Break a Leg!

Yesterday, I had the experience that I assume every man has the first time he plays catch with his son. It is that moment when you think, “Yes, I will teach my child this skill that I know, and he/she in turn will not only excel at said skill, but also have fond memories of learning from me.” Well, my son has had many a catch with his Dad, so yesterday, it was my turn. My son appeared in his first play (with lines and everything!)

The warm, fuzzy feeling that my son might follow in my footsteps began 10 weeks ago with an audition. He signed up for drama club and as part of the learning process, the director asked that everyone try out, just like in the real world.  My son and I went over possible songs and poems he could perform,  yet nothing seemed right.  Then he said to me, “Mom, I want to do ‘Bird is the Word’ for my audition.” He was referring to the Peter Griffin version from the show Family Guy* (Watch it here!).  At first, I thought this was a bad idea because it had the potential of being too silly. After some thought, however, I realized it could really be funny if he did it right. Not to mention that it  would most certainly break up the monotony of Shel Silverstien poems that were sure to be audition pieces by the other children.  So, we watched the segment on YouTube several times and wrote the script.  We practiced and practiced the lines, the use of the newspaper as prop and the dance for the song.  He had it down, and it was hilarious.  On the day of the audition, I heard from one of the parent helpers that he was “great, really funny.” I was so proud.

Over the next several weeks, he happily went to drama club and I let the director do her thing with little to no interference.  I went over lines with my son when asked to do so and offered suggestions when he asked me my opinion. At home we worked on projection and dying with style (his character dies, you gotta milk that!) Then, it was time for his big moment.

With video camera ready in the capable hands of my husband, we watched as my son appeared on stage as “Bugsy Termite”. He was loud enough for all to  to hear clearly. His maniacal laugh got a laugh from the audience. He was doing great. And then…he tripped…and fell.  HARD.  A gasp from the audience.  Audible crying from my son. What do I do? Do I rush the stage? Do I call out, “Keep going!”  After what seemed like 5 minutes, but was probably closer to 30 seconds,  the director came out from the wings to comfort him.  It broke my heart that it wasn’t me up there, but deep down, I knew it was not my play and not my job to go up there to fix it.  Eventually, he got up, sat in a chair and began delivering lines halfheartedly.  But once his character’s blocking required him to stand, he sprang up, delivered his line well and then died with style; not as much style as he had rehearsed, but he did it.

I was proud of my son when he was doing his thing correctly. However, I was even more proud of him when, knowing ‘the show must go on’ that he got up, dusted himself off, and finished the play.  That’s my boy!

 

*I do not condone letting children watch Family Guy. He saw the aforementioned segment several times on the scoreboard at baseball games.

My Dog Has Fleas!

My husband and I are so ready for our dog, Murry to die.  Does that sound too harsh?  How about, to go to a “farm”? Kick the bucket? Bite the dust? Go to that place where all dogs presumably go?  I know it sounds horrible, but now that we have a new baby in addition to our 2nd grader, our 13 year-old, deaf, incontinent, overly needy, newly flea-bitten friend is not quite the treasure she once was. The fleas, which popped up  about two weeks ago were kind of the last straw. Until yesterday, when I finally decided to spend the big bucks on Frontline, I fought fleas by bathing the dog, washing the bedding and vacuuming the floors each day. It didn’t work. My advice: at the first sign of fleas, don’t be cheap, buy the good shit.

Murry was the light of my life for  years until I had my first child.  I remember actually saying to my mother when I was pregnant, “I don’t know how I will be able to love anything more than I love that dog.”  My mom laughed out loud. Of course, once I had my son, Murry immediately was no longer top dog.  That being said, she adjusted well and we continued to love her as much as we could.  She handled her new role as babysitter, rather than baby, quite well for many years.

Right around the time Murry turned 10, we began to notice some  changes.  First, she became exceedinly anxious. She had always been a little pitiful, but now her anxiety was such that the vet put her on the same anti-anxiety medication that pets affected by Hurricane Katrina were  on.  Unfortunately, she quickly developed a tolerance for the drugs and a half pill was replaced by a full pill, which was then replaced by 1 1/2 pills. This made her quite loopy, so we stopped altogether and decided to only give her the drugs when we predict an overly anxious time. That means that her normal state of being is now what one would consider moderately anxious; annoyingly in your face at all times or crying when not.

Another thing that happened was that Murry began to bark. The dog we got from the pound BECAUSE she did NOT bark, now barks all the time, at everyone and everything outside the livingroom window.

She also began to sleep so soundly that she started peeing during her sleep.  To be fair, she’s always had a little issue with trickling while sleeping; but now, she full out pees on her bed, our bed, the couch, and the floor.  (We have wood floors, thank goodness). Before we leave the house, if she must be inside while we are gone, we have to put bubble wrap on the couch and chair in the living room and close all doors upstairs so she doesn’t jump on any beds, or sleep on any rugs.

Finally, her breath is now horrendous.  It stinks of death, and there is no way to rid her mouth of the stench. We smell it across the room when we are sitting on the couch watching TV.  We’ve tried a new food, dentabones and biscuits. Nothing helps. And we are not brushing her teeth. It seems like a torturous thing to begin to do after 13 years of not doing it.

So each night when Murry decides she has to go out, RIGHT NOW, after we just brought her in, or when a residual flea jumps on my leg, or when she sees her reflection in a window and starts barking uncontrollably, my husband and I both sigh and think, “My GOD, when is that dog going to die?”  Then we feel guilty for thinking it. Then on our way up the stairs as we head off to bed, we step into a big puddle of pee and think it again, guilt-free.

Week One Doesn’t Suck!

As I have mentioned in a previous post, I was fully expecting the first month of my child’s life to suck big time!  After all, as a new mom with my first child, it did! I didn’t have the slightest clue what I was doing. My son had jaundice, and I had to take him to the hospital daily for surveillance for the first week. He wouldn’t latch on to my breast, so he was losing too much weight. I was tired, so very tired. To add to this,  I was in a city over six hours away from any of my family, and my “friends,” all of which were single, had abandoned me.  It was a very hard time, that followed an extremely difficult labor and delivery.

Imagine my joy that the birth of my beautiful daughter, Beatrice has been nothing short of perfect! She came into this world quickly and easily on August 3rd at 5:25 am, and after one week, I am happy to report that she is eating a lot, and sleeping well at night.  It is a totally different experience, and thankfully, one that doesn’t suck one little bit! Mom, Dad, and big brother are all doing great!

Wive’s Tales and Folklore, Let’s Have a Baby!

In an effort to have this baby before my Doctor goes on vacation August 1st, I am willing to take any and all advice about inducing labor.  Here is what I have been able to glean from the Internet.

Eat: Lobster, Spicy foods, Pinapple, Pizza from Geraci’s (local Italian Restaurant)

Drink: Castor Oil and Orange Juice (YUCK)

Do: Sex, Nipple Stimulation, Acupuncture, stepping up and down off of a curb, walking up and down stairs.

What have you heard? What worked for you?

Happy Feet!

I was going to call this post, “Pedicure II: Electric Bugaloo” but decided against it.  (Read about my White Trash Pedicure here!)

Thanks to my friend Megan, I had the best pedicure of my life at Ladies & Gentlemen Spa and Salon at Legacy Village in Lyndhurst, OH.  Thanks also to my pedicurist Amy who did a great job of making me feel relaxed.  I have no clever and/or snarky comments to make.  This pedicure was well worth the price ($64) and a definite must for any pregnant woman who can no longer see, let alone take care of her feet.

Thanks Meggy!

My Thrice Rejected Article About My Second Pregnancy

Below is an article that I submitted to Plum Magazine, Babble and Literary Mama.  All three rejected it   So I shall post it here for your enjoyment and wonder! It was written at the beginning of my second trimester.

Why I Don’t Like to Tell People I’m Pregnant…Again.

When I was pregnant with my first child, everything was so magical. Every single day there was a new milestone to celebrate. I would pour over information in magazines and on the internet about the growth of my baby and my changing body. I wrote in a journal daily to the small bean-sized fetus in my womb. I joined mothers-to-be online chat groups. I spent hours shopping for maternity clothes, baby toys, and accessories. My husband and I made sure that every cute little detail in the nursery was just right. We didn’t want to know the sex of the baby, because it was such a miracle. My joy and ignorance kept me in that “glow” that is so often talked about. I had no idea that there would be any negative side effects of the pregnancy or of the post-natal experience. Sure, the baby would hurt when it came out, but after three or four hours of natural child birth, my midwife would lovingly place the tiny babe to my breast, and he would immediately begin to suckle. Thus my perfect life as a perfect mother would begin perfectly.

Fast forward seven years to my current pregnancy; I have put off maternity clothes until the absolute last minute in the hopes that people think I’m merely getting fat and therefore do not begin defining me by my pregnancy. The journal I tried to start for the newcomer only has three entries. I refuse to get on any chat group that includes expecting women who think it’s cute to put pictures of angels and flowers in their posts or who type on and on about how much they love their husbands (which basically eliminates them all). I have a shirt that states in big letters “I ♥ Epidurals” even though I haven’t worn it yet. And most importantly, my husband and I have made the decision to find out the sex of the baby in order to plan accordingly.

What I did not know, and what nobody talks about when you are pregnant with your first child, is that the first month of being a new mom sucks, and the first year of being a mom can be the hardest of your life. They don’t tell you about just how utterly exhausted you will be or how gross your body becomes. They don’t tell you that you will feel absolutely void of energy or beauty. You will cry a lot, and worry more. You will feel like you live outside of your body. Then as the months go on, you will either snap out of it, or you will be like me and feel less and less like the old you and more and more like the kind of person you never ever wanted to become.

It took me nearly three years and a move to our old stomping grounds to feel like myself again. I had to lose 40 pounds, get new friends, go back to work and rediscover who I was before I was truly happy again. Finally, I feel like super mom and super woman. Why would I want to spoil that?

I remember a couple of years ago when a friend of mine was trying to decide whether or not to have a second child. She had just turned 35 and her daughter, Amy had just turned five. She said to me one day while we were pushing our adorable only children on the swings that she thought she should just get it over with and have another one. I couldn’t believe my ears! Get it over with? Is that really a “good” reason to have a baby? I remember ripping her to shreds behind closed doors with my husband. How could anyone say or think such a thing? If she doesn’t want a child, then don’t have one, but don’t have one because you feel like you “might as well.” There are thousands of couples who would kill for that kind of ambivalence.

Now that I am pregnant with my second, seven years after my first at age 35 I understand what she was saying. She knew that it would be better to have the child now than later. She looked ahead to the sleepless nights, the leaking breasts, the milk machine, the post partum blues, the baby weight, the loss of independence and knew that she certainly didn’t want to do THAT at age 38, 39, or God forbid, 40! So she made a conscious decision to “get it over with” in order to get her life back by the time she turned 38, 39 or 40.

It’s very alienating to feel this cynical about my second pregnancy. I know that when people ask me, “Are you excited?” I’m supposed to say, “Of course! My husband and I are delighted. We’ve been trying for so long and now it really is happening…again.” But what I end up saying more often than not is, “Sure,” and then I get the hell out of there. This is because I’m simply not excited, and my husband and I haven’t been trying for a long time. I know what’s coming, and it terrifies me. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not unhappy. We made the choice to have another baby, and know we are very lucky that we had no problems conceiving right when we wanted to, but it’s such a different feeling; more tentative and subdued.

I’m truly thankful for my son, who actually is excited. This is his first baby, and although it probably won’t happen, he envisions long nights of playing Star Wars in the back yard and tons or wrestling on the couch. He pictures he and his brother (because he is sure it will be a boy) doing all kinds of boy stuff that includes superheroes, fort building and hole digging. I try to remind him that he will be seven years older, but he doesn’t seem to care. His excitement knows no bounds. He will spend time talking to my belly, telling it secrets and thinking of more and more ridiculous names for the baby. Right now, he is thinking of naming it Boba Fett.

I’m glad he is excited and know it will rub off on me soon, perhaps when we actually get the ultrasound done that lets us know if the baby is a boy or a girl. In the mean time, I’m going to let my son be excited for all of us. I think it is important for other mothers out there who are considering their second (or third) child after a long break from diapers and nursing to know that you are not alone. It’s ok to feel ambivalent about the pregnancy, as long as you are still taking care of yourself and your baby. Of course when she’s born, you will love her and say, I can’t imagine why we waited so long. But for now, it’s ok to not glow. Don’t let others judge you or your feelings, and certainly don’t feel guilty for thinking, “Why am I doing this again?” Eventually, the reason will be crystal clear.

Post Script: It’s amazing what one ultrasound can do. We saw our beautiful baby girl. She was moving and sucking her thumb, kicking and waving. Now, I am finally getting excited to welcome her to our home. My son, however just got the blues.

Ten Years!

As you may recall, last year I spent my husband and my 9th wedding anniversary blogging and watching “Friends” reruns while my husband went out with the guys.  I wasn’t upset about it, really. In fact, I kind of liked the alone time. 

To celebrate 10 years (2 shaky years and 8 good ones), we have decided to celebrate all year long by subscribing to the Broadway Series at Playhouse Square.  That’s 7 dates (which I am pretty sure is more than we had this past year.)  I’m very much looking forward to it!

On our actual anniversary this past weekend, my parents came over to watch our son while we went to a movie on Friday night (The Soloist) and dinner on Saturday night (Fire-food and drink). The date had to be split into two evenings due to the high stakes sports night that Saturday was supposed to be.  Sadly, we should have just went to dinner AND a movie on Saturday because watching the Cavs lose their shot at the finals, and watching the Indians lose to the Yankees, AND watching the Penguins lose to the Redwings was a little much even for this non-rabid sports fan. (Check out my friend Lisa’s blog entry about Cleveland Sports!) Regardless, it was still a very nice weekend.

It is interesting to be married for 10 years. It doesn’t seem like a big deal or a long time until you start walking around your house and realize almost everything in it you received as a wedding present, and you’ve had it all for 10 years.  The plates we eat off of, 10 years. The vacuum cleaner, 10 years. The toaster, 10 years. Silverware, glasses, that weird picture of a lemon, all 10 years old. Our mattress, 11 years! (Dude, we need a new mattress!), our Dog, 12 years. It really makes one wonder where the time has gone, and it makes me want to haul ass to Crate and Barrel and get some new, hipper, trendier stuff. Alas, baby on the way prevents an extreme shopping spree.  Maybe when we move to Montana (hopefully in about three years), we’ll just chuck the old and get all new stuff.

Baby Name Poll Results

I thought you’d like to see the results of my poll.  Also, a little explanation of why each name made it to the list. Here they are!

Other (see below) 25%

Boba Fett 21% (My son wanted to name it Boba if it was a boy)

Bailey Catherine 17%  (Actual name contemplated and then discarded)

Hannah Elizabeth 13% (A combination of my Mother and MIL’s name picks from my last pregnancy)

Megalynn Clairisa 13%  (The names of my four friends combined)

Dorothy Jean 8% (My grandmother’s name. I never met her)

Veronica Ann 4% (My dad’s name is Ron, so I was thinking about how to name her after him. Unfortunately, Veronica is the name I used in college when I went out to bars.)

Beulah Carol 0% (My great Grandmother’s name and my MILs name)

Faye Christina 0% (Tina Fey!)

Other Answer Votes

Carol Anne, Bernice Lynn, Daisy May, Bacon McButter, Summerfall Winterspring

10 More Things I Never Want to Hear Again…Ever

10. Tabloid buzz about the marital problems of Jon and Kate (plus 8).

9. Notre Dame students vs Barack Obama.

8. Adam Lambert screaming.

7. Anything about Swine Flu.

6. Dick Cheny yappin’ his gums.

5. The story of Farrah Faucet’s battle with cancer.

4. “And again, the Indaians lose in the 9th inning due to their bull pen.”

3. Teenagers talking about stuff that is featured on their cell-phones and/or iPods.

2. Anything about or from Carrie Prejean, Miss California, USA. I mean really, WHO cares!?

1. “Hello and thanks for your query. Unfortunately we are not assigning right now. Best regards.”

White Trash Pedicure

Have you ever gotten a pedicure? For me, it is a rare occurrence.  Very rare. Because these wonderful indulgences are so few and far between, I must admit that I expect a lot from them.  Not only should my toes be soft and cute afterwards, but the experience has got to be wonderful too.  Otherwise, I’d just paint my own freakin’ toes and put some lotion on my feet, right?

I decided for my 35th birthday, I’d get a pedicure. Since I’m pregnant, and it is increasingly harder to see my toes, let alone paint them, it seemed like a good idea.  I decided to add a haircut, take a half day off of work and really pamper myself.  I even decided to call my old salon which is miles and miles away because they feel like home to me, and the last time I got a haircut and a pedicure there I was extremely happy with the results.

So off I go, away from my very, very talky coworker to the Salon (which I do not want to dis because this is the FIRST time I’ve had a bad experience here). At first it is as I expect. I have to wait a bit. I talk to the staff. They remember me. They ask me all the right questions about me and my family and my bump.  I’m scheduled for a pedicure at 2 and a hair cut at 3. 

So it begins. I am instructed to go back to the spa room, where the water is ready for me. I go, take off my shoes and dunk my feet. I’m alone for about 2 minutes. No,  had I known that this would be the most relaxing part of the experience, I would have savored it more, but I did not know this.  The woman came into the room, and I knew I was in trouble when she stated loudly, “You look like that and you’re pregnant. I look like that and I’m FAT.” She then plopped down and started to tell me WHY she was fat. She apparently decided to stop smoking and drinking (good for her!). So far, I’m not too upset, but then she goes on.  The following is inspired by her dialogue as I cannot remember it word for word, but you get the picture:

“I stopped drinking because I gotta new man in my life. He don’t drink, so that’s why I stopped. He’s a PROFESSIONAL paint baller! Have you ever heard of such a thing? I went to his website. He’s legit, and he is so hot. He is bald and muscular (add gross mouth/tongue gesture here). He also works for Harley Davidson. And he is so great to my two sons. My one son, I call him the “Spawn of Satan. ” He’s a horrible child. His dad is a cop. I was married to him for about five years. He’s such an asshole. He won’t even let me see his new baby daughter. His wife is great though, but anyway. Do you know when the new Fast and Furious movie is coming out? It’s this weekend right? I can’t wait! Do you like Vin Diesel? (No) What? Well, I ain’t rubbing your feet no more. Oh my god, if that man was within 20 miles of me, I’d need a restraining order because I would go right up to him and ask him if he wanted to f@#k me, then they’d probably lock me up. Which my ex would love. He’d just love to send me to jail. He should lock up that lazy ass son of his. All Spawn of Satan does is play X-box all day.”

It went on like this for a LONG time, so long in fact, that the girl who was supposed to cut my hair at three came in and asked if she could cut my hair now and my pedi could be finished afterward.  So that’s what we did. I put on some flip flops, got my hair cut and then went BACK to the spa room.  The second half of the pedicure was longer than the first, because now she had TIME to talk. 

As my mom said when I told her this story, “When you go to get a pedicure, you want someone to rub your feet for a half hour and shut up!”  Indeed.  So, my relaxing, birthday indulgence day did not go as planned. My toes are cute, but at what cost?  I will never get that two hours back. Hopefully, I can get a more relaxing end-of-pregnancy pedicure elsewhere.

 

Watch the hilarious SNL commercial mocking Fast and Furious!