for ten minutes so that we can create the world's largest dairy farm. WEEWAHWEEWAHWEEWAHWEEWAH . . . Yes, now you may go to sleep. I'll wake you up in twenty minutes when it's time to feed again.
After thirty-six hours of this torment you are sitting on an examination table in a small room at your OBGYN's office. It is pitch black because the light makes you feel like your blistered BRAIN is being hammered and your blood pressure is high enough to put you at risk for seizure. You keep wailing, "YOU HAVE TO MAKE IT GO AWAY! I CAN'T FEEL LIKE THIS! I CAN'T FEEL LIKE THIS FOREVER!" Your doctor is threatening the psych ward.
Once you are in the hospital room, needle sticking out of your hand, gownless and naked in your crazy-bed, your little hammers are brought to you because GUESS WHAT? They are still hungry! These things ARE ALWAYS HUNGRY AND YOUR BLISTERED PENIS HAS TO FEED THEM. BANG, BANG, BANG!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Even this graphic metaphor does not really work for a man. There is no way to convey the unyielding biological and maternal drives to feed your babies. The NEED to prevail and the awesome anxiety at the thought of failing to successfully breastfeed. Premature. Twins.
Or a single giant baby, for that matter.
Breastfeeding is not easy.
It's natural. It's best. It's a powerful bonding experience and might even capture and behead Osama Bin Laden.
But it is not easy.
Once Team Booby is established and all of the players understand their positions and have practiced, practiced, practiced, things start to look up. There are moments of perfection where you become so overwhelmed with love and you have to give in to the urge of licking your child's fuzzy head. Go ahead, lick her head, it's okay. We're all animals here. Sucking her fingers when they wander into your mouth, taking large bites out of her juicy cheeks. This love is so raw and yummy. It doesn't need salt, pepper, sugar or ketchup . . . it is the tastiest little bowl of pink perfection that you could possibly eat. With a spoon.
Seven months (holy crap-- SEVEN!) in and it's hard to get them to breastfeed. I am a slave of priority to Master Pump but I can hardly beg them onto the boob. I miss this time spent staring into each other's eyes and the circling tweety birds that flutter in my brain when my milk drops. There just aren't tweets with Master Pump-- slavery only evokes songs of stamina and freedom, never sweet love ballads. Air Supply doesn't have a "10 Greatest Hits of Slavery" coming out any time soon. You simply hum to the droan of your Master as the job proceeds. And you accept your fate. Except for one thing . . . you have the choice to quit.
I had planned on pumping until next Spring. Once the RSV and flu season were on the outs. I hoped to give my girls the extra ammunition needed to keep fat and healthy through their entire first year.
But then my Master started beating me.
For the past two weeks I have feared the pump. Winced as I attached it's sucking claws to my chest. Something that had become monotonous and second nature was now VERY OBVIOUS. Like HA, YOU THOUGHT THAT YOU WEREN'T GOING TO NOTICE ME ANYMORE BUT I AM HERE TO TELL YOU DIFFERENT. I AM YOUR MASTER AND YOU WILL RESPECT MY MONOTONOUS DROAN!! WEEWAHWEEWAHWEEWAHWEEWAH!!!
I tried to ignore the reddening of my nipples. The sores that gradually formed, opened and spread. The pains that began to shoot and throb even hours after pumping. And then there was the Holy Blessed Mother of All Blisters. She set up an entire convent on the tip of my right nipple. A cloister of blisters all praying quietly with her. Until I begin to pump. You have never truly hated Julie Andrews until the shrill of "How Do You Solve a Problem Like Maria" explodes into full chorus on your infected nipple. DAMMIT MARIA, WHY DO YOU HAVE TO BE SO STUBBORN!!!!! JUST DO WHAT YOUR TOLD FOR CHRIST'S SAKE!!!
Thus, the question of whether I will free my Master or not.
Things are looking dim.
Not even a pretty song about German flowers can mend this wound.
After thirty-six hours of this torment you are sitting on an examination table in a small room at your OBGYN's office. It is pitch black because the light makes you feel like your blistered BRAIN is being hammered and your blood pressure is high enough to put you at risk for seizure. You keep wailing, "YOU HAVE TO MAKE IT GO AWAY! I CAN'T FEEL LIKE THIS! I CAN'T FEEL LIKE THIS FOREVER!" Your doctor is threatening the psych ward.
Once you are in the hospital room, needle sticking out of your hand, gownless and naked in your crazy-bed, your little hammers are brought to you because GUESS WHAT? They are still hungry! These things ARE ALWAYS HUNGRY AND YOUR BLISTERED PENIS HAS TO FEED THEM. BANG, BANG, BANG!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Even this graphic metaphor does not really work for a man. There is no way to convey the unyielding biological and maternal drives to feed your babies. The NEED to prevail and the awesome anxiety at the thought of failing to successfully breastfeed. Premature. Twins.
Or a single giant baby, for that matter.
Breastfeeding is not easy.
It's natural. It's best. It's a powerful bonding experience and might even capture and behead Osama Bin Laden.
But it is not easy.
Once Team Booby is established and all of the players understand their positions and have practiced, practiced, practiced, things start to look up. There are moments of perfection where you become so overwhelmed with love and you have to give in to the urge of licking your child's fuzzy head. Go ahead, lick her head, it's okay. We're all animals here. Sucking her fingers when they wander into your mouth, taking large bites out of her juicy cheeks. This love is so raw and yummy. It doesn't need salt, pepper, sugar or ketchup . . . it is the tastiest little bowl of pink perfection that you could possibly eat. With a spoon.
Seven months (holy crap-- SEVEN!) in and it's hard to get them to breastfeed. I am a slave of priority to Master Pump but I can hardly beg them onto the boob. I miss this time spent staring into each other's eyes and the circling tweety birds that flutter in my brain when my milk drops. There just aren't tweets with Master Pump-- slavery only evokes songs of stamina and freedom, never sweet love ballads. Air Supply doesn't have a "10 Greatest Hits of Slavery" coming out any time soon. You simply hum to the droan of your Master as the job proceeds. And you accept your fate. Except for one thing . . . you have the choice to quit.
I had planned on pumping until next Spring. Once the RSV and flu season were on the outs. I hoped to give my girls the extra ammunition needed to keep fat and healthy through their entire first year.
But then my Master started beating me.
For the past two weeks I have feared the pump. Winced as I attached it's sucking claws to my chest. Something that had become monotonous and second nature was now VERY OBVIOUS. Like HA, YOU THOUGHT THAT YOU WEREN'T GOING TO NOTICE ME ANYMORE BUT I AM HERE TO TELL YOU DIFFERENT. I AM YOUR MASTER AND YOU WILL RESPECT MY MONOTONOUS DROAN!! WEEWAHWEEWAHWEEWAHWEEWAH!!!
I tried to ignore the reddening of my nipples. The sores that gradually formed, opened and spread. The pains that began to shoot and throb even hours after pumping. And then there was the Holy Blessed Mother of All Blisters. She set up an entire convent on the tip of my right nipple. A cloister of blisters all praying quietly with her. Until I begin to pump. You have never truly hated Julie Andrews until the shrill of "How Do You Solve a Problem Like Maria" explodes into full chorus on your infected nipple. DAMMIT MARIA, WHY DO YOU HAVE TO BE SO STUBBORN!!!!! JUST DO WHAT YOUR TOLD FOR CHRIST'S SAKE!!!
Thus, the question of whether I will free my Master or not.
Things are looking dim.
Not even a pretty song about German flowers can mend this wound.
Sunday, August 9, 2009
The Suite Life of Zadie and Lydia: 6/3
- Because a Six Month Old Just Can't Lie: I finally got the Mom-Do. We'll call it "Shut Yo Mouff Mom-Do Fur Da New Millineum Yeaaaah Boyyyyy!!!!"-- because it's not the Mom-Do that my mom and all of her friends had when we were kids. The one my dad called her Butch-cut? Yes, that one. Of course, my hair is styled and straight and not a follicle out of place when I come home from my stylist, Srta. María el Magnífico, and the girls are all, "Dayem girrrl you done got yur hair did!" And they smiled and smiled because they've never seen such a put together, pleasant smelling Mommy. But (and there is always a but, right?), eventually I had to wash my hair. I stalled for a week . . . first just pinning it back, then using headbands . . . to scarves, to hats. On the seventh day it was sticking straight up and you could throw some sliced potatoes and rosemary on my head while standing outside in the August heat and Viola!, you would have some tasty Home Fries. I washed it. Then put the $20 elixir in and dried it with the diffuser just as instructed. And, well, it was curly, just like I wanted. But it was big. Because, let's face it, I just have big hair. Maybe if I put on some make-up it will look smaller. Then, well, maybe when it's fully dried. To, okay, if I stand on one foot with Andre' the Giant behind my back and a 747 flying over my head, maybe, just maybe . . . Then, finally, I'll just pin it down. Somewhere around the "maybe when it's fully dried" stage, I was holding Zadie and bless her dear-little-honeysuckle-heart, she could not lie. While Brandon was trying with, "It is curly", I don't think Zadie even saw my face, my body, even my giant boobs, for crying out loud. Her eyes just kept saying, "HAIR, HAIR, HAIR, HAIR, HAIR"-- not I want to reach out and grab your hair (like usual), just simply and honestly, "HAIR, HAIR, HAIR, HAIR, HAIR, HAIR, HAIR . . ."
- The Fat Rash: A couple of weeks ago, we noticed that Lydia had a red scratch under her chin. After a couple of days, I decided that it was a Zip-up Sleeper injury. After a week of two piece pajamas and button-ups, the red mark was getting larger, redder and seemed to be spreading around her neck. So a work-friend of Brandon's clued us in on The Fat Rash (his term was "heat rash", but really people, let's just call in what it is). You may or may not know this, but larger people sometimes tend to get rashes where skin rubs together (just ask my breasts, they could write a book on the subject). Seeing how Lydia Jane is now wearing Grandmaw's bras and Daddy's shoes, she has fallen victim to DOOM-DOOM-DOOM: The Fat Rash. (which is successfully being treated with Triple Paste Cream-- thanks for the heads up, Brian!)
- Don't Fear the Teether: The girls have been drooling for close to three months now. Let me reiterate the italics of the word drooling: imagine red fire hydrants, blasting clear, runny slime into a city street . . . Niagara Falls roaring and pouring over with thick baby sweetness . . . Southern California going up in flames, only to be rescued by a helicopter that has, what's that?? yes!! i think it's BABIES! hanging from the windows and quenching the thirsty flames with forty tons of drool per minute. With drooling comes the question, "Are they teething?" Well, no. I don't see teeth. Or little white bumps. Or even swollen gums. But they clamp down on anything within chomping distance. And become very passionate with teething rings (in fact, Zadie tried to run off to Gatlinburg with the frozen teether). I was relieved when our PA friend (physician's assistant, not Pennsylvanian) told us a story about her friend who's baby was up all hours of the night. And miserable. Because he was teething. Why was I relieved? Because she is practically a DOCTOR-- and assured me that mine would never have teeth.
- Things You Just Don't Tell Other People: Unless your mother has already rented out a billboard on I-85 that reads, "My daughter held her daughter into the ceiling fan". Yes, that's right. I was in front of the changing table and lifted Lydia to smell her butt and heard a THUMP THUMP THUMP. What was that? Lydia screamed. I screamed. And I cried and held her and flipped out and kept yelling, "I'm so sorry! I'm so sorry! OH GAWD I'M SO SORRY!!!!" Until Lydia was rolling her eyes and reaching for Zadie, who was playing on the floor. She didn't die. And barely had a scratch on top of her head. She just wanted to play. The very best (or worst??) part of this story is a week beforehand, when I was sitting in the papasan under the ceiling fan and saying to Brandon, "You know, I bet people aren't paying attention and throw their kids into ceiling fans. I bet it happens all of the time." Then silently judged those bad parents.
- Mobility Update: The whole crawling thing is really just so funny with twins. One day Lydia is rolling across the room and nabs Zadie's toy and the next Zadie jumps onto her feet and steals the minivan with the freezer teether. This Week in Mobility: Where Lydia once had the appearance of understanding a few crawling fundamentals, she seems now to have forgotten. However, Zadie has completely figured this thing out. It's really awesome, actually. She puts her butt in the air, and frog legged crawls while pulling herself forward with her arms. She is fast. And very efficient at getting all of the toys on the rug, sliding them under her body and keeping them out of Lydia's reach. While Lydia spins around in circles like a one finned fish.
Saturday, August 8, 2009
SNAPS august 6, 2009
I showed Brandon this picture of the girls and he was all, "Yikes!"
Why yikes?
"Because we have two kids. Yikes."
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