And Baby Makes Four

Becoming Mom

2012-02-06T08:12:00.000-08:00

Ricki Lake & BlogHer sent a canvas email to BlogHer members asking them to describe the moment they first felt like, "I'm a mom."

I don't know if I'll submit a response.

But it made me think about when that moment happened for me.
And I couldn't think of it.
Did I miss it?

Biologically, I became a mom when a couple cells joined together (twice over). But even when that positive test popped up, I didn't feel like a mom. I prayed, sweated, and agonized over that pregnancy for 34 weeks, but I never felt like "mom."

Technically, I guess I became a mom on December 29, 2009 when the twins were born. But there was no "Yes! Magic Mothering Hormones Ignite!" kind of moment for me. Blame an emergency c-section, but I was too busy puking into a kidney-shaped bowl, pooping on nurses, and demanding coke from friends (the last part I don't remember) for the next 24 hours. All that medication-induced fun didn't allow time for lightning to strike. The bad Jefferson Airplane tripping meant I barely registered the fact I had just given birth!

Then there was the moment I first saw Cassidy. And the moment I first saw Finn. They were in different parts of the NICU, so I didn't get to see them together. The night after they were born, Brendan parked my wheel chair next to Cassidy's incubator. I remember how small she was. Barely over 3 pounds. She had an IV coming out of her head. I was so overwhelmed that I broke down crying. I felt disbelief that these were my children, crushing guilt that I didn't carry them for longer, and paralyzing fear that I wouldn't be able to take care of them.

Is that what being a mother feels like? If so, it still didn't register with me.

Like so many NICU moms, I left the hospital empty-handed. I had luggage, flowers, discharge papers. But no babies. Our backseat was empty. And so was my heart. There was no exhilaration at being a new mom. Just a deep, penetrating exhaustion and a feeling of being disconnected from my whole birth experience.

About 10 days after they were born, the twins had a bad day in the NICU. They weren't eating well, which meant they wouldn't come home for at least another week. I remember my mother found me in bed, crying. She crawled in next to me and stroked my hair while I sobbed that I missed them. I wanted them home. I felt guilty for wanting them home because they were where they needed to be.

And she said, "This is what being a mother is."

She was right.

That moment I realized the "I'm a mom" feeling doesn't have to look like holding your baby or looking into their eyes or being consumed by their presence. It doesn't have to look like an orgasmic bonding moment. Sometimes being a mom means heartache. Sometimes it means you feel out of control and disappointed with yourself.

And I think, most of the time, becoming a mother is about love. Remembering that love looks like wringing your hands over a high-risk pregnancy, placing your hands on a swelling stomach, crying next to an incubator, trembling with fear over your baby's frailness, and stroking your 31 year-old daughter's hair as she weeps with grief.

So, I guess that means I became a mom from the time I realized my life was no longer about me. Three times over now. And I'm becoming a mom every single day.

This is How It Goes Down On Super Saturdays

2012-02-04T13:09:00.000-08:00

When I triumph over adversity* and start getting shit done up in here anyway, then I'm hot. Like fire. Like funky fire.

Top That Bitchez

Adversity (def.)- To find dog poop on the floor first thing in the morning and have toddlers scream so hard they might just puke a demon every time you tell them no.

It's the Principle of the Thing

2012-02-02T08:18:00.000-08:00

I've noticed lately that I am extra super-dooper principled about things.

Any controversy that crosses my path is fair-game. I will jump on that stuff like white on rice.

I'm like Norma Rae hopped up on pregnancy hormones. Which means, I'm probably going to have no friends soon.

* Home Birth vs Hospital Birth- Well, you've heard enough about that from me.

* SOPA & PIPA- I will rant on and on about these mo-foes

* Susan G Komen gone political and withdrawing funding from Planned Parenthood?- Oh yes, I have something to say about that.

I realize nobody probably wants to hear my opinion about things but it sure seems like I'm jonesing for a catfight. I should probably stay off the internet...

Birthin Mah Baybee

2012-01-26T08:03:00.000-08:00

My post on reaching the third trimester sparked a whole new kind of anxiety in me.

It didn't help that the very same day, I read no less than 2 blog posts about women being pressured into c-sections and then somebody posted a similar situation on a message board.

Side note: If you looooved your c-section, then good for you. But don't go shooting the "You should be happy you have a healthy baby, you selfish cow" argument to women who regret or grieve their birth experience. Seriously...women are bitches sometimes.

So, here came the anxiety.

I'm going to have one of THIRTY (that's right- 30) doctors attending to me when baby decides to come. So that means Dr. Doctor isn't going to know me from Adam. I'll be a number. They won't know my birth plan. They might not care about my birth plan. This is not somebody I will have a relationship with and will trust to be in my corner.

What if they try to pressure me into a c-section?
What if they try to hook me up to continuous monitoring and I can't walk around?
What if they throw some scare-tactics my way to get me to have a c-section so they can make their dinner reservations?

I get that hospitals have timelines and babies have their own timelines and sometimes the 2 don't meet.

So, I've been studying, researching, calling my kick-ass midwife aunt for advice.

A friend suggested a doula- GENIUS!
And I'm considering a home birth. That's right, folks, a home birth.

We have our 28 week appointment today and I'm going to grill the doctor like it's the back room of a police station today.

Because my birth experience? It matters. Call me a selfish cow, but it's the last one I'm going to have. And I want it to be a good one.

Just Say No...To Opening Your Mouth

2012-01-22T12:07:00.000-08:00

I have an intolerance problem. It's mainly directed at really stupid people.

I get that people stupid people are out there. Stupid people breed stupid people. Stupidity perpetuated. Genetics at work. I get it.

And then it gets perpetuated into my news and on my social networks sites and I'm swirling a pen in my eyeball and...

Oh yeah, where was I?

Don't be stupid.

And don't be stupid about things that require you to be smart. Like politics. Just because you can regurgitate an opinion like my cat's hairball, doesn't mean it's worth anymore than that phglemy glob. Good for you for having an opinion. But don't go open your mouth about it until you've done a little research.

And watching only ONE news network that provides ONE perspective doesn't count.

And if u rite like ur texting ur homie, I will start swirling that pen again.

So here's the take away:

1. Don't be stupid.
2. If you're stupid. Recognize and keep your mouth shut. Especially if you're in my vicinity.

Even Abey Baby agrees:
Better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to speak out and remove all doubt.- Abraham Lincoln

Is it 2013 yet?

Making Friendly With the 3rd Trimester

2012-01-20T09:01:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I hit 27 weeks. The official, unofficial mark of the 3rd trimester, depending on which website or doctor you're getting your info from.

This time last pregnancy, I was one week in to bed rest. Next week will mark the "anniversary" week where I was hospitalized. And I have to say I'm more than a little haunted by memories of our last pregnancy and the twins' birth.

I haven't talked about it too much. I didn't want to sound ungrateful. We're all healthy. The twins are healthy and modern medicine is responsible for us all being alive and well. ::: shout out to modern medicine:::

That said, things started sucking pretty bad when I went on bed rest and our birth experience? Well, it SUUUUUUCKED. I'm a "natural gal." I didn't want a c-section. I wanted low intervention. I got...the opposite.

Pre-term labor turned into HELLP Syndrome the morning the babies were born. Because of the swelling like Violet ("You're turning violet, Violet!") from the HELLP, my usually good veins needed 3 nurses and endless pokes before they got an IV in me. I was told the babies had to come NOW, natural wasn't an option because I might bleed out, and "No, you can't take a shower, you vain princess. You might have a seizure," before getting rolled into the operating room, laid out, and pumped so full of drugs that I puked on the table.

I don't remember much. I remember whining "I don't like it" over and over throughout the procedure. I remember hearing the twins cry. I remember 2 nurses swinging them by my face before whisking them off to the NICU because, "This one's not breathing so well."

I vaguely remember being in the recovery room and one of the nurses apologizing that she gave me too much medicine and it was making me (brace yourself) poo like a monster all over the bed. I remember being cleaned by nurses, a few friends stopping by, being on oxygen, almost fainting in the shower, and Brendan bringing me pictures of the twins on his phone.

I didn't see the babies for 28 hours after they were born.

The next few weeks I had to build up enough stamina to walk down a hallway. I didn't always have the energy to stay in the NICU long enough to hold both of them. Pictures show me swollen, pale, sick-looking. A week after they were born, my mom arrived and was horrified that I looked so ill.

So, here we are. Two healthy 2 year-olds, one healthy singleton pregnancy, and two trimesters later- aiming for a glorious medication-free VBAC. And while memories of my experience make me a little paranoid, I'm hell-bent on making friends with the 3rd trimester this time around.

VBAC or bust!

I thought you might miss my face. You're welcome.

Wish me luck.

Oh yeah, and these guys:

= Totally worth pooing all over a bed and multiple nurses.

The Passive-Aggressive Rant

2012-01-12T12:11:00.000-08:00

The irony of this post: Here is a rant about people ranting. I am the Queen of Hypocrisy. You're welcome.

Sometimes I really hate facebook. I'm amazed at how many people I am "friends" with, dated even, who have the worst possible social skills. These are grown folk. People in their 30s who post status updates that could be sound bites from a high school cafeteria.

Here's a little taste:

You should never be nice to any one because in the long run it only comes back to hurt you. So no one ask for anything.

About to change the type of person I am, And I have a feeling some people are to regret treating me like crap.

would just like 24 freaking hours without any $%#@$% drama!

My dilemma- While I'm dismayed and repulsed by the passive-aggressive rant, the schadenfreude in me loves watching a train wreck happen. Even when it happens over and over again. Cause clearly, to post foolishness like this on facebook is indicative of more than just a Bad Day. It points to a pretty clear character and maturity deficit these people have going on.

So what do I do?

1. Unfriend
2. Post responses like this one I left- "This is a ridiculous and melodramatic thing to say. I hope you've been drinking."
3. Get a bag of popcorn and soak up a little Crazy.

What would you do?

My Giant Elephant Ass

2012-01-11T14:23:00.000-08:00

The other day I was walking past a window and I caught a glimpse of it.

My arse.

It was huge.

YOUGE I tell you.

Gone are my hopes and dreams that I would sashay my way through this pregnancy cute and sassy. This, combined with the picture Brendan took of my Man Face/No Neck the other day, solidifies it.

I am not a glowing cutie patooty pregnant gal. I am the Elephant Woman and I will steal your food. So, watch out.

ps- Any pointers on "slowing my roll" when it comes to the gestational weight gain is much appreciated. I'm not looking for a diet or looking to lose weight, I would just like to feel In Control when it comes to food again. Not to mention, I have NO IDEA what is "normal" weight gain for carrying 1 baby. Although, I think I left Normal Town about 2 months ago when the holidays arrived in all their food-covered glory.

If It's Broken, I Probably Own It

2012-01-08T19:34:00.000-08:00

I have a magic touch these days. It's like the Golden Finger only instead of gold, it's made of some kind of Voo Doo curse circa Anne Rice.

Quick run-down of the things I've turned to shit in the last 30 days by being in their general vicinity:

The nefarious laptop
The furnace

And within the last 8 days?

The roof
The washing machine

At this pace, I'm going to be standing on the street corner, whoring it out for an insert broken appliance here. I could do it. I learned a lot from Julia Roberts. Like don't take less than $100.

I'm such an awesome role model.

Dear Baby

2012-01-06T07:51:00.000-08:00

Dear Baby,

I'm glad you're healthy and bouncing around like you've been doing some kind of Schedule 2, illegal substance. I'm sure you're enjoying the square footage that a couple of 2 year-old hoodlums stretched out for you in this King-Sized uterus.

And I would like to make a few small requests.

1. There is this thing called night time. Most of us use this time for sleep. You're using this time to be all Night at the Roxbury up in here. Please pull up a sofa and remote control and have yourself a nice relaxing time between the hours of 9pm and 7am.

2. Please don't jab your little limbs into any area that is South of the Border. It's just not nice. Manners, Baby, manners.

3. If you could please stop wanting food. Especially food covered in cheese or sugar. All.The.Time. Mama's getting rotund. And it's making it harder to work it like Pretty Woman or fend off the dreaded Man Face/Two-Face-No-Neck situation.

Love, Mama

Buh-Bye 2011, Why Hello 2012

2011-12-31T14:11:00.000-08:00

I remember New Years when I was a kid. It was the one night my parents let me stay up late and I got to pretend I was a grown up. Usually, I was lucky if I made it to midnight.

When I got older, New Years was an opportunity to go to a friend's home and watch movies and stay up late.

In my twenties, New Years was usually an over-rated evening of debauchery. I'd always wake up the next morning and feel underwhelmed by the transition from one year to the next.

These days? New Years is just another evening spent at home. We'll go to a friend's for dinner and then we'll probably be in bed by 10. If we're feeling really wild, we might make it to 11pm.

Times change.

And we change with time.

But regardless of whether I'm awake to open the front door at midnight with a hearty "Welcome!" to 2012, it feels good to look back on 2011 as a success, count my blessings, and gear up for more greatness.

That is, of course, unless the zombie apocalypse comes this year....

Happy New Year, Friends.

Well, Hot Damn

2011-12-29T07:56:00.000-08:00

I'm the parent of two 2 year-olds.

And I'm so freakin lucky.

And because I just REALLY like making your ovaries quiver, here's a link to last year's video: I'm a link

Life really is what happens when you're busy making other plans...

Who's Coming to Town?

2011-12-22T08:29:00.000-08:00

In the midst of holiday and work craziness around here, I've finally made some time to go back and read some old blog posts from friends and well....people who are my "friends" only in my head. And I was reminded of an age old controversy.

The Santa

Ho, ho, ho, that crafty old bear really stirs up some holiday in-fighting this time of year.

If you tell your child about The Santa you're a lying, manipulative parent- bribing your child's good behavior with the promise of gifts and a bulging stocking. Your child will eventually uncover your motives and reveal that lo and behold! - The Santa and The Great And Wonderful Oz are kissing cousins, both fallacies controlled by a sad little man behind the curtain. Aka- You. This will, of course, inevitably lead to long-standing trust issues that will impact their ability to function in this world.

If you're on the other side of the fence- The Keepin It Real side- You're a Scroogy McScroogersons, stealing away the magic of Christmas. But then you'll have the smug satisfaction of knowing that your kids won't have a lifetime of emotional Santa-shaped scars inflicted by YOU because you wanted to infuse a little magic into your child's life. Plus, you'll know that your child is truly well-behaved and not a Manipulative, Underground Criminal just faking it for the presents. Smugness abounds.

I don't like conflict. Tell me when it's over.

It feels like a lose-lose.

So, what are we doing in our house? After much hand-wringing and nail-biting over this decision (Okay, I lied. We didn't even talk about it), we're doing what feels natural and right for our family. We're inviting Santa into our home, complete with a plate of cookies and a glass of milk. Because everybody deserves a little magic...

And, well... This beautiful letter, timeless as Saint Nick himself... puts it as well as I ever could.

So Merry Christmas to you and yours, regardless of how you feel about The Santa. May your holiday be warm, joyous, and full of cookies.

Shock & Awe

2011-12-21T13:14:00.000-08:00

When people find out I not only have 2 year-old twins, but that I'm due with a third bundle of thunder come April, I tend to get this response:

"Wow...You're brave."

My response:
"Something like that..."

My internal response:
"I KNOW you're not calling me BRAVE. I KNOW you have another descriptor in mind. It starts with a "C" and ends with a "razy."

So, you know what? I'm good with Crazy. I freakin flourish and thrive with The Crazy. So, bring it.

I'll see your brave and raise you one on the Crazy scale.

Just don't expect any invitations to babysit round here. I can see you're not up to it....

Come April, I'm going to bring the Crazy Thunder. Merry Christmas and Word to your mom.

In Which the Sh*t Hitteth the Fanneth (and I lose it....a little)

2011-12-13T09:22:00.000-08:00

The last few weeks have been craaaaaaaaaaaaazy.

Probably a little like squeezing a watermelon-sized babe out of your grape-sized vag, I've been trying to squeeze 60 hour work weeks into 3 days for half of the last month. Bwahahahahaha! I'm losing my shit! Bring me another mai tai! Blabbity blabbity!

Things that went down over the last few weeks:

* Thanksgiving yo. Feed me a full-sized turkey! I'm growing a person and it demands animal sacrifice! And pie!

* Oops! What's that? Oh, my little piece of shit laptop, you want to go and break on me? 2 days before I have to write a report under deadline? Poosy woosy? HI-LAR-IOUS. I spit on your philandering hard-drive and raise you a new laptop. Even though Christmas is like 18.2 shopping days away.

* Christmas, Kwanza, Hannakuh what? I have bought zero gifts for loved ones. But look at my shiny new laptop!

* Come on in Home Depot Man measuring our windows! Pay no attention to the golden retriever having a seizure in the next room! Yes, he does pee everywhere when that happens so watch the spray. What? Lead abatement? Move all our furniture? Just another day in the life! Weeeeee!

* 20 week ultrasound? Piece of fucking cake. Baby is moving around like a cracked out fetus on a uterine bouncy house. Genitalia remains unknown so smug pride in my self-control ensues. Until husband reports he thinks he knows what we're having. Smug pride turns into hormonal fit of YOU'RE A RUINER HUSBAND! Hormones are mah friend.

* Trip to Philadelphia last week. Am expert at all things airport security. They are my TSA Bitchez when I don't have 2 toddlers in tow. Am giant failure at all things business travel-related and forget many businessy-things at home despite careful planning between mental breaks, hurried deadlines, and stuffing mah face with food.

* Numbers on the scale are skyrocketing into flight. Like afternoon delight. If afternoon delight is food in mah mouth. Oooooooooh Afternoon Delight!!!

* Lots of germies take up residence in my body and manifest themselves in super attractive phlegmy moments. Like when talking to a client or sharing tapas (did you say Topless?) with the head of the company over dinner. And pay no attention to my bright red, throbby eyeball that makes me wink at you. You might think it's some kind of germy inflammation of my retina but really I'm trying to get you in bed. You know you want a piece of this. Hand me a tapa! And a kleenex! Achoo!

* Early Intervention Assessment. Mah kids are speshal. They will get services. Finn needs another hearing test because he is either minorly deaf, an asshole who ignores you, or was dreaming of Christmas cookies during the hearing test.

This is where a strong cocktail accompanied by a nap would come in handy.

And this is probably the point where you stop reading my blog. It's okay. I won't hold it against you.

Look Who's NOT Talking

2011-12-02T09:36:00.000-08:00

I had an inkling something was wrong somewhere around 8 months ago. The inkling turned into a full-fledged nail-biter when the babies were 18 months old.

Language? Talking? It was pretty non-existant out of the mouth of babes in this house.

Our pediatrician patted my knee at the 18th month appointment and told me they passed their language section and I tried not to laugh in her face. She reassured me that even though they weren't talking, they showed signs of comprehension so we were still good.

Then she sent me a 22 month questionnaire for language.
And called me when she received it.

Baby Talk = GIANT FAIL

So we were referred to Early Intervention for an assessment. And I felt a big sigh of relief. Finally, the babies would get the help they need. I would much rather them fall into the Suck Category that qualifies for services than in the Almost-Suck-Just-Mediocre Category where they would flounder for years.

If you're going to fail at something, don't half-ass it. Fail with vigor, I say.

I had my phone intake this week.

Finn? Around 15 words total
Cassidy? (oh don't make me laugh!) Maybe 3 words

They'll be 2 this month.

The lady responded, "Oh, that's bad! They should be at 80 words each."

75% of me was totally validated. I wanted to say "Yes! THANK YOU! That's what I've been saying!"
25% of me wanted to Mama Bear her right through the phone. SWAT! Bitch Please, you better not talk about my kids like that!

So, we're scheduling an appointment for an assessment. And then they'll come to the house once a week for sessions, which I have to figure out how to squeeze into my already crazed schedule.

My hope is that in a couple months I'll be yelling at my language-delayed children to just "Shut Up Already!" like a normal mom.

Where I Got a Picture of Them Together That Was in Focus

2011-11-29T12:27:00.000-08:00

It only took 4 adult baby wranglers, throwing leaves in the air, 150 worthless photos, and some screaming and hand-wringing to get this shot.

A career in photography will never be for me... Oh well, guess I'll have to stay busy with all my other careers.

If Hamlet Had a Baby: To Know or Not to Know?

2011-11-16T10:10:00.000-08:00

Let me paint you a picture of my basement.

Think of that final scene in Indiana Jones & Raiders of the Lost Ark.

You know, the one in the wearhouse.

Minus a few thousand square feet, our basement looks a little like this. Most of the boxes? Filled with baby clothes. Boy clothes. Girl clothes. From preemie to 18 months. If there were a baby clothes apocalypse, we're all set.

So we've been eager to find out the sex of our little 17 weeker. 20 week ultrasound here we come! Find out what that baby's packing, and make a youge donation to Goodwill. That was our plan.

And then during our doctor's visit on Friday, Ms. Doctor Lady threw some dirt on our passionate basement-cleansing fire. "I wouldn't get rid of those clothes until the baby's born. You never know if they tell you the wrong sex. It happened just the other day."

First off- Not a ringing endorsement of their ultrasound department
Second- What??? 5 more months of Indiana Jones?

So, if we're not going to be sure anyway, Brendan and I are tossing around the idea of kicking it pioneer style and waiting until the birth to find out if our baby is of the male or female persuasion.

What do you think?

Should we find out? Should we wait? Should we burn the baby clothes regardless and dance around it wearing faux-fur tunics?

You Know, That One Time My Dad Had a Stroke

2011-11-10T07:59:00.000-08:00

Thanks to everyone for their messages of care and concern. It meant a lot. And I thought I owed you a bit of an explanation of what went down with my Dad. He's doing well and has recovered some feeling in his left butt cheek- which can only spell good prognosis, yes?

3 Sundays ago, Brendan's phone rang. "It's your mom," he said before answering.

If you know me in real life, you know I'm terrible about answering my phone. Especially on the weekend. And usually because it's lost somewhere in the house, car, or general wilderness of my life.

So my mom calling my husband's phone didn't really mean too much. Except that she was really trying to reach me. And she could be trying to desperately reach me for any of the following reasons:

1. Need to confirm travel plans
2. Wants to throw away some dusty trinket from my childhood
3. Doom & Destruction

I'd been lucky enough to sidestep most of the #3 calls, except for my sophomore year in high school when the family dog passed away. That was the closest I'd come to real loss.

"I'm calling about your dad. He's okay. But he's had a small stroke. I'm going to let you talk to him."

And that was it. I was a mess- crying, snot flying everywhere. The Ugly Cry was out in full force.

Minor Stroke.

I don't know about you. But the minor part sounded like a whisper in my brain, overwhelmed by the bull horn of STROKE!

photo credit to strokesymtomsformen.org

The short of it- He really was fine. Some doctor proclaimed his brain "pristine"- Something I'm sure I'll hear about for months. They might even get it printed on their Christmas cards this year. Nothing wrong with his ticker, no sign of previous or imminent strokes, no speech or motor impediments. He kind of looked like a faker - Except the fact that the hand tremor he's had since age 30 is gone in his left hand.

I tried to function like a normal human being. Brendan had been putting the pressure on me to go home and I had brushed him off. But 24 hours and numerous random crying jags (thank you pregnancy hormones) later, I cried uncle. I booked a flight to Nebraska, called my parents, rescheduled my clients, cried on the phone to my new supervisor (yikes), and made it happen.

And I have to tell you- this stuff puts life in perspective. For real.

Deadlines, clients, laundry, voice mail- All those things that consume me and pull me in 100 directions every day. They aren't important.

I learned the best medicine is family. Even if it means flying to Nebraska to hang out on the couch and watch a Top Chef marathon. Because just SEEING your family, hearing "Look at my magic hand!", can help solidify that your dad put the Minor in MINOR stroke.

Where I Almost Got a Picture of Them Together That Was in Focus

2011-11-04T07:15:00.000-07:00

Almost

Poor blurry Finn... Not even black-and-white can make him look sharper. But we're getting close!

Halloween Monsters

2011-11-02T12:02:00.000-07:00

I want to talk about a certain kind of monster that's unleashed on the 31st of October. It shows up in the dark, skulks its way onto your porch, and reigns terror on all who cross its path.

It's the Halloween Asshole.

On first examination, it might look cute. It might be dressed as an innocuous princess or teddy bear. Don't be fooled. The Asshole will get you every time.

It looks like the kid who grabs the Honor Code candy bowl and dumps the entire contents into its bag.

It looks like the kid who sneers at your Milky Way and demands something different.

It looks like the kid who grabs eight (EIGHT!) candy bars and then bald-faced lies to your face that they only took two.... Two, my ass.

It looks like kids who push other kids out of the way, screaming "Gimmee! Gimmee!" and putting its grabby asshole hands into your bowl of candy.

We decided our kiddies were too young for trick-or-treating this year. Especially since there was only 1 parent on hand and our kids still wander into the street if given a chance. But next year? We're going to practice. We're going to talk manners. And my kids will be dressed up as witches, spider man, or bears. But they will NOT be going as assholes. And that's all I'm going to say about that.

Vent over. Here are some pictures of my Lady Bug and Chicken. Enjoy. And I hope your Halloween was asshole-free.

Bloggy Paralysis

2011-11-01T09:26:00.000-07:00

I've had blog paralysis lately.

First work was overwhelming.
Then hormones were kicking my ass.
Then we had to plan for a house renovation.
And oh yeah, my dad had a minor stroke last week.

Ho-hum.

So, I'm gonna fake it til I make it. Throw some cute baby pictures your way and hope that works.

Is it working?

Inspiration- Why hast thou forsaken me?

The Baby Name Game

2011-10-20T08:44:00.000-07:00

Naming your baby is a helluva task. This is a name your kid is going to carry around forever.

FOR-EH-VER

It's the jumping off point for nicknames. It will grace the top of resumes and prefix email addresses. It will be called (and possibly massacred) by many a telemarketer and substitute teacher.

I've heard it called your baby's "Brand" and that's not far off. So it's one of the more important decisions we make as a parent.

I think we did okay the first time around. We had some pretty strict guidelines we used to pick our names:

* We wanted something "different" but not so "out there" that it would raise eyebrows. We didn't want to be unique for the sake of unique. We wanted to avoid anything super trendy.

* We wanted names that were spellable and sound like how they're spelled. None of this "Sheene is pronounced Sean" business. Pish.

* We wanted Celtic names because of my husband's background. (FYI- Gaelic names interfere with bullet point 3)

* And an interesting situation for twins- We didn't want anything "matchy." It wasn't our style.

So with Baby #3 on the way, we've started to play the name game again. The rules are pretty much the same. The big no-no's?

* Made-up spellings
* A baby named after a brand (Look at my baby Chanel!)
* Made-up smoosh names
* Inanimate Objects or Regular Words (Toast, Apple, Rhythm)

And THAT'S how we brand our babies up in this mug.

My Homeless Baby

2011-10-11T13:24:00.000-07:00

Now that we're gestating Baby Numero Three, we have a little bit of an issue on our hands.

There is nowhere to put Baby.

Let me paint you a picture:

This is our house. It is old as crap. Like, 117 years kind of old.

At some point in the 1900's a crackhead came along and turned it into a multi-unit/house of crazy floorplans.

Then somebody else bought it and turned it BACK into a single-family home but they left the rooms in a crazy configuration.

Technically= Our house has 6 rooms upstairs
Reality= Our house has 2 rooms that function, 2 rooms that are cold as hell in the winter, and 2 rooms that are good for nothing but storage. (Please see reference to crack smoking above)

What this means= Baby is homeless and will either co-sleep or sleep in the hallway because babies grunt at night and that makes me cranky.

And so, we're about to get all house renovation blog up in here. House renovation, twins, working mom, pregnancy blog. Huh. Maybe we can just put the baby in a dresser drawer to sleep.

How to Apologize

2011-10-07T11:24:00.000-07:00

Or maybe- How to apologize if you really want people to throw fruit at your head.

As a mom there's a lot of skill-building up in here. But I think even as adults, it's good to do a quick review about how to do stuff so you don't alienate people or burn yourself on a fiery stake of Oops.

So, today we're reviewing how to apologize to somebody when you really screwed the pooch. (FYI- This post was inspired by the recent poop storm between The Bloggess and a certain PR Firm with a bit of a PR Problem.)

1. Say "I'm sorry," "My bad," or some other derivative thereof.

2. Say "I should have been more careful," "...thought before I acted," "...taken my meds," or some other remorse-laden tidbit.

3. Say "How can I fix it?"

4. Say "I'm sorry" AGAIN. But don't say it too much. You'll just look like an ass who is trying to make himself feel better.

DO NOT- Insert any form of the following into your apology:

* You had it coming
* You started it
* Let's just laugh this off!
* Everybody just needs to calm down
* I guess we all make mistakes (shrug)
* Stop being so mean to me!
* I have an alcohol problem

In essence- Own your shit. And shelve any self-serving douchebaggery like pandering or patronizing. Because if you were wrong, you were wrong. You don't get to be the victim.

This PSA is brought to you by a rather irrelevant blogger and relevant human being. Happy Friday!