Little Ms. J

Fashionista

2011-12-16T20:57:00.000-08:00

You have to see my girl! She's all grown up and wearing sparkles!

Ok, that and I am trying to win some free photos from my photographer so Trevor doesn't give me another lecture about our Family Austerity Program to rival the Italians. All you have to do is visit Wendhy's Facebook page, LIKE it, scroll down and find Livi's tutu photo and LIKE that too.

You will.

Because it is a-freaking-dorable.

So, you have to LIKE both the page and the photo to get me some free swag and while you're at it - please click the link above the photo that Wendhy has provided for Livi's Sneak Peek. There's more photos.

And swoon.

You won't be able to help yourself.

My Little Livi Rabbit

2011-12-02T20:16:00.001-08:00

My Dear Livi Rabbit:

You are quite simply the most amazing person I've ever met. I'm shocked that your daddy and I tried so hard for you for so long, praying to a God I'd forgotten, becoming superstitious, becoming amature geneticists and science nerds, shedding many tears and at the end of it all, with a ten percent chance of success you came to us.

Perfect little you.

Perfect little you with the perfect legs that wiggle, the eyes that see everything, study everyone, the tiny little heart that beats deep in your chest and flutters wildly when you get mad, the fingers so long and so curious and those toes...

Well, your dad is sorry about your toes.

Your personality is so big and frightening. Soon you will want to know things. Many things. Your father and I have been tasked with choosing the answers that will guide and mold you, make you understand, make you question and give you wings. This parenting thing is hard, my love, and in a world where I rule supreme, my decisions arrows that cut to the heart of matters, my words sure and steady, not to be questioned, I am rendered clueless.

I am rendered stupid, shivering and unsure.

There are no right answers when you are a parent. No decision is easy. No question mark is immediately answered without sudden panic that my words, my thoughts or my actions could screw you up for life. It is like Sliding Doors or The Butterfly Effect or some weird movie where so many little things could've happened to change the outcome. Granted, I don't really think that allowing you to eat food with preservatives will make you slovenly or that watching Pocoyo in the morning will turn you into a crackhead, but still...

Daunting, I tell you.

I just hope that I make more right decisions than wrong, love you more than I should, shelter you less than one would consider smothering and free you just enough to be confident, but not enough to drown. I hope I make you laugh when appropriate, cry less than others and worry that I'm disappointed as opposed to ambivalent when I hurt.

You, my dear, can make me feel all the emotions available to a mental patient in one swift moment; glorious, lovely and terrifyingly worried for every little heartbreak, appendage and brain cell. If I could put you in a bubble I would, but I can't find one that wouldn't cause some kind of emotional damage.

I promise you that you also make me stronger.

In an I can rip someone's heart out of their bare chest with my hands and teeth if they hurt you.

That last fact was learned over an unfortunate case of diaper rash because of a caregiver's ambivalence about your sensitive skin. Imagine what I could do if someone made you cry.

You are the best gift I've ever received and being your mother is simply the most important role I've ever taken on. I knew I'd met you before when I first held you. We've always been together, my darling. Science just finally caught up.

I hope I don't let you down, love.

Love and mush,

Mom

Ghosts

2011-11-27T14:29:00.000-08:00

Edelweiss called to me from somewhere in the house. It had a music box tin to it, the notes coming out strained and slow, never quite making tempo, as if I was watching the trailer to a horror film.

I knew what it was, a tiny music box I was given as a child. I just didn't know where it was and who had turned the key on the back of the little wooden frame. Being a new mother I jumped up from the bed where I was taking an afternoon nap while Livi slept soundly in her crib. I had to find it and shut it off before she awoke.

I walked out into the hallway and trained my ears for the tinny notes that have always reminded me of my grandparents. I found it on top of a box of photos, the first one a beloved photo of my grandmother and grandfather dressed up, arms around each other and smiling several years before my grandfather passed.

I smiled, shut the guest room door behind me and opened the lid to find a box of ghosts.

Photos after photos of old boyfriends, bad relationships, friends and family members that I'd chosen to forget. They all reminded me of a life I didn't want to claim; memories and mistakes that another girl lived and committed. My heart grew heavy as I saw my young face, full of questions and prepared to do things I'd never admit to.

Should I throw them away before Livi could ask me questions about them? Should I exorcise these memories, choosing only to keep the life I live now? Pretend that life was someone else's? Those people are strangers?

Just last night I'd mentioned to Mr. J that as I get Livi ready for bath time we walk past her mirrored closet doors while she trains her eyes on her little moving legs, proud that she can walk when I hold her hands. My eyes always shift to the mother goading her on, the woman with lines forming around her eyes.

"I've gotten old."

"You haven't."

"I have, babe. All the sudden. I don't even recognize the lines on my face."

"I don't see them."

I smiled last night and smiled again, I like the woman with the lines much better, as I shifted bad memories back into the box. They may one day create cautionary tales told late at night, the ones that keep a young woman with questions in her eyes slightly safer than the one that came before her. I tucked in the music box that pulled me from bed as I shut the lid.

The box now sits on a shelf, and I swear I heard the wood of it creak from the heaviness it bears. But, they are my memories, the things that turned me into who I am, as cliched as that sounds, and they will one day create a story line that even a soap opera couldn't touch.

I'm just thrilled that the ending is sizing up to be a happy one.

Loose Change

2011-11-16T21:25:00.000-08:00

You wish your Amana Hamana was as good as mine.

No, I don't even know if that is one of Bikram's words, but it sounds close enough and let's face it, you're jealous of anything I can do in 105 degree room, especially if I burned calories while doing it.

Frank made sure everyone knew that they did not live up to the spiritually aware and completely lithe new mother in the class, "Jeanette had a baby this morning and she isn't lying on her towel."

People groaned.

I moved deeper into the bendy stretchy thing that will eventually make my ass compel you to throw your loose change at it to see if it bounces back. I focused in the mirror to the point of sheer balance, something new to my typically wobbly self.

I allowed my focus to drift to my wrinkle-free forehead and for a brief second wondered if it possible that Botox had improved my practice. Where I'd typically be grunting and staring at the wrinkles while Frank would tell me to relax my face, I can no longer emote, thereby allowing my brain to only focus on the writhing pain instead of what my face is doing in response to the writhing pain.

Interesting.

I kicked my leg back so hard that it came over my head while I balanced on one leg. For the entire sixty seconds that Frank told everyone, "Kick harder. Kick until you can balance there forever." I did. Frank stared at me while I stared at myself in the mirror and came out of the pose, "Damn, mama."

I curtsied.

There was some snickering.

I worked through each pose with intent, forcing my mind blank, forcing my body to obey.

I even did Camel.

Twice.

Again and again Frank would bring up my practice, "You look amazing, Jeanette," and "She just had a baby!"

Frank sidled up to me as we were doing our final savasana, "I am so proud of you. You killed it." He then addressed the rest of the room, "She just came back to yoga after having a baby and she didn't bitch about how hot it was in the room. She didn't lie there and complain about Scoliosis or a cramp in her leg and her form was incredible."

I reminded myself to always come to Frank's class and then wondered how many women would surround me in the locker room to ask me how I do it, how old my daughter was and if I could share my secret for inner spiritual peace and physicality.

Not one of those ungrateful bitches said a word.

I found Mr. J on the floor with Livi when I got home and sputtered on and on about the best yoga class I've ever had, how strong I am, Frank's compliments and how I need yoga.

"You sound really happy."

"I am. I was."

"That's great, Little. You should definitely keep up the classes."

I agreed.

You see, what the rest of the yogis didn't know is that I'm kind of a disaster. I needed Frank's compliments. I needed to be bragged upon, to work so hard that I had nothing left, to empty my brain and sweat until my skin was the color of cranberries. Mostly because I'm trying to figure out how the hell to balance being a new mom and a career girl and this shit is hard. My body doesn't cooperate, my brain is still trying to bridge the gap between nurture and revenue goals and I have to remember to stay awake long enough to talk to Mr. J about something more than teething. My hair is rarely dried using actual tools. I haven't had a manicure in three months and I rarely remember where it is I'm going while I'm driving my car. I often walk into rooms and then stare at each piece of furniture, item of clothing littering the floor and dog hair tumbleweed blowing past to try and jog my memory as to why it is I went into the room with purpose in the first place.

I'm addled, befuddled and somedays completely lost, finding solace and clear-headedness only on Saturdays when Livi and I spend the day together. We have breakfast, we go to Gymboree and I make googledy faces at her while I push her stroller around the mall and ignore the families dodging and jumping away from my wheels since I don't have time to pay attention to them.

Then Sundays come and I have to run errands so I can wear clean clothes to work.

Something that's apparently still important.

I think Frank and I will keep our yoga dates and I'd like to believe I will sweat out my confusion. Maybe the haze will melt from my brain and stay on the fogged up windows and stinky carpet in the classroom. Maybe he will keep the compliments coming and my body will become a force to be reckoned with...

Get your quarters ready.

Dear You, Love Me

2011-10-05T16:13:00.001-07:00

Trevor kissed me in the parking lot of the surgery center this morning as I looked at him with great drama playing about my freshly washed face, "Make sure this is a good kiss. It could be the last one. I may not wake up from the anesthesia. Please take good care of the rabbit. She's a lot like me so give her a little slack for the emotional outbursts."

"No, you come back," his face had that, I will kill you if you die, kind of look.

"There's Orajel on the shelf above the changing table."

"Come back, Little. I'm serious."

I wish it was the love he felt for me talking, but I think it was the sleep deprivation and the recent ruling that mom's give suppositories, not dads.

I decided to work on my living will in the waiting room. It consisted of a series of texts to Amie.

"I'm going under for a nerve block on my neck. If anything happens please help take care of Liv. You may have to bring our families together and help make some arrangements for her at first. Trev will be a wreck and she's teething. Such bad timing. You know. To die. Oh! And make sure someone is at the new house on Monday morning to meet the new nanny. Trev will need her help. This is, of course, if I die or am paralyzed. Otherwise I'll be there (insert Droid green alien smiley face here)."

I was thankful we both had Verizon, since I can write the longest texts ever and am not limited to characters. This is important when you're going to die. I wondered if my will would be a legal binding document and supercede the one that I keep meaning to put in our safe deposit box.

When I finally came around I found that Amie had tearfully put together her response to my heavy charge that she remain a foundational female force in my daughter's life upon my demise, "Well good morning to you silly girl! You know I have your back (haha I'm funny). You'll be fine. I'll say a prayer for u."

I realized that Amie would probably tell Livi about sex and it was good that I'd survived. I then thought I should let her know she was off the hook and didn't need to raise my poor, orphaned child in my stead, "I lived. High and woozy. Night night."

"Happy to hear it. Nite nite."

Amie came over tonight to help with Livi while Trevor and I packed and I wondered what I could do to tell her how much I appreciate her. While words never fail me when they're dripping from my fingers, I have a tendency to hold back the mush when I'm sitting in front of you.

There was the night she came home with us from the hospital, sticking it out while I tried to breastfeed a five day old who was annoyed that mom was not producing Similac and the many nights thereafter where she helped me through sleep deprivation, the shakes and 8 pm runs to Babies R Us, because damn it, these bottles suck.

There was the day I called her bawling because I needed to see the doctor and Livi wouldn't stop crying. She rearranged her conference calls to watch my girl, teaching her about Jared Leto and 30 Seconds to Mars and God knows what else she has up her sleeves.

There was the girl's trip to New York two weeks ago where she quietly read in bed while I slept until noon. I woke every day with a Starbucks latte next to my head. She didn't even argue after she sweetly suggested I keep my eyes open in the cab from JFK to the Gansevoort to avoid my unavoidable car sickness when I grumpily replied, "No."

She giggled when I'd nap for three hours simply whispering, "Mama's working on her sleep deprivation."

"God, that could take a year."

I smiled as I found her entertaining herself right before a mandatory three hour nap at 6 p.m. Granted, she was in her underwear and sitting in front of the minibar.

"Oh SNAP! We have tonic."

"Oh SNAP!? Please don't say that again."

We both laughed. She may have said something else, but I don't know what it was since I wasted no time at all dreaming of flat stomachs and fields of Ambien.

Simply said, she's the person that I know will step in if anything were to happen to me, hands on her hip, finger pointed at noses, making sure my voice is heard, whether anyone wants to hear it to the tone of her seriously high-pitched warble. She'll smack me around when I'm bad, pull me out of the house when I'm funky and show up when I get that lilt to my voice that she knows. She will always shop in my closet, regularly skip out on gym training just because and hold a screaming baby with the calmest look on her face.

I think I'll keep her.

She certainly can't get rid of me.

Well, unless I die or become paralyzed from simple outpatient procedures, but here's hoping...

The Rainbow Bridge

2011-09-28T17:27:00.000-07:00

Mike drove an El Camino and Anna was 19, leggy and blonde. My dad was their minister and he married them on top of the rainbow bridge that led to Fairy Land at Lowry Park, a magical place.

I thought they were the coolest.

They had an apartment and on Friday nights I'd pack my little red suitcase and head over for the night so mom and dad could fall in love again. Mike would always run out to 7-Eleven and buy me Watchamacallits and Anna would bring in the sweet tea that had been steeping in the sun on their balcony. Sometimes we'd watch movies, sometimes we'd go to the pool, but we'd always laugh; the two teenage sweethearts and the little girl with big, watchful eyes.

When I was 19 I moved into the same apartment complex where Mike and Anna started their life together. I moved in with the boy I married. The rainbow bridge was gone, but we found a local park with a gazebo and strung enough lights throughout the grand oak trees to overpower the fireflies that buzzed around and highlight the freckles I was still too young to have outgrown while I recited my vows.

Mike and Anna were there with their three children, whom I babysat over hot, muggy Florida summers. Mike no longer drove an El Camino, but together they were still the epitome of young love.

Until they weren't anymore.

I think I left my child husband before Mike and Anna finally went their own ways. I'm not sure when in that timeline the rainbow bridge was leveled or when it was I realized that El Caminos and Watchamacallits did not promise a forever love.

I thought of all of this as an El Camino riding club passed Trevor and I on the highway over the weekend. I very thoughtfully recounted my sleeping bagged nights, the chocolate fingers and Anna's infectious laugh while Trevor listened and Livi gurgled in the back seat. I wondered who it is my daughter will look up to, who will teach her about the first inklings of love and while most of me wants to sit her down and argue that boys are walkin' talkin' sacks of hormones, sure to break her heart, someone is going to make her hopeful. I realize that hopeful is ok and naive is sweet as long as it is tempered with anchors, individuals that help her think through impetuous, young decisions.

I realized that being a parent is going to be ambitious and scary and quite a responsibility.

I can't imagine what her life will look like and what moments will build her impression of love, relationships and how to build, grow and protect them. I can't expect that her heart will go unbroken, nor should it if she is to appreciate the one that steals her heart and never gives it back.

I just hope she is insightful.

And careful.

And curious.

But, what hurts the most is that I cannot promise her that she will never be hurt, never be divorced, never experience loss. I wasn't prepared to care so much about another person; who she is, who she'll become and how things will effect her.

It is the first time I've felt both powerful and powerless at the same time.

And I just got her...

Trifecta

2011-09-10T14:03:00.000-07:00

We used to be pretty fabulous.

On a Friday I'd leave work, pick up a bottle of wine and meet Amie and Mags for gossip, dinner and a giggle-infused buzz. Our husbands would give up on us for the night and whisper, "Did you have fun?" if and when we ever made it to our own beds.

Last night my phone rang at 8 p.m.

"Why are you answering the phone?"

"Because it rang."

Amie sighed, "I thought Mr. J would answer and I'd have to ask him where the fuck you are, bitch."

"It's bath time," I sighed as Livi started fussing from the tub where her dad was making horsey faces to try and keep her calm.

"Well, we want to open the champagne. Are we waiting for you?"

I thought of the bottle I bought Mags when we both realized we were pregnant, promising each other that the Trifecta would bust it open together when our little girls came and it was time to celebrate grown up style, "Nah. Get started without me. I'll be another half hour or so. I have to get her to sleep."

We hung up.

My little one giggled as I rubbed her down with lavendar lotion, slurped as daddy fed her the final Karo-spiked bottle before bed and whined as he swaddled her and passed her off to me. It was as I was getting her to sleep that I started to cry a little and thought I should just go to bed.

But, I didn't.

I walked from her room down the hall to mine as I pulled the spat upon nightshirt up over my head and grabbed a summer dress from a hanger. On slipped the Havianas, bag over my arm and a quick kiss to Mr. J as I pulled my car onto the road for the two minute drive to Mag's house. I almost turned around when I saw there was another car in front of her house, another visitor that I didn't want to pretend to be nice around.

But, I didn't.

I went in to find Mag's lovely neighbor, Elaine, was sitting on a kitchen stool and all my ladies were eating and sipping champagne. Elaine, who barely knew me when I was pregnant, visited me in the hospital right after Livi was born. When I was melting down over breastfeeding woes, she came over, sat in Livi's nursery and tried to throw me a parade because I was able to pump 3 oz, thereby making herself a saint in my eyes.

We laughed, we complained, we drank way too much.

After Elaine left Mag's shared in her southern drawl that only comes out when she's around her family, drunk or tired, "Y'all, Elaine told me today that I was mean to my mom when she was visiting."

Mag's gasped as her comment was met with big round eyes pointing at the ceiling while we filled our mouths with champagne to keep them busy.

"WHAT?! Was I?"

"Dude. You were scary."

Amie reenacted the famous meltdown Mag's had over finding her father's feet on her leather couch, the way in which everyone in the house tried to avoid eye contact with her and a variety of other splendid moments that included necessary follow up texts and phone calls where one of us referred to Mag's as "your friend" and the term "crazy" was synonymous with her name.

"I don't remember any of that."

I sighed as I made sure she saw the fake-judginess in my eyes, "Well, maybe that's best."

"WHAT?!"

"I hated coming over here. You yelled at me at least three times."

"I didn't."

"You most certainly did. You promised me a fun maternity leave, one in which we'd hang out and be new mommies together," I felt my voice becoming accusatory, "...and you lied! I saw you maybe three times over the summer. Mags who?"

She threw her hands around her face and drew her knees up, "Aaaaahhhhh! I'm a horrible person."

"No, you were just fucking nuts. Welcome back."

We laughed as Mags turned the conversation to her concerns over her sudden loss of hair while I tried to convince her that female pattern baldness is a side effect of pregnancy. She flipped me off, a strand of hair hanging from her bird finger. She noticed it and started whining, "Oh my God, I'm a horrible bald person."

Amie, hyper on champagne, began chatting in earnest as Mags and I both yawned, realizing our babies would be up soon, wanting mommies, bottles and big warm shoulders. It was clear she was going to have to crash in the guest room and before long Mags was offering her leftover Lortab from her childbirth stash.

"Jeanette, do you have anything to give Amie? A Soma, some Vicodin...? Anything?" Mags stared at me wide-eyed, mommy to mommy.

I smiled as I dug through my purse, "I have a ton of pain killers at home from the c-section, but all I have with me is Ibuprofen."

Mags groaned and whispered under her breath, "Go the fuck to sleep."

We giggled as we both tried to calm Amie down and finally I looked at Mags, "Maybe the five S's will work. Amie, come here, we're going to swaddle you." I rubbed my hand against her cheek as I shoved my mouth next to her ear, shushing, or as another new father friend of ours refers to it, "blowing a hurricane into my screaming kid's ear."

"I have no idea how I'm going to rock her, though."

Mags doubled over with laughter and bounced back up with the actual book, Go The Fuck To Sleep, from under a side table, "Amie, come here. Bedtime story."

We all laughed as we walked down the hallway, hugs around and a new kind of Trifecta emerging as our lives continue to thread through and around one another; a quilt made from laughter, new adventures, clinking glasses...

...and a tear here and there.

Dear Colic

2011-09-04T18:45:00.000-07:00

Dear Colic:

You have single-handedly turned two very professional, grounded adults into sleep-deprived, angsty parents. We've tried to be nice. There's been the Mylicon, the gripe water, the tummy massages, the bouncy walk, the bouncy glide, the bouncy slide and about at least five bouncy chairs. There's the shushing, the swaddling and the singing (off-key). There's the nighttime rituals, the lavendar wash, the lavendar lotion and the stupid George Strait country music set to lullaby.

We even considered having our child blessed and/or baptized when we drove by a church today and our eardrums were ringing while she screeched your demon gospel.

Mommy and daddy are fucking frazzled.

Move the hell on, find another family.

Or I'm calling a priest.

Signed,

Red-eyed mom

Pick An Adjective

2011-08-29T20:55:00.000-07:00

I can't stop talking about things related to being a mom.

My apologies.

I was much cooler than this just a short time ago. I wasn't going to become the mom that could only talk about her kid. I was going to wear short dresses, slingy heels and swig champagne, giggling over something interesting, worldly. Women were going to wish they were a mom like me and men were going to swoon, "There's no way you just had a baby. You're so... (insert adjective such as sexy, skinny, amazing, fabulous, etc.)."

But, this having a baby thing takes over your life.

I emphasize life, as in, it will never be the same.

Not in a bad way.

In a whole new way that sometimes smells like vomit. But then again, it sometimes smells like lavendar and baby noggin, which is heavenly in surreal kind of way.

My problem is that I can't find this weird little thing called balance. I talk about being a mom so much, blog about it when I finally find the time to blog, and dream about it when I don't sleep the deep sleep with the drool. When I'm at work I worry that my daughter has forgotten that I own the Ambien neck that she loves to curl into at night, the neck that knocks her out and makes her all woozy. When I am at home I worry that I'm not putting in enough hours, not proving that I can be the badass little career woman they all know and... (insert adjective such as love, loathe, irritate, etc.). Somewhere in between I worry that I'm not a good wife and Mr. J needs more attention. Then I worry that I'm not getting to the gym enough and will soon start to... (insert adjective such as jiggle, wiggle, flop, balloon), making my husband question whether my mid-thirties are going to be the time when I finally let go and get mom ass. When I'm at the gym I worry my daughter loves the nanny more.

It is a vicious cycle and involves a lot of frenzied jostling around, dropped keys, balancing purses and baby seats at the same time.

My arms look amazing, but I have not dried my hair thoroughly since sometime in March.

I no longer wear eye shadow colors, only the base and a little eyeliner and mascara.

I just spelled wear in the above sentence where and it took three read-throughs before I caught it.

I have no idea what day it is or what I did yesterday, much less over an entire weekend so thanks for asking, but the blank stare is real. It is the time I spend jogging my own memory and worrying that I'll never find the brain cells that were apparently left at the hospital when I brought pumpkin home.

I simply hope that the anxiety in my chest fades and I figure out the schedule that Angelina Jolie keeps, the one in which she manages to keep six children and a sex symbol happy.

Please tell me she cries in the tub with her hair in a pony tail and snot running down her face.

Anything less is unacceptable.

Girl, Mom, Me

2011-07-30T15:14:00.000-07:00

I knew where they were by their Facebook updates.

First was the "pre-game" apps and a quick beer at the end of Kylie's shift, before Deven picked her up on the way out of Scottsdale.

Then there was the "Kylie just checked into McDonald's in Wickenberg."

And finally, the lights of Vegas.

I had just put Livi down when Toby started barking and I ran up the steps of the casita to find half of my village getting settled and sorting through thigh-baring dresses in preparation for my first girl's weekend after becoming a mom. We hugged, chatted on the balcony and before long I gave them goodnight squeezes so one tired mama could get a few hours in before her little one reminded her that there was an unquenched belly at 2 a.m.

There was the traditional Starbucks run, the morning conversation where we all pull our legs up under us and catch up on life, love and the sometimes lack thereof. Then Livi woke and Kylie, aka The Baby Whisperer, snuggled with my little rabbit until it was time for topless pooling at Amie's house with Sandy from San Diego and Jen from Newport. Even Livi joined in, showing us that a diaper is still tres chic if worn with a little attitude, which my girl has in spades.

Once Livi was safely in daddy's custody mom and the girls checked into Trump, put on sky high heels, ate a little Pho and broke men's necks for the rest of the night. There was dancing. There was singing. There was a drag queen. There was most certainly a scuffle with some angsty security guards and at the end of the night we found ourselves face-deep in spaghetti and pasta carbonara.

I washed off my make up wondering if I could sleep through the night without my little one down the hall. When Mr. J said I could have my girl's night and he'd take care of our little rabbit I knew it wasn't possible. I wake up from the sound of her pacifier bouncing off sheets, so he gave me his blessing to spend the night away. I did.

And I did.

I woke at 9 a.m., yawn, stretch, to the sound of my phone.

Mr. J.

"Is she alive?"

"Yes, she didn't die because you're not here. I need the number for the nanny. I have to run into the office."

"Seriously, you're the one who wakes me up when I have all day to sleep?"

Deven, Kylie and I ordered room service, a day bed by the pool, an umbrella and a pitcher of mojitos. We ended our escapade in line at In and Out surrounded by Daisy Chain raver freaks with nothing on but underpants, rhinestones and clown eyelashes.

And oh how I missed my little rabbit.

I pride myself on not being the crazy mom. I have never cried leaving the house, never broken down in the aisles of Target because I've been away from Livi for more than an hour. I can go to the gym, get in a good sweat, run errands and love on my little girl when I return. Even returning to work was not as difficult as I thought it would be. Sure, there were tears when I'd think about it and roughly three weeks when I quietly explored the notion of being a stay at home mom, but I like getting dressed, feeling accomplished, being me again.

But, a better me.

What I didn't tell you throughout this entire reenactment is that all of me has changed. Walking up the casita stairs was a woman in a pony tail and scrubbed clean skin that hadn't seen make up in months and felt more beautiful than she's ever felt before. The woman in the pool wasn't talking Botox and Us Weekly, but watching her little girl take in the warm water with curious wide eyes. The woman in a short dress and heels felt wobbly, her feet having not been in heels in quite some time. The woman by the pool drinking mojitos couldn't care less whether the bachelor party across the way thought she was cute in her bikini.

The woman in this story suddenly feels more sure, more clear and more confident than ever before. She had to delete the word "girl" when referring to herself, replacing it with woman because girl doesn't describe her anymore.

Maybe woman isn't the right word either. Seems too... official.

Can we settle on hot mama?

Yes, I think that will do just fine.

Big Girl

2011-07-24T10:39:00.000-07:00

Twelve weeks flew by so fast. My little girl has giggles, big smiles and lifts her head. She loves to kick the toys on her play mat and I swear she is trying to say, "Ma." Granted, I kneel over her every morning and repeat "Ma Ma" over and over again while she laughs at me. I have a feeling Da Da does the same thing when I'm not looking.

I have mixed feelings about returning to work tomorrow. I never thought I'd want to be a stay at home mom and for the first several weeks I knew I couldn't hack it. I wear high heels and yell at boys, I have big important meetings and fly places. Pony tails and pajamas until 3 pm? Not me.

Around week nine or ten, though, things changed. I started crying each time I would think about putting on my big girl shoes and leaving Livi to be cared for by someone else. I would imagine her feeling abandoned and shake my head, throat full of tears when Mr. J would try to talk about it. I just knew that her diaper wouldn't be changed right or her cries would not be translated correctly. There's the one when she's going to sleep and doesn't want to, the one when she just wakes up and really hasn't woken up yet. Oh and I can't forget the bloody murder scream just because.

No one else's neck is made of Ambien. No one else can get her to calm down like I can, to wrap one hand around their shoulder while the other taps their collar bone and she sighs contentedly, ready to give up the fight and let the Sand Man come and take her away.

I hired Livi's nanny, Sara, two weeks ago. I said it was so they could get used to each other. It was more so I could wean myself from my daughter and keep off the Xanax during my first week back to work.

I'm glad I did.

Sara's awesome. I love the way she talks to Livi, the way she tries to comfort her and the way she's already figuring out her cries. I love the way my little girl was holding brightly colored rings in her hands when I came home last week from running errands, "This is new!" I also, oddly, love that Livi now smiles when she sees Sara and tracks her across the room. I thought I'd be jealous, hurt, but I'm not. I want Livi to love all of her caregivers. I want to know that while I'm at work missing her, she's at home smiling, learning new things and becoming her own little girl, independent of me.

Then I'll come home, love her, hug her, play and when it is time we will snuggle in the big rocker, her nose to my neck and we'll sigh big contented sighs together.

Wish me luck tomorrow, kids. I'm already crying as I write this damn blog.

Just Stupid

2011-07-08T20:54:00.000-07:00

She shakes her head until I have to turn mine to the side, her little nose nuzzling deeper and deeper into my neck as if she wants to climb back inside me where she doesn't get cold, she doesn't feel hungry and her pacifier was not needed. It takes her a few minutes to find the perfect spot and I always know when she does because her eyelashes flutter against my skin, her paci beating against my flesh and it is always followed by a soft sigh that makes my heart hurt and soar and ache all at the same time.

I am stupid over her.

And I love it.

What I was not expecting is that staring at her at 4 a.m. would make me think of the woman that once held me at 4 a.m.

I don't think of her often.

Scratch that.

I didn't think of her often.

Not until I started growing my own daughter, her swift kicks and hiccups making me wonder about my own birth, the start of my life and the fear that I wouldn't know how to be a mother because really... I didn't have one. Mine spent my adolescence and teen years drunk on the sofa from morning til.... well, morning. When she wasn't sleeping she was screaming, reminding me she could kill me, that she hated me, that my father didn't love me either; kicking at my locked bedroom door like a rabid woman, cracking the concrete wall above it.

What if I looked into the eyes of my newborn and was lost? What if I didn't have the mother gene?

Instead I looked into the eyes of my newborn and wondered if my mother ever felt what I did in that moment, wishing that she did. Did I love her back? Did I smile at her like Livi smiles at me? Did tears of sheer joy and love slide down her cheeks?

I think they did.

But, when did she stop? When was it that she started looking at me with the hate in her eyes and the grabby hands? When did she decide she didn't love me like her skin could fall off and her heart could hurt and soar and ache all at the same time?

When did I stop loving her?

I said that I would never want Livi to think of me in the same way I think of my mother. That sentence felt differently when she was a thought, a pulse of electricity and life and love on a monitor, a fetus that used my ribs as monkey bars.

That sentence feels a lot different now that I feel all these things that I wasn't expecting. These things people tell you about, this love like no other. This love that you can't put into words, but that makes you a little nauseous. I don't know if it is forgiveness that sits at the pit of my dirty little heart or maybe the hint of a decision to move on, set it all free, leave it behind.

She loved me one day and I can't help what came next.

All I know is that now I simply want to love my daughter as if my skin could fall off, my heart aching and soaring and hurting all at the same time.

The rest of it?

Well, it doesn't really matter anymore.

Lady Bits and Lavender

2011-07-01T10:50:00.000-07:00

Here I sit under the dryer, Fausto having just wrapped my head in tin. Apparently the aluminum foil makes me want to blog.

Or maybe it was the Chai tea latte I just sucked down.

Or the raver music in the background.

Or the escape from the house to feel like me again. I don't have throw up on any part of my person and I may even admit that I met a woman yesterday, showed her my lady bits which she very quickly airbrushed to take the glare away.

Hey, I'm on maternity leave. What better time to fake bake to see if you like it?

Oh, and I do. I'm hereby throwing away the Jergens tube of "Fair to Medium." I am so not ever doing this myself as I cannot contour my own stomach to make my waist look slimmer.

I may or may not have paraded naked around the bathroom this morning so that my husband could see how fucking amazing I look after becoming a whale, giving birth, bleeding, puking and crying for the past two months.

Oh, and my daughter? She smiles, laughs and knows her mama. It makes my heart race that this little person is happy to see me, hungry to nuzzle into my neck and sigh big contented lavender scented sighs.

Life is good, bitches.

So good it hurts.

Got-It-Together Girl

2011-06-19T21:24:00.000-07:00

It's all a bit harder than I expected, this bringing a person into the world.

No more needles, no more crying over failed cycles. No more heartburn and swollen ankles. I'd have my little girl and that would be that. I would dress her in tutus and bows, a summer in strollers at the mall, breastfeeding alongside my best friend in the women's lounge at Nordstrom, comparing our girl's ruffle butted patooties while we shopped and lunched.

It was supposed to be giggles and cooing, perfection. I captivate roomfuls of professionals, sign deals over lunch. I have it all figured out. I'm got-it-together girl, don't you know?

Maybe it was the unexpected trouble, the c-section I never wanted. Maybe it was the infection, the drugs, the five days with chills and night sweats, the doctors telling me I couldn't breastfeed for 24 hours because they needed to do CT scans and shoot me full of contrast.

The 24 hours that it took for my little girl to become a formula junkie.

She'd shoot it up if she could.

And, I sit devastated that the girl who swore she'd never breastfeed when she was a smartass and a singleton, couldn't give her child this one thing. So, I pumped until my eyes crossed and the sleep deprivation turned my marriage into a tenuous and strained union. I pumped while my husband watched the freezer fill with bags of milk and his wife turn into a shadow of who she had once been. I pumped until I had two month's supply and my doctor put his hand on my knee, "Can we be done with this? You look exhausted. You need a break and your daughter is not going to die because she has formula."

And, she's not. She grows like a weed, a 90th percentile kind of weed who hits all of her milestones and smiled at me for the first time last week.

It was beautiful, simply put.

And I cried.

I cried because all I ever wanted was to have a baby look up and smile at me and God, did it take a fucking lot to get here. I remembered that I wanted it with my husband and we spent four years forging our marriage into something very special, something stronger than hormones. So, we had to find each other again since we'd become strangers in our own house.

We hated what had happened and promised not to forget each other again.

Our family is coming together.

I held Livi today, her head nestled in the crook of my arm and thought that I'd never realized that I'd gone through my life with this elbow and this arm and it was made specifically for her little head. I was meant to be her mother, Mr. J's wife and a bunch of other things that I'm suddenly figuring out.

This got-it-together girl may have been knocked on her ass, but I have to admit...

I kinda like who it is standing up from the fall.

Chloe Bear and Livi Rabbit

2011-06-08T06:48:00.001-07:00

It was an unseasonably cold and blustery May night. Livi was tucked deep into my arms while I fed her to the shine of the night light her grandpa installed in her nursery. Mags had called me a few hours before, breathless.

"This will be my last call. I don't want to talk to anyone. Can you send an update?"

I forwarded the message on to our girlfriends, "Mags is progressing, pain is picking up, getting epidural. Chloe should be here tonight."

I stared into the eyes of my nearly three week old as I listened to the wind push our lawn furniture around outside, "Your best friend is coming. Are you excited?"

She blinked her eyes to tell me she was and that it was about damn time.

At 7 a.m. my phone rang and I nearly crawled over Mr. J to grab it, my c-section incision forcing me back into my pillows as I winced, "Phone. Mags. Get it."

I heard a whimper as I skipped over hello, "Is she here?"

"No. It hurts so bad."

"Where's Matt?"

"Picking up my mom."

"Epidural?"

"Had it."

"Still in pain?"

"Yes, and I'm so tired and hungry. People keep calling and texting. I can't sleep between contractions. I hate this."

Mags had been in labor for 22 hours at that point and while dilating, was taking for freaking ever to push out the very lazy little girl that was holding on to her insides taking her dear sweet time. I told her I loved her and said the most supportive things I could think of, wishing I could be there with her and knowing it impossible with little Livi asleep next to me.

By 10 I was starting to worry.

Around noon I got a text with a picture of little Chloe (27 hours of labor, mind you) and felt tears slide down my cheeks as I turned the phone to Liv, who was, not surprisingly, eating, "She's here!"

And that she was, all 6 lbs and 8 oz of her, big brown eyes and her mommy's full lips, a beauty mark nestled sweetly on her chin and a bunch of people dying to meet her.

Two days later I got another call from Mags, this time she was back in the hospital in the Ped's unit, little Chloe hooked up to monitors to try and figure out why she was gagging and keep an eye on those beautiful lips that had turned blue to the big fright of her mama.

I found my girlfriend battle worn and sleep deprived when I entered Chloe's hospital room, something I was fully familiar with as Mags had just seen me through five days in the hospital. She was there when I'd get the chills, when I threw up, she helped me to the bathroom, brushed my hair, stood guard when I had my staples out and walked the halls of the Postpartum unit with me while I carted around an IV and she carted around a very large belly. The monitor kept going off, making our already rattled nerves even that more rattled as little Chloe stirred. We sat, two new mommys together and cried big tears, our new adventure sealing us, making the fabric of our friendship slightly more resilient and tightly knitted. We ate trail mix, we compared jelly bellies and agreed that the hospital socks were the best thing ever and pumping your breasts is weird.

But lastly, we agreed that our girls are going to be the best of friends because their mamas would accept nothing less.

**************************************************

Little Chloe is doing well (see her "I'm Here!" pose above) and only had to stay at the hospital for 24 hours. Both she and her BFF, Livi, have matching cases of acid reflux and are being monitored by our pediatrician. Chloe is now three weeks and Liv will be six weeks on Friday. Their Aunt Amie adores them and is glad that she's done having children. She plans to spoil ours rotten and then go home and sleep 8 hours.

As for me and Mags? Well, we're exhausted, have taken to texting each other at very strange hours, are rarely seen without a pony tail, but are madly in love with our girls and their pukey little rear ends.

Daddy's Little Angel

2011-05-18T07:10:00.000-07:00

Please check out Livi's first photo shoot on Wendhy Jeffers' blog. I came across Wendhy while googling "maternity photos" as I realized I was getting puffier and puffier around 30 weeks. Several people looked at me cross-eyed, "Why do you need maternity photos?" I had something special in mind - a shot of just my belly with Olivia's name in baby blocks either resting on my belly or in my hands. Mr. J and I agreed it would be the perfect photo to hang over her crib. When I found Wendhy's site I knew she was the girl for me.

My maternity shoot was amazing. After talking with me for half an hour or more on the phone, Wendhy got my style. I didn't want some saucy bra and panty crap, no staring off into sunsets while Mr. J stuck his ear to my belly and looked so in love his head could explode. No, we did urban photos, one even with my swollen bare feet amidst all the high heels I may never wear again.

And when it was over?

Wendhy gave me a gift bag with all the goodies for an old fashioned movie night with the hubs before our house was filled with the sound of screaming and projectile vomit.

When Livi was 7 days old Mr. J and I took her to Wendhy's studio where my little girl made it clear that she, like Linda Evangelista, doesn't get out of bed for less than $10,000 a day. My daughter, friends, is a D-I-V-A. Wendhy massaged her little elbows and knees, trying to get her to move into positions, but it was clear that Liv was running things. After several hours, many feedings, some explosive poops and tears shed among all, I called it, sad that I would not get my angel wing shot. We decided to take a few photos with Mr. J and I holding Livi. As soon as daddy got his hands on his little girl she turned into a big ball of mush.

And then got mush all down his shirt and shoes.

We took advantage and I got my angel wing shot. It may be on daddy as opposed to a pretty velvet covered bench with soft pink stenciling. He may be embarrassed that he's shirtless for the world to see (he wouldn't have about five years ago), she may have peed on his stomach and down his pants as Wendhy clicked away, but look at my baby girl loving her daddy. Makes me all teary eyed and whatnot.

And when it was over?

Wendhy gave me a taggie security blankie that she made for Liv.

That's right.

She made all the props herself and had we been able to get my little octopus in any crocheted anything you would understand how talented this girl really is!

I don't know if it is because she captured something so beautiful and important for me and Mr. J or if it was her patience and professionalism, but Wendhy isn't just our photographer any more.

She's become a friend.

Who is going to have to deal with my little diva.

XOXO

Happy Birthday, Baby Girl!

2011-05-02T12:17:00.000-07:00

Dear Livi:

It wasn't until you were about 18 hours old that we finally had our moment. Your dad was fast asleep in the chair next to my bed, his bloodshot eyes finally closed. I looked down at you and everything I thought would happen when Dr. Spoon handed you to me immediately after birth finally came together. I spoke softly to you and you laid in my arms quiet and attentive, listening to my voice, following the shape of my face with your beautiful blue eyes.

We fell madly in love.

You didn't come exactly as we'd hoped, your big, beautiful head a little too much for me to handle. After fourteen hours of labor, three hours of pushing and a quick heart to heart with the doctor, a man who leaned on my knees, stared me in the eyes and said, "You get two more tries before I call it," we ended up in an operating room at 7 in the morning.

I tried really hard.

And had two black eyes to show for it the next day.

Dr. Spoon told me to rest and I fell asleep for a few minutes while they prepped me, your dad in a chair right next to me. I heard the doctor talk about your head, your cheeks and your long, long legs before I ever heard you cry.

And when you did cry?

Me and your dad did too.

Your daddy went over to the warmer as the nurses were cleaning you up and weighing you while I laid there and worried that you wouldn't know me by the time I could touch you. I worried that you'd reject me like a kitten rejecting it's mom. Silly. I know.

I didn't get to hold you for what seemed like a very long time. But once I did, I didn't want to put you down.

You, my love, are perfect. The nurses keep telling us that you're a gorgeous baby and your dad has since been heard wondering if he's on some kind of baby crack since most babies look a little like fleshy raisins and we think you're the most beautiful child ever born.

Your dad has also handled every single diaper while I've been nursing a sore tummy. He's an expert Desitin applier, but has to get the burping thing down. He's too worried he's going to hurt you, but I figure a few more spit ups and he'll be a pro.

We can't wait to get you home and show you where you're going to live, your room, your dogs, your life outside of a hospital.

Your life with us, my love.

Love and mush,

Mom

*************************************************

Livi was born on April 29th at 7:25 a.m. weighing 8 lbs. 3 oz. and 20.5 inches long. There was a lot of joking in the operating room that she had upstaged the royal wedding. I apologize that Trevor and I haven't been the best about posting photos. After getting a bad case of the chills and some pain they've decided to keep us for a bit and we're still eating jello. Well, I am. Miss Livi is doing her best to regain her figure.

April Baby?

2011-04-15T11:25:00.000-07:00

Dear Livi:

When I tell people that you want very badly to be an April baby they smile, "Impatient like her mom."

Do you know that my birthday is Sunday? I won't be mad if you don't come by then as I really want your lungs to be perfect so you can scream in the middle of the night. No really. Your daddy thinks that the night vision camera is the coolest thing he's ever seen and has made me stick my face over your crib and screech like a banshee.

I wonder if you are fiery like me and need to be born an Aries. I understand it. We're pretty awesome. But, if you want to come on the 20th or later that's ok too. Your aunt, Jenn, is a Taurus and I allowed her to live through adolescence. She's stubborn as a mule, but that simply means you'll be full of conviction. Just don't hold your breath until you pass out. That is so annoying.

Your room is almost done and I often open the door just to peek in and imagine what it will be like when it is filled with little you. When I told your dad that I was already dilated and he saw me dealing with contractions he suddenly had an air of panic about him. You'll find soon enough that he's not very handy and has a tendency of hiring handymen off of Craigslist. Yes, it did take them hours to hang the curtains in your room, but they're beautiful. He has straightened, re-straightened and fluffed your curtains every night since. He refers to everything as "my baby," as in, "My baby's curtains need to be perfect," and, "I need to be able to see my baby on this camera. Scream," and "My baby is going to love Van Morrison." No man will ever love you like your daddy does. I can promise you that.

We thought you may have been coming last night. I had no idea that you could feel like you were in the middle of labor and then nothing. After the fourth or fifth contraction in five minutes your daddy got ants in his pants. He saw a solitary tear roll down my cheek and suddenly finished all the little projects that he'd not yet gotten to. He is now driving around with your car seat, my hospital bag and the camera in the back of his car.

We wonder what you're going to look like, how you're going to be. Your daddy thinks you will be very happy. I think you will be full of spirit and I can't wait to hold you. Well, I can. As excited as I am for you to be here, I'm also kind of sad. It's just been me and you and it is possible it will always just be you. My pregnancy hasn't been the easiest, but I still had the gift of growing someone inside of me and for that I thank your wiggly little rear.

So, whether you come tomorrow or in the next week, we're ready.

Welcome to our little world, baby girl. This is going to be fun.

Love,

Pregophile

2011-04-12T18:23:00.001-07:00

You know he doesn't know. He just can't and you're embarrassed for both of you. You expect he'll look away ashamed or gag when he realizes his error. His eyes slowly move from your luscious lips down to your burgeoning breasts and you wait for it... there it is. He finally saw your belly. He physically jumps, shocked and somewhat disgusted with himself. You smile sheepishly. He does too. Then he looks away while his friend smacks him, "Dude, she's pregnant."

Then, if he's smart, he'll walk away with his head hung.

If he doesn't, if he keeps smiling, if he won't stop then he's another animal altogether.

He's a Pregophile.

Pregophile [pray-go-fahyl] noun - An adult who is sexually attracted to pregnant women.

And that's just dirty.

I'd like to propose that there are more than one kind of Pregophile.

There's the husband that remembers when his wife glowed as you do, what it meant, the impending birth of his child. Maybe he knows that you're tired and is compassionate. I think I've met a few of these. They usually say things like, "Every pregnant woman deserves to complain," and, "Well, you look amazing," after you complain about the loaf of bread growing out of your stilettos which are soon to become flip flops. Pat this Paternal Pregophile on the back, he just appreciates a burgeoning belly and likely because he feels sorry for your husband.

There's the one that sees you across a crowded room and has no idea that your flat stomach will soon shoot forth full of another man's spermy goodness. He offers to buy you a drink, he flirts with you while you smile, hand on belly, "I'm married. And pregnant." This is his out. He doesn't take it. He hangs on your every word, he makes eyes and you feel utterly and supremely confused. This is a Playa Playa Pregophile. He realizes that there is no commitment nor birth control required in any tryst he imagines. He likely does not handle commitment well and has had a prescription or two to tame his itchies. Excuse yourself, Mama. He's not just a little dirty. He's a lot dirty.

This brings us to the worst type of Pregophile. The Perv. This is the guy that cannot stop staring and seems to hang on to every last breath that you can't seem to catch. He imagines all the dirty things he'd like to do while you look for an accomplice with a knife. You wonder if he is going to kill you and he wonders if what he's heard about supremely pregnant women is true. He likely spends most of his time masturbating in front of his Mac Book, tacky keys and tube socks on the floor. Be careful, he could be highlighted as a case study on Law and Order.

Mr. J doesn't believe that I could have possibly run into that many Pregophiles in a short nine months. Mags and I discussed it this weekend, rendered Mr. J silly and voted to out this subculture. They're everywhere, people, and you should be armed with information.

This has been a Public Service Announcement.

Or something.

************************************

Quick Note:

The lovely and talented photographer extraordinaire, Wendhy Jeffers, has posted some of my maternity photos on her blog. Take a peek as I won't be pregnant for very much longer! That's right! Little Livi wants very badly to be an April baby. I'm on bed rest and counting down the days.

Riddle Me This...

2011-03-24T19:08:00.000-07:00

Things I learned this week:

I'm not prepared to live symbiotically with monkeys and should likely never move to India. Seeing the above gripping the hair of the chick in front of me at the movie theater made me incredibly antsy. It wanted my nachos and we almost had to throw down when it tried to jump over the chair and on to my person. My imagination took hold and for the rest of Bradley Cooper's ab-tastic portrayal in Limitless I was wondering what type of disease I would acquire from a pygmy marmoset's spit and whether my daughter would be born with a tail if it bit me.

The creme center of Oreos is made from animal lard.

I will still eat Oreos after learning about the pork belly on my chocolate wafer.

Referring to your new La Z Boy recliner as "contemporary" and pontificating about your very forward-thinking take on "theatre seating" isn't fooling anyone. I have hereby decided to embrace my age, my back pain and my sudden lack of interest in your judgments, judger.

Sleeping in your new La Z Boy recliner does not stop you from ungodly pregnancy snoring.

Pregnancy snoring is a very rarely discussed affliction causing all in the family great pain. My pain? Running out of eye cream because Mr. J is trying to camouflage the bags under his eyes.

No one should ever email Groupon offers for pole dancing classes to someone who is 8 months pregnant, whether or not the offer expires when baby is teething.

Spanx are like Jesus skin.

You should never let your admin open your packages when you're expecting Spanx from Amazon.

It's just awkward for everyone.

Ruffle Butts and Villages

2011-03-19T09:42:00.000-07:00

The old adage is that it takes a village to raise a child.

Silly.

It takes two parents, a lot of soap and a bunch of band aids.

Right?

I've prided myself on being self-sufficient, independent and not really needing anyone. Mr. J and I would raise Livi based on all the books we've read, all the Google searches, all the late night conversations.

And then my friends sat on the floor of my nursery the day after the epic shower. Amber had gone on a coffee run and everyone was in pj's, having met at the top of the stairs, yawns and tired Good Mornings. Kylie folded burp cloths and we swapped stories about growing up as I hung Livi's dresses and ruffle butt undies. Amie crawled in from my room, Mr. J having offered her his side of the bed when he took the couch at 2 a.m. as the party finally wound down. Deven curled into a Boppy pillow and I smiled as I realized that this was my village; my happiest memory.

A week later we prepped for Mag's baby shower and once again I found myself on the floor of a nursery, this time Chloe's. Mag's mom was making sense of all of the baskets, hair bands and well wishes while I stretched, trying to pull Livi's toes out of my ribs and smiled at the generations before me; Mag's village.

Mr. J was on the couch when I got home and I found the words slowly making their way out of my mouth, "I'm a little jealous. Not in a bad way, but in a sad way."

"Why, Little?"

"Well, I have my girls and I love them, but I spent time with Mags and her mom today and it made me sad that I don't have someone like that to share this with, a mom to sit on the floor and tell me where things go."

He nodded his head, "I've thought about that. I'm sorry. It sucks."

I shook it off, wave of the hand, "It's nothing," embarrassed that I was being such a girl, such a needy little thing.

I shyly mentioned it to Mags over lunch this week and she smiled, "Matt mentioned it. He noticed you looking at all the stuff our mom's had gotten for us and hanging out with mine. He said it sucked you didn't have a mom to do this stuff with."

And like a big freaking girl I started crying. Over my salad.

I don't find myself wanting to repair a damaged relationship or search my heart for forgiveness. The emails I receive weekly burn into my retinas as I see her name in my inbox. Somedays they are understanding of the silence, the pictures and one word sentences that I muster enough courage to send once every three months or so. Somedays they are a clear indication that rehab hasn't worked and the steps have gotten too hard. Somedays they are full of accusations, words to inspire guilt or retribution.

Mr. J asked me what relationship our daughter will have with her grandmother.

"None."

"How do we explain it?"

"I haven't gotten that far yet."

The image of her being wheeled out of my sister's house on a stretcher is burned into my brain, although I wasn't there. I could picture it from Jenn's emails and phone calls, mom's BAC a .32, Elise crying, "Mommy, grandma fell down the stairs and I had to take care of her," and Jenn ending with the sentence, "I want to vomit."

That was enough.

I will hold my village tight and surround my daughter with strong women, women who choose each other over their demons and will fly from New York, drive in from Scottsdale, leave their husbands for a night and pull up a patch of carpet to support one another on a sleepy morning.

I will also promise her that I will be there for every momentous occasion, come the lead in a school play, graduation or the day she calls to tell me I'll be a grandmother. I will fold my stiff knees in on themselves, sit on a nursery floor and fold ruffle-butted undies until my fingers fall off.

And I will be that strong women, I will constitute a village and she will never, ever wonder where I am or where I went.

Or why I never chose her.

Baby, Get Ready

2011-03-05T08:46:00.001-08:00

The girls are trickling in from far flung states, the patio lights hung.

The heaters are full of propane to keep long legs warm in the desert wind and the playlist is ready to go. I expect to hear the din of laughter and good wishes in ten hours and counting.

Amie says I'm not allowed to get off the couch. She'll be here at noon with Jen to decorate the candy and cupcake station and direct rental companies and caterers. She doesn't want my feet to swell, because I have sparkly party shoes I have to fit into.

That and I'm not getting much sleep these days.

My father in law will be here shortly to put the finishing touches on the Honey Do list while my love buys groceries to feed my lovelies, vodka to top off our signature cocktail and grenadine for my Shirley Temples.

While Amber slept off her jet lag last night, Amie and her husband came over to power wash our driveway, replace bulbs and order me around.

I kind of needed it.

The best part?

Sitting on the floor of the nursery with my best friend while we tried to figure out how to make the crib skirting fall just perfectly. She taught me how to tie the perfect bows and pontificated on how she'd have to see both Olivia and Mag's daughter, Chloe, before she decided how to theme her gifts and what kind of coloring our girls would have. As I am the perfect shade of translucent we're guessing Liv won't be able to pull off yellows.

This weekend is quickly becoming a turning point, a hill or something else poetic that I can't get my pregnancy brain to spell out.

I'll just explain.

I am suddenly surrounded by the most important women in my life. They've all come here to celebrate my entry to motherhood with their glamourous pouts and warm arms. The Trifecta has taken over, made me surrender my OCD and be still for a minute, which is tough for me to do. Tonight people will dote and laugh, snack on cupcakes and prosciutto wrapped figs, sip cocktails and clink glasses, filling my house with gifts and big wishes for my little girl when I turn into a character that I've dreamed about for years.

It is slightly overwhelming.

It is incredibly touching.

It is a gift and a celebration, an underlying ceremony that means I've grown up now.

The last will leave on Monday and then it is me, Trevor and the clock.

And then another post on another day that will also be huge.

And I just can't wait.

Nesting, You Are My Bitch

2011-03-03T09:48:00.000-08:00

As I sit on the couch with my feet up, I am amazed at what a little hormone induced anxiety can create. To my left are two men from Sears steam cleaning my carpets. To my right is my beloved Josephina, the house keeper that tells me she loves me every time she comes over, the woman to whom I owe so much credit for the strength of my marriage and the shine on my countertops.

Don't get me wrong. I totally pre-cleaned in the hopes that she'd do my laundry. I even organized the pantry and cleaned out the refrigerator. That was all after I made Mr. J move work out equipment into the garage and deep clean the dishwasher.

I did not, however, have much luck with my closet, the bane of my existence. It is filled with beautiful clothes that I just can't find and is the pandora's box hidden behind my put-together exterior. I don't think this will ever change, nesting or not. I am pretty sure a professional organizer would run screaming and I have often dead-panned that I have to climb to the back to find the treasures.

Unfortunately this is a very true statement.

Sometimes I have to get on my hands and knees and dig.

Don't judge.

I've already put the finishing touches on our Thanksgiving and Christmas 2011 menus and helped Jess Jordan with hers as well. I think she thought I was joking. Now she has to fry a turkey and make mashed potatoes with brie and apples.

Jokes on you, sister. Hope you look good in an apron.

There's more to come.

Mr. J has a list.

Mr. J's dad now has a list.

I have a master list.

I really think I'm going to miss this when Olivia gets here.

But, then she'll be here and all will be perfect, whether or not the dust bunnies pile up.

Mad Girl

2011-02-23T18:44:00.001-08:00

As I am trying not to snack on kittens or blame my husband for breathing, I've decided to take to another list in the hopes that I can shirk some of my evil thoughts and continue as a law abiding citizen.

Here goes:

1. You should never ever compare pregnant women. Specifically when I am further along than all the other pregnant bitches around me and you find yourself complimenting one of them only to turn to me and say one of the following:

"You must be having a girl. You're carrying all around. Girls steal your beauty.''

Fucking bitch, I'm about to steal your soul.

"Oh, um you too. I'm sure your body will snap back too."

I hope you bite your tongue on your lies, Satan.

"Wow, you really popped! You were doing so good."

Something else is going to pop when I get a hold of your little wretched neck.

"You're just like me! I was full of fluid too."

I am not creme-filled, I don't know you, get your hands off my belly before I kill you.

2. You do not have the rights to the entire aisle in the grocery store. Most people move their carts to the side when they browse. It's just polite. A five cart pile up on aisle 7 while you look at paper towels could be bad for your health. Watch your back. These suburbs are getting feisty and the pharmacist already set me off when she said she'd have to order my prenatals. I will cut you.

3. To the girl at the spa who refused to let me work out because it was, "Contraindicative of pregnancy:" Judge not lest ye be kicked in the head with a fucking toning shoe. I am not hurting my baby and as an aside - your eyes are too big for your face.

4. Buttercupping a pregnant girl should be a capital offense. Enough said.

5. I think I need a milkshake. I want it with magical ass-slimming capabilities and I want it with sprinkles, a cherry and a manservant attached.

Olivia and Chloe, BFF's

2011-02-06T10:14:00.000-08:00

Mags is a very private person. She doesn't typically post status updates on Facebook and Tweeting would be impersonal. She shares her life with a select few people.

This is the reason I didn't tell you she was pregnant too. That's right. Two-thirds of The Trifecta are knocked up, leaving Amie stumbling around proclaiming we've ruined her social life until we remind her she now has two designated drivers.

Although we have matching baby bumps and her due date is only ten days after mine, I waited until she was in a good mood, "So, can I blog about our matching pregnancies?"

"Yes, of course, but only if you tell the world about our pregnancy differences. I think that would be hilarious."

"Oh, you mean the fact that you say things like, 'Y'know. I wouldn't even know I was pregnant if I didn't have a bump."

It's so annoying.

I went with Mags to get her pee sticks when she and hubs first decided to start trying. They boned for a month and all of the sudden she wants to have lunch at Sammy's Woodfired Pizza, where she announced that she's with child. I pulled out my Droid and calculated her due date. I was right on the money. Olivia will be here May 8th and her BFF, little Chloe, is set to arrive on May 18th.

This is where our similarities end.

While my nausea at first made me catatonic in the evening, Mags was running errands and complaining that she didn't "feel" pregnant.

While I burp through dinner and rely on an entire roll of Tums to make it out the door before acid begins to shoot fire through my esophagus, Mags is shoveling Thai into her gullet and making, "mmmm" noises.

While my back spasms and pains shoot down my legs Mags is tying on her little tummy support band to go for a quick run.

While our Ob/Gyn, Dr. Spoon, was telling me that I have Rib Flare and that it is time to take Pepcid so I can eat at night, Mags was shoving her skinny ass into her pre-pregnancy jeans at 25 weeks and keeping them together with a hair band.

We had appointments within five minutes of one another this week and Dr. Spoon laughed as we checked each other's weight, breast measurements and urine output, "That's all you've got?" He gave us the green light to do our Gestational Diabetes test together and I have to admit I got a little exited when I heard Chloe's heartbeat through the paper thin wall while I waited.

Then my ribs really started to hurt and I asked Mags a simple question, "Are you getting any pain under your boobs yet? Like pins and needles in your ribs? It hurts so bad."

"Nope."

"Phhhbbbllltttt."

"Don't hate."

"Hating would be over boots or a new bag. This is just fucking ridiculous. If your labor is 45 minutes long and ends in an orgasmic birth... God, help you."

She thought that was pretty funny.

We've already told Dr. Spoon that when we go into labor together we want to be in side-by-side rooms. In the beginning stages we'll walk the halls together, peek out of our rooms like we do when we see him, butt-less gowns to the wall. The husbands will give each other updates in the hallway as things start to progress and our girls will have a wonderful story to start their own friendship.

But, let's be honest. I'll be grunting and pooping when Mags merrily walks in to my room after having birthed a cherub. My daughter will be gripping my vagina with her hands refusing to come out. Mags will be wearing a size 2 and Jimmy Choos and I will have to throw my ice chips at her, exclaiming that I can't be friends with the Devil's children.

I do love being pregnant together, looking over baby shower invitations and bedding. We talk about our girl's photo shoots together and how different they will look, mine with my milky white skin, Mag's kid the color of caramel. Sometimes we'll grab lunch together and giggle over milkshakes. Then a baby in the restaurant will start screaming, a pet peeve of Mags. I smile sweetly and remind her of my impending heartburn, "You realize that is going to be your child, right? Screaming in restaurants, throwing things in the mall, temper tantrums? No signs of pregnancy equals Devil child. Enjoy, bitch."

Then I take a swig of my milkshake while Mags narrows her eyes and starts to laugh. I match her stare with my own challenge, all the while nervously thinking, My daughter better be a freaking angel. She can't win this part too.

And whether or not she does, a lot of happiness surrounds our big bellies and Fun Aunt Amie's proclamation that our daughters are going to bankrupt her.

I guess this begs the question - What is a trifecta when it starts to multiply?

Crack The Glass

2011-01-12T19:27:00.001-08:00

Twenty years fit into a velvet Herff Jones pouch, the one that I opened to find my Class of '94 ring in when I wasn't yet sure who I wanted to be when I grew into my jeans and learned how to finally kiss a boy. The letters are faded on the velvet, the ring still bright yellow gold with a smooth emerald stone. The titan is fighting to the left of my finger and the honor society scroll unwinding to the right.

Nerdy yes, but it still fits.

I noticed shiny things shared a home with my senior year and as I shook the bag onto the counter memories fell out.

The first pair of earrings I ever wore as an infant, the first gold hoops I graduated to, a tarnished sapphire ring my mom bought me when she wanted me love her again.

The gold Eastern Associated Terminals pendant dad got for years of service at Port Tampa. It has the company's emblem, a four-pointed star and in the center is a tiny ruby chip. Dad always smelled like concrete dust at the port and bought my sister and I M&M's and Frosty root beer from the vending machine in the break room. Jenn would sit on his knee near the water while he'd try to teach her how to skip rocks across the surface. She had a bird face then, her little lips pursed, always waiting for her to chirp.

The tiny half moon-shaped prism still on the fishing line that I cut from the shade in my bedroom when I left them all behind. I was four when my Aunt Georgia taught me about refracted light, colors and held the snowflake crystal in her hand, exclaiming it was her most favorite thing. We spent what felt like hours watching the rainbows chase each other up my grandma's wallpaper and each time dad would take me to the Florida State Fair I would look for a new one to fill my 10x10 room with bright colors and distraction.

The belly ring that embellished my flat stomach and reminded the world that I was not theirs, the hot needle searing through my flesh unlinking me from Jesus and salvation. As I look down at my innie now, which is suddenly becoming an outie, the hole still sits above it, reminding me of a time when being rebellious was better than being loved.

The thin white gold band I wore for the two years I was married to the bad boy that sat with me for six hours when I was twenty, a tattoo being inked into my flesh. A tattoo that peeks above the back of my shirt now, a warning to those lost and naive.

While all of these pieces of metal tinged with memories take me back, unravel around me, there is the one locket that I can't stop looking at, the photo smaller than a dime.

It is the only photo of me as a newborn, maybe hours old, maybe a day.

The glass is cracked across my face, symbolic perhaps.

When the doctor showed us a 3D image of my daughter last week I wondered if I was looking at a little me. I wondered if Mr. J's family would insist she was the spit and image of her dad and if I'd even know whether or not I had a case to argue. I wondered if she'd ever think it strange that I couldn't show her what I looked like as a child, my memories gone, lost when my mother was in rehab. Lost when a crew hauled out boxes of my childhood, lost when the stool I ate waffles at, the one with my initials made into puzzle pieces, my name signed in crayon, was given to Goodwill to help write off missed rent.

Lost because the crack in the glass of the locket was a sign of things to come.

I put all my memories back in velvet, drawing the bag tight to keep them there, safe.

Maybe safe from me.

Maybe me safe from them.

Either way reminding myself to tuck the locket in my hospital bag when I make it up for the impending arrival of my little one.

I will have many stories to tell her, many twists to make the ink and holes lessons as opposed to mistakes. There will be questions about her grandmother, about any baby books or proof that I was once little like she will be.

I am sure I will pull out the locket, tarnished metal, a tiny picture, damaged proof. I will wind a story around it and end with a promise.

A promise to try with all my might to never, ever crack the glass.

Big For Your Britches

2011-01-03T21:33:00.000-08:00

Those of you who may have stopped by on occasion know that I have an affinity for the "F word." It just feels good falling from my tongue and covers a multitude of emotions. I am not so naive as to think that the "F word" makes me cool or that people find it interesting. No, it is far more psychological.

Let me explain.

My father was a minister and as my sister and I were growing up on God, vengeance and mom's love of wine, we weren't even allowed to use the word fart. Dad thought it was ugly. Ugly in our house was a horrible adjective and you never wanted to be ugly because a bar of soap was often on the other end.

God, maybe this explains my ritualistic bathing and two hour long showers. Huh.

I digress.

My father found other ways to express himself, a storyteller through and through. He could weave the story of Job above your head and when he talked about the Wise Men you could see the stars twinkling in his eyes. He could also tell you about that funny thing Jimmy from down the street did or the turkey that got stuck under his car that flapped his wings so hard dad's hair was tangled like a rat's nest after they fought. As he spoke you laid on your belly, devouring his words. His stories were often peppered with Southern expressions that I wished I'd catalogued and he expressed himself in ways in which I cannot. When arguing with mom, a challenge would often be met with, "Well, if you're feeling froggy you should just leap." My sister and I turned heal at "froggy" and take cover in our room. A wine glass or car keys were sure to meet his head right around "leap."

My mom hadn't bought into the whole sober Christian thing.

People were often, "As nervous as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs," and if they said something outrageous they were swiftly countered with, "Goodness Gracious, Sakes Alive," but never a "Bless your heart." That was for pansies.

To be fair, I kept Goodness Gracious, Sakes Alive for quite some time. It wasn't a huge hit in Las Vegas and I was confused when people would look at me like I had corn pone on my chin. I shortened it to Goodness Gracious and have since dropped the Gracious.

I still tell people that they're gettin' too big for their britches.

That will never leave me.

My first grade teacher once told me, "Can't never could cook a biscuit," and my dad loved it, reminding me whenever I was being stubborn. My daughter will hear the same and she better never sass me back.

I talked to my dad last week and when describing a house someone he knew had purchased I could just see him shaking his head as he explained, "If the termites ever decide to divide forces and stop holdin' hands that thing'll come down around 'em." He laughed as he talked, sometimes in the middle of a sentence, reliving it as if he stepped back into the conversation and I was watching him act it out.

Dad never included the "F word" in his stories, but they dripped with the emotion that I lace my dirty words with, the emotion that I attach to a singular word that I would've been spanked real good for not too long ago. I only heard my dad curse a few times and it was always regarding my mother and The Divorce That Took For Fucking Ever. He used to wince when, as an adult, I cursed around him (which was "cuss" before I moved out west). I quickly realized that the "F word" fell from my lips even faster and with more ferocity whenever he was in earshot. It was as if I had an uncontrollable tick, a desire to make his eardrums bleed. I believe it was his hatred of farts and the bar of soap that whipped my subconscious into a rebellious frenzy. The "fucks" followed the multiple piercings, the tattoos and the punk rockers with full sleeve tats and bleached mohawks. I needed him to know that I could say it, I could ink it into my skin, I could pierce my flesh because I was me, the girl he told that no one would ever love me like he did, so here I was, stained skin, putrid mouth and all.

Dad never once told me to watch my mouth, although he had plenty to say about the punk rockers. I could hear him sigh, sometimes he looked like he wanted to smack me one good, but never did he say a word about my desire to stab my upbringing with dirty words and slutty boys.

No, he knew I had to get it out and he let me.

I still curse in front of dad, but it's few and far between and they are the typical "F words" that I use to salt and pepper my sentences. It is as if I have something angsty waiting behind my tongue, something that I have to force out, throw at you, because it was kept hidden in my toes when farts were dirty and you never wanted to be ugly. They lessen as I age and I'm sure each year they'll become less a staple and more of a story that I look back upon.

One day we may laugh together at the rebellion that lasted into my thirties.

And if not?

Well, that will just be a fucking shame.

Dr. D

2010-12-24T08:55:00.001-08:00

The first day I met Dr. D he sat at his desk, facing us, drew an upside down diagram of a vagina and used the point of his pen to make spermy little dots. I pointed to it and turned to Mr. J, "In case you need a map."

"I know what I'm doing."

Dr. D laughed, "Of course you do. I haven't drawn the tubes yet."

"You're quite talented at drawing upside down vaginas."

"I've drawn thousands." He smiled as he skillfully finished his upside down reproductive system.

The first time Dr. D said the words, "You're ready," after viewing my mature egg follicles, what I'd dubbed my "egg condos," I gave him a huge hug, the paper still draped over my legs.

The first time he transferred an embryo I thanked him, tears in my eyes. I hugged him because he was the third person in our quest to have a baby. He was the one with the answers, the one with the blinking machines, anesthesiologist and unfortunately, the speculum to boot.

I was used to the tone of his voice, the voice that sang, "Hiiii, Jeanette. This is Dr. Deeeeee," when something was right. His voice changed after all those firsts. Soon it was a very clipped, "Hi, Jeanette. This is Dr. D," no hard D, no sing songiness to allay my fears. He made more of those phone calls than either of us wanted and before long I just shook his hand, mad at him for no good reason.

He called me the day after I miscarried, "I know this is hard. Please come see me." I said I would and when I did, he cleared out the office, no bright-eyed, hopeful women in the waiting room. There were only the pictures of babies with pudgy butts and mommy's hands, pictures I'd stared at wistfully when we first started the process. Pictures that suddenly made me angry when I knew my body was trying to expel the one thing I wanted most. Mr. J and I sat in his office for over an hour while we talked through our cycles, our fears and my tears. He tailored his message with facts, stats and charts for my analytical husband and handed me Kleenex and stories as I cried.

We would keep trying. He knew we could have our own baby.

So we did.

On our fifth cycle I got a call, a sing-songy Dr. D, sounding almost breathless, "We have a perfect embryo. We've never had a perfect embryo. This is good, Jeanette. We'll keep watching. I'll call you tomorrow."

By the time it made it to blastocyst his name was clipped again, "It looks good, no fragmentation, but there aren't as many cells as I would like to support the sac. We can transfer it today, but your chance of pregnancy is 10%."

I told him we'd call him back, hit End, stared at my husband and started sobbing, knowing that another miscarriage was in the immediate future.

We went through with it, 10% better than nothing.

Dr. D called me ten days later, the D rolling off his tongue as a huge smile lit my face, "Your pregnancy test came back positive! I'm so happy for you guys!"

I think I may have danced. Maybe even skipped. Mr. J picked up the phone during a meeting when I called to tell him. I already knew. I'd felt the bubbles as the embryo tried to root around, willing itself possible, burrowing into my blood supply, becoming real.

Dr. D was there when we saw the heartbeat, the flash of light and energy. He was there when we saw the baby move. He'll be there for our baby shower and pictures of our daughter will grace his inbox.

I waited until our little girl was sticky, until we knew she wasn't going anywhere before I said thank you properly. A long, winding card about our journey was not me. A fruit basket felt too contrived. What do you get a man who has given you a child? Cologne? I think not.

I walked into his office last week and caught his eye through the check in window. He was filling out charts, his scrubs on, meaning one thing. He was either harvesting eggs or implanting them, little lives in his capable hands. I let myself in, away from the lobby where families were crossing their fingers and hoping. I didn't want them to see my celebration. It might hurt too much.

Dr. D gave me a big hug and stared at my belly, "Tell me. How are you?" He wanted me to check in, emailing him with updates throughout my pregnancy, giving him glimpses.

"I'm great. It's a girl! I'm twenty weeks." I cradled my belly in my hands.

"That's so wonderful! I'm so happy for you guys!"

I showed him the one gift that I knew he'd appreciate, a cookie cake frosted in pink, "Thanks For Knocking Me Up."

He started laughing, "This has made my day. You know I love cookies." He gestured for the support nurses to grab a camera.

"I couldn't write something sappy, you know that."

"Of course not!"

We laughed, took pictures, hugged again and I promised to keep him posted as Olivia grows. He sent me an email later that evening, copies of the pictures, "Your gift was a hit in the office. Thank you so much. It made my day."

I wondered how I could make his day, a cookie cake could make his day, when he was walking from room to room, shooting miracles and hope from his fingers. Then I realized that behind each door were expectant eyes, anxious fears and hopefulness that could take a toll on a man who wanted science to err in his favor.

I realized that all the pictures of babies in his arms lining the halls were his reward. The evidence of hand holding, tearful conversations and hours squinting through microscopes and cervixes.

It has been a long journey, tough throughout, but it was a blessing to have Dr. D in our lives as we trudged along. Even when his D's were clipped, his compassion burned through the receiver, his hopefulness evident.

And his science and miracles real.

Little Livi

2010-12-13T19:56:00.000-08:00

I'm not surprised that Little Livi is a mover and a shaker, my tummy roiling as she flips over every five minutes. It doesn't shock me that she does high kicks when people around me applaud. I hear that means she's a diva and that's ok.

It is the size of her head that has me concerned.

My mother in law tried to allay my fears as I recapped our earlier visit to the specialist.

"Her head is measuring two weeks farther along than her body. I don't know how I feel about this."

"Babies grow into their heads. Don't worry. I'm sure everything is fine."

"No, you don't understand. My vagina isn't sure how it feels about this."

Between fits of laughter she wheezed, "Your vagina will be fine too."

Mr. J was proud when the tech announced that our daughter has a very large noggin, "She takes after me. It is filled with her big brain. It is my superior genetics."

I shook my head, "No, I was born with an exceptionally large head. I didn't grow into it until I was five." I thought of the picture my aunt showed me where my cousin and I were sleeping on her living room floor, my head the size of his entire chest cavity.

Mr. J scanned the screen, "What about her feet? Can you see anything?"

The tech swiveled and moved, looking for her little phalanges while I rolled my eyes, "You know she's going to get my toes. God, I hope she gets my toes."

"Your hand feet? I can't raise a child like that."

"You have Flintstone feet. She's going to want to wear heels at some point."

I decided that when her daddy offers to shave down her long toes, a sure sign of intelligence, I will coach her to say, very sweetly, But, daddy. The boys at school like them. I can imagine him falling into himself, defeated as she skips away and he looks for the bottom of a bottle of scotch. I hope he starts muttering at some point, something about those walkin' talkin' sacks of hormones my daddy was always mentioning.

Mr. J started laughing the other night as I forced him to rub my feet. He was doing a half-assed job, staring blankly at the TV while I glared at him. He suddenly stopped.

"Ok, finished." He flung my foot toward me.

I wiggled it back into his face, "Nope. You did it for longer last time."

"Oh God. This is going to be the way it is, isn't it? I'm going to have two of you. I can just see it now. I'll rub her back, 'But, daddy. You did it for longer last time.' He sighed, a big smile on his face as he came to realize that his two girls were a lot to take on and more than he'd ever dreamed he would in this lifetime.

It feels good to think about these little things, little trivial things that make us smile until my cheeks hurt and my teeth are dry. I love complaining that she woke me up because she's there to wake me up. I love that my body, the body that has failed me time after time, is capable of giving her four heart chambers, the little brainy things the specialist looks for and I love that she floats around my insides, claiming them as hers for now.

I love that she's feisty.

I love that she gets hiccups.

I love that she is half of me and half of him and all of everything we have always wanted.

Negotiate This, Punk

2010-12-11T10:22:00.000-08:00

Word on the street is that I've lost my filter and I may be a little snappish. I did refer to a man's business practice as douchebaggery this week.

I kind of like it.

I typically have a tendency to be the first to wave my white flag in the interest of class and tact. I will apologize first, be the bigger person, aid us to understanding and use lullaby words. I will ignore the snide tone of your voice, the manipulating comments and simply catalog them for later when I let you know that I'm on to you. Usually when someone walks away from an argument they compliment me. Something about a calm head under pressure and my sparkling wit. A friend once told me she thought maybe I was reincarnated many times over and wise beyond my years.

Fantastic, isn't that great, it has served me well in business, blah blah blah. But, man it feels good to tear into some flesh and not let go. I never knew there was a high like this, a way to finally say all those things that I would just quietly judge you about later. I get to tell you and forget you, rather than walking around with notes in the back of my head. I don't hurt feelings on purpose, but as Mr. J says, "People sometimes take advantage of you because they don't know you're on to them at first. You need to hand them their ass sooner."

I am not the one to look a man in the eye in a work situation and say, oh something like, I know you're being a tool right now and I caught the smarmy reference to my experience and your outright manipulation of the actual situation. Repeating the same sentence in three different ways doesn't break me down and sell me. I see through you, dick, and you better get your shit right before I slit your throat.

No, that is simply what I'm thinking.

What I would say comes out something like, Look, we're both professionals and I respect your business. I don't see, however, how we are going to come to an agreement until we both give a little something. It's a negotiation. It's not personal. I'll be the first to the table with X. This is what I'd like in return....

Yawn.

But, now?

It is somewhere in the middle, with a side of sass and a bit of I got you, punk.

Maybe it is just the byproduct of pregnancy, but it feels pretty fucking awesome.

Crow's Toes

2010-12-02T22:58:00.000-08:00

I'd like to tell you that I'm embracing the crow's toe that has grown into an entire foot. I'd even like to say that the laugh lines appearing around my infectious smile are endearing. I want to tell you that I'm not shallow enough to even notice the indentions on my forehead that make me reconsider bangs.

I'd like to tell you those things.

But, I just spent over $200 on a miracle cream praying that flakes of God himself are included in the ingredients. Said purchase was shortly after my thirty-one year old friend referred to me as being in my "mid-thirties."

I didn't think I'd get here. I laughed when Amie suggested I start using eye cream in my mid-twenties. That was for old people. I was youth personified, supple skin and crinkle free smiles. I never wanted to age, but I pushed it out of my head. Then, I realized my toe was turning to a foot and decided I would age gracefully, embracing the wisdom bestowed upon me by living life gregariously, out loud, blah blah fucking blah.

Let's be honest. This wrinkle thing sucks. You lose your face, your metabolism grinds to a screeching halt and right next to you is a twenty-something with an ass that makes you want to roll into a ball and cry next to the eliptical machine that has sucked out your spirit and replaced it with self loathing, I used to be pretty. Why? Whhhhhyyyyy?

I cringe when I notice that the "stars" that marked the decade of my youth are now in their forties, fifties and rehab. This unfortunately begs the question - who the hell is this Demi Lovato that is stealing People magazine away from Matt, Ben, Jennifer and Brad?

Mags and I were waiting for an elevator last week when I caught her eyes shifting away from my forehead.

"Do you miss Botox?"

I glared at her, "Did you just look at my forehead and ask me that question?"

She giggled and stammered, "I.. um. Well, I need it too!"

We quickly discussed the Botox party we will be having once my little girl is no longer dependent upon my ability to remain poison free.

I do love the other aspects of aging. No one asks me how old I am when I take control of a meeting anymore.

No one has to worry about my heart falling out of my chest because a boy curled his lips around a lie. I knowingly smile at the twenty-something girl with the adorable ankle boots and glossed lips. She has her arms wrapped through and around the boy that will soon break her heart and leave her reeling, growing the shell casing we all hide our hearts behind by the time we're twenty-seven and "thirty and single" begins to loom.

Life feels more settled, more of what I'd spent all those years reaching for with angsty dreams and singed fingertips. It is calm, comfortable and full of all the things I molded, wrapped and finagled through sheer sweat and determination.

Some of those things are apparently the bank account that allows me to drop $200 on a cream that better be miraculous.

I will even settle for amazing.

These crows aren't migrating on their own.

Thankful

2010-11-25T09:19:00.000-08:00

I was going to post a pithy little list on Facebook of all the thinks I'm thankful for today. It certainly would have included mascara, shoes and Mr. J.

I just couldn't do it.

I stopped and started, deleted and chewed my lip. It felt silly, indulgent. I stared out the window of my mother in law's house at desert flowers and realized that this Thanksgiving is different. I won't go on a long-winded diatribe about all the love and mush surrounding the holiday or even lecture you on Pilgrims and Indians.

That's simply overdone.

What I will tell you is that I saw a toddler taking unsure steps at the airport yesterday and realized that next year our little angel will be experiencing her first Thanksgiving. I saw a baby lying across his daddy's lap on our plane and wondered if Olivia will be fussy on her first flight exactly a year from now.

Mr. J put his hand on my belly last night, "Do you think it is possible that I could love you more? When I see your belly I can only think, "That's my wife and we're having a family. She's growing my baby."

"My sister said that your relationship changes when you have a child together. Her husband told her he loved her more after she had Elise. She said watching him be a father did the same thing for her. Plus, I'm extra-special amazing. Can you go buy me some Tums?"

I noticed that the way he looks at me has gotten a little softer around the edges, a little bit of a Jesus glow about him. He makes me stop on my fiftieth trip to pee so he can get a "belly rub" in and when I double over from a muscle cramp he always asks if the baby is ok, "Don't hurt my baby, Little!" He wants to buy the largest area rug we can find so our little girl doesn't have to crawl around on cold tile.

Last year I would have told you that I was thankful for mascara, shoes and maybe even baked goods. This year our dream of having a baby actually has a feisty little kicker with a name attached to it and includes a lot more reality than the list has in the past.

This year I have everything I've ever wanted.

And then some.

Happy Thanksgiving, kids.

I hope you are warm, fat and happy with all the family tucked around you!

Scaredy Cat

2010-11-19T20:55:00.000-08:00

Mr. J always says that little people have the biggest feelings. He usually says this while I'm complaining about how someone is a big jerk face or why a stupid little comment made me eat baked goods. Lately he's been saying it because I become almost violently angry when he subjects me to horror films, his new "thing."

It all started with Havoc. Granted, not a horror film, but there is one scene specifically that evoked such a strong emotional response that I became incredibly angry. I later wondered if my anger was well-justified. Was it the screenwriter that had sewn together a passionate and evocative story line? The actors that were convincing? The disgust I felt about the specific act?

Who knows what it was, but it caused me to yell at my husband, which in turn caused him to stare at me in shock as my tone dripped arsenic and demons.

What kind of person watches this kind of movie for entertainment?

I most certainly eyed him suspiciously for the next few days.

Then there was The Human Centipede. There was no art to the storytelling, no award worthy acting, there was nothing but shock value delivered via Red Box. I cringed as I watched a sociopathic doctor create a human centipede by sewing three people together, mouth to anus.

"I can't believe you made me watch that piece of shit movie."

"We should watch it again."

"What the fuck is wrong with you? I feel stupid for having watched it. I think I literally died a little inside."

Tonight?

Hostel.

For the love of fucking Pete.

I'm not made for this.

Exes Are Like Roaches...

2010-11-09T19:49:00.001-08:00

Actual text conversation:

Me: Guess who called me today to catch up?

Amie: M.

Amie guessed M because he is the ex that I ran into last week at Starbucks who double checked to see if I was still wearing a wedding ring. Not on the DL. No, he grabbed my hand, "Still married? Happily?"

Me: No. The South African.

Amie: What for? He knows u r married.

Me: He is too. He said it seems we both found relationships and a woman that has changed his mind about being a dad. WTF?

I have to explain that the South African and I had an email-esque flirtation that turned very strange. Strange in that we never went on a date, yet he felt the need to tell me he didn't want kids and couldn't take that from me. I said thankyouverymuch, have a nice life, because he was starting to creep me out. He then called me to confess that he was going to have sex with another girl. Actual words? "I'm with another girl right now. We're checking into a hotel and I feel like I have to tell you."

Amie: Where do you find these guys?

Me: I never even kissed him.

Amie: Weird.

Me: Maybe it just means that I am super amazing and unforgettable. They'll never be the same. Yes, that must be it.

Amie: Yes it must be.

I then Googled "Pepper Spray."

Little Stinker

2010-11-05T17:18:00.000-07:00

My mom always told me that she hoped I'd have a child just like myself to pay me back for whatever my transgressions were.

I sure hope so.

I hope she has an imagination like I did, a desire to read until her eyes itch and she suddenly remembers she has to pee. I hope she tucks the dogs in at night and sneaks them ice cream when I'm not looking. I hope she gives her daddy butterfly kisses and loves glitter as if the stars themselves have been set down in glass jars for her and her alone.

I hope she has my hands.

I decided this with tears streaming down my cheeks, my little girl waving to me on a monitor yesterday. She kicked and shuddered, her little fingers opening and closing, until the tech referred to her as a stinker, "I can't get her measurements. She sure is an active little thing."

The doctors walked in, "Are those happy tears?"

"They were scared tears. Now their happy."

I think the genetic counselor told him about me, the girl who broke down as she explained all the tests they'd need to run, the nose bone they needed to find, the neural measurements, the determination of whether our baby, boy or girl at that moment, was healthy.

"What are you feeling right now?"

Trevor looked shocked as I started sobbing, "I'm so scared. We want this so badly and all of our embryos had deformities." The idea that in five minutes my weeks of happiness could be peppered with news I'd been loathe to hear since the day we transferred our blastocyst was overwhelming.

We talked for some time about genetics, the IVF process that had taken us through five cycles and a litany of emotions, all the while thinking, Please let there be a nose bone.

And there was, beautiful and white.

The doctor patted my hand after confirming the tech's suspicion that we are, with 80% certainty, having a girl.

"You walk away from this appointment today happy that you are having a healthy baby. We will get your blood results and you let me do the worrying. All you need to know today is that everything we see looks good. She's a real kicker. That's a good sign."

Mr. J promises to teach her all the things he'd teach a boy, "She's going to be a tomboy. I'm going to take her hiking. She's going to be the best skier, best mountain biker, best rock climber and both a tennis and golf champ."

I simply promised that I'd only put one chandelier in her room.

There was no need to say anything more.

I Thought I Did

2010-11-01T19:41:00.000-07:00

On the day I said I do I really did. I promised Mr. J that I'd never say the words again.

That was before I lost our marriage license.

"How do you lose a marriage license?"

"I have no idea. I swear it was in this folder." I shuffled, huffing and puffing, wishing he'd stop making that annoying noise in his throat, the one that said, I would never lose a marriage license because I am the smartest man ever. Granted, I also can't find a trash can nor avoid peeing all over the toilet seat because my hands are apparently broken as I never lift it before evacuating my elephant bladder, but a marriage license? Who would be so dumb?

It is highly unlikely I would've ever known that our marriage license was missing had the county we live in not passed a new ordinance. An ordinance that is highly irritating. An ordinance that requires that my husband and I prove we are married each time we purchase real estate since I did not take his last name.

"We have to close on this house!"

I didn't even respond as I was ready to spear him with my malcontent and instead found the number for a friend who works in title, "Help me. Make this go away."

"Just get a copy of your marriage license. I know someone over at the county and can get it for you tomorrow."

"We got married in Jamaica. It takes eight weeks. We have to close in three days."

"Oh."

"Well, if you can't prove you're married you have to pay the extra transfer tax."

"Yay, tax! I'll pay tax!"

"I'm sorry, who are you?"

I told Mr. J. We paid the tax, we bought the house and then he very quietly asked, "Little, I don't want to do this each time we want to buy a rental property. Could you please change your name?"

I didn't think twice, "Of course. I'll order a copy of the license and take care of it."

"Thanks, Little." He said it very politely, very sweetly as if it meant the entire world to him. Or $500 - $1000 per transaction.

Whatever.

Changing my name was not something I'd ever rushed to do. My name is mine. Who I am. I'd taken my previous husband's last names. I'd always felt like a possession and shortly thereafter, completely possessed. Mr. J never asked, never even suggested I consider his last name. He even joked that when I found a job that paid me a million per year he would change his last name to Schneider.

So when he asked me if I would I knew in my bones that it was what I should do. Because of taxes? No. Because I love him and I don't feel possessed.

Then we got hung up with the Jamaican Registrar. They can't find our license either. Since July.

"What do we do?"

"I have no idea. I gave them the name of the minister, the date, the resort, everything. They said he must have filed it under a different township. They're looking, but didn't seem all that upset for us."

"What if they can't find it?"

"Well, I guess I will forever be a Schneider and we'll be paying a lot of tax."

"Should we get married again?"

"We might have to. I've read about this. I will need another diamond."

"Well, if we're not married then I want all your anniversary presents back."

"What anniversary presents? You still haven't given me a card from year two or three."

We laughed and suddenly I realized that at 33 my child may be born out of wedlock, "What time is it? I have to call my dad and tell him that I'm still living in sin!"

"Oh, Little."

As I joke, I am somewhat sad. The only man I should've ever been given away to now sits down the couch from me eating stinky string cheese and I'm not sure when we'll get to share a name.

Hopefully soon.

We want to raise our little bastard up right.

Limes and Limericks

2010-10-26T19:35:00.000-07:00

It used to be that we talked about our Friday nights, my new slut dress, the sassy shirt Mr. J picked up. It used to be that we talked about our Saturday morning hangovers, the late afternoon matinee and how silly so-and-so is with their neo-political banter and inane opinions.

Not anymore.

"Little, did you see this new Baby Fridge thingie that Aetna Maternity sent over? It's like a insulated cooler, but there's these elastic things for bottles and baby food. It's really cool."

"Who are you?"

"Serious. I will totally use it when I take the baby hiking."

"You do realize that newborns don't hike, right?"

I caught myself calling Mr. J from my writer's retreat in Michigan last week, "Tracy brought a baby present. Her friend Sarah makes these thingies and they're totally cool."

"When you say thingie...?"

"They're like... burp rags and security blankets, but in really cool fabrics with these taggy things that babies like to touch while they're... burping or something."

"That was really thoughtful. If our baby is going to burp it should do it with style."

"Exactly what I was thinking."

I have to admit that the gifts are what makes it feel most real. You are just going about your day with the indigestion and thickening waist line and suddenly someone hands you a present that your baby will use. You kind of stand up a little straighter, Oh wow. Yes, yes, I will have a human child sometime soon, thankyouverymuch.

Oddly I have been nervous to buy anything at all for our baby. I feel like the moment I acknowledge the lime-sized child inhabiting my body and forcing me to pee at ungodly hours is the moment that the lime will disappear. Dr. Spoon* will move the little ultrasound wand and get a crinkly look about his brow, I know I saw it last time. Huh. That's weird. Then I will leave his office, go straight to a bar and see a man squeezing a lime wedge in his vodka which will make me cry until I vomit. Mr. J will have to hold me over a toilet while I wretch, I will eat potato chips until I'm 400 lbs, someone will have to knock out the back wall of our house to pull me out on a stretcher and by then I'll have boils between the folds of my floundering skin and what use am I then?

Silly, I know.

While fidgeting about my airline seat on the flight from Chicago to Las Vegas last week I happened upon the cutest little stuffed lamb noise maker thingie in the Sky Mall catalog. It was fluffy and lovely and just so happened to make sounds like a heartbeat, rain showers and a whale. Or something. I figured that when the baby comes I can buy him/her (her) the lamb and we'll live happily ever after in our whale womb nursery.

But, not before.

So, I forgot about the lamb and went on about my week holding my stomach as I burped, wincing as I sat down, feeling like my pants were ripping through my flesh and being as grumpy as I possibly could.

Then three of my friends had their babies. All within five days of each other.

Facebook was graced with pictures of squishy baby faces with flecks of grossness still attached. They had furry little arms and pink hats, little boots and all the stuff that sent me directly to skymall.com. I took a deep breath, pulled out my debit card and I bought that lamb.

I think this means that I've overcome my fears to some extent, but poor Mr. J be warned:

I've got the fever and it's not for the flavor of a Pringle.

*Please note that my current Ob/Gyn is Dr. Spoon. My last one was Dr. Mechanik. Serious.

Birth. A War Story.

2010-10-13T09:51:00.000-07:00

I would like to ask all you ladies with those kooky grins and a desire to tell me about how you were in labor for two weeks and broke your tailbone giving birth to zip your collective lips. My baby is going to simply melt from my body as if I was sweating. I will have a lovely glow about me, my husband will rub my back and then give me diamonds.

Keep your freaking child birthing books away from me.

It will be different for me, Epi Girl.

**Please click above. This is a throw back to the days when me and Mr. J were taking a break from baby making. Oh, how young I was....**

Rainbow Freaking Brite

2010-10-06T18:23:00.000-07:00

It was 1986 and a warm summer day. Dad had on his EAT shirt. It always made me smile. It stood for Eastern Associated Terminals, the phosphate terminal on the Port of Tampa where he worked, but I would pat the belly he was growing right under the acronym, "You sure have, daddy! You're getting a food baby!" He laughed and pretended he was going to smack me one good, "This right here is relaxed muscle just waiting to spring into action, Catfish. Just you wait." I'd giggle, "I think I'll have to wait a long time."

The superintendent smiled a lot that day. He had always seemed surly, but all the corn on the cob, potato salad and ribs had greased the muscles that kept his face so taut. His daughters were a little older than me and I'd watch them as they finished the three legged race, their long legs and Jordache jeans seeming so worldly.

Dad kept nudging my shy legs forward toward the Egg and Spoon race. I saw all the sure-footed kids with the good clothes and Roos lining up. I couldn't do it. I was too embarrassed.

"C'mon, Catfish. You can do this one. You just have to keep the egg on the spoon."

"No. It's ok. Those kids are bigger than me." I didn't add that they also wore Roos which definitely gave them an advantage. Not only would they grip the grass better, but when they crossed the line they could pull quarters out of the zippered pockets and buy their own Sunkist sodas.

A woman with a bull horn announced the beginning of the race as she held up the prize.

Rainbow Freaking Brite.

I felt my heart start to race. There was no way we could ever afford a Rainbow Brite doll. I really, really wanted one. Really, really bad. So bad I could just die right there, fall apart, stitch myself back up and die again. Dad could see the ants in my pants, the adrenaline, "Go on, Catfish. You still have time."

I ran to the start and took a white plastic spoon from a woman with feathered hair. I thought it looked like she had a pigeon taped to each side of her head as she greased my spoon with Crisco and slowly placed an egg on top. I felt the egg cradled in the spoon, felt it tip forward and back, teetering to the brink of oblivion, the place where Rainbow Brite did not exist.

I lined up with the rest of them, nervous. They could never want a Rainbow Brite like I wanted a Rainbow Brite, those kids. They could never give her the love I could. Never. I had to make them eat my freaking dust.

On your mark. Get set. Go!

I concentrated so hard I could feel my own eye sockets. I watched that spoon, I walked quickly, letting my sneakers with the unfortunate orange laces blur in my field of vision as I stared at the egg that could change my life.

Suddenly dad started yelling. He was on the other side, waiting for me. It was clear from his tone that I was doing well. I looked up and saw his face, lit and excited. He wanted me to have that Rainbow Brite doll too! Much to my amazement I realized that there was no one between me and dad. I was in first place.

So I turned around to see how far away I was from the rest of my competitors.

I felt it before it happened.

The egg tilted, going unsteady in the cradle of the spoon and I watched as it tipped over the edge to crack on the ground. The superintendent's daughter passed me just then to the sound of shouts as I stared at the back of her stupid yellow head with all her dumb curls. She won. She took the Rainbow Brite and held it limply. She didn't even hug it to her or hold it above her head.

She probably already has one.

I never moved from my spot standing over the egg. Dad came over and hugged me. I'm sure he told me it was ok and just a game, but I couldn't muster enough words to tell him how disappointed I was in myself. I had it and I choked. Not only was I the poor girl there, the one with the unfortunate mullet and the ugly shoes, but I cracked like my egg.

It was a dark, dark day. My root beer lost it's flavor, the funnel cakes weren't as sweet.

I look back on that day when I was nine and I'm thrilled that I never got a Rainbow Brite doll. First, all the sluts that wear the costume on Halloween have marred my memory of sprites, Twink and anything with moon boots.

But, secondly?

Well, had I had the good clothes, won the races and ambivalently held my prizes I would never appreciate the fight that I learned that was deep inside me. It is the fight that makes victory sweeter, success well-earned and a Rainbow Brite doll, Cabbage Patch and even a Glo Worm within my reach.

And even if I never get to try on a pair of Roos, the Michael Kors make it all ok.

Dear Baby J

2010-10-03T19:15:00.000-07:00

Dear Baby:

I love you already, as does the rest of the world. Just last week Raymond admitted that he was a bundle of nerves awaiting your test results, "I can't believe how many people are already emotionally invested in this child."

It's crazy.

There are at least three gay men awaiting the news as to whether you're a boy or a girl so we can collectively ruin your father's life with the cost of the most amazing nursery you've ever seen. He tried to tell me that I wasn't going to enjoy decorating as much as I think I am because he is going to put me on a budget. The gay men laughed at your daddy.

It was pretty funny.

When you're born there will be three sets of grandparents and two sets of aunts and uncles coming to "See the baby." Yes, that was a reference to Jerry Seinfeld. Don't worry. I'll TiVo it for you so that you'll find it funny too when we're chilling before I have to go back to work.

Your baby shower, my love?

Epic. I am trying to find a fire-breathing little person to welcome guests. I'm sorry you won't get to see it. I'll take pictures.

You see, little baby, there are a lot of people who can't wait to meet you. Your dad is already researching hiking backpacks to carry you in and has explained the benefits of pumping so he can bond during feedings. He wants you so badly that he has given me a list of rules to live by. I get the "No texting, emailing or talking on the phone while driving, Little!" rule, but when I want McDonald's fries and he tells me they're not good for you it does endanger his life for a brief moment.

I don't even mind that you've made me a morning person. I used to be a night owl, love, but the extreme afternoon nausea and coma-inducing sleep have left me with only three hours of "on" time in the morning. It is confusing a lot of people, but we'll manage.

I guess what I'm trying to say, little one, is that I can't wait to meet you. Love will surround you like that fur you're growing that sounds kind of gross.

And, I have to tell you.

You're really going to love your dad.

Love and mush,