Straight from the Bottle

IUDisasterville: Epiblogue

2010-01-29T07:42:00Z

First off, I'd like to thank all of you for being so totally amazing - open and willing to get all TMI on my (and everyone else's) ass. It is beyond refreshing, rad and totally gush-worthy. I feel incredibly privileged to be among such amazing women (and men! Hi, men! If you're there, hi!) and so lucky to have the opportunity to learn from your experiences.

After reading through your one-hundred and eighty-something comments, I've decided to get my Mirena removed immediately and will be doing so next week.

We'll be kicking it old school with condoms, which do not have hormones. And although they suck and I hate them, they sound like paradise compared to what we've been through IUD wise.

I forgot to post about this last week, remembering belatedly as I was reading through your comments, so I will post about it now.

1. Yeast Infections:

Before my Mirena insertion last January, I had NEVER in my life experienced a yeast infection. Twenty-seven point five years yeast infection free, thankyouverymuch BUT in the last year? I've had them back to back to back, up and down and all around and itchy-itchy-scratch-scratch-YUCK.

Nothankyouverymuch.

2. Mirena has made my hair thin. And by thin, I mean, lose HALF if not MORE of my hair's natural thickness in twelve-months.

And here I thought I was just extremely stressed (even though I haven't felt particularly that way) but after reading about Mr. Lady's experience with hair loss (in the comments) I googled and found that hair loss is a common side effect in hormonal birth controls, specifically Mirena. Before the device was installed my hair was CRAZY thick - the kind of thick I had to have thinned when I went in for haircuts! Now? It's barely styleable. In fact, over the last six months, people have asked me about "my new layers!" when, nope! No haircut! Just au natural thinning.

Except it's not natural. Not at all.

My hair in December 08, the month before my IUD insertion:

(don't ask what I was taking this picture for but thank goodness I took it! You can really tell how huge and amazing my hair used to be back in the good-hair days. Also? A nursing bra in the background = BONUS POINTS!)

Annnnnnd, here is my hair tonight. In a ponytail:

That's not a pigtail. THAT'S MY ENTIRE HAIR, people. All of it.

Oh! And here's the top of my head! Lovely!

And here I'd thought I was stressed out and didn't know it! Nope. ACTUALLY? I WAS PERFECTLY STRESS-FREE AND YET MY HAIR WAS FALLING OUT IN CLUMPS, CLOGGING THE SHOWER DRAIN LIKE A DEMO ON AN INFOMERCIAL! NOT AWESOME!

Sigh.

At least I now know that for me? Hormones = not my friend = Mirena = dunzo.

So, there is that silver lining.

All of this to say... thank you. Again. For everything. Your comments on my last post and your emails and tweets. Thank you for taking time to share your experiences with me and everyone else. You're my soul sisters and I love you.

Now if you will, please except this rose.

You, too.

And you.

I'm sorry, Mirena.

That means you're out.

Please take a moment.

And say your goodbyes....

...to my uterus.

Dick.

***

IUDisasterville

2010-01-19T19:21:00Z

Okay, so I think I hate my IUD. I realize this is contrary, perhaps to my earlier posts about loving how easy .... loving that I have no period... loving that I don't have to take a pill... etc, etc, etc..

Yeah, no.

Here's why I changed my mind:

This week marks my one-year anniversary with my Mirena - the IUD with a leetle beet of hormone. Hormone my OB promised wouldn't affect me at all. And I believed him. Even though he was like, "you may not ever have a period again as long as you're on it!" and I was like, "Oh! Cool! That seems natural for the female body! Stick 'er in there, sir!"

Because I'm not very smart.

And he was right! No period! No period for an entire year, now. But guess what happens when hormones fuck with your body's natural SITUATION - you aren't yourself. And for me? The casualty of IUD has been my sex drive. My poor once-hypercharged horny-for-your-love sex drive has been reduced to a raisin in the sun - dry as a bone. (NO PUN INTENDED! Ew, boners are GROSS!)

My poor husband. My poor hand. My poor YouPorn account.

Seriously.

I've been meaning to blog about this for months now because my original post was so IUD = HOORAY! And you know what? Some IUDs may be awesome. The copper one? I hear great things about. Besides a heavier period, they supposedly rock. (Although, now that I have an IUD, I realize I hate the idea of having a T-shaped contraption shoved up my vag, stuck for a decade in my uterus.) But the Mirena? Is not my BFF. Not at all.

Besides the whole hormones fucking up my sex drive - turning me into a complete prude, devoid of my former ability to come hither at a moment's notice, my man can feel the strings during sex, which ... ouch for him. (Not that we're even having sex. Last night I threatened to call the police when Hal tried to take my pants off. I even went so far as calling him a mate-rapist.)

I was warned by many of you re: Mirena's unholy traits and now I get it. I understand the controversy, I do. I'm a late-twenties woman (in her supposed sexual-prime!!!) lacking a sex-drive, threatening to sue her husband for sexual harassment every time he grabs her ass. I live in a tamponless household, for bloody sake! (Pun intended! Ha, ha!) I have a T-shaped penis-poker stuck up inside my body for four more cruel years.

And so? I'm pulling that fucker. As soon as I can figure out what the hell to use in its place.

Keeping up With the Walkers. Or Not.

2010-01-10T03:37:00Z

Archer didn't walk until he was seventeen-months old. At the time, it seemed serious. Worrisome. All the other kids we met on play-dates and park slides were walking much earlier.

"My son walked at ten-months."

"Mine at twelve."

"Mine was late and didn't walk until he was thirteen."

I have a whole chapter devoted to Archer's late walking in my book -- of being self-conscious, feeling like I had to explain myself, him

I was convinced he'd crawl forever - had dreams about him attending his first day of High School on hand and knee.

Archer finally walked on Halloween, 2006. He was seventeen-months old.

After that I scolded myself for having spent so much time worrying. Pushing. Pleading with him to walk like the other kids his age. Just as I did when Archer talked late and suddenly started speaking full sentences. Regretted having spent so much unnecessary time and energy engaging my worry. Pressuring him and myself.

He was late but who cares? Why did I?

It is a mother's nature to worry, especially when everywhere she turns she is handed information about other children - statistics about what is "normal" and what is not. But the second time around, worry isn't as commonplace. At least it hasn't been for me.

Fable turned fifteen-months last week and is still not walking. She's been standing for two-months now with no desire to move. Meanwhile friends of mine with kids her age have been walking for months, much like it was with Archer. We gave her a shopping cart, a walker but much like her big brother she couldn't care less about walking on her own. She likes to crawl. Stand to say hello and then drop to her knees and crawl off into the sunset. And this time around? I couldn't care less.

Because I know she'll get there in her own time. When she's ready. A whole life ahead of her to move forward on foot.

Yesterday, she took a single-step and crouched back down, crawled to me. Clapped for herself before nuzzling her little face in my neck. And any day now she'll walk across the living room floor. Down the hall. Into my arms. And then that will be that. No more dirty knees. No more scuffed shoes. And, this time? No regretting having pushed her to do anything before she's ready.

***

I'd rather be right here

2009-12-30T21:01:00Z

Ten years ago, I was celebrating The Millennium with my boyfriend-at-the-time, high on drugs at a warehouse rave in St. Louis, via his hometown of Springfield Missouri. I was eighteen years-old, freshly on my own, totally in love and out of my mind. The following four New Year Eve's went somewhat similarly. Drunk, high, tripping down boulevards in broken paper crowns, blowing cheap paper horns and boy friends soon to be ex. It was New Years eve and nothing mattered - not the past or the future - (especially not the immediate future) as evidenced by New Years days spent sick in bed, still drunk, buzzing from substances inhaled the night before.

New Years' days were painful reminders of what "coming down" felt like, of waking up alone, surrounded by people. The hope for a happy New Year replaced with hunger. For breakfast. For love. Direction. Something else.

It's been six years since I've been out on New Years Eve. Hal, too. Our first New Year's Eve together, I was four-months pregnant with Archer so we stayed in. The years that followed we had newborn babies or lack of funds so we did our own thing. Hosted game nights with a handful of friends. Watched home-movies. Hung out with my parents.

This year we decided to go out. Ring in a new decade, holding hands, lost in the city we love - our home. Our first time out on New Years as a couple. My parents agreed to babysit the kids for the night. I even bought a party dress.

We looked into parties, set menus, hotel rooms to stumble home to after hours. We discussed plans with friends - getting a table, here, attending a party there, but nothing really sounded all that fabulous. On the contrary, the more we looked into, the more we realized we didn't really care about going out. Not on New Year's Eve anyway.

...That ringing in a new decade didn't mean we had to party like rock stars.

The truth we realized, was that we'd rather not.

New Year's days aren't about coming down anymore. Daylight isn't something to squint against so much as its something to look forward to. There is much hope, and hunger, still, this time for a different kind of meal, plenty of love and breakfast to go around.

Or maybe we're just a couple of old, boring, happy whatevers.

Either way, I wouldn't change a thing.

Happy New Year, all.

With love.

***

Festive Santa Action

2009-12-22T18:54:00Z

Now that we've fully embraced Christmas as a family, I thought it only fitting that ~~I get a cute photo of my kids in Santa's lap~~ Archer and Fable meet with Santa, so last night we just did that. We journeyed to our favorite Encinitas haunt with my parents and sibings, roasted some 'mellows, sipped some Mulled wine (parents only) and stood in line for some festive Santa action.

Archer with my brother, David

Fable with my dad

The line was surprisingly quick considering the vast assortment of children great and small scurrying around the gardens, and Archer waited patiently, standing on his tip-toes trying to sneak a peek at Santa through a thicket of lights and plants.

"Is there anything you want to ask Santa?" my mother asked.

Archer thought for a moment and then proclaimed excitedly, "Yes! I'd like to know how old he is!"

"Is there anything else you want to ask him? Like... what you want for Christmas, maybe?"

"Oh yeah! I forgot about that," he smiled. "But I also want to know how old he is."

Fair enough.

We arrived at the front of line, Santa introduced himself to Archer who crawled happily onto his lap.

"Ho, ho, ho," Santa said, "What would you like for Christmas, Archer?"

"I would like to know how old you are." Archer said.

"I'm very old," Santa replied.

"How old?"

"So old I can't remember!"

"Like a hundred?"

"Even older than that!"

"Whoooaaaaaaaaaaaaaa."

Thoroughly impressed, Archer went on to tell Santa about the wooden Treehouse he's spent the last month playing with at our local toystore - how "it's his favorite and he would love THAT treehouse for Christmas. The one from the toystore, you know which one I mean?"

"I do indeed!" Santa said before forking over a candy-cane and helping Archer down off his lap.

"Merry Christmas," he said.

"Merry Christmas."

***

...Gone Tomorrow

2009-12-14T18:26:00Z

So after all the hair drama, Archer decided, over the weekend, that he was quite over not being able to see.

"Are you ready for a haircut?" I said."You'll be able to see, again. Might be kind of nice, don't you think?"

"Oooooookaaaaaay,"

Archer took me by the hand and happily walked us down the street and into our local barber shop. He sat down, hands at his sides, and smiled at himself in the mirror as the nice lady cut three inches of shag from around his head, bangs in his eyes included.

"What do you think?" we asked him when she finished and he climbed down off the barber chair.

"I think I look pretty handsome, actually," he said in his matter-of-fact Archer way.

He was right.

And I was relieved. That haircut just killed five holiday gifts (let's just say Archer's long hair was not favorited by any of Archer's grandparents or great-grandparents) with one $20 dollar bill.

Thanks, bug.

***

Santa Claus is coming to town

2009-12-10T05:14:00Z

When Hal and I first got together/pregnant/married (because it all happened, pretty much on the same day) we discussed whether or not we would raise our unborn baby Jewish. To Hal it was important we subscribe solely to Jewish tradition, dropping all the Hallmark mass-marketed Christmas crap, which I was cool with because YEAH! Screw Hallmark! Screw the man!

Raised in a predominantly Jewish household myself (my father is Jewish and my mother was raised celebrating all religions. Her father was Jewish which means I’m technically ¾ Jewish which means technically our kids are 7/8 Jewish which is pretty majority, then again, my mother’s mother wasn’t Jewish so technically, I’m not Jewish. Technically, I’m also very confused, but that's kind of per usual these days so eh.)

That being said, I've always identified culturally, even spiritually with Judaism, no matter how infrequently I attended Temple. (Twice a year?)

And yet, even still, there's no denying I’ve always been a HUGE Christmas person. I love caroling and dressing the Christmas tree and wrapping gifts in the home-made wrap I make out of recycled back-issues of Vogue. I listen to Christmas music the entire month of December and wear my Christmas socks year round. I love Christmas lights and wreaths and mistletoe and elves and bows and fake snow on the rooftops of nativity scenes. I love IT ALL.

So when Hal said to me, “No Christmas!” I said. “Okay, cool. I totally understand.” but inside I was screaming, “NOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!”

After many tears and much debate we compromised on celebrating Hanukkah in our house and Christmas with my family, which was fine with me and totally awesome because ~~I would~~ our kids would have the best of both worlds, I’d still get to inhale pine for one week out of the month and Archer could experience the magic of Christmas morning c/o presents from my parents.

We both agreed that Santa was out of the question, unnecessary and totally stupid.

"Why would we lie to our kid about Santa? How lame!"

"Right? Stupid, stupid. So very silly."

That was before Archer was old enough to understand who Santa Claus truly was - a magical man who wore red (Archer's favorite color!) and LOVED giving presents to all the boys and girls! I mean... come on. How could we NOT let Santa into ~~our~~ my parent's home? The dude is AWESOME. And surely he loves all children, regardless of their religious orientation, right? Surely, it wouldn't hurt for the son we're raising Jewish(ish) to love him back? Or so I thought to myself quietly.

... up until I came home Sunday night to find Archer's handwritten letter to Santa Claus (thanks to Hal who helped Archer with spelling) and a brand new (and already quite bent-up) copy of The Polar Express, a book Archer fell in love with at school and Hal bought for him while I was away.

“What’s this?” I said to Hal as I put down my bags.

“Archer wrote a letter to Santa,” he said. “Isn’t it cute?”

“I thought we weren’t going to do Santa?”

“Yeah, we weren't but whatever, it’s fun.”

That’s the thing about Christmas - it’s fun. And compelling. And fun. And for us non-religious, interdenominational, culturally ambiguous types, that's kind of what matters most.

To us, anyway.

L'chaim, Mr. Claus.

***

Bump Watch

2009-11-29T07:27:00Z

This week Fable started standing. Without assistance, or holding onto a hand or a railing. All of a sudden, in the middle of my parent's tile floor she stood up on two feet. And then she did it again. And again. And again. Over and over as my family cheered and rooted her on and Archer was like, "look! Wanna see me stand? Wanna see me stand? See? See?"

But the thing about standing babes when they're not quite used to standing? They go bonk. Like, BONK. And then you pick them off the floor and they're screaming and OH GOD! Here it comes. HERE IT COMES! HER BRAIN IS HATCHING A GOOSE-EGG, NOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!

And you can almost see the bump appear and then grow in slow motion like some sort of Chia Injury. Ch-ch-ch-CHIA! And it grows and grows until finally it stops growing and you're horified on one hand but on the other (once she stops crying and you know for certain she isn't going to die from brain injury) that the bump is kind of a little tiny bit hilarious. Sad and awful but a wee smidge funny.

Like bumps so always do, hers went down within an hour and the next day had turned into a barely visible bruise.

Kind of.

Ish.

Okay so at least the bump went down.

I went back in the archives of my blogs and flickr stream and fished out a picture of Archer with his first goose-egg, which at the time was not nearly as hilarious, even after he had fully recovered and was back to climbing around like a kid without an injury.

Archer at 18 months, clad in a t-shirt that looks exactly like him now! Ha!

At the time I was hysterical. Scared out of my mind. Convinced we'd have to rush Archer to the ER because the BUMP WAS SO BIG IT WAS GOING TO EXPLODE AND AN ALIEN WAS GOING TO COME OUT OF IT OH MY GOD CALL AN AMBULANCE NOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

It's amazing how things that were once scary and hysterical and HURRY, CALL AN AMBULANCE! become so much less so (and yes, even comical) the second child around.

Stoked as ever, bruise and all.

***

Hair Today

2009-11-19T17:43:00Z

1. “He needs a haircut.”

“I know.”

“So why don’t you cut his hair?”

“Because he doesn’t want a haircut.”

“But you’re his parent. You’re supposed to make the rules.”

“I do make the rules but he doesn’t want a haircut. What am I going to do, hold him down and cut his hair?”

“No. Just tell him he has to have a haircut.”

“I tried. But then he told me he wants to grow his hair long and I have to respect that. It is his hair. And it isn’t hurting anyone.”

“But he looks sloppy – like someone who needs a haircut.”

“Maybe. But who am I to tell him how to look?”

“You’re his parent.”

2. “Archer, you need a haircut.”

“No I don’t.”

“I can’t see your face.”

“I want to grow it long like yours.”

“But I can see. See?”

“I can see, too. See?”

“All your friends at school have haircuts.”

“So.”

“We could do something really cool. Something shaggy. A mohawk? A trim? You can pick out a style and we’ll bring it to the barber and he will make you look awesome!”

“I don’t want to pick out a style.”

“… Not even for a cupcake?"

“No, Mommy. I like my hair the way it is.”

“Whoa, really? More than an M&M cupcake from Crumbs?”

“I LOVE M&M CUPCAKES but no. No haircut I said!"

"Fine. Grow it down to your ankles for all I care."

"Fine!"

3. “Did you bribe him?”

“Yes.”

“Did you tell him that his friends at school all have haircuts?”

“Yes.”

“Did you tell him he will be able to see much better with a haircut?”

“Yes. I told him everything. Bribes. Peer pressure. Reason. But he wants his hair to be long. So we’re going to let him grow his hair as long as he wants until he decides he doesn’t want long hair anymore. We’re not going to pressure him or plead with him or bring it up ever again. It's his hair and if he wants to be a young Cousin It that's his business."

“So that's it?”

“That's it.”

That's it.

***

Other People's Pregnancies

2009-11-12T06:12:00Z

Everyone I know is pregnant. It's kind of like how three years ago, everyone I know got married. Within a six week window. And it was like "COME ON! I am SO NOT going to wear this brown floor-length satin halter dress again. Or the "Lavender Mid-length." Or the "Salmon Strapless"

Ugh! Bridesmaid dresses! Ugh!

I digress. Even though I don't want to digress. Because bridesmaid dresses are too easy to write about. And I have a grip of those mofos hanging in my closet becoming more outdated as the days pass and what's a girl to do? Perhaps I should try them all on for James Marsden and then post a montage, here, in place of a blog post?

No? Okay then. Moving on.

As I was saying, everyone I know is pregnant. Which makes me very overly-attentive and interested in everyone. In a way that is probably annoying. Because I'm stalking every pregnant woman I know with baby names and unsolicited boxes of maternity clothes and "Hey? Were you sleeping? Just... checking in to see if you have morning sickness!"

"Actually, Bec? It's 6am. I was sleeping."

"But not for looooooooong... When that baby arrives you will be up at all hou...."

Click.

"... Hello? HELLOOOOOOOOOO?!"

Part of it has to do with excitement. I waited a long time and spent a lot of energy trying to brainwash my single friends into joining "the cult of parenthood" and now that everyone's joining I feel like I have to force-feed them kool-aid.

But also? (And here's the kicker.) I miss being pregnant. I miss the feeling - the giddy excitement for the unknown, the anal (hot!) clean-freak nesting... I miss being bloated and crampy and arguing over baby names with Hal who willingly rubbed my swollen feet as I watched Discovery Health. I miss the feeling. The kicks and the nudges and the OH GOD! I WANT ANOTHER ONE! SOB!

So if you're my friend and you're reading this and you hate me for calling and probing and touching your belly and lending you strollers you don't need and naming your child, please know that it's coming from a good and genuine place called: ~~jealousy~~ love. And ~~jealousy!~~ excitement!

Because soon? You will give birth and ~~I will steal your baby~~ I will stop with the crazy.

As long as you name her Reverie Shalom Beatrice III and call her "Vera-Sha-Bea" for short.

***

Kids vs. Costumes

2009-11-04T06:24:00Z

I've been heavy on the Halloween posts these last few days but I couldn't let Halloween come and go without discussing the dos and don'ts of adult Halloween costumes and what to do when your kids are like, "WTF? Who are you and what have you done with my parents YOU CRAZY CRAZIES AHHH!"

Please note that Archer is wearing his pajamas in the above photo. On the weekend he wears pajamas because we don't have to be anywhere in the early mornings and we all hang out in our pajamas and read newspapers and eat bagels and high-five each other until it gets boring and we get dressed and leave the house. The end.

Now, mind you, Hal and I were especially scary looking this year.

And although we planned our costumes weeks in advance we kinda sorta forgot to take under consideration the possibility that Archer and Fable might not be as amused as we. It wasn't until I slipped into Hal's clothes and he slipped into mine that we realized "oh, shit. This might actually disturb them."

And for a little while it did.

Okay so it was longer than a little while.

More like an hour.

At first I thought we were going to have to make a costume change. It wasn't so much Fable, who just blinked at me blankly, blinked at Hal blankly and then blinked at us both blankly before crawling as far away from us as she could. Surprisingly it was Archer who threw a fit. He was PISSED. He refused to look at me without peeking at me through his fingers and instead of laughing at Hal as he flipped his wig and talked in my annoying California-y "like totally omigawd you guys" way, he frowned and threw his face into the couch.

"Daddy! You are NOT my mommy!"

"I know, Archer. I'm just pretending."

"I don't like it! I want mommy to be mommy again and you to be daddy again."

I tried to explain so that he wasn't freaked out. Tried to explain that Daddy and I were just being silly, dressing up in costumes because it was Halloween and "remember how we went as Bert and Ernie that one year and we had wigs and things on our faces then and it was all totally silly?"

But he wasn't listening.

"I SAID, I DON'T LIKE IT!

I pointed at Archer's costume. "...Like, for instance, you aren't really a Chess King, you're just wearing a costume!"

He pulled up from the couch with wide-eyes.

"But I am a Chess King, mommy."

That's when I realized, he was right. The beauty of a child's imaginative naivete is that they believe. They believe a costume is a magical transformer - that people are what they say they are. That looks aren't decieving.

On Halloween he was a Chess King and his sister was a Garden and his parents didn't look like they were supposed to look and that was REAL.

And so? I went with it:

"You're right. You are a Chess King, Archer. And for today, you can call me, Daddy and you can call this lovely lady in the plaid tunic and wild hair, "Mommy."

Archer uncrossed his arms, peeked out from beneath his hair (which he insists on growing out and yes, I'm going to let him) and smiled understandably.

"Okay, Daddy," he said, laughing.

"Thanks, Chess King."

"Daddy?"

"Yes, Chess King?" I said, in my best "daddy" voice.

"You're weird."

"I know. I'm sorry."

He thought for a moment, shrugged and then said, "It's okay."

And after that? We went on our merry way to a friend's Halloween party and for the rest of the night, nothing was weird at all.

***

I'm wondering what your experiences have been re: dressing up with your kids -- Did they like seeing you in costume? Hate it? Freak out? And how did you deal? With an explanation? A costume change? Years of therapy? Do you own your weird like we do? No so much? Do tell, por favor...

Very Good News

2009-10-27T04:47:00Z

This might be the most important post you will ever read from me because it has to do with revealing one of the great secrets of the universe - the secret of... dun dun DUNNNNNT - getting out the door to school on time without tantrums and tears.

Let me start by saying this: Archer has been on time to school four times in the two years he's been attending. Thankfully, Archer's school has a thirty-minute window and also, thankfully, it's preschool so it doesn't *really* matter. But Kindergarten is coming. I am very aware of this because we're in apply-to-charter-and-magnet-school-mode, and being late will not be tolerated come Fall 2010.

I blame myself partially. I'm hopeless in the morning and can never quite time the trip to school, especially as it ranges wildly. (Anywhere from ten minutes to forty-five depending on tree-trimming, road-fixing, show-shooting, and of course, cars-driving.) That being said, until two weeks ago, it wasn't ALL my fault that we were late every day.

Archer happens to suffer from I-hate-to-get-dressed-in-the-morning-syndrome-especially-on-school-days and has for the past several months.

In order to try to fix this exasperating situation, we took away his morning privileges. In the past he was able to watch one show (always Little Einsteins, his favorite) before school as Hal and I were getting the day prepared.

"Fine!" I said one morning as Archer kicked and screamed and refused his clothes. "No more Einsteins!"

He cried louder. Kicked harder. But that was that. We haven't watched TV in the morning since.

After that, I started a "star chart" so that every morning he got dressed without a fight, he got a star! (Every ten stars = cupcake or ice cream. Every one hundred stars = any toy he wants in our favorite local toy store.) At first the star chart was working brilliantly. Then, for whatever reason, it lost its charm. The tantrums returned with a vengeance. The refusal of getting dressed in the morning. The twenty-minute battle. EVERY. DAY.

It wasn't until I had a panic attack in the middle of his worst tantrum ever that I decided to take serious action. Fable had burst into hysterics followed by me until all three of us were crying and I had to call Hal because so frustrated and out of control was I, that I thought for a moment I might hit him. Like... HIT. HARD. I didn't, of course, but I wanted to.

I felt guilty the entire day. Sad. Hopeless. The morning tantrums were making us all anxious and batty and they HAD TO STOP.

"Oh! I know," my mom said, answering my desperate plea. "Just put him to sleep in his clothes! I had a friend who did that with her kids and they woke up and BOOM! They were ready for school. Easy solution!"

"Really? You think it will work?"

"Really. I do."

My mom told me the story of her friends - both teachers with two young boys who like Archer, hated to get dressed in the morning. Finally, because their kids being late meant THEM being late, which teachers cannot be, they decided to dress their kids for school the night before. That way, the only thing they had to wrestle on their kids were shoes. And until the kids were old enough to get themselves to school, that is what they did. And it worked.

Genius.

That afternoon, after picking Archer up from school, I announced our new rule.

"Tonight, you're going to wear your clothes to bed, okay? Because these tantrums are breaking me and there's absolutely no reason for them."

"Alright, Mommy," he said.

I was skeptical but optimistic. Please let this work. Please let this work. Please let this work.

Sure enough... it worked. That night before bed, Archer happily picked out his clothes for the next day, got dressed, brushed his teeth and went to sleep comfortably in a t-shirt, jeans and socks.

"This is fun," he said as I kissed him goodnight. "I like sleeping in my clothes. It's funny. Ha ha!"

The next morning? No tantrum. No fighting. Just a lovely morning with no drama. Same went for the next day and the next day and the next until we had successfully gotten up and ready to school with no tears for TWO WHOLE WEEKS. A record by far.

Two weeks later we're still going strong. Archer gets dressed for school every night before bed and we get out the door with no tears or tantrums. No fighting or bribing. Just peace. And love. And happy rainbow dewdrops. And hummingbird wonderfulness.

Of course, we're still a good fifteen minutes late to school every morning.

Maybe I should start getting dressed the night before as well

***

Taking the Kids to a Wedding: A Tale of Survival

2009-10-21T04:35:00Z

It all started three hours before the wedding began. Because that's how long it usually takes to get a family of four dressed, packed and out the door to such a function. For us it does.

I dressed myself first which is where the trouble began.

It would seem the $30 vintage dress that I thought was SUCH A BARGAIN when I bought it wasn't so much a bargain at all. At closer inspection, in fact, it was broken, unraveling, completely coming apart. (Note to self: try on specialty-outfits the night before.) And because it takes me hours to so much as sew a button properly, I had to flag down my mother from the other room to sew me into my broken dress, Project Runway style.

After that was done, it was time to get Archer dressed. Except the 5T tuxedo (also purchased second hand. Perhaps the lesson here is "buy new") was actually a 5T jacket and with a 2T vest and pants which.... Buzzkill! Especially after Fable spilled an entire bottle over her fancy wedding dress. And tights. And shoes.

"Ah, fuck it. It'll dry."

And it did.

The Archer suit situation, however, was a tad more panic-inducing. Besides the suit, I had nothing appropriate for him to wear to the wedding so Hal and Archer fled the scene. Their mission? To find suitable black pants.

Moments later, upon their arrival at Target, Archer had a brilliant idea that consisted of him running away from Hal to hide beneath a rack of Finding Nemo pajamas which lead to Hal's desperate wails, poor man. Now he had to find his son AND a pair of black pants for a wedding that had already started?

Brutal.

Luckily, Hal's running around the store yelling "ARCHER! WHERE DO YOU KEEP YOUR BLACK PANTS!?" lead to the eventual finding of our son AS WELL as a pair of slightly-larger-than-usual-but-sure-what-the-hell-they'll-do pants thanks to a kind sales associate who felt sorry for poor Hal, and twenty minutes later they were back home.

Of course by that time Archer was like "NO! I don't want to go to a wedding! NO! I don't want to wear a suit! NO NO NO! AHHHH!"

So I made up an elaborate story about the magic powers of suit jackets and shiny shoes.

Which worked. Because I'm a great liar. (That's a lie, actually.)

After four separate tantrums and two trips back to the house for bottles, diapers and deodorant (I tend to sweat profusely in large crowds. I get it from my dad.) we hit the road. Three minutes into our drive Archer passed out. Six minutes later, Fable was also asleep which meant that by the time we arrived at the wedding both kids were well into their REM sleep and there was NO WAY we were going to wake them.

So we waited in the car for forty-minutes until they woke.

And by the time we got everyone out of the car, the wedding was long over, but the good thing about weddings? They go on and on and on and on, so being two hours late, we were still plenty early as far as the reception was concerned.

Better late than never, we proceeded, the four of us into the "cocktail party" space, just in time to down a few choice alcoholic beverages.

Of course there's nothing for kids to do during cocktail hour besides spill everyones drinks and fish pennies out of the wishing well, so after twenty minutes of, "Sorry about that broken glass. What are you drinking? I'll get you another," Hal volunteered to take Archer on a walk to find a bribe.

Unfortunately, all he could find was a raisin scone.

"It's a cupcake!" Hal said.

"No it isn't!" Archer howled.

"Yes it is!"

"NO IT IS NOT A CUPCAKE, DADDY. CUPCAKES ARE MORE DELICIOUS!"

Archer ended up giving the scone away to his second cousin because he's generous like that.

And Hal got an A for effort.

When we made it into the banquet hall for dinner, everything got easier. Enclosed spaces full of children will do that, me thinks, and Archer and Fable spent the remainder of the night on the dance floor, Fable rocking back and forth on her knees as Archer practiced his rad dance moves.

Of course there was that one time during the Maid of Honor Speech when Archer decided it would be a swell idea to crawl across the stage with napkins on his hands. And we did lose Fable under one of the dinner tables for a minute or so, but other than that, all was kosher. The kids had fun and once the anxiety wore off, so did we.

Actually, you know what? Now that I'm writing this post and pasting all these fun, fabulous photos, our little wedding experience doesn't seem so bad, which is weird because at the time Hal and I were like "this is one of the worst days EVER!!!" and here I am writing about it and I can't quite figure out why.

It looks positively lovely, even fun!

I guess you had to be there.

***

Surviving Swine Flu and Sickness in General

2009-10-13T23:16:00Z

Sunday night I came home to one very sick child. And when I say very sick, I mean, scary sick. A kind of sick I had yet to experience with either of my kids ever. Apparently it started Sunday morning but by Sunday evening, Archer was immobile. Refusing to leave the corner of my parent's couch. His eyes were swollen. He was shivering. 104 fever. Whimpering.

"I think you should stay here," Hal said. "I don't know if traveling back to LA is such a good idea right now."

And he was right. So Hal took the train back home and I stayed with the kids at my parent's house.

Archer, the picture of health (and angst) before I left for the weekend.

"He probably has the Swine Flu," my mom said.

"OH MY GOD! Really? Should we take him to the hospital? AHHHHHH!!!!"

"Nah, he'll be fine," she said.

And she was right, of course, but Sunday night was the first time in a long time that I spent the night worrying. In between rounds of "Moon River" and dabbing Archer's face with cold washcloths, I lied awake, listening to my babe's heavy breathing, totally afraid. And I started to think about parents who tend to sick children all the time. About the sick kids I used to work with and how their parents spent YEARS worrying, dabbing, singing, rocking, being afraid.

So.

I would like to take this moment to give thanks for my children's health.

Thank you, universe. For curing Archer of Swine Flu or regular Flu (or whatever it was that made him sick for three days) so that he can now sit beside me as I type this, happily devouring a bag of pretzels while kicking me with muddy shoes.

And thank you for making it so that everyone in my family can eat pretzels and kick each other with muddy shoes right now if they feel like it.

You rule.

***

Another. Someday.

2009-10-06T05:19:00Z

When Archer was born, I knew he wasn't going to be an only child. I knew this because we didn't want him to be an only child, because if we were going to have one child we were going to have two. That was the rule. Hell! I couldn't even have one dog without feeling like I was depriving him of a playmate. After having my dog, Cooper for four-months, I found him a sibling. And when Archer was 3.5, Fable was born.

I always knew I wanted two kids. I never even thought to want more. I figured that regardless of their sex, two would be plenty of children for us. My entire pregnancy with Fable I kept thinking, it would be my last. The last time I'd ever be pregnant. The last time I'd ever give birth. Enjoy these last few months. Savor the suspense, revel in the excitement and the sweetness of newborn toes...

And that I did. I moped and whined and begged Fable to stay a baby because she was "our last." I recorded my pregnancy with photos and wrote tediously about my experience but then Fable was born and my second thought after: holy fuck, I love this girl more than I ever thought I could ever ... was: holy fuck, we're not done. We're not all here. The feeling was so overwhelming to me, I almost felt guilty. How could I possibly be thinking of another child right now? There is a newborn baby in my arms and she's mine!

But the truth is that I did.

At first I thought it was the adrenaline - the rush most mothers get after giving birth. The "put me back in the ring, bob. I AM WOMAN!!! POW!" kind of high that with Fable didn't go away for several months. (I diagnosed myself as having postpartum euphoria, which is kind of like postpartum depression except instead of feeling sad you feel sublimely, maniacally happy, which is how I felt for many months after Fable was born. Don't believe me? Read the archives of this here blog. You'll want to punch me in the throat.)

I figured that eventually I would crash, (which I did) come back to earth and come to my two-children-is-plenty-for-us senses. But no. Months passed, an IUD was inserted, my hormones calmed down and yet... no change. The voice in my ear was just as shrill. The "Hi! I'm your future baby! Don't forget about me! I'll just be here, kicking around in your brain for the next few years until you're ready for me and by the way, do NOT wear those shoes with that dress. Wear the red ones. No, not those red ones, the other red ones. There you go. Much better..." voice.

And so. It rides on...

...And some days the voice is so damn loud I have to cover my ears and tell it to SHUT THE FUCK UP so I can concentrate on living my life and taking care of the children I have. Like right now, for instance. Sheesh, voice. Sheesh.

So basically, here's the thing.

All those times I said we were done having kids?

I was lying.

***

Never Mind (Estate)

2009-09-25T18:19:00Z

Last month I wrote about our exciting next step as a family: buying a house. My excitement was palpable. I felt like an adult! A real live adult! An American dream-er. So incredibly mature and responsible and omg look at us! We're going to be homeowners!

What a difference a month makes.

As it turns out the market is not all that great. At all. The 900k two-bedroom up the street is now for sale for 880,000, which, is still quite out of our price-range, not to mention one-bedroom too small. So basically we're like "fuck it, let's just rent something," because, contrary to what people tell me, it isn't throwing money away to rent a house when you don't have $175,000 for a down payment.

Sure, one of these days, we'll puncture the sky with our swords and the clouds will rain Benjamins but in the meantime? We're just a young family with a dream to live somewhere with three-bedrooms, a yard and central air-conditioning (Hello 100+ degree heatwave!) ...

So every night for the last week Hal and I have been on Craigslist scrolling through options, side by side like we did four years ago, when we outgrew our one-bedroom apartment. I've become obsessed with googling rentals and doing neighborhood drive-bys and fantasizing over the kids having THEIR OWN ROOMS so they don't wake one another up all night long.

(I didn't realize how frustrating two kids sharing a room could be. Especially when one is as sleep-challenged as Fable is. If Archer gets up in the middle night to pee, Fable wakes up screaming instantly and then Hal and I wake up and the dogs wake up and we're all up, fumbling and bumping into each other in the darkness of our narrow hallway. Oy.)

I digress. One day I'm certain we'll be able to afford a three-bedroom house in our neighborhood. In the meantime? We'll happily rent. And what a blessing it is that we can afford to do that.

And now I must end this blog post so I can go back to refreshing craigslist like a crazy person.

***

Bad Guys

2009-09-16T22:50:00Z

Yesterday Archer came home from school and said a horrifying thing.

Responding to the sound of laughing voices outside he turned to me and said, "don't worry, Mommy, I'm going to shoot the bad guys with my sword!"

My jaw dropped. Up until yesterday he had never mentioned "bad guys" nor had an affinity for swords. Or shooting.

"Where did you learn about bad guys?"

"Harry...*"

"And where did you learn about shooting?"

"Harry."

"What else is Harry teaching you."

"Nothing. We were just playing superheroes and superheroes kill the bad guys with shooting them, mommy. It's okay."

"Um... actually it's not okay. Shooting bad guys is not okay," I said, before stopping myself. "I mean... unless these bad guys are trying to shoot you, in which chase, uh... I mean... actually. You can't... You're not supposed to... I- I- I- I..."

... gave up.

I didn't know what to say. Up until yesterday Archer had never mentioned swords or guns or violence of any kind. I managed to keep superheroes and "bad guys" and weapons and people behaving aggressively toward one another out of Archer's mind and day-to-day experiences. And even though I knew it was only time before this day would come, it still came as a shock to me.

I was unprepared. On one hand I was happy to hear him makebelieving with the other kids at school but at the same time? He was talking about shooting something with a sword. Bad guy or not, it was the last thing I wanted to hear.

"We don't shoot bad guys in our house, okay? Harry apparently has other rules but around here, everyone is a good guy, cool?"

Archer put down his make-believe weapon, shrugged and went to play Legos but I was shaking. Heartbroken. It was like watching my child strip himself of innocence in front of my eyes. I was unprepared. Completely. I've spent the last four years teaching Archer that the single most important thing a person can be is kind. Kind to themselves. Kind to other people and creatures, their planet, surroundings... no matter how awful things and people and the world can seem. No matter how painful a bee sting, you NEVER squash a bee. And now Archer was shooting things? Surely that was the MOST unkind act. And yet... trying to explain the whys and why nots seemed at once more violent than letting Archer go on with his friends and his make believe.

And so, I didn't bring it up again, dealing instead with my own arguing voices and angst.

Why must there be pain and bad guys and violence and darkness and swords that shoot bad guys. Why Why must superheroes fight violence with violence? Why must I be so naive? Why does Harry have to have such a BIG MOUTH?

The truth was, I wanted to strangle Harry. I wanted to strangle Harry's parents. I wanted to strangle the world for being so cruel and unfair and violent and painful.

But being the pacifist that I am, I simply cried.

***

*names have been changed

The Science of Sleep: Fable Edition

2009-09-12T00:27:00Z

As you may know, we've been having serious sleep issues with Fable. She slept great on my boob those first nine months while we were co-sleeping, when she waking up five times a night was no big deal. She'd simply find my boob, latch on and pass out without me even knowing, nursing much of the night while we both dreamed sweet dreams .

She slept in her stroller for the last two months but would wake every two hours or so ALL NIGHT LONG which was brutal, not to mention the obvious: a stroller is no place for an almost-one-year old to sleep. Soon enough, she'd outgrow the space and what then?

Of course it took until last week for us to finally throw in the towel and get her sleeping in her crib once and for all. We were in San Diego for the week and the whole stroller-to-bed thing was NOT working out. Hal and I stayed up pretty much the entire first and second night, rocking Fable and shushing her, singing to her and strolling her around my parent's backyard in the wee hours between god-knows-when and fuck-is-that-the-sun?

It was then, sometime between 3am and 5 on night three of no sleep, that we admitted to each other and ourselves the awful truth: Fable was winning. She OWNED our asses. She had become our boss, our Ring Master, taking advantage of two lovesick fools easily manipulated by her magical, mystical cute-baby ways.

In other words, the problem wasn't that Fable sucked at sleeping. It was that we sucked at getting her to sleep.

NO MORE! It was time to put her down in the never-been-used pack n play. It was time to tell her "bedtime, goodnight, Fable!" and let her fall asleep on her own, no matter how long and how loud she protested.

(which is hard to do because HELLO!? Look at that face!)

"It's time, Bec," Hal said. "We can't live like this anymore."

"I know," said I."Now what?"

But I knew what. I've always known what.

So last week, instead of rocking her to nap, Hal put her down in the pack-in-play, kissed her goodnight and walked away. She cried. For a total of eight minutes (which felt like eight years, by the way) but then? THEN? She fell asleep. And she slept for three hours. The longest nap in her history. By far.

Woohoo! I did it!

That night I went away and Hal put Fable down the same way he did for her nap. With a kiss and a "goodnight, Fable. We love you! See you in the morning!"

This time she cried for fifteen-minutes before falling asleep. And then? For the very first time? Fable slept through the night.

The next day, she slept through the night again. And for the next two nights? Fable slept 8:30pm-7:30am with but one 10 minute wake-up around 1am, which is just as amazing as her sleeping through the night if you ask me. Far superior to being up every three hours that's fo sho.

I feel like a bit of an idiot, truth be told, for waiting unil now to experiment with leaving Fable in her crib for longer than thirty seconds. (It's so very hard to leave them when they're crying and reaching for you, I know I'm not alone when I say that.)

So there you have it. Fable is more or less sleeping through the night. And the answer to our sleep woes? Letting her cry for a minute or ten before she passes out.

Let the judgement commence. Seriously. Go for it.

We're sleeping through the motherfucking night.

***

*Let's not count last night when she was up for three hours screaming between 10pm-1am.

I forgot how much teething sucks. Exhibit A: My nipple has a hole in it.

2009-09-01T00:45:00Z

I'm weaning. Still. Which I know I keep saying I will blog about but seriously, eventually I will. There's just a lot going on right now like for example, the insanity that has come with Fable's teeth which are ALL coming in. Right this second. A good thing in the long run but right now it is most definitely not a good thing. In fact, it's a horrible thing. A terrible, horrible, no-good,very-bad thing. A cause of several all-nighters this week as well as all-around hard times. Parents need sleep, I now know. We say we're good on little sleep but we lie because holy shit, you guys, these last ten days Hal and I have been non-stop fighting. And it isn't his fault or my fault or even Fable's fault, poor lamb. It's those pesky teeth.

I've been venting non-stop to my fellow parent friends (and on this here blog, I do realize) and the best advice so far I has come from a friend and soon-to-be father of three. David, I'm looking at you, even though you don't read this blog. Hi, I'm still looking. Nice shirt! Thanks for the advice! Hope you're having a lovely Monday!

A proud homeopath, he recommended chamomilla and belladonna (not the porn star) to soothe and relieve Fable's teeth and gums. I'm a big believer in homeopathics, especially for babes and this, my friends, is good stuff.

Then again, I have no idea if the stuff is actually working or if its just me hallucinating from sleep deprivation. Any which way, it seems to be a better solution than offering Fable an ice-cold strawberry chew-thing only to watch her throw it hysterically across the room.

And although offering Fable a dried-up boob to calm her seems to ALSO work pretty well, I've learned the hard way that boobs and teething babies should under no circumstances mix. Unless, of course, you desire blood in your bra.

So tell me, friends with babies. What are your favorite teething tips? I think I can speak for all parents dealing with teething babes when I say, PLEASE HELP US DEAR GOD!

In the meantime? Someone better hold me back before I punch Fable's teeth in the teeth

***

Childproof O'Clock

2009-08-24T20:45:00Z

I feel like I'm coming full circle with this post as one of my very first SFTB posts was about childproofing the house for Archer, almost three years ago. The difference being, Archer was nine-months older than Fable at the time.

I heard that second children were faster to crawl, walk, talk, do pretty much everything, but I wasn't really prepared for the holy-shit-how-did-fable-crawl-into-the-bathroom-so-fast-to-teethe-on-the-toilet-seat-she-was-playing-at-my-feet-two-seconds-ago this early in her bobblerhood. (ed: bobbler = baby/toddler.) Archer didn't crawl until he was thirteen-months, walk until he was seventeen-months and even then he never got into anything dangerous and/or disgusting.

I seriously could have left him home alone for days and he would have likely played quietly by himself with his various baby toys, before putting himself down for three-hour naps and twelve-hour sleeps, never once getting involved with anything dangerous and/or disgusting.

Fable on the other hand...

...doesn't understand the point of toys whatsoever.

Teethers? Why put something clean and cute in her mouth when there are dirty shoes to lick the bottoms of?

Rattles? Psh. The only rattle Fable wants is a bottle of cake sprinkles, which we have forbade ever since the time she cracked one open with her razor teeth. I'm constantly scooping, wiping, grabbing pretty much every object Fable decides to make her own which means the time has come to childproof the hell out of our house...

Although this time? Underwear on the cabinets and maxi pads on the corners of tables aren't going to cut it. Clearly, we're dealing with a professional here, which is why I come to you for guidance.

seconds before she put this leaf into her mouth...

What are your finest childproofing tips? What items do you suggest for childproofing? Do you think childproofing is ever really successful? I mean, clearly, I have to keep an eye on her at all times, regardless of how many sockets are covered with plastic, right? I'm especially curious to hear from those of you with second children because like I've said before, childproofing a house that is full of four-year-old toys kind of seems like an impossible task.

Oy. I truly suck at this part of parenting.

***

P.S. Thank you all for such supportive comments on my last post. It was such a relief hearing your stories. Solidarity, sisters.

Stroll her to sleep. Stroll her to sleep. I'm tired and I... I want to go to bed.

2009-08-16T04:31:00Z

Fable sucks at sleep. She's amazing at everything else but when it comes to sleep? She gets an F-. Maybe even an F--. Which is why it took us so long to finally set up her crib. From day one she refused her bassinet, only napping on my boob or in the Bjorn or BabyHawk and at night? She would happily fall asleep so long as she had my skin somehow, somewhere against hers.

I figured she would grow out of it but 10+ months later, Fable still resists naps and wakes up 4-5 times a night AT LEAST. On average I'd say the girl gets about 9 hours of sleep total a day, which is insane I'm pretty sure. Aren't babies supposed to sleep for 16+? I'm pretty sure Archer slept close to 18 hours his entire first two years. No lie.

For the last few months, Fable has been napping solely in her stroller. In fact, it's the only way to get her down, which is why I'm five pounds thinner than I was before I got pregnant with her. ALL I DO IS WALK ALL DAY AND NIGHT WALK WALK WALK AHHHHH WALLLLLKKKKING WALK-WALK!

At night, we're basically down to two options now that she's not sleeping with us:

A. Rock and sing Fable to sleep and then place her gently in her crib without waking up except she always wakes up and this can take anywhere from 45 minutes to 3 hours before she's finally down and I can tip-toe out of the room and I'm not against crying-it-out it's just that Archer and Fable share a small bedroom so that option is out because HELLO!

Or...

B. Take her for a walk around the neighborhood in her stroller. A twenty-minute walk will knock her out for at least three hours. Sometimes she will sleep as long as five hours (no doubt a Fable world record!)

So basically? Unless I'm feeling super ambitious, Fable sleeps in her stroller. And when she wakes up? A bit of boob (I know. I said I was weaning but weaning is proving a lot more difficult than I thought - that post for another day...) a song and then round two of strolling her around the dining room table until she falls asleep again.

So, yes: The stroller is her crib which as far as I know isn't normal but maybe it is.

Is it?

In the meantime? I don't care. She's not in our bed (at least not at the beginning of the night. It's possible that we do bring her to bed with us when she wakes up screaming at 4am) and she's kinda sorta sleeping so we all win.

And, hey! I figure, it's not like she's going to sleep in her stroller forever. I mean, eventually she will TOTALLY sleep in her bed, right?

Then again, I said the same thing about Archer sleeping with a pacifier. "Eventually he'll give it up!" and uh.... yeah, not so much.

***

For Real (Estate)

2009-08-09T05:22:00Z

Tomorrow afternoon we meet for the first time with our agent. Our real-estate agent which is as unbelievable to write as it is to say it aloud. Real-estate agent. Real Estate. Estate. Realtor. Home. Oh. Ner. Ship. What. The. Effing. Hell.

If you would have told me last year, as we scraped together pennies so I could afford to go on a partial book tour, that we would even for two-seconds think about buying a house in 2010, I would have punched you in the face and then kissed you and then punched you in the face again. In fact, until last month the notion of buying a house had never even crossed my mind. It was what adults did. And hello! I'm not an adult, I just play one on my blog(s).

I was never interested in owning a home. I would quickly toss the real-estate section of the newspaper in the recycle bin without a second glance, preferring to scan craigslist for rentals, daydreaming of the $75,000 a month mansion in the hills because for some reason even THAT seemed more attainable than owning a home. Crazy, I know.

It all started last month. Hal and I had been discussing wanting to move in the next year. Into something with central air-conditioning. A three-bedroom rental home with a potential office area out back, a little yard for Archer to play with his Jr. Golf set. We looked into a few rental properties, did a few drive-bys, emailed one another links to houses and even duplexes and came to the conclusion very quickly that to rent a house in our neighborhood (we don't particularly want to live elsewhere as we have become attached to everything about our location) is to pay the same amount for a mortgage in our neighborhood and with tax-breaks and other such incentives for first-time home-buyers with perfect credit (I guess I am more responsible than I give myself credit for. OH! SNAP!) we're actually kind of qualified and totally eligible-ish to possibly, maybe even in the next year, buy our first home.

WHAT!!??? That's fucking crazy. That's insanity. I don't even believe it. How can this be?

After some preliminary conversations with several real-estate agents, Hal and I made an appointment to meet with our preferred dude tomorrow, to help us put a plan in place and figure out all the logistics of how the hell we can make this happen, without rushing or pushing or overwhelming ourselves. Of course, I'll leave the questions and note-taking and everything else up to Hal because me? I'll likely spend the entire meeting banging my head against the table saying, "Omg. I'm an adult. OMG. I'm an adult" over and over until the meeting ends because for some reason, it took looking into home-buying for me to finally see myself as such.

In the meantime? I'm sitting here in my pajamas banging my head against the couch saying, "OMG, I'm an adult. OMG, I'm an adult. OMG..." Because OMG, I really am an adult.

I'm an adult.

***

Detachment Parenting

2009-07-31T19:35:00Z

About a month ago, I decided it was time to cut the cord. The day Fable turned nine-months old I suddenly felt the need to remove her from my breast, my body, and my bedroom. The feeling was overwhelming, like an instinct. It was time. Starting then I would slowly wean her, no longer put her to sleep in our bed, yes, even walk away from her from time to time, regardless of her screams of mamamamamamama! to pick her up. I was no longer enjoying being an extension of her. I wanted my body back, my space and perhaps more importantly, wanted her to learn how to sleep alone, entertain herself from time to time, and, yes, become more independent.

A far cry from the way I felt months (even weeks!) earlier when I had a hard time leaving the room without her on my hip. When all I wanted to do was be with her. As close to her as possible without swallowing her whole.

I figured these last few weeks would be difficult and they have been. Fable refuses her crib with flailing hysterics and although her willpower is impressive, I will NOT let her win and so began hours-long, sometimes even all-night bedtime prep that I am proud to say has never ended with Fable sleeping in our bed but continues to frequently end with Fable sleeping in her stroller after long walks around the living room in circles at 2am, and me scolding myself the entire time for allowing her to sleep in our bed in the first place.

"What was I thinking! I've created a monster!" I'd repeat, teeth clenched, fists around the stroller bar as I pushed and pushed and rocked and pushed and sang and is she sleeping yet? No? FUUUUUUCCCCCKKKK!!!!

It's my fault she won't sleep. It's my fault she can't be alone. It's my fault I can't leave her side. It's all she knows. I should have put her in her crib from the beginning. I coulda shoulda woulda...

Last night after rocking Fable for fifteen minutes at the foot of her crib I placed her softly down. She screamed of course, as she always does so I gave her my hand, sang to her. She went on screaming for what felt like hours until she finally stopped. Looked up at me and smiled. And within seconds, passed out, her hands tight around my wrist.

I kept my hand there for a while, afraid that by moving my hand I'd wake her up. Afraid that by moving my hand something would be lost in our separation. I went on singing until her grip loosened and finally let go.

And in that moment I realized that all these months of co-sleeping and baby-wearing and nursing my tits off was so worth it - even now- having to painfully detach from the habits we both formed, because no matter how little sleep I get for the next few weeks, months, even years, I'll be able to remind Fable, when she's older and wants nothing to do with me and we're screaming at each other through the DO NOT DISTURB sign on her bedroom door, that once upon a time she couldn't let me go.

And neither could I.

***

When You're Engulfed in Flames, Children and a Bunch of Other Sh*t

2009-07-24T17:57:00Z

Summer came fashionably late in L.A. this year but when she finally arrived? SHE ARRIVED. Angry, unapologetic and 75% humid. I am one of the nicest people you will ever meet when I'm not sweating balls. I hug strangers, fill empty meters, dance down the streets high-fiving Suits while birds sing songs on my shoulders. But when I'm hot and my thong is stuck to my ass with itchy sweat and my shirt is soaked through and my feet are covered with a film of heat-dust-wetness? I might just punch you in the face for no reason.

It's been in the 90's and beyond these last two weeks- some days have reached well into the 100s and contrary to the usual LA heatwave, it's been humid. Humidity is the single reason I could never live on the East coast. I will likely live and die on the West Coast of the US if only because I can't deal with moist summers. Of course, humid or not, I suck at being hot. I'm a sweater. I don't perspire like a lady, I sweat like a man. Like a LARGE, overweight man after a jog. It's too bad, really, especially considering my hairstyle (bangs tend to get a little... piecy in 100 degree weather) but mainly its just wildly uncomfortable.

So all this to bring me to the following unfortunate truth: we don't have air-conditioning in our house. Now, I realize there are people with far less who deal with far more and I am aware of that. I remind myself of this fact every second between the hours of 3-8pm when my house is at its hottest and I'm alone with two kids who are at their fussiest/neediest/hungriest/need-to-wrestliest.

We put a small AC unit in the kids' bedroom hoping this would provide a sanctuary of cool during the summer but Archer refuses to play in his room and we can't really eat dinner on Archer's bed and who am I kidding, there's just not enough room back there for the three of us. Especially when the dogs, who hate the heat equally insist on joining us.

So basically I've turned into a total nightmare bitch. The last few nights Hal hasn't come home until well after 10pm, by which time my hair is sticking straight up with forty rubber bands, my shirt is tied up to my bra, my pants are non-existent and I'm bitter. I'm the bitterest, grumpiest bitch that ever lived. Because I just bathed Fable and then she pooped in her towel and Archer wouldn't brush his teeth and then Fable wanted to nurse at the same time Archer wanted me to read him a story and then Fable pooped again and then Archer insisted on wearing his flannel pajamas which were too hot so we had to argue about that and then Archer wanted me to sing him a song but I forgot the words so he was like "NO! THOSE WORDS ARE WRONG!" and meanwhile Fable still refuses her crib like the plague so I'm pushing her around the house in the stroller and its a thousand degrees and Archer's like "Mommy! Come back and sing me the gigalo song but this time SING IT RIGHT!" and I'm hot and tired and HOT and our house is too small for all of us when it's THIS hot and I give up we need to move somewhere with central air immediately omg I'm going to cry and "Are you crying, mommy?" "No, honey. My eyeballs are just sweating" omg.

Last night brought my red-hot-bitchiness to a whole new level when after an hour and a half of rocking Fable I finally got her to sleep in her crib. It was 11pm. The kids were asleep. The house was clean. The dishes were done. I had just collapsed on the couch when Hal walked through the door, kissed me on the sweaty cheek, went back to check on the kids/adjust Fable's crib bar and accidentally woke her up.

What happened next was not pretty. And it was in that moment of me freaking the fuck out and Hal looking at me like "OMG who are you and what have you done with my wife?" that we both realized that maybe the time has come for us to start looking for a new place to live.

Somewhere with a little more space and a lot more air-conditioning.

***

DUI of IUD

2009-07-17T18:17:00Z

I haven't had a period in six-months. I know, I'm breastfeeding so you're probably like, well, duh! But actually? No. I started my period six weeks post-partum because my body is insane and thinks I'm some kind of breeding ground. In the good old days, pre birth control, I would likely have ten kids by the time I was twenty-one. Rough, that would have been but I digress.

Rebecca Woolf circa a long time ago, twenty-eight-year-old mother of 18.

It isn't a coincidence that IUD is DUI backwards. Driving drunk leads to crashing much like IUDs often do. That is, if you're me. Specifically me last week when I had an emotional breakdown followed by a bout of OMGI'mPregnantitis. I'm usually a pretty balanced girl. I'm not prone to mood swings or PMS. I have my moments of fog but seldom freak out. That was until two weeks ago when I started to feel funny. Hormonal funny. Emotional, on edge and totally beside myself with bouts of random tears, even anger. I felt like I was crashing after a nine-month high and maybe I was. But at the time, all I could think was, "Oh my God, what if I'm pregnant?"

I had soon convinced myself that my belly was huge and pregnant looking. I examined my naked body in the bathroom mirror in disbelief.

"I look AT LEAST four-months pregnant, Oh my God."

It didn't stop there. My sense of smell was noticeably heightened when I evacuated my kids and dogs from our house because I smelled fire and was convinced it was coming from inside the walls. We stood outside for ten minutes with Hal on the phone, before I realized that what I was smelling was coming from a down-the-street neighbor's charcoal barbeque.

"I think I have pregnancy nose," I said when I called Hal back. "Oh God almighty, what if I'm pregnant! What if the IUD hath failed us and I'm six months pregnant and I'm going to sit down to pee one of these days and BOOM: A third child."

"I think you're crazy," Hal said.

"Exactly. It's hormones. Pregnancy hormones OH MY GOD! What are we going to do? Three children in a two-bedroom duplex will be MADNESS! NOOOOOOOOOO."

"Bec, you're not pregnant."

Just in case, he brought home a pregnancy test.

And he was right.

And I was relieved.

But also a little freaked out that for the next five years, "Pregnancy Scares" might be my middle name because life without a period*, although, AWESOME, is kind of a little bit scary. Or maybe I should just stop watching all those "I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant" shows on Discovery Health.

***

*20% of those with Mirena IUD stop getting their period within the first year. I stopped getting mine immediately which seems rare according to the Internet but normal according to my OBGYN.