Thank You Mrs. Brown: An Update...

California Girl at Heart at Thank You Mrs. Brown asked that I post the following update on her behalf:

To My Faithful Readers

My laptop, which has more lives than a cat, appears to be in the final throes of its long, ten year electrical life. Its hard black plastic case has been cracked from front to back and held together with sliver and red duct tape for several months now; the monitor finally gave out upon my return to California, the backlight not longer lit. The hard drive is still beating as far as I can tell, but who knows how long it will hold out. I think it will survive on life support for a while longer, tethered via a black cord to its power source, its green light blinking, while I use a friend's Mac to write this post.

But, all is not lost. I can have its memory transferred to a new hard drive once I buy a new laptop. Given my old laptop's apparent state of permanent decline, this is sad to say, but having just moved back to CA with most of my earthly belongings stuffed into three suitcases, I have other things higher on my priority list right now than buying a new laptop, like moving my furniture into my new place, once I find someone to move it. Finding some strong young backs to move my things is harder than I thought. Maybe I am just not looking in the right places, but the young don't seem to want to do this kind of physical labor. In addition to asking friends who have twenty-something year old adult children, I have tried Craig's List, with unimpressive results and am seriously thinking of heading over to Home Depot to hire someone who obviously wants to work, hoping I speak enough Spanish (which is dubious) or they speak enough English to communicate what box goes where.

So my friends, until I move and either get a new laptop, or at least a new monitor, this will be my last post for a week or two. I am still hopeful for the earlier date. Wish me luck with the move, and with my limited Spanish vocabulary. I will be back with my thoughts appearing in black and white in cyberspace in a week or two, one way or another.

Welcome back, California Girl at Heart. We missed you!

Got (Breast)Milk?

The following post is not intended for the prudish or squeamish:

Two mornings ago, Little Homie woke up with gloppy goo in his left eye. One panicky google search later, I learned that my baby boy probably has a blocked tear duct. How special for us. But, since the boogers dripping from his eyelashes were green and smelly (yes, I checked. Welcome to parenthood) I figured the duct was infected. So I called the pediatrician for an appointment.

Dr. S agreed with my diagnosis, and told us to come in at 3:45 that afternoon for a look-see.

"In the meantime, massage the space between his eye socket and nose to help clear the blockage, and if you're nursing, you can put a few drops of you breast milk in his eye. That'll help keep the infection from spreading."

"Really?"

"Really."

Evidently, the Immunoglobulin A found in breast milk is one kickass antibody.

And so -- per doctors orders -- armed with some seriously heavy chest artillery, I've been shooting Little Homie in the eye with my breast milk. He smiles and coos each time I squirt milk on his face. Great. When he develops an unhealthy obsession with fetish porn involving gigantic boobies and milk, we'll know why.

Changes

Suddenly, somehow, in between non-stop nursing and not sleeping, in between crying and cooing, my plucked-chicken newborn baby boy has grown eyelashes and eyebrows. His legs once red and scrawny, are now dimpled, donut-soft, rippled and white as though dusted with powdered sugar. He just discovered his hands, and twists and turns his fingers in my hair when I try to put him in his swing. He won't let go.

He was nestled in my lap last night, slumbering at last, while I trolled the internet for entertainment. Somewhere in a moment between status updates on facebook and searching for shirts at Oldnavy.com, I felt a gentle nudge on my arm. I looked down, and he was awake, his eyes as round and bright as twin moons shining in the pearly glow of the laptop screen. His mouth bent and stretched into a smile and he poked me again.

"Hey mama, cyberspace can wait."

"But there's a really good sale that ends tomorrow, and if I want to save 15% on all clearance items I have to order NOW."

Sometimes, I have to force myself to remember that this -- all of this -- is not forever. No matter what. Whether I skim over these moments in haste, or saturate myself in every poignant second, nothing will stay the same. Somewhere, in between stressing and (not) sleeping, in between blogging and breathing, in between power struggles and cooking dinner, tiny changes add up. They lose their belly-rolls, and their legs grow strong and sturdy, and suddenly, they're out of diapers, starting school, taking ballet class and playing soccer, whirling and twirling into grownups.

And, suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, they'll be growing their own families, struggling to hold onto sanity and sleep, while we go on trips to the Wine Country as our wrinkles dig down deep. And, eventually -- suddenly -- we will all become old, marked with the eternal etchings of a life forever and ever spent thinking about tomorrow.

So, I stared at my son, stunned by the weight of his body against mine, by the changes that have already taken over while I wasn't paying attention.

And I shut the laptop.

LITTLE BABY M:


AND LITTLE HOMIE:

Night Life

Again, I'm sleep-addled. M woke up several times last night, squirming and screaming, busting out the same colicky shit she used to pull when she was Little Homie's age. Blame it on the beans and broccoli: After several smelly, staccato farts, she finally fell asleep. But, by then, Little Homie was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, clamoring for boob. And so it went, brother and sister taking turns on mama's tit until the sun rose. Oh well. At least they're learning to share.

Little Homie

Lather, Rinse, REPEAT As Needed...

MEA CULPA: I'm a lazy-pants. While I'm hyper-aware that I haven't posted anything of substance in several days, I'm too tired to drum up the words to weave together a decent narrative. And so, I'm going all re-postal on you. Forgive me.

Anyway, I wrote this piece several years ago -- it's mostly true, although I twisted and tweaked a few truths to make it a better tale...

By day, I slouched in the second to last row of AP government class and tried to make myself invisible. I ate lunch with the randy cafeteria manager, and pretended not to care when no one else talked to me. But at night I changed selves with a pair of black pleather pants that squeaked when i tried to sit down. I smeared makeup all over my face, and if I avoided direct light, my face was pentimento pretty -- beneath the makeup spackle, you could hardly see the bumps and craters of what was my teenage nightmare. I spritzed my hair with hairspray, and sprayed cheap perfume between my boobs, and applied a heavy coat of lipstick.

I heard Moti before I saw him -- the heavy throb of Trance music smashed the quiet evening. I could hear the eager squeal of breaks and the intrusive sound of his horn as he pulled up onto our driveway. In the hallway, I heard my mom's scurry-shuffle as she threw open my bedroom door "Don't go out there! Let him come to the door like a person! And don't you think that lipstick is too dark?" The phone rang. "hello?" "Hey baby! I'm outside? Didn't you hear me honk?" I felt my jaw stiffen and my mom's gaze fastened on me "Come to the door then...like a person." I responded.

"I look good baby, no?" Moti asked when I opened the door. He looked like a middle eastern skin-head -- Kojack minus the lollypop crammed into a too-tight body shirt. "of course you look good" I answered. He smiled gallantly and draped his arm across my bare shoulders. I could smell his thick after work smell - part Benson and Hedges, part Dolce E Gabana, and part something else. His arm was heavy and felt like a giant cobra as he guided me to his car.

"Did you miss me baby?" he asked as we squealed out of the driveway, his right hand kneeding my thigh. I obliquely nodded. "I missed you too!" he said, his hand moving up my waist. We drove in silence for awhile. "Baby, do you love me?" he asked practically without a question mark...

"Moti, we've been dating for a week..." I answered tentatively. I lit a cigarette and relished the sensation of something familiar and secure as the nicotine raced through me. I opened the window and watched the smoke shimmy out into the quiet June night.

"Baby, you want to marry me?" He asked, again more of a statement than a question. I bit my lip hard, and tasted the warm coppery taste of my blood. "Will I marry you? " I responded "We just met..."

"Yeah, i know baby" he whined, "but you're going away to Berkeley and I think that we should get married.. besides, I talked to my lawyer and I'll have to leave the country unless I can get a greencard..........." SO THATS IT. I was a greencard with a nice rack.

"Baby, we should do marry soon, before we can to change our minds..." He cajouled.... I didn't answer. I just sat there and perhaps he understood my silence as acquiescence because he grabbed my head and pulled me into a rough, sloppy kiss.

We pulled into the parking lot of Tempo, the Israeli bar in the valley. The air was swampy with the smells of different perfumes, colognes and cigarette smoke as we made our way through the throngs of people in the front. Pini Cohen, the Los Angeles Israeli community's answer to Ricky Ricardo was in full voice as he shook his hips and sang one of Eyal Golan's most famous songs... "...Yafa sheli Et kol melot ha'ahava eshkor beseret Eten otan bematana, eten gam vered... My Beautiful, I will tie all the words of love with a ribbon, and give them to you with a rose... " Moti pulled me against him as he began to dance. I stammered for breath -- so many people around us, reaching, grasping, groping... I broke away and stumbled to the bathroom.

I could feel the hot music through the pale blue walls as I crouched on the cracked tiled floor. I got up and turned the faucet on full-blast as I stared at my almost unrecognizable reflection in the mirror. I mixed soap and water in the palms of my hand, watching the little bubbles snatch pieces of overhead light. I pulled my stiff ringletted hair back into a scrunchy and bent down over the cool water spray. I began to wash my face, gently rinsing it with water as the makeup ran in rivulets down the drain. I dried myself off with my tanktop and went back into the club.

No one looked at me when I walked out of the bathroom, and I felt myself give into the music as I swayed freely to the beat. I was relieved to be invisible again as I pushed my way through the heavy crowd. I passed Moti who was standing near the door. He looked at me strangely as though he knew that he was supposed to know me, but couldn't figure out how or from where.

Truisms

I now know these truths to be self-evident:

...If I book a waxing appointment with Olga, the aesthetician for Tuesday, December 8th, I will go into labor on Monday, December 7th.

...If I dress Little Homie in that special outfit I splurged on at Baby Gap, within thirty minutes, it will be covered in baby shit.

...If I blow a wad of cash on the latest educational baby toy, M will be more interested in the box it came in.

...If there is one lonely piece of dog shit on an entire acre of grass, M will find it.

...If there is only one sick and snotty little girl at the park, M will make friends with her.

... If I brag to my friends that Little Homie only wakes up once a night to eat, he will start waking up every hour on the hour for a snack session.

...If I wear a white tank-top, my boobs will leak.

Like pooping on the delivery table and first-time postpartum sex there are things that no one talks about. Oh well. Lessons learned.

Hollah at these Blogs, yo.

My friend Laszlo is like a well-adjusted Holden Caulfield. Witty and daring, his narratives are clever without being obvious or pretentious. Recently, he published an exhilarating piece at Flavorwire.com about his most recent picaresque adventure and I hope you will all check it out:

Going Rogue at Werner Herzog's Rogue Film School

I'd also like to encourage everyone to continue reading the poignant and powerful blog, Thank You Mrs. Brown which is also written by a close friend of mine.

In other blog-related news, I don't know if any of you are familiar with the heartbreaking story of Madeleine Spohr. She was born too-early at 29 weeks, and while she survived her stay in the NICU and blossomed into a beautiful, charming and intelligent toddler, she died suddenly on April 7, 2009. Her parents bravely decided to have another baby, and after a turbulent and emotional 9 months, Annabelle Violet Spohr was born healthy and happy on January 22, 2010.

... Craptastic. My laptop is thisclose to dying, and I'm trapped on the couch with Little Homie on the boob, so the rest of my post will have to wait...

Browsing at Barnes and Noble...

...I'd like to point out that this is a flattering photo of me. If it weren't, I wouldn't post it. Yes, my arms are pretty ripped from shlepping a 24 pound toddler hither and yon, but I assure you, the rest of me still looks three months pregnant. I promise, I am not being that whiny, neurotic skinny-ass girl who says things like "OMG, I am so fat," or "I can't believe I ate like an entire piece of celery!" Trust me. There's a reason I'm holding M in front of my belly.

Big Mama

When I was pregnant with M, due to a profoundly unhealthy friendship with Snickers with Almonds and Babybelle Cheese, I gained a hearty 79 pounds. But, thanks to breastfeeding and postpartum anxiety, the weight melted off quickly and effortlessly. By my six week postpartum checkup, I only had 19 pounds left to lose, and (Hallelujah and Praise the Lord!) construction workers were whistling at me again. Inspired by the attention, and eager to cram myself back into my favourite pair of jeans, I kept up the momentum: By the time M was three months old, I was only busting out the Spanx when I'd meet up with that ultra-glam "friend" who always makes me feel like a schlumpy haus frau. So, this time around, as much as I bitched and moaned about my deflated bowling ball of a belly, I figured that since I'm meeting the nutritional needs of the entire neighborhood a newborn baby and a toddler, the weight would drop off super-fast.

Well, it hasn't.

My doctor saw me three weeks after giving birth to check my stitches --(yes, I ripped like tissue paper down there) -- and, with hope in my heart, and a skip in my step, I got on the scale. I'd only shed fifteen pounds. "It's only been three weeks," I tried to tell myself as I felt a lump of bilious panic rise in my throat. "No big deal! I've got this!" So, I went on the neighbors' treadmill a few times, took a break from my dysfunctional relationship with Haagen Dazs chocolate ice cream, and drank more green tea.

I went back to Dr. B's today for my official postpartum checkup -- you know, the one where your partner gets the green light to hit that, and you discuss your birth control options with your OB so you don't end up right back where you started anytime soon. Anyway, the nurse took my blood pressure, and then, with cautious optimism, I stood on the scale. Surely, my healthier eating habits and my two brisk walks strenuous workouts on the treadmill had paid off, right? Wrong.

I've gained three pounds.

This Is How We Do Barney In Our House...

A Walk In The Park

Getting out of the house with a toddler, a newborn, and a husband is an intricate and delicate process that takes determination and double-jointed coordination. Usually, by the time Little Homie is done hanging out at the milk bar, M is whiny and ready to go down for her nap. Or, B has a work-related crisis that can't wait another hour and a half. Or, I catch a glimpse of my sloppy self in the mirror and can't face the outside world without spending at least 30 minutes primping (which, of course, means that by the time I'm done, Little Homie is hungry again or M is rubbing her eyes and/or foaming at the mouth again.) Lather, rinse, repeat. But, this Sunday, through sheer force of will and incredible dexterity, we got out of the house, and drove to the park.

The LA mamas at the park are preternaturally chic in a languid, Sunday-morning way with their Bugaboo strollers, non-fat soy lattes and matching husbands. They all wear their hair pulled back in effortlessly highlighted pony-tails. 150.00 yoga pants hug their tight little asses, and their boobs defy gravity. These are the mamas who only buy organic food and one-of-a-kind wooden toys handmade by magical Norwegian elves. These are the mamas who give their babies designer names, and schedule play dates two and a half weeks in advance. These are the mamas who plan their pregnancies.

And, they're all friends.

I am not one of these mamas: Little Homie sits pretty in a hand-me-down (non-organic) prune-stained pink snap-and-go (and yes, everyone assumes he's a girl because what mama doesn't get a blue -- or at least a gender-neutral -- baby carrier for her boy child?) I don't do pony-tails, highlighted or otherwise. I can't pull off the svelte yoga look -- trust me, I've tried. And the worst of it is, it's not like I'm too badass to care what these other women think of me. In fact, I face these Stepford mamas and their cavalry of colour-coordinated Bugaboos with what can only be described as desperate optimism. Alas: While they simultaneously flash their polished teeth in a Miss Manners smile, the muscles around their cheeks and eyes don't flinch.

They give me the once-over, size me up, and then turn back to their earnest discussions about the best organic toddler snacks at Whole Foods. I stuff M's goldfish crackers deep in my purse, and try to join in, but suddenly, they all seem to get very interested in their children. Or cloud formations.

I used to feel like everyone but me got a manual on how to look, dress, and act like they have their shit together, and while I thought I had evolved past that feeling of awkward loneliness, it's amazing how being snubbed at the playground by the cool mama clique can slam you back in time. It's like high school all over again, and I'm desperately looking for someone -- anyone -- to sit with in the cafeteria.

January 16th

Five years ago today, I crawled into bed with my mom for the last time. Dry lips yanked back into a rictus of pain, she lay there, shriveled, on the bed. She fidgeted and moaned. Someone gave her morphine. She sighed. Her breath was slow and coarse as gravel. Her skin stretched taught and transparent over her perfect cheekbones.

I picked up her hand. A large vein twanged with her tired heartbeat.

Anemic sunlight flitted through the room, playing with the shadows on the wall.

I cried without a sound.

Her eyelids fluttered.

This was my mom, but it wasn't my mom.

My dad came in and lay next to her in the bed they had shared for almost 30 years. He held her hand. He kissed her face.

He told her she could go.

She shuddered, knocking her head against the pillow.

The primordial sound of death rattled in her throat.

And she was gone.

the sound of one hand blogging

please excuse the e. e. cummings-esque nature of this post -- i swear, i'm not trying to be avant garde. i'm blogging one-handed. little homie is having a snack (again) and m is galavanting around the living room with her grampa. this is my downtime.

dfw0e-33333333jvn
djfe-nn f-0ri-

well, m just decided that 'helping' me type on the laptop is more fun than playing with elmo. clearly, she's a 21st century kid.

and so, i leave you with this:

In Which You All Find Out That I Am One Spoiled Mama

My Fairy-Godmother-in-law, who does most of the cooking around here (not to mention the dishes and laundry), is going up North for a week to visit her youngest son. For those of you looking to make a solid fiscal investment, right now is a good time to put your money into various takeout and fast-food establishments. (Panda Express, Burger King, Pizza Hut are all sound choices.)

And I thought caring for a newborn and a toddler in tandem was hard before.

Damn.

Please send us your good thoughts. Or better yet, send us a casserole or some roasted chicken.

Seeing Red

I was born a blonde, and as a child, my hair had those summery highlights that women pay a fortune for at the salon. But as I got older and my hair darkened like dishwater, I sought ways of going back to my roots -- although, technically, my roots were now quite dark and dingy looking. When I was in middle school, I got freaky with the Sun-In, and rocked a garish platinum for two years. I tried to convince everyone it was natural, but my dark brown eyebrows gave me away. But hey, if Gwen Stefani could pull it off, then surely I -- an awkward, pimply 13 year old -- could do it, right? Um. Not so much. Still, it was the early '90's, and no one really knew any better. Except Jennifer Anniston.

Throughout high school and college, I let the blonde mellow out a little into a something that looked kind of natural. Still, those who saw me naked knew the truth.

And then I got pregnant, and paranoid about the harmful effects of bleach and hair dye, and everything went to hell. Fast.

Blame the hormones, but I recently decided that the best way to distract from my flabby postpartum reality enhance my curvaceous new look was to ditch the mousy brown hair and go for something sultry and daring. I thought long and hard about my options: I scanned the pages of celebrity magazines for inspiration, googled online articles about how to flatter one's skin tone, culled old photos, and yes, I even bothered to check in with the La Leche League to make sure that hair dye and breastfeeding were sympatico! (They are.)

I thought about being blonde again. But then, while a milk-drunk Little Homie was dozing on my lap after a marathon suck session at my boob, I stumbled upon a picture of Christina Hendricks. And her breasts (Daaaamn!) And I had my answer.

Red. Absolutely.

I decided that it would be cheaper and more efficient to do the deed at home, and my beloved friend, Lieneche, even offered to come and help me transform from dreary to devastating. But still, even with these concessions, there are more steps needed in negotiating the necessary 1-2 hour break for me to dye my hair, than there are in a NASA launch sequence. Seriously: Little Homie has to be fed, burped and satisfied. M has to be at least an hour and a half away from nap or bedtime, and in a good mood. My Fairy-Godmother-in-Law needs to be around. B has to be home. The local shaman has to sign off on whether the stars are aligned. Otherwise, it's one giant clusterfuck.

But somehow, we managed to make it happen.

And now, I wait for that illusive, auspicious moment when the stars realign again,so I can go test out my new look on the town. Or at least up the street at Coffee Bean.

Thank You...

It's almost midnight. Little Homie is making those newborn sleep-noises which make him sound like a constipated Velociraptor. Or so I would imagine.

M is asleep, butt in the air, curls matted against the bedsheet, snoring lightly.

(I guess I should be sleeping too.)

As I've mentioned in previous posts, (cue violins playing a melody in a minor key,) I've been expecting Postpartum Depression to kick my ass hard. But, having this creative outlet -- and feeling validated by all of the wonderful comments and emails -- has really kept the beast at bay. So far.

So, thank you.