One woman actually clapped and I laughed, shrugging, claiming “è niente,” it’s nothing, above the protests of my sciatic nerve and that crevasse between my shoulder blades screaming, “It most certainly is something! You’ll pay for this later.”

Never mind that my kid is in the 99th percentile for length, 82nd for weight, and that my abs effectively separated vertically down the center while I carried her on the inside. That hasn’t stopped me from carrying her on the outside, wrapped and strapped to my chest like the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man while I hold — and here’s the kicker — a 60-pound mutt leashed in each hand. Apparently we’re quite the site as my dogs walk us through the medieval corridors of Ferrara to the periodic sound of actual applause. In my head I’m all, “Americans call this multitasking, Italy. This is just an average Tuesday.”

If we’re being honest, “Get ‘er done” isn’t a catchphrase, it’s an all-American way of life” — one I’m hard-pressed to let go of entirely, lest I lose myself completely in daily 2-hour wine-soaked lunches followed by a shot of espresso and a placid, late afternoon stroll while my stomach acids do their thing.

And yet.

I’m beginning to think that nearly literally breaking my back just so I can squeeze the dogs in for a walk after the kid eats but before she needs a nap is a surefire path to a miserable existence.

Even when it comes with the perk of applause.

And I know in my heart-of-hearts that things cannot go on like this. As a nation, Italy is young. But as a people, she’s old enough to know a thing or two about how to live. Clearly, she’s not going to adapt to me. And so the irony is that the most efficient way to learn to adjust to living in a bureaucratically inefficient place is to surrender completely.

My man and my baby walking home after dinner.

A server at lunch one day told Justin and I that he was about to ask us a question. And it was very important, very important, that we answer with, “Why not?”

Perchè no?

And then he offered us a digestivo of homemade liquor from his hometown in the South of Italy. And Justin and I aren’t shot people. We’re not even liquor people. And Makenna was napping beside us in her carrier. And it was barely past noon.

And… and…

And that’s the thing about living here. About learning to be in the moment. About resisting resistance.

Perché no?

The liquor burned our throats. I think my chest might have sprouted a hair.

And still, perché no?

Because, truth-be-told, I’ve reached the somewhat terrifying realization that I have everything I’ve ever wanted. (Aside, you know, from a chic Italian wardrobe, fluent grasp of the language, and several best-selling novels under my belt.)

And it feels like a cusp. A transitionary precipice beyond which everything is blank.

And if I’d just learn to let go, to jump and trust the flow, I might really begin to enjoy the ride.

Perché no?

The post Everything I’ve Ever Wanted. appeared first on Domestiphobia. Copyright 2010-2017. All rights reserved.

Those like me, who just don’t like tight spaces (so basically everyone on the planet who doesn’t have legit, diagnosed claustrophobia), don’t hyperventilate. We just get a little panicky while our minds contemplate the worst: what if those doors never open again, what if this tin can they call an elevator malfunctions and opens between floors, what if Mack has a blow-out and hot-boxes us both, what if — oh my GOD are those scratch marks on the walls?! Those are scratch marks because someone got trapped in here once. I wonder if they were dumb enough to bring a stroller too and they couldn’t sit down or turn or even bend their legs for days until someone rescu– CLUNK.

When the sliding doors opened, I took a moment to wipe the sweat-stache from my upper lip before nonchalantly pushing my way through the other steel door and directly into the doctor’s office-slash-apartment.

This isn’t weird at all.

“You look really tired.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

“Well I’m just saying you look tired. Are you getting enough sleep? Is Makenna sleeping? Is everything okay over there?”

My mom and I were video chatting. It was late for me due to the time difference, but I assured her: “Yes, we’re all sleeping great. Everyone’s been nice. The city is beautiful. It’s just that moving to another country where you don’t speak the language and aren’t used to the customs and are living out of a third floor walk-up hotel room with two large dogs and a baby is, like, mind-blowingly exhausting. I didn’t know this level of exhaustion was possible. And now you’ve completely ruined the false mental body image that was getting me through the days — the one that told me I look as effortlessly chic as the Italian women.”

“Oh, okay… so how’s the food?”

I may have thought I was exhausted then, but this conversation happened before my grandmother died and Justin contracted a horrible stomach virus and Makenna, apparently following suit, started expelling very gross things from various orifices. Which she basically does all of the time anyway because she’s a baby, but today she was doing it with panache.

Until this morning I’ve been doing what I think is a remarkably stellar job of rolling with the punches that naturally arise when moving overseas. Basically everything in my life right now — every mishap, every inconvenience, every mildly embarrassing faux pas — has been laughable because, hey, we’re in Italy!

When we arrived in Naples at a different airport than where they told us we’d be getting in, it was okay because hey, we’re in Italy!

When we had to ditch the dog kennels at the airport because they didn’t fit in the minivan we’d rented, it was okay because hey, we’re in Italy!

When the van’s GPS couldn’t locate the address for our agriturismo and we became lost on pitch dark Italian country roads, it was okay because hey, we’re in Italy!

And when we finally came to our senses and turned our cell phone data so we could enter the proper address and the GPS turned us around and took us to the very center of a picturesque village that had draped itself over a hilltop like chocolate-topped gelato, this was not a problem, we thought, but an adventure. For some reason we decided it would be a good idea to pull in our side mirrors to head down a steep road that looked like it would take us to the right place on the map. Just past the precarious archway, a woman came out of her house and began yelling at us in Italian. I got out of the car and tried to explain with my limited vocabulary, and she laughed because apparently we weren’t the first dumbasses to crest this particular hill. Then half of the village came out to help direct our packed-full van back out of the pedestrian-only street, and the kind woman who didn’t speak a word of English actually had us follow her in her car to the agriturismo where we couldn’t get up the slick gravel driveway and had to back up again, but it was okay because hey, we’re in Italy!

It’s easy to laugh things off when the next morning world looks like this. (Agriturismo Setteventi)

But it’s almost as though life took that challenge and set about trying to break me in one way or another. So today I found myself elbows-deep in putrefying blankets and onesies and apologizing profusely to the housecleaning lady for the pile of sheets and comforter I’d stripped from the bed because my baby’s projectile vomit is astoundingly absorbent, and she — her name is Joy — wasn’t even listening to me because Mack was looking at her and giggling and making the eyes and doing the thing she does to people that makes them melt like the butter the Ferrarese pour all over their pumpkin-filled cappellacci.

And, still, because that sick kid was still smiling and making people laugh, I didn’t break.

I didn’t break when I first couldn’t find the doctor’s office and then couldn’t figure out how to use the elevator and then wasn’t sure whether I could fit inside it. I didn’t break when he told me nothing seemed wrong and it was probably just a bug and we should just wait and see. And I didn’t break when I arrived back at our hotel — we’ve since moved from the 3rd floor walk-up to something slightly more accommodating with a kitchenette and sofa — and realized that much of the day was gone and I hadn’t eaten and I still had to feed a baby who may or may not be able to keep it down.

But she kept it down. So I didn’t break.

And I only feel like breaking a little bit, just now, when it’s quiet and Makenna is sleeping and Justin is at work — not because sometimes life is hard and we still don’t have a home and Italy isn’t what I thought it would be. (It is, in fact, even better.)

But I miss my grandma, you know?

And I can’t go back for her funeral because we’ve only just arrived. And the distance between me and most of the people I love seems unfathomable at this moment, just now, when I know that a hug from my sister and a smile from my niece would make the hurt hurt less.

But still, most things are good. We have a house picked out and a date to move in. It’s set amongst the winding cobblestone streets of the most ancient part of our city.

Checking out the view from what will be our new (very old) home.

The history is palpable. We can walk to the castle and the central piazzas where they’ve set up a market for Christmas beneath tented twinkling lights.

The Christmas market at Piazza Trento.

I’m not inundated with ads for plastic battery operated toys but am surrounded by heartfelt laughter and food and mulled wine and a gypsy-dressed woman who uses ropes to blow giant bubbles that delight the kids and, if I’m completely honest, delight me. The restaurants turned on the space heaters in their tents outside, bicycles clatter across the cobblestones, and already in town I run into people I know.

And this, I think, is how it should be. Bikes and castles and babies who are exhausted from trying to take it all in.

The distance is hard. And sometimes life is hard. But there’s a joy to be found, and it’s not necessarily the one smiling at your baby and cleaning your comforter. Though I’m grateful for that Joy, too.

The post Expatriating to Italy: If You Fall, It’s Nothing A Little DOCG Wine Can’t Fix. appeared first on Domestiphobia. Copyright 2010-2017. All rights reserved.

After all the accoutrements, the lavishing of ceiling fixtures, the adorning with paint and the stripping of floors, it’s like she knows, like they always do, it wasn’t all just for her — that behind the vintage painted cabinets we had an ulterior motive: re-sale.

It’s just part of being an Air Force family.

So she knows we’re leaving her, and while the new owner is young and friendly and adorable and plans to love her and invest in her for years and years to come, she knows we were the first. The first to see past her mint carpeted interiors and make a real investment in the thin-planked hardwoods beneath. It took us only 4 days to sell her — a record even more impressive than the standard set the last time we did this — and it’s almost as though it all happened so quickly that she’s just now finding time to catch her breath, take stock, and express her feelings.

Or maybe that’s me.

I was over seven months pregnant when received a painfully ambiguous text from Justin:

“Please call me ASAP. I have news.”

Of course I didn’t see the text for a couple of hours because I was out to lunch with a friend and my phone was buried somewhere in the depths of my purse. Eventually he’d gotten so fed up with my unanswered phone that he could no longer contain himself and sent me a screen shot of his projected assignments. I had to squint and zoom in on the photo, but it was there — preceded by 45 characters of indecipherable words and acronyms but wholly unmistakable: ITALY.

By that point I had parted with my friend and wedged myself behind the driver’s seat of my ’99 Chevy Tracker and I screamed, scrambling to heave my burdensome torso back out of the car and run across the parking lot while trying to catch my friend and screaming, “We’re moving to Italy! We’re moving to ITALY!”

The patrons dining outside must have been alarmed, but I didn’t care. The Dream was finally coming true — with the exception of an extra several hundred pounds of baby gear. I couldn’t not be excited.

It wasn’t until later that we learned the orders were actually *only* for Justin — not his family (aka. the fetus and me). Thus launched the beginning of the most stressful stretch of months of our lives: preparing for our first baby, wondering whether we’d have to spend a year apart with me as a single mother while Justin experienced my dream of living abroad, and then, finally, when family accompaniment was approved, preparing for an international move as first-time parents with a newborn.

Which meant we had to sell our house.

Fortunately I’d been Marie Kondō-ing the shit out of the place for months. In fact, I credit this book for clearing the space and the energy in our home and our lives to open the opportunity for Italy.

Call me crazy for believing something like that, but see if I care when I’m sampling all the cheese in Bologna.

So we didn’t have a lot to do by way of preparing for re-sale save for finishing up a couple of small projects, cleaning, and marketing. Then, prior to every showing, I’d waddle around like a baby manatee who suddenly sprouted legs to vacuum up dog hair, sweep, dust, turn on lights and music, and then heave myself and my 60 pound mutts into the car where I’d drive down the street and stalk my own house in the summer June heat.

It was totally worth it.

I’ve been terrible about documenting our progress with this house, but here are some before-and-afters to show how busy we’ve been over the last four years.

Entryway BEFORE:

AFTER:

I don’t have a great close-up shot, but we removed the wallpaper mural, painted the walls and trim, painted the front door, painted the tile grout, removed the cabinet doors to create a bookcase, changed the light fixture (with this one), and hung some fun copper hooks I bought in Sweden.

Entryway wall color: Sand White by Glidden
Front door color: Cloudburst by Sherwin Williams (both inside and out)

Living Room BEFORE:

AFTER:

In here we mostly painted and removed the carpet — what a difference! The rug is this one from Safavieh.

Living room wall color: Sand White by Glidden

Dining Room BEFORE:

A large portion of the wood flooring in here had to be replaced due to the wonderful sight and scent of cat urine that had soaked through the carpeting over the years, so that was the biggest expense in this room. Otherwise we just painted, exchanged the brass light fixture for this one, and called it a day.

Dining room wall color: Sand White by Glidden

Laundry Room BEFORE:

AFTER:

BEFORE:

Technically this wasn’t even a laundry room when we moved in. The previous owners used it as an office-slash-litterbox room (because who wouldn’t want to work in such close proximity to feces?), but with its access to the garage and back yard, we knew turning this into a laundry room would increase our home’s value significantly. (And bonus — Justin could continue to wash his stinky military gear in the garage.) The odd layout posed some challenges and our plumber had to get creative to make these work, but it was well worth the effort.

We also painted the wood paneling, bought some vinyl flooring from a sexist floor guy, installed our old kitchen light in the ceiling where a weird speaker used to be, and I stuck much of my office equipment in here when we realized our baby needed a place to sleep, too. (Fortunately that built-in bookshelf already had 2 outlets in it, so getting the printers to work was a simple matter of just plugging them in.)

Laundry room wall color: White Down by Benjamin Moore

Kitchen BEFORE:

AFTER:

BEFORE:

AFTER:

BEFORE:

AFTER:

BEFORE:

AFTER:

BEFORE:

AFTER:

The kitchen saw the most change and was one of the first projects we tackled. Take one look at the “before” photos and you’ll understand why. We decided to rearrange the layout to make it more functional and paint the cabinets and old ring pulls to save a little money. We installed recessed lighting, this chandelier, laminate countertops with an integrated sink, a faux limestone backsplash, stainless appliances with a hidden vent hood, a DIY copper pendant light, an industrial kitchen faucet, and the Jackson kitchen cart from World Market to finish it all off.

The real show-stoppers though are the custom floating shelves that Justin built and, of course, my oversized wall map of Paris. Any time someone comes over, they have to know about the map. It’s a statement. And it’s actually available on Amazon now for a very reasonable price! And here are the instructions for how Justin built a frame for this oversized art.

Kitchen wall color: Sand White by Glidden

Sunroom BEFORE:

AFTER:

BEFORE:

AFTER:

BEFORE:

AFTER:

For a room we figured wouldn’t be a lot of work, it certainly took a lot of work! We painted it ourselves, and working on that tall ladder is not something I’d care to do again. To save a little money on the curtain rods, I bought some inexpensive conduit from the electrical supply area at one of the big box stores and spray painted it bronze. That’s it! No end caps or anything and no one has ever noticed. Or at least they’ve been too polite to say anything. I added some rod brackets to hang them and some ring clips to hang the inexpensive Ikea curtains, and viola! Drapery hardware that probably amounted to less than $15 a piece.

It took me a couple of years to convince Justin that we should move that makeshift dry bar over to the other wall. Previously that weird wall that juts out into the room served no purpose. We couldn’t put our t.v. there because people would have to walk right in front of it to get into the room, and I didn’t want a large piece of art there because this wall is right next to the wall with the huge Paris map. Finally he surprised me while I was in Italy by cutting down the laminate counter and moving it where I wanted it — which unfortunately also required him to refinish the floors in this room due to the support that had been holding the counter up previously. He also took two leftover wall cabinets from our kitchen and used those for supports and additional storage.

Then, just a couple of months prior to receiving our orders to move to Italy, I’d convinced him to build those beautiful floating shelves to house the rest of the things that had been in my office-turned-nursery. I didn’t get to enjoy them for long, but at least I know the new owner loves them as much as I do.

The final rooms were pretty basic — just some wall and trim paint, updated window treatments, and switching out some of the hardware like replacing the old brass doorknobs with oil-rubbed bronze.

Master Bedroom:

Master Bathroom:

Guest Room:

Nursery:

Hall Bath:

That’s right. We literally did nothing in the hall bath and called it “retro” in the marketing. We’d already spent enough time and money on renovations for our area (most homes around here haven’t been updated at all), and this tiny room would’ve been a money pit.

And it didn’t deter the house from selling quickly, so there’s that.

Those of you who’ve been here a while know that it’s been a long-time dream of mine to experience living overseas. I not-so-secretly envisioned myself on a Hemingway-esque introspective retreat, staring at the well-dressed street traffic from the foggy windows of foreign cafes, pensively crafting the first draft of my second novel while sipping a glass of Montepulciano. I’d bring fresh produce home to Justin and the pups where we’d listen to mid-century French music and cook a multi-course meal to enjoy al fresco beneath the twinkle lights in our magically mosquito-free garden.

But life, as they say, often has its own ideas about what’s best for you.

Never did I envision dragging a cumbersome stroller into the cafe, bumping into chairs and praying my kid sleeps for at least an hour while I hash out some haphazard phrases. Or worse, that I fail to even venture from the thick, protective walls of our 13th century abode out of fear that I’ll be labeled “That American” mom who doesn’t know how to raise a proper tantrum-free child — one who dines with utensils and sleeps through the night.

In fact Justin and I were pretty well convinced that he’d finish out his military career here in Virginia — that the military would not, in fact, ever realize our dream of experiencing life in another country. And I’d be lying if I said that didn’t play at least a partial role in our decision to have a baby. It had taken 14 years, but I’d finally mentally adjusted to the fact that if we ever wanted to live overseas, we’d likely have to make it happen on our own. And if we’d likely have to make it happen on our own, we’d likely never make it happen.

Besides, our little brick ranch is perfect — aside from occasionally rowdy neighbors — for raising a kid.

And she knows it, too. So, almost in protest, little things seem to be breaking here and there — things we need to fix because we don’t actually own her anymore. We’re tenants in our own home. The new owner was kind enough to allow us to rent until the end of October, after which we’ll be living in hotels, both here and in Italy, until we have a more (semi)permanent home.

I wonder, though, whether I’ll ever be content to have something permanent.

Growth in the form of change is a beautiful thing.

One day this house will understand.

The post Overdue Before-and-Afters of Our Mid-Century Brick Ranch Renovations. appeared first on Domestiphobia. Copyright 2010-2017. All rights reserved.

At least, that’s what the dogs think.

The good news is she’s relatively quiet (so far) and doesn’t take up much space (so far). The bad news is that our expenditures on absorption pads for urine and fecal matter have officially cut into my wine budget and, for the first two weeks, the very task of keeping her alive made my nipples feel like I’d been spending several hours a day buffing them with a sanding wheel.

Before you have a baby, no one tells you these things.

For those who missed the Facebook announcement, Makenna Quinn arrived around 6:30 a.m. on July 27th — just 30 semi-excruciating hours after initially making her intentions known. I’ll save most of the details for my tell-all memoir, but I will say that what at first appeared would be a quick-ish labor turned into a sweaty, vomity shitshow wrought with complications that nearly resulted in a c-section. The highlight I’d say was when, after 29.5 hours, I was just about ready to give my very first push with the next contraction, when with a dramatic flair that would’ve made Shonda Rhimes smile down from her golden screenwriting goddess throne, a nurse burst into the delivery room and shouted the only phrase for which What to Expect When You’re Expecting hadn’t prepared me:

“Wait! Don’t push! The hospital is about to do a generator test.”

I briskly wiped the sweat from my brow, tried to straighten my hair, and waited for Ashton Kutcher and his camera crew to burst in with showers of confetti and a t-shirt gun announcing his revival of Punk’d. When that didn’t happen, I reserved my emotional breakdown for a few moments later when the power came back on fully in every delivery room but my own. I could deal with the lack of air-conditioning and broken epidural pump, but the loud alarm it was emitting completely messed with my chi. When they finally managed to get the anesthesiologist to turn it off, my contractions were few and far between.

But — spoiler alert — we got her done. I went ahead and pushed anyway, and the slippery bundle covered in slimy bodily fluids was resting on my chest less than fifteen minutes later.

I mean, the kid had spent longer than a spin of the globe with her head jammed the wrong way between my pelvic bones. The least I could do was get her out of there when the time came lickety-split.

Justin teared up when he first saw our daughter and the doctor worked on ridding my body of the placenta and other superfluous goop while I, distracted, held our baby tight to my skin and repeatedly requested to see her face.

Eventually an exasperated nurse said, “Well, move her,” and that’s when it occurred to me that she was my kid to do with what I pleased — be that rotating her tiny body so I could finally see what all the fuss was about, or loudly launching into the beginning of what would eventually morph into years of vocally criticizing her appearance and decisions so that by the time she’s supposed to be a functioning adult she’ll instead be a bundle of angsty insecurity.

Consciously, deliberately, I chose the former.

She assessed me quietly with her squinty, steel-gray eyes while I examined her to see whom she most resembled. Turns out she’s a pretty impressive amalgamation of both Justin’s and my physical features. I’d like to think I received her stamp of approval in return because she rarely complains and so far seems genuinely content to fart and stretch and satiate her thirst with generous portions of the “house white.”

We named her Makenna Quinn. I call her “Mack.”

Another thing they don’t tell you before you have a baby is how surprised you are when the hospital lets you take it home. We bundled her up and put her in her car seat with little fanfare. It was raining outside, and no one lifted a head as we trudged down the hallway with Mack and our bags and half the enthusiasm of a convicted murderer walking towards his execution. Why was no one stopping us? Don’t they know we don’t know what we’re doing? When we stepped out of the doors I was sure that some kind of alarm would go off — that they’d realize their mistake. But the only sound on the quiet Air Force base that stormy weekend was the pattering of the rain as it hit the overhang above our car.

It was official — this kid was ours.

The last professional photos we had taken were at our wedding back in 2006, so when my best friend Alaina offered to leave her 3 kids with her husband for the weekend to drive up to capture her newborn pictures two weeks later, we could hardly decline. So now I’m one of those women who wraps her kid in muslin (as one does on an average Tuesday) and stares lovingly down at her while she lies atop my expensive linen bedding.

Photo shoots with infants are like a game of Roulette — my downcast eyes hide my true terror.

It’s also totally normal for Justin to don his uniform while holding our naked daughter.

She peed on the floor after this, but I think the result was worth it.

And I’m pretty sure that’s what parenting is all about — weighing every decision on cute factor vs. potential mess.

And the truth is, while this parenting thing is certainly as exhausting and frustrating and life-changing as everyone says it is, it’s also not so bad. I mean, we lucked out by getting a pretty chill kid (*knockonwood*), so it’s only natural that life would see fit to throw another challenge our way.

Yep — there’s one more wrench getting thrown into our routine.

And it’s kind of a big one.

Because, you know, a newborn isn’t adjustment enough.

The post Is Irony the Word? appeared first on Domestiphobia. Copyright 2010-2017. All rights reserved.

And for some reason I never thought I’d have to bear witness to what happens after the due date, which I can only imagine is the increased feeling of someone stepping down on my cervix with a steel-toed boot while a parade of pity-looks from empathetic women passes by my window.

But it appears as though this kid has inherited my lack of concern for punctuality over her father’s military precision, despite the fact that I played Diana Ross’s “I’m Coming Out” at least three times for her yesterday until she almost kicked the iPhone off my belly.

But really, I’m not complaining.

How could I complain about something I consciously brought upon myself? That’d be like complaining about the unexpected pitfalls of a job I really wanted or rain during a vacation I worked especially diligently to plan. In situations like these, it’s best to just sip that mojito — or, in my case, an overpriced bottle of fruit-infused Hint water I totally deserve because, by God, did I mention I’m 40 weeks pregnant? — and accept the fact that my kid would apparently prefer to continue swallowing her own feces within the dark, claustrophobic confines of my womb than join us in the glorious world of air and sunshine and fully functioning lung capacity. (Both hers and mine.)

It’s called progressive parenting, and I’m totally on board.

At least while I don’t have a choice.

In the meantime I’ll strive to enjoy the remaining couple of days — or weeks? — of people telling me how adorably pregnant I am (apparently I look like I’ve swallowed a basketball, which is gestational speak for “pretty damn couture,” considering I have a fully formed human residing in my abdomen and playing Hacky Sack with my kidneys), the deliciously creepy feeling of a human hand tickling my obliques from the inside, and anything else I won’t exactly miss about being pregnant but might look back on one day with the kind of nostalgic fondness one reserves for that eccentric family aunt whose inappropriate conjectures everyone else finds distasteful but you secretly find amusing and study diligently in order to take on the role yourself forty years down the line.

I also have some other potentially big news to share, but its fruition is hinged upon the safe arrival of this baby, which of course adds to the pressure and impatience and unrealistic expectations I’m already thrusting upon her undoubtedly strong-yet-adorable little shoulders.

No wonder she’s in no rush to arrive.

The post Happy Due Date To Me. appeared first on Domestiphobia. Copyright 2010-2017. All rights reserved.

I smiled when I said it, but I looked him directly in the eye so he would know I was serious.

Justin, seated next to me, shifted uncomfortably in his chair. I knew I’d done the exact thing he’d been hoping I wouldn’t do. In retrospect the faux pas was inevitable, given my outspoken personality, and it was only a matter of time until I exposed my general lack of regurgitative compliance with how a military spouse was expected to behave. Justin and I had only been married for a few months, but there was no point in dipping my demeanor in a vat of candied sprinkles — not even for the man who would potentially become Justin’s new Commander.

We were having breakfast, and Colonel Cox* (*name changed) seemed friendly enough. I sat there while he peppered Justin with questions and tidbits of information about the elective position he’d be filling. This was unusual for the military. It was an optional position — one for which Justin had to pass a series of interviews and psychological testing to even qualify, and meeting the new boss was the final step in what had been a tumultuous decision-making process for both parties. I’d been surprised I was invited to the out-of-state meeting, but this was a “family decision,” the Colonel insisted, and one we had to make together while knowing relatively little information about the job or its ramifications.

To say I was edgy would be an understatement.

So while Justin and the Colonel spent breakfast talking in acronyms and code, I sat quietly, practically demure, and worried about stepping out of line. Until Cox addressed me directly.

“So what does Little Mama think about all this?” He smiled, and the crows feet around his eyes creased deeply when he did it. He appeared to be genuine, trying to be friendly, and his question warranted a genuine response.

“Don’t call me Mama.” I laughed and took a sip of my O.J.

It was out before I could think about it. I would have told this man not to call me “Mama” in the years before I’d been a military spouse, and there was no reason that had to change after. My words were not a sign of disrespect, as some might jump to conclude, but rather a request for it. The challenge dripped between us like a thick coat of latex paint. No one wanted to touch it. I could sense Justin’s urge to wipe it smooth, but he wasn’t sure what to say. So Cox silently assessed me. It only took a moment, but I’m sure to Justin it felt much longer.

The Colonel smiled, and then laughed. There wasn’t a single hint of hidden condescension in his response. “What does Katie think about all of this?” he corrected.

So I smiled back, and I told him.

It had only taken a few direct words, a few strenuous seconds, but I’d unwittingly set a precedent for my role throughout the remainder of Justin’s career. And it wasn’t one of a stay-at-home Air Force mom.

It turns out we’d all be waiting another 11 years for that hilarious twist.

That’s right, kids. Justin and I finally decided to drink the proverbial Kool-Aid back in October, and we are now the soon-to-be proud, exhausted, sour-milk smelling parents of a bouncing baby girl. (Suffice to say, I’ve changed a bit since this post.)

We’re fairly certain she has 2 X chromosomes because even I could identify the tiny labia in the ultrasound. I know she’ll be bouncing because it often feels as though she’s doing calisthenics in my uterus. But that, really, is about all I know. I’m quickly finding out that the rest of this pregnancy business is a slowly-evolving crapshoot. And sometimes I even mean that in the literal sense.

Now that I’m 24 weeks pregnant (I swear that’s not pretention — they train you to count everything in weeks), I’ve been struggling with something I imagine many moms-to-be struggle with — especially those of us who had been fairly ambivalent about having children:

How do I keep this new thing about myself from becoming the only thing people see?

No, really. How?

I’ve been inundated with “bump” photo requests ever since we quietly began to make it known I was “with child,” hence the awkward selfies above. This is how we made the announcement social media official a couple of days ago. Basically I told people I’d eaten too much brie over the winter, and this is why taking a photo from the proper angle is so important.

As well-meaning as all of the bump requests are, I don’t think it will ever stop feeling weird to me when anyone other than a pre-deployment Justin asks for photos of my body. Curiosity is natural, and I’m honestly flattered when friends and family ask how I’m feeling or want to see how my body is changing. I’m just not used to people wanting me to stand in front of the lens. And I wasn’t eager to put it out there for various reasons — the biggest (and most selfish, perhaps) is that I don’t quite feel ready to be only a mom in the eyes of the world.

Or maybe, if I’m being honest, I don’t want to be only a mom in the eyes of myself.

In my own eyes?

In the mental image of my inner eyeballs?

You know what I mean.

I’ve also built quite the network of fun and interesting child-free friends over the years, and a part of me is afraid I’ll lose them beneath a pile of baby-related concerns or that they’ll feel like I’m abandoning them for the realm of super-absorbed parenthood. And it would be naive to think I’m not going to change a little, that foremost in my mind won’t be the survival of this dependent little creature, but also I’m still going to be me, guys. Just with, you know, a baby. And bigger breasts. And possibly a smashing new wide-set vagina.

So trying to wrap my head around all of that while absorbing as much as I can about how to be a good parent and figuring out how this whole birthing thing works and sorting through the mountain of baby and maternity hand-me-downs we’ve been gifted from friends and family (seriously — if there’s one advantage to waiting until your mid-thirties to have a kid, aside from your prenatal caregivers consistently referring to you as “geriatric,” it’s all of the free stuff parents of older children want to unload on you!) has occupied much of my mental space as of late. That, and questions like:

How much is my life about to change?

Will we still be able to afford to travel?

Will we WANT to travel?

Will I still have time to work and write when there’s a baby in the house?

Will I still have time to work and write when there’s a TODDLER in the house?

How do I keep my kid from becoming a picky eater?

How will I deal when she tells me she hates me?

Why am I getting this intense pain in the upper right side of my back?

What the hell is that in my underwear?

Do I really need a Mamaroo/Babocush/PackNPlay/BabyGym, or can I just dangle a cat toy over the kid and call it a day?

And that’s not even the half of it.

But all of these things are things we’ll figure out as we go. And in the meantime I can continue to strive to still be me. If the Colonel could accept that fact, then so can everyone else. In the years that followed that initial conversation, I’d hear some of the wives complaining about Cox’s condescending remarks, and I’d tell them — while it’s not okay for someone to assert the identity he’s assumed for you, it’s certainly okay for you to correct him when he does. I’d never had a problem with him after that first conversation because he couldn’t claim ignorance about how I felt.

So.

I’m going to be a mom, and hopefully a decent one. But I’m still going to ask that you don’t call me Mama. It’s a head thing.

The post Just Don’t Call Me Mama. appeared first on Domestiphobia. Copyright 2010-2017. All rights reserved.

I waltzed into White House Black Market, heretofore referenced as WHBM, to return a tunic sweater I’d ordered online because the model wearing it looked like an upscale bohemian chic pixie, and WHBM’s effective marketing efforts had me reasoning that it would do the same for me.

It didn’t.

But that evening I was meeting a friend who was in town for a conference, so I was wearing a cute blue dress I’d bought for my sister’s wedding in the Dominican Republic. In a rare moment of fashion inspiration, I paired it with a brown belt and one of WHMB’s very own tan dusters, which is basically a long, sweeping cardigan. I’m guessing they call it a duster because of the way it flirtily flutters out while you walk, softly brushing across every surface — and person — who happens to be just a little too close to your bubble, effectively “dusting” them as you pass. Which reminds me that I should probably clean it. (“It looks like a cape,” Justin said the first time I tried it on, which is good, because that’s exactly what I was going for. Feeling like you’re wearing a cape has a whole slew of positive ramifications I don’t have time to get into right now.)

So I breezed into WHBM, duster-cape billowing out in my wake, and made my way towards a very flamboyant male stylist and the store manager, a pretty blonde woman with tons of energy. They both took a moment to gush over my/their duster and how great my belt looked with my dress, and so of course I had to try the tunic on in a smaller size because the one I’d bought just wasn’t fitted enough for my figure, and of course I had to try on these suede sandals I’d been eyeing that just happened to be on sale.

They looked so good with what I was wearing that I tossed my worn wedges from TJ Maxx into the bag with the tunic and wore these out of the store. Before I left, though, the manager asked me what I do for a living and told me that if I ever want to work there — even just one day a week for the discount — that she’d hire me that moment because I’m exactly “the look” their customers love.

I laughed and declined because a) The store is 35 minutes from my house on a good traffic day, b) me with a WHBM employee discount is a dangerous prospect, and c) the last thing I need is another distraction from my other jobs and real goals. (Though it would be nice to get out of the house from time to time.)

As I left the store, laughing at the oddity of the unexpected offer, I remembered that the first job I ever applied to was at the GAP when I was fifteen. At fifteen, I definitely did not have the “look” that typical GAP customers were going for.

GAP print ad circa 1997:

Me circa 1996:

I mean… I don’t actually think I was too far off. I had the crew neck t-shirt and high-waisted pants, and I’d venture to argue that my hair might’ve even been a little bit better than Reese’s, if you’re into that whole fuzzy poodle look, as many of us were in the ’90’s.

Don’t lie. You totally were.

(P.S. I also had glasses.)

(P.P.S. My braces were purple.)

(P.P.P.S. For those of you who were born in the 90’s, that thing in my hand is a portable cassette player. I was very excited about this gift.)

Looking back, I suppose I can understand why GAP rejected me. Which is why the job offer from WHBM felt strangely validating, with the small exception that it came about nineteen years too late.

It felt a little like the movie Waiting, when Dean, the “star” server at the restaurant Shenaniganz, serves a table of businessmen. The obvious boss at the table is so impressed with Dean’s professionalism that he hands Dean his business card, telling him to please call him if he ever gets tired of working there and is interested in a new opportunity. For a moment, Dean feels elated. Maybe this is the break he’s been waiting for — the sign telling him that it’s time to move ahead with his career goals.

Unfortunately, when he looks at the business card, it’s for Jack’s Steakhouse — not exactly the professional step he had in mind.

And that was my experience.

Except Dean was 22 and I’m almost 34.

But hey — at least I looked good while I sashayed away.

The post If The Universe Is Trying To Tell Me Something, It’s Going To Have To Speak A Little Louder. appeared first on Domestiphobia. Copyright 2010-2017. All rights reserved.

I anticipated a constant stream of adjectives like “buttery” and “toasty” and “opulent” to flow from his mouth, but instead he said,

“It’s fermented grape juice, you know? It’s beautiful, but we don’t have to take it so seriously.*”

*I’m paraphrasing quotes because a) I wasn’t taking notes, b) I have a terrible memory, and c) I’d had a lot of wine.

Instantly, I relaxed. It turned out that, like the representatives of the other wineries we’d visited that day, Michael was approachable about his passion. Now. I don’t know whether I can refer to Michael as an “actual” sommelier. He told us he had no formal education in wine, had learned on the job, and was, in fact, a knowledgeable enthusiast.

But, guys, so was J.K. Rowling about writing, and we all know how that turned out.

So while Michael has a sommelier-like wealth of wine-related knowledge, he’s actually the Director of Marketing for Williamsburg Winery, which means that he also knows how to relate to the slovenly masses (aka. “me”). As somewhat of a marketer myself, as well as a lover of wine, I felt like I had finally found “my people.”

***

At the invitation of her editors at the Southern Living blog, my friend Brianna was preparing to take a self-guided tour of Virginia’s Colonial Wine Trail. When she asked whether I’d like to tag along, I did the same thing I did when a pro travel blogger told me I’d won his drawing for a trip to Sweden: I asked myself what I did to deserve this kind of life, answered with uncontested affirmation and gratitude, and notified my employers that I’d be out that day.

Only a maniac would turn down free wine. And I don’t look like a maniac. Do I?

Those of you who know me know that my love for wine runs deep. During a wedding celebration in Oregon last week, a stranger I’d connected with earlier walked up and told me he didn’t think he’d ever seen me without a glass of red wine in my hand. And while some might balk or take insult to such an accusation, I simply smiled.

After all, there’s no sense in getting angry at the truth.

Back on the Colonial Wine Trail with Brianna, Williamsburg Winery was our fourth and final stop, and I was glad we had saved it for last.

We pulled into the muddy parking lot feeling a bit bedraggled from the day’s earlier storms. Following the trail had taken longer than we expected, each of the three prior stops offering something special in the way of craft product pride. (If you’ve never watched an agriculture-dependent entrepreneur talk about his work, you’re missing out. It’s almost magical, the way you can see a the culmination of years of backbreaking work and a sense of fulfilled life’s purpose reflected in their corneas.)

Each stop was different though, too. James River Cellars embraced a casual “craft winery” vibe with its stand-up bar and driving range-adjacent locale. New Kent evoked the peaceful, dappled vineyard feel of California’s Napa Valley, while Saudé Creek proffered stunning views of the Pamunkey River Valley.

Brianna amongst the cases at James River Cellars:

New Kent charm:

Saudé Creek views:

Williamsburg Winery, though, was unique. Upon entering its dark tasting room set back from the rows of barrels in the cellar, I was instantly transported back to the cellars of Italy.

I’m not sure whether it was the dimly-lit air or the dust-covered bottles, but this room had a distinctive medieval vibe. And I loved it. It’s probably because my would-be stepfather Ed knows everything (no, really — he should be on Jeopardy) and once told me that a red wine served at room temperature should actually be served at the room temperature of a castle — which is, as you might guess, quite a bit cooler than the room temperature we know and love today. And this room evoked a distinct castle decor.

Which made it pretty cool.

Following our tasting on a whim, Michael removed a dusty, reserved bottle of red wine from one of the shelves. Opening it with a flourish, he said, “This isn’t one of our tasting wines, but I want you to try it.” Then, while pouring us a glass, he added, “And I wanted to drink some.” He went on to explain how Viognier, a green grape which produces a lovely, complex white wine, is an up-and-coming Virginia varietal, perhaps even becoming somewhat iconic to the region.

“Like Pino noir in Oregon!” I shouted, excited to contribute some wine-based fact — any wine-based fact — to the conversation.

“Exactly,” he smiled.

Encouraged, I continued. “I have a friend who loves Pinos so much that she owns special tulip glasses to drink the bottles she imports from her cellar in Oregon. Supposedly the curved rim of the glass helps the wine hit your tongue in exactly the right place to fully appreciate it.” Michael and Brianna smiled knowingly. My mouth was probably purple. “So you should develop a special glass for the Viognier,” I continued, unaware of Michael’s Director of Marketing status. “Something elegant and pretty — something that makes you want to drink that wine.” I laughed, taking another sip from my glass.

“That’s actually not a bad idea,” Michael smiled.

“You can have that one for free,” I said, winking and tapping my temple with my index finger. My mouth was undoubtedly purple. “You just have to name it after me — ‘The Katie,'” I said, and we all laughed hearty wine laughs.

“No, no–” Brianna said once the dust settled. “Not the Katie, but the Katié — you know, with an accent.” And after that, the laughing didn’t stop.

***

As different regions across the U.S. work to further establish themselves in a world of renowned wines, I can’t help but think that many will begin to do their own thing — to evolve a more casual “craft winery” vibe, much like the craft breweries that seem to be spreading like the pox.

In some cases, like with Michael, this could be a positive evolution because it will make wine more approachable to the general public. One thing I’m confident he understands though is that drinking wine is an experience. And if we dilute it too much — temper it with marketing and season it with gimmicks — we forget why we came in the first place.

Wine smoothie. To me, it kind of tasted how it looks — but many people love it.

Though I still think the Katié is a brilliant idea.

The post It’s Crazy How These Things Just Fall Into My Lap. And My Mouth. appeared first on Domestiphobia. Copyright 2010-2017. All rights reserved.

And that’s not counting the other quick-jot new plot notes, the scribbled introductions, the glimpses behind the sweaty folds of an undeveloped idea. No, these were beefy endeavors, one nearly three-quarters the length of an average fictional tale, and each a painful passing of some kind of lumpy constipation — a necessary process for tapping back into the free-flow of creativity I enjoyed without struggle as a kid.

Why is it, do you think, that as we transition into adulthood, some of us lose our inherent ability to indulge in indolence and bask in the limitless warmth of wild and precious expression, untamed?

We turn, instead, to judgement. To guilt. To self-critiquing in the worst kind of way. We abuse our psyches more than any negligent parent, misguided educator, or high school bully ever dreamt. We create our own blocks and build our own barricades.

We do this to ourselves.

And that is insane.

When I am at my lowest, my thoughts run acidic. They call me a fool, a failure, and I become what I think, because in that moment I identify with my pain. Until I understand what I’m allowing, my pain becomes who I am. I crumple to the floor and focus on my lacks — my lack of creativity, of career, of kids– and I wonder about the point. Of love, of life, of anything, really, because none of it feels real. I wonder if I should consider having a child to satiate the simple curiosity of whether that’s the one thing I’m maybe meant to do right.

But then maybe not.

When I talk to people, I only see the facade — the personality they’ve created to face the world or just me in particular at that moment in time, and I feel the isolation I’ve created in my head.

And I wonder —

If someone were to pick us up in one hand and crack us hard against the lip of a bowl, like an egg, letting our smooth yellow yolk slip away from its shell and separate from the slick suspension of goopy translucent white — that make-believe mess of carefully crafted persona — so we’re laid bare in the bowl, shining and gold, who, then, would we be?

I don’t know, but I would like to find out. And so I will try again, and again, until frankly I do.

The post On Failure. appeared first on Domestiphobia. Copyright 2010-2017. All rights reserved.

***

Okay, listen.

It’s a sad fact of my life that up until several weeks ago I thought that only wealthy couples, movie stars, higher education professionals, and random cute girls in pigtails could charter a private boat in the Caribbean. Basically, I based my boat-rental knowledge on what had been ingrained into my head from watching Gilligan’s Island as a kid, which doesn’t even make any sense because their boat wasn’t even private — they had to share their ride with a bunch of strangers.

See how happy they all look?

Exactly.

So once my little sister and her fiancé decided to get married in the Dominican Republic and I got over the fact that I apparently look old enough to be her mother, I immediately began looking for fun things the wedding group might be able to do off of the resort. Because as enjoyable as endless sunbasking while consuming a veritable assembly line of potent piña coladas can be, I knew we would likely appreciate a change of scenery.

And I can’t visit a country without seeing at least a little bit of the country.

After sleuthing our options online, I quickly realized that if we wanted to do something involving a boat, which I most definitely did, we’d likely end up on some party behemoth squished up next to fifty-or-so slippery, sweaty strangers. (Don’t ask me how Mr. and Mrs. Howell were able to wear wool blazers and scarves without breaking a sweat — it’s beyond my ability to comprehend.)

It wasn’t until I exchanged a few emails and phone calls back-and-forth with the Dominican Republic Tour & Private charter company I thought had the prettiest website that it dawned on me that it might be possible to get a boat all to ourselves for this little shindig, and that we didn’t actually have to be millionaires to afford it. The conversation went something like this:

Me: “So we’d like to get on a boat. Any kind of boat, really, but we definitely want a smaller tour. You know? Without a bunch of crazy drunk people except for us. Do you have those?”

Lise: “It sounds like chartering a boat might be the best option for you. We can do that.”

Me [not entirely sure what “chartering” means but thinking it sounds expensive]: “I’m not sure we have to charter anything. I’m just saying that if there’s a chance I’m going to swim though someone’s urine, I’d rather it be a friend’s, or at least from an acquaintance.”

Lise: “So you want to charter a boat. Our 52-foot yacht could take you to Saona Island for a full day trip for $3,000. Or we have a catamaran available for $1,450 for up to 20 people for a half day. How many people do you have?”

Me: “I think like 17. But chartering sounds a little expensive. That implies it would be our catamaran. I don’t know how to drive a catamaran. And plus we’d have to get to the catamaran from the resort. It just sounds kind of complicated. And did I mention expensive?”

Patient, patient Lise: “For 17 of you, that would come to around $85 per person. Plus the charge of the money transfer — so around $88. We provide the boat, the crew, the transportation to and from your resort, plus snacks and an open bar. There will be a couple of snorkeling stops and some time in Starfish Cay. How does that sound?”

Me: “That sounds amazing. But how much extra is all of that?”

Lise: “No extra. That’s all included for the $88 per person.”

Me [skeptical]: “Are you sure?”

Lise [so patient]: “Yep! So you want to go ahead with the charter?”

Me: “Wait — what’s a charter again?”

We’re On A Boat

At 7:45 on the morning after the wedding, everyone was in the lobby. I may have begun sweating profusely while all sixteen of the groggy guests who’d opted into the charter stared at me expectantly. Where were they? Of course it had occurred to me that it was possible that the tour company wouldn’t show up, that they took my money transfer and ran, that I’d lost each of their hard-earned $88.00. When a gorgeous, new, air-conditioned bus pulled up at 8:00 and the driver had my name, I knew the few moments of uncertainty had been worth it.

***

I can’t entirely begin to describe to you how it feels to fly along the Caribbean sea with a fun group of wedding guests on your own private catamaran while being served fruit skewers and tropical cake and hand-made mango mojitos, but it feels a little like this:

Justin was #ballin’

And this:

And mostly a lot like this:

Our tour included two snorkeling stops, but we ended up opting for only one in lieu of more time in Starfish Cay for those who weren’t comfortable swimming in the deep open ocean.

Snorkeling above a sunken ship:

Starfish Cay:

They even had a drone that took photos of us in Starfish Cay!

In the end, here’s what we got for $88 per person*:

• A half day (from around 9:00 a.m. to 2:00 p.m.) on our private catamaran with a captain and crew.
• Transport to/from the resort via a very new, comfortable, air-conditioned bus (with a bathroom). Edwar, our guide (and El Tour Caribe co-owner), gave us a short history of the island and talked some about relations with the Haitians, which I found really fascinating.
• A DJ for music and dancing! He had every song we requested (there were some real gems once the alcohol started flowing)
• Plenty of drinks at the open bar, including Edwar’s famous hand-made mango mojitos with fresh mint and Grey Goose vodka. There were also rum and Cokes and Presidente beer and a couple of shots of Edwar’s homemade Mama Juana! Of course there was plenty of bottled water as well.
• As I was lounging on one of the front deck chairs, a crew member brought me a skewer of fresh fruit. Later we enjoyed some light snacks of more fruit, chips and salsa, veggies and dip, and even cake. It was perfect for a half day on the water.
• Some bags of chips were passed around for the long bus ride back to the resort — so brilliant for the drunken munchies we were all feeling by that point.
• We weren’t just lounging and dancing on the boat. Our charter included the shipwreck snorkeling and lots of time in Starfish Cay, which is a really cool shallow pool in the middle of the depths where we could wade, float, and see the bright orange starfish. (We opted out of a second deep-water snorkeling stop in exchange for more time in Starfish Cay since that’s something everyone in our party — from their late 20’s to early 70’s — could enjoy.) They even brought an inflatable cooler into the water with us so we didn’t have to climb back aboard to get more rum and Coke!
• The photos, guys. Many tours will take a bunch of photos and then try to make you buy them, but not this one. They did come with a large logo watermark on each one, which I wasn’t expecting, but since they didn’t cost us a dime, I’ll take it.
• Priceless photos of “that guy” at the wedding dancing WITH  MY MOTHER to his requested song, Pussy Control, to commemorate Prince.

*We did pool together a tip at the end — around another $10-$20 per person — because we had all had such a blast.

Watch out, ladies — Mario is a pilot.

So okay. I’m not going to say this was the highlight of the trip. Obviously that would be this:

But I will say that this came in a very close second:

Chartering a private boat is a perfect excursion for a mid-sized group. Have you tried it? Do you think you’d try it now?

*I was not compensated in ANY way for writing this post. Lise and Edwar from El Tour Caribe had no idea I have a blog so from what I could tell, this is how they treat all of their guests. We all just loved the experience so much that I had to tell you about it.

The post We Loved the Boat So Much, They Probably Should’ve Gotten Married On It. appeared first on Domestiphobia. Copyright 2010-2017. All rights reserved.