Dad Stories

My father is a storyteller. In case you're wondering where I get it from.

I never tire of his retelling of little gems from celebrity sightings to vacation mishaps to clients from hell. (He's also in advertising, in case you're wondering where I get that from too.) An active life spent in and around New York City makes him like our family's very own Metropolitan Diary. Our very own Overheard in New York. Only better. He's got camp stories that make me howl with laughter, fraternity stories that make me blush, National Guard stories that make me realize that it's a damn good thing the US Army never had the honor of his, um...service.

Yeah, my dad used to make up Jewish holidays so he could get out of latrine duty. Ever heard of T'Shibov? Well, neither had his captain.

My father is not like that cliché old grandpa character, the one who says, "Did I ever tell you about that guy with the thing..." but only because he knows very well that he's told us about that guy with the thing. Hundreds of times.

But he also knows it doesn't stop us from wanting to hear about that guy with the thing.

"You know my story about..." he begins with a grin. Then he inhales deeply, leans back as he stretches out his arms out, then relaces his fingers behind his head and begins.

"You know the LCD story, Liz...you were 5, in the Mexico airport on our way home from vacation. You wanted a piece of candy and we wouldn't let you have it. So you walked right up to the counter and stared and stared at that candy and made these sad puppy dog eyes at the lady behind the counter until she just handed it to you.

That's when we started calling you LCD: Little Convincing Daughter."

I've derived plenty of my life lessons and values from his stories. I learned to be nice to people on the way up the ladder. I learned that what goes around comes around. I learned what a parent can be at his best.

"You know my line, right....I told your stepmother on our first date: I don't live with my kids full time. But I'm still a full-time dad."

His travel stories are some of the best. My father is an intrepid Lonely Planet kind of a traveler, exploring Thailand, Egypt, Costa Rica, the Galapagos, the way the locals do. Which isn't to say he isn't particular about things.

Hey, this time we only had to switch rooms at the hotel twice! Next time we're going to ask for our third room, first.

His most riveting travel stories take place during long lunches at hidden restaurants where the proprietors speak not a word of English. Or on day trips with native tour guides who can get him access to places tourists wouldn't even know to ask about.

"Your wife, she is beautiful," the old Egyptian man said at the cafe.

"Two camels! I'll sell her to you for two camels," I joked. Amye giggled.

"But no! That would be an insult," he said in all seriousness. "I give you 20,000."

The celebrity stories are irresistible, of course. There was Jerry Lewis (douchebag!) making an appearance at my dad's fraternity then refusing to pose for a single picture with the brothers. I believe his line was, "You think a star like me would pose with a pipsqueak like you?" There was Joe DiMaggio (awesome!) who my father worked with for a while, and who would discuss anything besides Marilyn Monroe. And then there was the time a super hot 1970s Hollywood icon and infamous womanizer, at the height of his celebrity, walked into a high-end restaurant with a date, stoned and holding a joint--and my father just so happened to be at a large table near the front door.

"Joint," I said mouthing the words quietly when he caught my eye. I pointed towards his fingers. "Joint."

Realizing his faux pas, he nodded, then quickly tucked the joint into his pocket.

Moments later he came by our table to say hi and whisper a word of thanks in my ear. "Good to see you!" he said shaking my hand, then waving to everyone else at the table. "Enjoy your dinners."

"Oh my goodness! How do you know him?" you grandfather asked, impressed.

"Oh...I just know him," I said.

This is like so many of my father's anecdotes--fortuitous intersections between his life and pop culture or history. In some ways, my father is like Zelig, often in the right place--or wrong place--at just the right time. These are the kinds of stories that give me more perspective on the world and how sometimes our tiny lives fit into the puzzle.

So it’s the summer of 1964 and those two civil rights activists are missing in Mississippi. My National Guard troop is all sitting around discussing it, and this one guy from that very town pipes in quietly, “Sheriff did it.”
We all waved him off, thinking yeah, right. We chalked him up as some yokel. What did he know?

Again, still softly, “Sheriff did it. Everyone knows it.”

With that he walked away

Nate gives me a hard time when I start to retell a story for the fourth or fifth or the thirtieth time, like my father does. I don't apologize for it. These tales are our family's legacies. Telling them over and over is one way to assure that they don't die with the storyteller.

Tonight I'm going to have a new story: The night we took my father out for his 65th birthday.

Happy birthday dad, I love you.

And if you don't mind, I'm going to tell you that more than once.

The Nanny Diaries: Day 1

Yesterday I started my morning by leaping from bed to clean my apartment. For my new part-time nanny.

Who, until yesterday, was the woman who came to clean my apartment.

As if she didn't already know we live like slobs, with dishes that stay in the sink just a little too long and piles of magazines and unopened mail that, like pasta, seem to grow the second you turn your head away. I swear Nate and I are going to be like those crazy old ladies you read about who die in their homes, and then four days later the landlord busts into the place to find the bodies decomposing in upholstered La-Z-Boys, surrounded by piles of catfood cans and ceiling-high stacks of rotting newspapers from the Truman administration.

But something was different than it was the day before. Because M was now taking care of Thalia (Sage has been coming to work with me, that much do I hate pumping). And I wanted to...what? Impress her? Impress her with our perfect little family and our brilliant organizational skills?

So not who we are. So not what happened.

I was nervous. Nervous around M, the woman who I've known for years, who adores Thalia, who Thalia adores.

Forget nervous; I was totally inept.

We were out of milk. We were out of diapers. I didn't have a diaper bag packed. When I packed it, it included basically the one remaining diaper, a Sigg bottle and a burp cloth.

Yep, my two year-old daughter just might need a burp cloth.

M had to ask me about suntan lotion for the park. "Oh..." I said trying to appear like one of those cool prepared moms who actually remembers to keep UV protection handy at all times. "It's in the, uh...the [mumblemumble]....don't worry, I'll find it. I'm sure it just uh...slipped out of the bag. Maybe."

The healthiest snack I could find were cheddar goldfish with calcium, and a banana on its last legs. And my instructions for contacting the pediatrician in case of emergency was the very specific: "You know...they're just down the block. Near the drugstore. Well, somewhere around there. If you need the address call me."

Man, this not watching your kids all day thing is hard.

"It's Not Working"

"It's not working!"

This is one of Thalia's favorite phrases, equally applied to a toy missing a battery as to a shard of Granny Smith apple peel she can't shake loose from sticky fingers.

So I hear her voice uttering those three words when I assess the admirable attempt at stay-at-home-daddom in our household over the past two years: It's not working.

I have been remiss about writing about stay-at-home dad stuff for the past year or so, if you haven't noticed. I even received some very nice letters from dad readers asking me to write more about it, please. My fault for using a SAHD tag on technorati. Mea culpa.

My reluctance drew from the fact that I knew our situation wouldn't last forever. Too many issues. Like me wanting to work from home whenever possible, which drives Nate batshit. Or the reality that this just isn't his lifelong dream. So I avoided the topic here, feeling unqualified to be any kind of poster child for working moms with dads at home (Despite this post, which I still stand by incidentally). Also, I think Dutch and Wood have beaten us to a bloody, shriveled pulp of a bloody, shriveled pulp in that arena. And Wood photographs way better than I do as far as posters go.

I have come to realize that a SAHD is not a SAHM with a penis.

There are myriad factors to support this theory, that warrant an entire essay unto themselves. I'm still too tired to attempt it, sorry. Let's just say there are societal pressures and challenges that go well beyond that which SAH moms will ever feel. Perhaps the moms encounter an angry second wave feminist or two, insinuating you're personally bringing down an entire revolution what with your atrophying brain and all-day nibbling of bonbons. But the dads who choose to stay at home, they have to address that raised eyebrow, that "Ohhhhhhhh?" every time they state their profession. To anyone. Anywhere. Even in fancy, progressive NYC.

Besides, checking off Homemaker on surveys and censuses and bank account applications is not real easy for the menfolk.

Homemaker With Tattoos would be a small improvement.

Consider that this is a society in which it's perfectly acceptable to open cocktail party banter with, "So, what do you do?" It's a very rare and very confident father who can answer "I take care of my kids" without either puffing out his chest and looking like a defensive wanker, or cracking a joke at his own expense to preempt awkward follow-up questions.

And so, as of this week, Nate will have a different answer to the question.

He will be back in the restaurant business until he finds the path he believes he was meant to be on. Because frankly, the path can get a little hard to see when your days are filled with peanut butter sandwiches cut into triangles and "Vamanos, Dora!" and making horsie sounds to a 2/4 beat in a Music Together class.

(And don't we all know it.)

I think the child care options we have are going to pan out while I continue to work. But boy, there are some big changes ahead. Big scary changes. And potentially, big wonderful changes. For our kids. For our relationship.

Nate is an astonishly devoted father. This much has never been questioned. Now he'll just be that devoted father with a second job.

A second job. Because all parents have jobs.

And we're all full-time parents, no matter how we spend our days.

__

Just to add: Thank you all so so much for the great advice and concern regarding recent posts. Vague as I was, I realize a lot of you have it tougher than I do. I'm still tired and reserve the right to whine about it, but I'm grateful for both a little sympathy and a whole lot of perspective.

Truth

It's just...you're always so busy, he said.

I am busy, she said. It's who I am. I've always been and I always will be. I like being busy. I thrive on being busy. I don't know how else to be.

No, he said. You thrive on being too busy.

Dear Blog...

Oh my poor blog, I apologize for neglecting you lately. You and the other blogs around you, some of which are prettier and smarter and way more deserving of my attention than even you.

These days I could fall asleep standing up. I could fall asleep standing up in broad daylight with George Clooney standing right in front of me asking me where I've been all his life. In fact, that very well may have happened. Today even. But how would I know? I'd have been asleep.

(I'm so tired that I'm actually writing about being tired, which may easily be the single most boring topic in the mommyblog world, second only to that meme that asks you to list everything you ate this week. But I'm too tired to delete and start over.)

I'm sorry that I'm neglecting you blog because there are so many things I want to write about, but you see, I'm not just tired, I'm in the Land of Bitten off More Than I Can Chew. This is a land where I'm back to work but still have the same bills to pay, the same home to clean, the same toddler to play with because she's not yet old enough to meet me at a bar for a drink, damn her. And the same baby waking up two times a night. Or 80.

Depends on the night.

I'm wondering how they do it, those working moms with little babies. How do they find the time, the enthusiasm, the motivation, the brain power day after day?

Are they all faking it too?

Or, maybe, they have wives.

Yes, that's it. I need a wife.

Anyone got a spare wife lying around?

Anyone?

[Cue SFX: Head hitting the keyboard]

Simpsonizing: A Lesson in Self-Esteem

At times I live in a fantasy world.

Or as I like to look at it, "a glass half-full kind of world."

Because that's the way glass half-full kind of people spin the notion of delusional thinking.

When I check out the weather forecast in the morning, I flip channels, "shopping" for the best forecast. In other words, if five of them say 79 and partly cloudy with chance of rain, I'll hold out until I get 74 and partly sunny. Then when everyone tells me to bring an umbrella, I can say "But no! It's going to be 74 and sunny!" And I will insist I am right.

Similarly when I go on those sites where you can create an avatar and see how, say, a bathing suit might look on you, I start with my real measurements and excellent intentions to be honest with myself. But eventually I start shaving inches.

It's easy to justify: Okay so when I lose ten pounds and all of them in my hips, let's see what this nutmeg/celadon tankini will do for me.

The real trouble starts when I start adding inches to my height.

So when Laid-off Dad suggested I get over to the Simpsons Movie site and create my Groeningesque doppelganger, I was game to see how accurate I could get it.

But once again, I ran into problems.

I started here:

Note: New mom eyes, unstyled hair, brows in need of
professional guidance, shirt with breast milk stain on left nipple.
Also, shapeless maternity pants to match the shapeless triceps.

Then I think wait, I am going to get my hair blown out sometime in the near future, right? Plus I'm totally starting to lose weight. I'm sure I just lost .5 pounds in the last three weeks. (Breastfeeding melts it RIGHT OFF, the books say. Melts it! Like butter!)

Still got those new mom eyes though.

And eventually I think eh, maybe I'll get some sleep in four years or so. Let's work off that premise.

That or an eye lift. Hey, what's good enough for Ethan Hawke...

That's my avatar and I'm sticking to it.

Breaking News: Suddenly Moxie Crimefighter Doesn't Sound So Weird After All

Go. Read. Now.

Some parents in China, in an admirable attempt to bump the lead paint scare off the headlines, are trying to name their child @.

That's right, @.

After all those months of painfully brainstorming names for She Who is Now Called Sage, who knew that the perfect answer was right there in front of us, every time we checked our email.

Personally I prefer &.

At least you could call him Sandy.

Sorry, grammar geek humor.

On (colic)

Thalia never slept. This much is well-documented. Very well-documented. (New Girl, I feel your pain. Truly. )

Thalia needed to be swaddled and bounced and rocked and jiggled and held and swung around and sung to, then swung some more, jiggled and rocked and bounced and bounced again and then maybe swaddled some more after all that jiggling and rocking and bouncing and swinging. It was a bitch. And I didn't even have nice triceps to show for it when all was said and done. Just your standard sleep deprivation signs: Eye bags, sallow skin, short fuse, faulty brain...you know the drill.

Sage is her own girl.

She likes to sleep, sometimes even long enough to let me catch up on a couple hours of Top Chef late in the dark of my bedroom late at night. She doesn't fuss. She doesn't cry for six hours a day, which I had just assumed was something that all babies did.

It's all made me realize that Thalia was

(colicky.)

I never said those words out loud until recently. I couldn't. Proclaiming that Thalia had (colic) was like saying she was somehow lesser than other babies. And I'd be having none of that.

I think at times I've been afraid to write about how good, how easy, how delightful Sage has been (and she has been) in her first three months, for fear that it would somehow diminish my firstborn in the process. I admit that Thalia lives her life on a bit of a pedestal 'round these parts--her shortcomings are quirks, her challenges are mere idiosyncrasies. Isn't that the birthright of the first child? It's not that I'm like one of those crazed parents who expects perfection at every turn. One quick glance at the crap strewn about our apartment and you'd dismiss that notion outright. It's more like: I'm okay with my daughter's imperfections as long as they're the imperfections that I'm okay with.

I'll take skinny and picky and athletically inept but you keep your colic, Mister.

So now Thalila's got this sweet, easy, narcoleptic of a sister to come along and cast her in a different light, a more true light, halogen-style, which in some ways dashes The Legend of Thalia, the superchild who was born smiling.

She's still the superchild. The superchild who survived (colic).

I love you sweetheart, but throwing is not your forté.

Formula for Disaster?

Dear Daily Candy,

I used to be your biggest fan. Numero uno. I was all set to tattoo I [heart] DC on my ass until I realized that people would think I [heart]-ed Washington DC, which I do to some degree, but not so much that I need to express it with any degree of pain to my person.

I once loved your kid's edition daily emails which waved unattainably cool stuff in my face. Like family vacations at $1500/night resorts. Or the season's must-have toddler sneakers that could only be purchased in Tokyo on Tuesdays.

Each morning I opened, I clicked, I dreamed.

But they you went and got big. Bigger than big. Suddenly the huge advertisers were knocking at your door which, well, totally understandable. So you pitched me products like minivans and fast food and floor cleaners. I stuck by you. A company's gotta make a buck. Still, it's not like you would recommend something you didn't actually believe in, right? Even if you were paid to do so?

Then one day you sent me a dedicated email recommending that I shop for kids' back-to-school clothes at Wal-Mart [this message paid for and brought to you by Wal-Mart]. You actually suggested my daughter parade around the playground in her Dora the Explorer merchandise from the chain. "No, it's cool everyone. Settle down. This was actually Daily Candy's idea."

I think they call that jumping the shark. Not devastating; just uncomfortable.

But today...

Today.

Sigh.

I don't tend to get political about this boob or not boob debate. My kids have been fed breast milk. My kids have been fed formula. Neither has killed them yet.

But this month, August, is World Breastfeeding Month. And I respect that.

So maybe today's email promoting Nestlé Baby Formula? Not a smart idea.

Not a smart idea at all.


Sincerely,
Mom101

Why I Need You All With Me the Next Time I'm Discussing Death

I am beyond busy these days (buh-bye, maternity leave) but wanted to thank the blog world for so much compassion over one crappy cat. If you had ever met Desdemona, you'd be taking it all back, so I'm kind of glad you never met her. Not just for the kind words, but because the ensuing advice about death and spirituality was extremely helpful yesterday.

Sort of.

Well, you be the judge.

"Going home," Thalia said. "See Emily. And Desi!"

"No sweetie, no Desi."

"Desi's at the doctor."

"So okay Thalia, Desi died. She was too sick to get better. She was really old and really sick and her body just couldn't work any more sort of like water in a cup and wait, that's not right but um...but she can still live in our hearts so anyway it's not just that she was old because old is relative. I mean, tortoises can live 100 years and a tortoise - do you know what a tortoise is? Like a turtle."

"Turtle!"

"And a flower can live one day, like that flower you picked at Aunt Maggie's house and it died and then then Desi, she lived to almost 17. Remember how you can count to 16 now? Well 17 is one higher than that so it's really high! But not as high as Momsie who's now almost 90! That's really really high. But now anyway, Desi is peaceful which is good because she was so sick and hurting and even though we won't see her again she let us pet her for so many years and we loved her and you can still talk to her if you want."

"Talk to Desi."

"Yes, well, at least in your head...do you know how to do that? And all right, so anyway...she's not sick anymore, she's dead. And that's what dead means."

[pause]

"More crackers Mommy?"

Okay, so if any of you need advice on talking to your kids about vaginas, feel free to ask. At least I've got that one down.

Imagine There's No Heaven

The hardest aspect of putting Desdemona down this morning (besides the whole putting down aspect of it and the me crying all day thing and then the disposing of the not-very-self-cleaning litter box that I always hated which was heavy as hell and holy cow, was it nasty) has been explaining the cat's absence to Thalia.

She essentially knew that the cat was sick and went to the doctor. So, playing off that, we told her that Desi went to go live with the doctor to get better.

What can I say, it just came out.

It's easy now, with Thalia only two and not understanding concepts much more complicated than the Wonderpets saving a baby cow who's stuck in a tree. (Big twister. Don't ask.) But in time there will be more death and more explaining and it can't always be that everyone we know who gets sick goes to live with a doctor.

First of all, the doctors wouldn't have it.

So here's the question:

How do you/did you/will you talk to younger kids about death, particularly when you don't have the happy heaven story to fall back on?

(And I'm not being facetious, I swear.)

I'm a non-practicing Jew, as they call it these days, with more commitment to the Jewish culture and values than to the religion. Nate's a satisfied Atheist. One of the downsides of our collective beliefs, or lack thereof, is that we don't get free access to that treasure chest full of convenient faith-based answers to life's tough questions. It's too bad. It would make things a whole lot easier.

Or as Jack Handey so beautifully put it: If a kid asks where rain comes from, I think a cute thing to tell him is "God is Crying." And if he asks why God is crying, I think another cute thing to tell him is, "Probably because of something you did."

It's Been a Good Run

It's funny how when death comes, it's not what you think it will be.

This is it for Desi. Poor cat.

I've joked about her in the past and what a shitty pet she's generally been, what with the hissing and the hairball puke all over the rug and the trying to eat anyone who comes through the door. But for 16 years and 7 months she's been my shitty pet.

Saturday morning I took the old girl to the vet, after realizing she hadn't touched her food (unheard of) in ages and seemingly of nowhere, she's become just a wisp of her former gloriously obese self. She's not quite walking straight, her fur is spiking out in unnatural angles, and she's certainly lost her feisty streak. When I nudged her off the coffee table, she didn't let out that trademark toxic hiss--just stumbled and landed on her side before scuttling away, defeated.

And then there's the matter of the fist-sized growth on her back.

It's time.

I walked back into the apartment, trailing big clumps of black cat hair behind me as I confirmed the prognosis with Nate. The doctor had given her a steroid shot to ease the pain until we could make the decision to let her go and that decision should be made sooner than later.

Never did I expect to be this emotional, to burst into tears as I relayed the information. I suppose I have spent a lot of time thinking what a burden Desi was, and really very little thinking what things would be like without her. How I'd miss those nights alone in bed when, like a magical stuffed animal who comes to life just for a child, Desi would curl up on my chest, lick my neck and purr herself to sleep, releasing the sweet inner kitten she revealed only ever to me.

I set down in the duffel with which I had transported the cat, while Thalia, who loves every unlovable beast on this planet, squealed and scurried up to pet her. As if Desi were still fat and healthy. As if she had ever reciprocated Thalia's affections even one bit. Thalia never saw her as others did. Thalia never questioned whether Desi was worthy of her love--she just loved her.

"Desi, doctor," she said as she pressed her face against Desi's mangy fur in an that cheek-hug that toddler's do.

"That's right, Thalia. Desi is feeling sick and so we took her to the doctor."

"Desi, doctor."

"That's right."

"Desi alllllll better."

"Yes, sweetie. Soon she'll be all better."

Probably tomorrow.

Better days

Carry On My Wayward Googlers: Summer Edition

God I love checking my sitemeter and seeing what phrases people searched for that brought them to my blog.

It's always good, clean fun. Ahem.


Random Bits of Whateverness
the cost of jc penney hairstyle
Way too high, my dear. Way too high.

john cusack colonics
Not an image I want in my head

perverted hokey pokey lyrics
You put your hot throbbing blue-veined meat wrench of love in...

ice cream jesus
He can walk on it even after it melts

walmart milf
I don't even want to know

Complaints against hair salons in Iowa
"Oh no! I look like I'm from Iowa!"

single cat and owner
Because married cats make terrible pets

bras dent balls
That's a serious bra

techy innuendo
Is that a USB in your port or are you just happy to see me?

Playgroups with annoying moms
Strangely there are a few openings available.

lesbian feet smelling
So now feet are going gay too? When will it end!

woman in the pee pee
I hate when that happens

hot dog with ketchup communist
Beware the ketchup communists! They're extra red.

Christian moving companies
Slogan: Because Buddhists are always dropping your shit


Pregnancy is So Confusing!
Pregnant women why are they so cranky
We're not cranky. You just suck.

Things pregnant women won't tell you
"Now you sit down and let me rub your feet, honey. You've had a rough day."

Hot Cheetos pregnancy
Ssssssex-ay!

do women like to have big babies
The bigger the better! 19, 20 pounds? Bring 'em on!

I am not enough sleep n crap it cause pregnant
Now I'm confused too


The Rocket Scientists of the World
signs of leaving a tampon in
Well first there's that string...

list of famous people who i would like to meet
I'm going to guess Jonathan Safran Foer, Hans Blix, and the guy who played Urkel

differences between sexes
Girls have long hair and like to vacuum

what does a baby look like
Like you, only smaller.


The Rocket Scientists of the World are Breeding
Feel fat in my third trimester
Highly unusual

Do you pee out anything when you're pregnant
Your urethra, same as when you're not pregnant

dos and donts of pregnent
First, don't lift anything heavy. Like say a dictionary.

Which month to f*ck a pregnant woman
September is always lovely.

Fun things for pregnant women to do
Google search blog posts are fun

Can I apply lipstick during first trimester?
As long as it's not that new raw tuna lipstick, you're good

My baby is kicking me on the vagina.
Is that even possible?

wat am i not suposed to do if im pregnant
Some studies claim that spell-check causes birth defects, but you already know that.

when do you no your babie getting read to come out.
There are no words.


Vaginas For 100, Alex
green vaginas
Ralph Nader's wife?

other word for vagina
Oh shoot, I know there's one. What is it again?

Can i see girls privates
No sweetie, mommy needs to use the computer again.

testicles vs vagina
The oddsmakers in vegas give testicles 10:1

Clean words for vagina
Um, how about "vagina"?


A special shout out to...
worlds longest ingrown hair
Because you search for it every single week, don't find it on my blog, and yet you keep coming back.


And to...
what does it mean 101 one oh one
No idea. Mom 626 was already taken.

And Also, I Don't Miss My Ass

I never thought I'd say it, but this weekend I actually

(I can't say it)

(Oh my God not possible)

(must...resist...must...resist...)

missed being pregnant.

(Sigh.)

Considering it was 95 degrees in New York with 197,098% humidity at the time, I was not missing bearing 45 extra pounds that taxed my cankles and spread my feet to the actual dimensions of your standard-issue clown shoes. I was not missing setting the world's record for hourly bathroom visits. I was not missing chicken teriyaki as I ordered not one but two spicy tuna rolls from Iron Chef House for dinner, finally killing the multi-million dollar gift certificate bequeathed to me by two formerly pregnant friends who get it, big time.

I was not missing cervical checks.

The fleeting nostalgia for my formerly gestating self entered my consciousness only as I struggled to haul eight boxes about seven blocks away to the post office.

That's right, I didn't want to carry stuff.

You read about women faking a pregnancy to lure men to marry them and here I am considering faking a pregnancy to lure men to do things for me.

I want to be able to tell Nate that it's just too hot for me to take the kids to the playground so can't he just do it? After all I'M PREGNANT. I want to tell him that I'M PREGNANT so I really need all of his pillows tonight, and you know, since I'M PREGNANT I could use a backrub and a kilo of Reeses cups to ease the HELL OF PREGNANCY.

(Also, I no longer have an excuse for weeping when he comes back with the Reeses and they are just a little bit melty and stale. Even if it is totally warranted.)

Indeed there is something bittersweet about knowing you've just completed pregnancy number last.

You'll never again get those kind looks from strangers on the street as their eyes dart from your belly to your face and back again. You'll never again have that guaranteed seat on the subway--even if you really have to work it to get it. You'll never again have fifty people a day asking you how you are and actually caring what the answer is. You never again caress those teeny weeny newborn clothes, carefully prewashing them in Dreft and folding them gingerly while you daydream about the child who’s going to fill them.

And you'll definitely never again dare to say, "Honey, you bring the suitcase down then go get the car, drive it to me, load up the car, get the kids buckled in, and bring me a milkshake while you're at it. I'll meet you downstairs."

I was not a good pregnant person. Not by a longshot. Even after doing it twice, I never quite got used to sharing my body with someone else. The random unwanted hairs. The Colace.

Nate jokes about “slipping another one past the goalie,” but I’m done. I have no interest in going for number three. My ovaries are old and tired, and they’re waving a white flag while pleading, “No more, please! We beg you! Let us retire and live out the rest of our days in peace.” I plan on honoring that request.

But boy, I would like someone to carry my 25-pound tote bag.

It's hot outside.

---
Every Monday you'll find Mom-101 cross posted at Time Out Kids, which makes me happy.

If 1 Million Monkeys Sat Down At Typewriters...

...or similarly, one 2 year-old with nascent small motor skills sat down with a pen and paper, what are the scientific odds that she'd create this:

An Analysis of Arbitrary Censorship of 70's-Era 50's Homages

Last night I was brain-dead. Blogged out. A blogging conference can do that to a girl, along with subsequent emails, post reading, comments, more emails and debates all about blogs and blogs and blogs and blogs.

So I turned on my favorite go-to network for shows for the gray matter-challenged, hoping to catch some of Chachi is a Middle-Aged Male Prostitute or my other new trainwreck fave, Skanky Heavy Metal Groupies Lacking in both Self-Esteem and Access to a Good Colorist.

But no. Instead, I was privileged to watch Grease, only the best (BEST!) not-so-much-the-best movie of my preadolescent years. With Valley Girl a close second, of course.

I know this movie backwards and forwards, and have ever since fifth grade when I bought the photo book of the film that took you through the entire script, cartoon-style. It was the first film I saw five times in a theater. It was the first album (double album!) I ever owned thanks to my brother, although it sucked when I cracked sides 3 and 4 and couldn't listen to half of the dance-off tunes. I do however confess to skipping Hopelessly Devoted to You every time because it was boring. I was more of a Summer Lovin' gal.

I know every line of that film, every blooper, and as of last year, I even know where the Thunder Road scenes were filmed.

So of course I sprang to attention last night when I caught that Grease Lightning had been edited.

Somewhat arbitrarily.

You are supreme
The chicks will cream
For Greased Lightning

That was fine.

With new pistons plugs and shocks
You can get off your rocks
You know that I ain't braggin'
She's a real pussy wagon

That was fine.

Also, the accompanying jerk-off gesture - fine. In case you're wondering.

With a four-speed on the floor they'll be waitin' at the door.
You know that ain't no shit, we'll be gettin' lots of tit
Greased Lightning.

That's not fine.

Shit/Tit? Not fine at all.

So instead of simply bleeping the offensive syllable, someone did a sneaky little edit job, grabbing other lyrics that might blend in tonally, maybe even escape the scrutiny of dorks like me.

The result:

With a four-speed on the floor they'll be waitin' at the door.
You know that ain't no floor, we'll be gettin' lots of door.
Greased Lightning.

Does this make any sense?

We'll be gettin' lots of door?

What does that even mean? I can only imagine some sort of weird automotive fetishist moaning, More door! More door!

Or something.

So what did I learn from all this?

Excrement + breasts = bad
Masturbation + precoital lubrication + female genital euphemism = good
Me + blogging conference = punchy

The pervy googlers from Thailand are going to loooove this one, aren't they.

That's What It's All About (Hey!)

I've spent the last few days trying to sum up what was so special about the past weekend. (And this is the last BlogHer post! Probably. I think. Well...maybe.)

The friends - sure. The stuff I learned - blah blah blah. The panties on Catherine's head - okay, so that was pretty fun.

But there was something more for me.

This is it:


Thats me and my mom and my daughter on the right. And Kristen from Mommy Needs a Cocktail, and her mom and her son on the left. At a conference. Together.

Three generations.

I experienced BlogHer as a writer, a blogger, a professional, a business owner, a daughter and a mother all at once. And not one of those things demeaned any other. I think maybe we all take for granted how amazing this is. I mean, could you see Hillary Clinton standing up on the senate floor with a child in a sling and being taken seriously? Could you see Maureen Dowd flashing her boobs to an entire ballroom full of journalists to nurse a baby, without that being the hot topic of conversation for the rest of the day?

Kristen and Christina and Lindsay understand the significance of this; they had their children there too. Lisa Stone, who introduced me to her mother on Friday, certainly understands.

Bravo BlogHer.

When Cooper and Emily of BlogHers Act acknowledged my mom in their closing speech, quoting her line about being honored to see everything she fought for in the 70's coming to fruition right there in the room, I cried. It closed a circle for me. It brought two important things in my life together - my family, and all of you.

(Yes, you who hasn't taken a shower for three days. And you, you lurking men whose wives don't know you like mommyblogs. I include you too.)

As far as the nitpicking about schwag or debating about panel discussions or complaining about session topics or the bathroom doors at the W - whatever, as the kids say these days (or did around 1998 or so). I'm glad we can discuss these things. I'm happy to discuss these things. In fact I love discussing these things - you know how I likes me a good debate. But in the grander scheme of things, the weekend made at least three of us very happy.

Or at least two of us. Sage might have had gas.