Hawaiian swansong

Tomorrow we leave our island paradise and return to our increasingly cold California homestead, but today, we're squeezing as much juice out of Kauai as we can. Our ragtag party consists of:

* One super-sick six-week pregnant woman on heavy activity restriction
* One 14-month old Chebbles
* Grandma R., who has gamely managed Chebbles' bizarre sleep schedule
* And Hub-D, who ran out this morning to obtain biscuits and gravy from the ONE place it is made on the island so that his wife could weather the day with courage.

The good news is that I'm still pregnant, and not just pregnant, but DEFINITELY pregnant. My belly button has begun its bizarre ascent, whereby it leaves its little usual hidey-hole and starts poking out like a little Alpine peak, visible through any and all clothing.

Chebbles is enchanted by my new belly button, as she makes her way through the room, pointing out buttons and belly buttons (all the while chanting "bu'on" in her best Hawaiian). She sees my belly button and really, it's the king of all belly buttons at this point. I totally win.

We're heading out today, as soon as Chebbles wakes from her morning nap, to Lydgate Beach State Park, which promises a new stretch of sand for Chebbles to explore, calm waters, and a new playground. I am sad that I have not gone swimming ONCE since we arrived. I'm a huge ocean-swimming person, and Hawaii is the best place on Earth for me to experience this. But this time it just hasn't worked out for me to swim. I've waded with Chebbles a few times, but the rest of the time, I'm in the car exploring with Hub-D, or napping or eating.

I don't know what I'm going to do when we get home, as the primary caretaking of Chebbles will revert back to me. Hub-D will head back to work, and I'll still be afraid of jostling around or lifting too much weight due to my super-scary bleeding episodes.

The morning sickness has really begun in EARNEST. It is best managed by constant EATING. If I don't eat for a few hours, it comes raging back. Thus, if I manage to sleep for a four-hour stretch in the night, I wake up so ill, I feel like I'm imploding with nausea.

All of this has been OK and manageable in this beautiful tropical climate, with so much help, and joyous Chebs jumping around in the ocean and sleeping by her doting Grandma R. But back home? I'm guessing it will take a few weeks for me to get a routine that works, particularly since I'm also suffering from a tragic lack of intellectual capability, due to the intense amount of hormones surging through my veins.

But at the end of this adventure? If all goes as planned, I'll have a new fuzzy little head to snuggle with, with a brand new face to learn and incorporate in our ragtag family. And there will be a new body to splash into the little waves when we come back next year... because OH YES, we are coming back to Hawaii. That's the only way I can make myself leave tomorrow.

Chicken

We are in Kauai now, me, Hub-D, Grandma R, and Chebbles.

There are chickens everywhere... in the burritos I have been eating, wild roosters and hens roaming (to Chebbles' great delight), and, well, ME.

I've been chicken about everything. Walking from place to place, I wonder the whole time if I'm endangering the pregnancy in some way. Every time Chebbles wants me to lift her, I think... hm, well, she's over 10 pounds, so... is this a mistake?

But I'm just taking it easy, with Hub-D and Grandma's assistance. And Chebbles has barely noticed my chicken-ness, what with the beach, the sand, and other kids' cool beach toys.

I want to eat 24/7, and have eaten more in the last two days than I have, possibly, in any other 48 hour span of my life. This baby wants FOOD. All of the time. I have eaten two bowls of lentil soup at 6am, a pepperoni pizza at 8am, a hot dog from the local deli, shrimp at a roadside stand, a vegetable platter at a fancy restaurant, plus tons of chips and cookies. This child is HUN-GRY.

And, by the way, it is beautiful here. The waves are crashing on the rocks by our condo and we're loving the air and the birds and the lushness of the Kauai countryside... well, all that I could see from my chicken position in the passenger seat of the rental SUV.

And today, I am SIX WEEKS pregnant. No spotting for more than a week, and plenty of reassuring pregnancy symptoms.

Aloha!

Manly vibe

Right after we found out we were pregnant with Chebbles, I just knew we were having a girl. "She's Got a Way" by Billy Joel came on the radio. "That's it," I said out loud. "We're having a girl." And the later ultrasound only confirmed what I already knew.

Before I got pregnant this time, I thought we were going to have Evelyn. But ever since I conceived this little bugger, I've gotten a big boy vibe.

First of all, I'm whipped into an inexplicably angry state. There is a low simmering anger percolating at all times just below my surface. This is consistent with some of my friends' experiences gestating men-children -- for these brief months, you have testosterone running through your veins and it's a maddening visit into the male psyche.

Second, there is the MEAT. Oh man do I want meat. MEAT MEAT MEAT. I feel like a zoo animal... all I want to do is bask in the sun and have hunks of meat thrown in my general direction every day. My friend K. told me yesterday that, with her son (unlike her daughter) she ate meat like crazy in the first three months. Upon overhearing this, her son beamed proudly, "Yeah mom, you had to eat MEAT when I was in you." Clearly it's a little dude conspiracy of some kind, to turn us moms into frenzied meat-eating machines. (This photo of RAW BACON does not make me sick, but makes me HUNGRY, by the way.)

Third, I have no girl vibe. I was in such a GIRLY mood the whole time I was pregnant with Chebbles, watching every episode of "Adoption Stories" and buying every piece of pink maternity clothing available on eBay. I was softened and weepy, barfing multiple times a day, so filled was I with her sweet estrogen energy. I craved grape popsicles and watermelon and Manischewitz. This time I am filled instead with a fierce carnivorous POWER.

Fourth, the 12-year-old kid next door, who has an eerie power at predicting these things, declared more than a week ago that his new neighbor would be a boy. Who am I to trifle with the Oracle of the East Bay?

Well, the good news on the "oh-lord-am-I-having-another-miscarriage?" front is that I am sick as a dog, completely exhausted, and when my mother offered me sweet potatoes yesterday, it filled me with involuntary rage and disgust. These are all good signs that the pregnancy has "taken root."

I haven't bled for five days now, and staying off my feet seems to have been a worthwhile strategy. So I'm allowing myself this luxury, this wild BOY speculation.

And if it's not a boy, if it's our dear Evelyn, who just happens to be a meat-eating warlord, then hip-hip-hooray! Someone's got to wear all of Chebbles' old pink-embroidered overalls.

Moo Moo

There is just something about my old therapist.

In 1998, I lived in Eugene, Oregon. It was a brief and wonderful stay, made even more wonderful by my badass therapist, O. She turned my whole head around. My work with her made me a happier, calmer person -- she's Buddhist, and wise, and laughs her head off in a benevolent, Jesus-esque way.

She also pulls NO punches, and when I would whine to her about my personal life, she would say things like, "Sounds like you're acting like a COLD BITCH." Wooooo BOY that made me mad! But SOMEONE had to call me on my bad behavior, and she had the nuts to do it. And I transformed into a nicer, more open person.

The weird thing about my work with her is how much more POPULAR became. I couldn't tell you what changed about my behavior, but it was suddenly so easy for me to make and keep friends, and I kept getting ASKED OUT, too. There was something just magic about my work with O.

So you know what I did yesterday? I phoned her up. She remembered me immediately. When I asked if I could schedule an hour of her time, she asked, "When is good for you?"

Fifteen minutes later, we jumped into a session, as though no time had passed from 1998, only the circumstances were different. And I FEEL SO MUCH BETTER.

As soon as I started talking with O., the phantom pain in my lower abdomen (the one that had cropped up when the nurse practitioner said, "Your uterus is irritated from the bleeding episodes, and so it may shed the embryo, even if it's healthy...") WENT AWAY. The pain disappeared. And O. led me on a journey of somewhat off-the-wall advice that, for me, REALLY WORKS.

Sure, I am still a little nervous about the outcome of this pregnancy, but I'm no longer afraid to LOVE it. It's a marvelous little thing that may or may not decide to stay and be born at this point... and if it doesn't stay, then chances are it will come back later.

My job right now is not to THINK and fret. My job is to be the BEST VESSEL POSSIBLE for The Bun. Sure, it's just a sesame-seed-sized tadpole-looking thing, but I love all of its promise, and its little light, and I need to focus on being a vessel of LOVE and LIGHT for this creature.

As for all of my worries about my past miscarriage, and potential future miscarriage, O. told me to DROP IT.

As it turns out, O. had a miscarriage and TWO perilous pregnancies, so she wasn't talking out of her ass -- she knows this tough road, and her advice resonated so deeply with me. I trust her implicitly. So when she suggested "MOO"-ing I went with that too.

Apparently, giving a good series of "Moo"'s is a great way to clear your mind and redirect terrifying thinking. She taught me yesterday to focus on something beautiful and let loose a string of gentle "Moo Moo Moo Moo Moo Moo" and follow this chanting by keeping a totally clear mind. STOP THINKING. Just BE. And let this silence envelop my mind and redirect all of the ways my brain has learned to PANIC over the last week.

So I've been Moo-ing, and clearing my mind, and I have reduced my trips to the bathroom to check my underpants to ONLY WHEN I REALLY NEED TO PEE. That's pretty amazing, considering that before I spoke to O., I was checking about every five minutes, and giving myself tiny heart attacks every single time.

She suggested that whenever I feel compelled to check my underpants, to DO SOMETHING ELSE worthy of a vessel of light and love. Make a cup of tea, for example. Sit down and have a great cup of tea instead of racing to the bathroom and rudely pulling down my elastic pants to inspect with a fine tooth comb for ANY anomalous slightly-darker-yellow color.

So instead of obsessing, I focus on Chebbles, or something else that is in the PRESENT and I hear O's words, that I need to accept what IS. If that means that I bleed and lose this pregnancy, that is what IS. I have NO CONTROL over that situation, so my scrabbling about, overthinking and trying desperately to exert control over this pregnancy is only working AGAINST me. The best thing I can do is to be calm and welcoming and healthy, and, most importantly, accepting.

Surround myself with beautiful things, O. advised. Read books with beautiful things in them, be mindful of the negative thoughts I'm putting out there, and let loose with some good "Mooooo"'s every time they crop up again.

After this surpremely comforting conversation with O., a few magical things transpired. First, I REALLY got hungry. My mother made me a big batch of sloppy joes (precisely what I was craving) and I ate every last little crumb on three buns by bedtime. Second, everyone looked a heck of a lot more beautiful to me. Chebbles, who was already ridiculously beautiful, suddenly SHINED with a new light. I loved my mom more than ever, and when Hub-D walked through the door, I just about croaked from how handsome he looks.

Also, Chebbles has a little puzzle that emits animal sounds when the pieces are placed in. For example, when you stick the rooster into his slot, you get a satifying couple of "cock-a-doodle-doo!"'s. After she went to bed, the puzzle sat on the family room floor unattended, except that almost every time I walked past it, the cow "moo'ed." When my mom walked past, sometimes it would trigger a "Baa" or a few barks from the dog, but for me? MOO. Moo moo moo moo moo.

And the most magical thing of all, I'm not freaking out today. Yes, I was nervous when I woke up, on this anniversary of my last miscarriage. I did get up somewhat prematurely in order to pee and do the big blood-check, and I was happy to find that I am not spotting today. But my heart wasn't pounding (as much) out of my chest, and I was more detached from the result. If I bleed, I bleed. If I miscarry, I miscarry. But my only job is to give The Bun all of my love and caring while he is with us.
It's OK for me to give thanks for him today, to be grateful that he chose to ride along with me, even if only for a few weeks, although I welcome him heartily to stay for the whole ride. Because, Bun, I think it would be fun, I think you would like it here, and I love you, little guy.

Can't...stop...checking

It is true I am afraid to sleep, because while I am sleeping I cannot check my underpants often enough to see if I am bleeding.

What is the proper interval? It can range anywhere from once an hour to every five minutes, but I've GOT TO CHECK.

My friend E. pointed out that it doesn't matter how often I check my underpants -- if I'm going to bleed and have a miscarriage, it's going to happen -- whether I check once or a hundred times.

And like so many other times during the horrid saga of the last week, I have thought to myself, "Thank you, but that doesn't apply to me."

Let me tell you why. See, if I were to check my underpants RIGHT NOW and discover that I have started bleeding in earnest once again, then my disappointment can BEGIN and my bonding with The Bun can END. What E. doesn't understand is that I bond with this embryo more every NANOSECOND. It is an uncontrollable slippery slope, my love for this potential child. I KNOW that he is the size of a sesame seed. And I KNOW that he looks like a tadpole. But I'm really starting to LIKE him.

So, if I discover right now that I'm bleeding and losing the pregnancy, then I can stop the runaway train of love. And if I wait until I'm done typing this post to check my underpants, then I will have allowed myself a half-hour of additional BONDING with the product of my uterus, and my heart will break ALL THAT MUCH MORE.

Why am I being particularly psycho today? We are coming up on the gestational anniversary of my June miscarriage. Today is Week 5, Day 2 of the pregnancy. I lost that pregnancy at Week 5, Day 3. So if there is some kind of uterine inefficiency limit that results in the expulsion of otherwise nicely formed embryos, we're breathing down its neck.

And really, WHAT THE CRAP is up with these Threatened Abortions? As if I weren't already completely out of my mind with worry WITHOUT the bleeding -- throw some bleeding episodes into this early pregnancy, and you will find me wishing for an induced coma. Wake me up in nine months, or even in a few weeks, and let me know what happened. I can't STAND the suspense anymore.

And I haven't left the house in a long time either. Hub-D and I have concluded that it's time for COMPLETE REST. The more I stay off my feet, it seems, the less I bleed. This is despite my OB-GYN doctors who have become famous for quotes such as, "Just let nature take its course," and "If it's gonna go, it's gonna go."

But how does this Miscarriage Wisdom apply to Threatened Abortions, which bloom in my underpants in all of their terrifying glory, only to recede and leave behind a seemingly healthy pregnancy? Again, the thought is so loud I'm not even hearing the doctors, "This doesn't apply to me."

Nothing applies to me, it seems. I'm in uncharted pregnancy territory. There are statistics, if I care to further lose my mind, regarding percentages of pregnancies lost when a woman bleeds in the first trimester (roughly 50%, 33% if you can find a heartbeat).

And in the meantime, the aching continues. It's not just the aching of my heart, which PINES for this child in a most unseemly mannmer, but my uterus. It aches almost every moment of every day. Is it because it's growing? Is it because it's irritated and ready to expel the embryo? Is it completely psychosomatic?

Goodness only knows, but I didn't have any bleeding yet today. If I can make it through until Friday, I will exceed my past gestational limit, and it would be a no-bleeding record for this pregnancy. Then maybe we'll still go to Hawaii, so I can mope and pine in a tropical setting instead.

Terror, fear, tadpole

Today is DAY TWO of no bleeding. I met with the nurse practitioner yesterday and she confirmed that what I'm experiencing is called "Threatened Abortion." It's a horrifying name, but it's satisfyingly appropriate. I'm glad that these early-pregnancy-bleeding episodes aren't called something sweet like "The Pink Pony Show" or something insulting like "Spazmodic Syndrome"... no, it's a Threatened Abortion. It's serious, and horrible.

I'm 5 weeks and 1 day pregnant, and the zygote is marching right along, oblivious to the drama of the Threatened Abortions. The bad news is that my uterus is now irritated from the bleeding episodes, so it may decide to expel the embryo out of sheer irritation, even if it's perfectly healthy. Now that's another fear-filled, horror-show thought. It could happen at ANY MOMENT. Greeeeeat.

When I had my miscarriage in June, everyone said, "Well there was probably something wrong with it." Well, MAYBE NOT. Maybe my uterus was so traumatized by the giant Chebbles somehow that it's posted a NO VACANCY sign. And if I lose this pregnancy too, then that means I'm losing perfectly viable little zygotes, and that blows the BIG ONE. My only comfort is that I'm not losing a WHOLE BABY if I miscarry at five weeks. I'm losing the promise of a baby, something that looks like this:


So it would be a tadpole, not a whole, hairy little baby. It would be the product of just a few weeks of growth, something kind of, well, replaceable.

It's cold comfort, but I'll take it. And now I will resume my regularly scheduled program of lying around the house, gassy and grumpy, checking my underpants every ten minutes.

Let the wild dreams begin...

I woke up three times in the middle of the night to check if the spotting had begun again, and it hadn't.

I don't know what to read into this stoppage... I'm looking forward to connecting with the doctor today, and having an ultrasound to determine whether ole Bun is just messing with us, or if we've lost him forever this time.

I've got to forcibly detach myself from the outcome either way. I can't continue to go with these symptoms to every dark place they take me. My goal will be, the next time I'm bleeding, to find the blood and say, "Oh, really. That's interesting," then to go have a sandwich.

Maybe if I'm less agonized over the spotting, Bun will quit doing this for attention.

In the meantime, my pregnancy hormones seem to be in full gear, at least based on the continuing set of WACKY dreams I'm having. There is something hilariously special about pregnancy dreams -- so vivid. It's as though, when one is hobbled by pregnancy, your mind works to make up for it by taking one on wild adventures.

Last night in my sleep, at LONG LAST, I found resolution regarding an old co-worker of mine, D...

In real life, D. and I had been buddies, traveling together, getting in trouble for expensing $50 bottles of wine, and talking well into the evenings. He was the first British person I ever knew, and I was fascinated with his boarding-school childhood, odd vocabulary and mod haircut. He was married, with a terrific kid, S., whom I babysat with glee. If my relationship with D. was good, my relationship with his kid was AWESOME. He remains my favorite four-year-old of all time. He made me laugh until I fell out of my chair, and I let him stay up past his bedtime because I greedily wanted to hang out with him longer.

One day, near the end of my employ, D. stopped speaking with me. He went from spending afternoons joking around with me to completely ignoring my presence. I took a few runs at him, "Something wrong?" "No." (D. walks away.)

When I announced my resignation, many of my co-workers cheered for me, as I was finally escaping the clutches of our mercurial boss. I saw D. in the hallway and said, "Did you hear the news?"

"Yes," and he brushed by me. And never exchanged one word with me again.

This interaction has bugged the crap out of me for almost ten years.

Well, last night, I found out! D.'s wife came to me in my dream and said, "Well, you should be happy. We're finally getting a divorce."

"Why should I be happy? S. is losing his parents' marriage, and I know first-hand how horrible that is."

She started to cry, and said that I had been a big part of their decision, as D. had a crush on me from which he couldn't recover.

I denied culpability. We were friends, I said, his feelings were one-sided. Then I went out to a wide, green lawn and flew a kite by myself, laughing and running and trying to get it up into the air.

I could suddenly feel D. watching me. "There, that's why," his wife said. "It's your nature he finds irresistable."

WELL! There we have it. I woke up feeling so much resolution. I don't even know if any component of this story is true, but I'm going to go with it. Goodbye and good luck, D... my baby is crying.

Cruel

The limbo continues... I'm feeling ominously crampy but no serious bleeding has begun. I don't know what to make of it.

It just feels cruel, the bleeding, the bleeding stopping. It's now done this with increasing amounts THREE TIMES.

In my pregnancy with Chebbles, I did not bleed AT ALL until I was almost ten months pregnant, and it was a blessed moment when I discovered I was in labor with my giant baby.

Now? C'mon, Bun. Stay in there!

Hub-D thinks I'm not miscarrying, and I'm going to lurch in the direction of his judgement. It's always safe and cozy there.

Horror

As I write this, I may be miscarrying, or I may not. I don't know, and this limbo is one of the most horrifying places I have been in my life.

This morning, I woke up to a bunch of blood -- for a few hours, I bled on and off, and now it kind of stopped for the last hour. What in the world does this mean?

When I bled last Wednesday (much less than this), it was terrifying and I was convinced I was having another miscarriage. But the ultrasound proved that I had not. Today's bleeding seems more serious, more earnest, but now... it's stopped.

I have two options, it seems. I can get really focused on WHAT is going on, or I can detach myself to some extent.

If I keep focusing on this horror -- not breathing, frantically checking my entire body for signs that the pregnancy has ended -- I am going to have to go an insane asylum.

So I'm trying to work with option 2. I spent the morning with Chebbles, only checking my pad every 20 minutes or so for signs of additional blood, watching as it petered down to a brownish trickle (for now).

Chebbles said "Please" in context for the first time, which was awesome. And I took a shower with her. I tell you, her hair looks AMAZING when I use my shampoo on it, instead of the baby shampoo. Is there some reason not to shampoo your child's hair in Biolage Hydrating Shampoo? I hope not, because her blonde curls are so shiny and bouncy, it can take a woman's mind off the fact she is bleeding in early pregnancy.

OK, I am not going to write long, as that will prolong my focus on this horror-filled LIMBO, and the fact the OB's office is closed today (of course) and what could they tell me that I won't learn by tomorrow anyway. (Argh, was that a cramp? What is GOING ON?)

And I won't continue to focus on how my miscarriage started with this same set of symptoms, and the real bleeding took many hours to begin, so the limbo continues and there is NOTHING I CAN DO.

What will I plant now if I miscarry? Cabbage?

Sensi-Schnabel

I may have found the ideal way to explain the way hormones effect me during pregnancy. Basically, imagine if you responded to everything anyone says to you with, "What do you mean by that?"

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

"Would you like fries with that?"

"What do you mean by that? That I'm pregnant and pregnant people like fries??? Why don't you mind your own business?"

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

"Would you like to watch a movie with me tonight?"

"What do you mean by that, Hub-D? That we don't spend enough time together? That I go to bed too early? I know you hate me."

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

"Have you seen my dog?"

"What do you mean by that? That I don't do anything but look out my window all day long, so somehow I'm the most qualified to have spotted your dog? GAWD."

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

You get the picture. I have no patience for anyone's commentary or interaction with me, because I am so easily offended. The good news is that with this pregnancy, I know I'm prone to this behavior, so I try to stop myself and only do INTERNAL "What do you mean by that?" recitations. But it's still there. Oh yeah, it's still there...

My sister and I have a word for this. We developed it on a long trip to Germany. By the end of the second week, we were both starting to get pissy, so we coined the phrase "Sensi-Schnabel." Whereas "Schnabel" is the German word for an animal's snoot. If your nose is easily taken out of joint, we say you've got a Sensi-Schnabel.

And that's a good encapsulation of the pregnancy hormones for me. Sensi-freakin-SCHNABEL.

(What do you mean by THAT!?)

"Let's celebrate what we know now"

That's what my friend E. says, and it's what I cling to as I sheepishly say... I'm pregnant.

Yep. I'm knocked up, in a family way, there is a bun in my oven.

The Bun is a 3mm x 5mm gestational sac, but I'll TAKE IT. I've chosen to envision it as an itty bitty pork bun, filled with light and great promise.

I thought I was NOT pregnant several times. On Monday, I thought I got my period... but it stopped. I tested positive for pregnancy on Tuesday morning, then on Wednesday morning I started SPOTTING. It was horrifying spotting that exactly mimicked the beginnings of my June miscarriage.

I chucked Chebbles with the neighbors and darted down to the OB's office, because I had to know... why am I miscarrying? What the hell is going on??? IT'S NOT FAIR.

When they performed the ultrasound, to everyone's surprise.. they saw the Bun, firmly affixed and looking for all the world like a baby-in-training. They also found no more blood, and happily pronounced me PREGNANT.

Dr. S., the one who had told me to PORK UP in order to get pregnant, was particularly pleased about my delicate condition. "I feel like such a stud," were her exact words.

Their theory regarding the Monday bleeding was "implantation spotting" and Wednesday's horrible episode was chalked up to "old blood."

That better be the LAST time I see unwelcome blood in this pregnancy. This kid had better stay PARKED where it implanted until it's big, healthy and ready to earn its keep around here.

I'm permitting myself a little bit of excitement for now. I am now just four weeks, five days pregnant (still precariously early, and six days until the "gestational anniversary" of my last miscarriage). If the wily Bun stays in place, the baby will be due on July 23.

I'm religiously taking progesterone and baby aspirin, and I'm allowing my house to fall into severe disrepair as I spend all day either tending Chebbles, napping, or watching bits of "The Dukes of Hazzard" movie, which is about all the intellectual challenge I can handle at this point. Is it me, or was the original cast so much CLASSIER than these wannabes? Try as I might, I can't get past Burt Reynolds as Boss Hogg. He just looks like he's making fun of the character, and the character of Boss Hogg should be played by someone who can take it seriously.

Anyway, where was I? I'm pregnant. Hormones have already started screwing with my temper, my skin (Paul Simon sadly croons, "Hello pimples my old friends"), my digestive system, my sleep schedule (Anyone else up for a party at 4am? Call me!!!), and my GUT HAS BALLOONED.

I look about three months pregnant. I guess it comes from starting out kind of emaciated, and my body's familiarity with the "pregnant shape." None of my pants fit me anymore, as The Bun is poking out for everyone to SEE. My friend T. cornered me at a party on Tuesday night and handed off her maternity clothes to me... "Looks like you're going to need these." !!!???

So anyway, I'm scared shitless. I'm really really scared. I'm excited to be pregnant, but, truth be told, I frantically check to see if I'm bleeding about 25 times a day. When I'm out of the house, I dart into any public restroom I can find in order to double-check that I'm not yet miscarrying. I'm sure that witnessing this underpants-mania is setting back Chebbles' potty training by a year or two.

And by the way, Bun, you're signed on for an eight month TIME OUT. Starting NOW.

Neighbor's divorce, illuminated

Last week, I learned my beloved neighbors, B. and V. were divorcing.

This afternoon I learned why, after 34 years, B. is in such haste to sign the papers and wrap things up... why he has suddenly bought another house... why he is LEAVING US bereft of tomatoes and his lovely, wise observations.

HE MET A POET.

He assured me that she's not some "young thing," and glowed as he discussed her. He's really in love, it seems, and he's hoping that she'll move in with him shortly.

I'm not going to use this excuse to wallow in insecurity about Hub-D, wondering if he'll wait 34 years to run off with a poet... I'm not going to try to keep him away from writing groups (a BASTION of infidelity, as far as I can tell)... I'm not going to worry one minute about this because I AM a poet. He already DID that. Whew...

Now if I can just figure out how to steal B.'s tomato plants when the house is in escrow, we're all set.

THAT MAN is coming...

When I was little, I had a love/hate relationship with Santa.

Love: Presents

Hate: "Magic" old man breaking into our house

Thanks to a terrifying Phil Specter Christmas album, in which the Ronettes sang "Santa Claus is Coming to Town," and repeated: "THAT MAN is coming!" THAT MAN is coming!" -- I began to think of Santa as "THAT MAN."

I would see Santa in our mall, chatting up various kids who were STUPID enough to get close to this "Magic Old Elf" and I would just die of fright. "THAT MAN!" I'd holler as I ran the HELL OUT of the Santa village.

But I couldn't argue with the presents. And I did my best to make peace with THAT MAN, leaving him cookies and carrots, writing him nice letters. It's just that I didn't want to SEE him. And I just felt uneasy with the idea of this dude slithering into our home when we were all asleep. It just seemed shady.

Now the time has come to indoctrinate Chebbles into the Cult of Santa. She met him last year, but she didn't know him from Jesus, sitting on his furry lap in semi-terror. This year, she's sophistocated enough to call people by their real names, and identify them repeatedly. e.g.,

* K., the maniac in our swim class, is called "MINE." 'Cause, you know, that's what she says all the time.

* Her pal, I., is called "Boo" because he played Peek-A-Boo with her once.

* Aunt K. is called "Mao." It's complicated, but yes, it's after THE Chairman Mao. She got a little mixed up, but it stuck.

So, now... how do I introduce SANTA? I feel so full of crap when I lay the Santa stuff on her, but it really is a magical part of childhood. I wouldn't want to deprive her.

Now that I'm a grown-up and I've graduated from an intensive self-defense class, I'm cool with Santa. He can come into our house whenever he wants as far as I'm concerned. Heck, Santa brings JEWELRY now.

But I feel like she's going to see right through me as I start laying down the foundations of Santa. I will do my best, but the kid has a pretty good BS detector.

I have to keep remembering that she's NOT a big fat WIMP like I am. If she's not afraid of Chairman Mao, then there is no way she's going to be such a weenie about Santa.

I guess I'll have to borrow that Phil Spector album from my mom and crank up the tunes before That Man enters the premises later this month. How the heck else is she going to get her Barbie Piano?

The Elephant Ear

I already called Poison Control about this. And they gave Chebbles the ALL CLEAR to devour portions of our giant Elephant Ear plant.

They told me that there are two kinds of Elephant Ear plant, and both of them are SPICY, and they will give you a rash on your face if you rub against it, but it's not poisonous, and Chebbles can basically have at it.

It's weird. It's gross. And it's UNSTOPPABLE. I've taught her to not throw food on the floor. I've taught her to stay away from electrical outlets. And she learned the hard way not to tug on the fireplace screen. But her thirst for the juices of the Elephant Ear cannot be SLAKED!

And if anyone should have any doubts whether it is safe for a one-year-old to gnaw heartily on the boughs of an Elephant Ear for months at a time, I can tell you with some authority that it is, in fact, safe. And your kid will only end up with mild red marks on her cheeks, depending on the ferocity with which she attacks it.

Now, to be mystical for a second... I didn't plant the Elephant Ear. When I was pregnant with Chebbles it just showed up. First it was a cute little curly leaf, emerging from the ground in front of a rose bush, then it grew to a foot high, with a dozen little leaves. By the end of my pregnancy, it was higher than Hub-D, sporting leaves with which we could have cozily swaddled our newborn child.

And I've determined to move the rose bush this winter, because the Elephant Ear shows no sign of stopping its command of the backyard. It is the first thing people see when they walk in the backyard, this massive plant, spreading its ever-larger leaves. And to think it just volunteered one day.

I just wonder if it knew that Chebbles was on her way. I mean, is our chilld cosmically linked to this crazy plant? Is it HERS? Well, she certainly thinks it is, leaping across the yard in her PJ's in the morning, eager for her first spicy bites of the Elephant Ear.

A real little lady

I took Chebbles to the Children's Place to find a holiday get-up for her. While I was was hunting for a plaid bubble dress in her size, Chebbles found the LOVE OF HER LIFE.

There, at her eye level, was a fake fur kind of stole or shrug -- something that sits around her shoulders and buttons up. She squealed and beelined for it, running her fingers lovingly over the fake fur.

I stood back from the whole affair. I mean, I'm just not INTO clothes. I wear clothes that basically cover my private parts, and hope that I don't look too dorky. I tend to get a whole bunch of dowdy sweaters or T-shirts and wear them into the ground. And I wear Mom Jeans. OK, they don't have elastic in them, but they probably ride up too high to be fashionable and they're generally covered with boogers. But I don't care. I never have, I just want to fit in and be warm and move on with my life.

NOT MY KID. No way. Chebbles is VERY into appearances. And she was instantly convinced that this fake fur stole was going to be HER SIGNATURE PIECE this season. She plucked it off of the rack and started carrying it around the store, showing it to people and petting it. She demonstrated for one awestruck toddler that the stole could also double as a hat. It seems that ever since she saw this fashion on the streets of Rome, she's been working up the manual dexterity to don a fur hat of her own.

"Aaaat," she instructed the other kid, pulling the fake fur stole over her head. "AAAT!" she repeated until all of the surrounding adults agreed that YES, it would make a terrific hat as well.

I thought she might forget about it. I dawdled by the socks while she carried the stole around, pressing it up against walls with one hand and petting it with the other. But eventually it was clear that purchasing it had become mandatory. It was on sale for $13, passed over by all the other babies and moms in the East Bay who obviously don't know DICK about fashion.

So we walked out of the store, and while she squatted to inspect the fascinating 3-D sticker they had given her, (Everywhere we go, people give her stickers... stickers are the new lollipops. Anyway...) I removed the tags from the fake fur and pulled it over her shoulders.

She was instantly in HEAVEN. She first shrugged her shoulders up to her ears, pivoting her head around to caress the fur with her cheeks, then she STRUTTED down the sidewalk. Fourteen months old and totally self-possessed, fingering her fabulous new sticker and looking all the world like a teeny tiny runway model.

At her insistence, I've posted the photo on the top left corner of this website. At least until the NEXT craze.

Party in the potty

Last night I went to a REAL party in the BIG CITY that had NO ONE under the age of 30 in attendance. There were delicious food trays and a KEG in the kitchen and a lot of people who did NOT talk about children in any capacity whatsoever.

I started to feel my oats. I don't know what that means, to "feel one's oats," but if it's the feeling you have when you are a stay-at-home mom to a 14-month-old and spend 99% of your days in playgrounds or having conversations such as, "Do you see the cat's toes? Yes! No no no no no no GENTLE," then you are suddenly blessed with a babysitter and find yourself in the city with all of your friends from before you were married and they are all telling you how fantastic you look and telling crude jokes and no one is worried that a LOT of valuable electronic equipment is positioned just two feet from the floor... well, that seems like the definition of feeling my oats. I got to be a Nutty Lady instead of someone's mom.

I didn't drink one drop. I didn't have to. I was so relaxed to be out on my own and PAST 9PM, that I reveled in mineral water and the goings on.

For example, I thoroughly enjoyed when my friend S. got trapped in the bathroom. She accidentally locked herself in there, such that a whole party filled with partially intoxicated men could not free her. There were screwdrivers and credit cards and brute force employed, but nothing could be done for S. So we did what anyone else would do -- hauled a 15-foot ladder to the bathroom window, shimmied our bodies into the room and partied with her.

The above picture is of me arriving at the top of the ladder, before I was manhandled into the room to join the potty-related festivities. As a mom of a toddler, I'm very used to having company in the bathroom, so I was right at home.

Pet Sematary

My eyes flew open at 4:55am AGAIN, and I heard my dear daughter crying from her room AGAIN. But today I took my time... brushing my teeth and lollygagging so that when I finally emerged from our bedroom at 5:10am, there was SILENCE. Chebbles had finally given up and gone back to sleep which is a GREAT BLESSING FROM HEAVEN.

It's not that I don't want to see my daughter, and HECK, I'm up anyway. It just that Chebbles at 5am is a terrible thing. It's like the son, Gage, from Pet Sematary... the parents bring him back to life only to discover that he's a wicked shell of his original self. You hear her sweet voice calling out for you, then you go to retrieve her only to discover that her eyes are glowing red.

She's a sleepy terror if she leaves her crib before 6am. She will scream at the slightest provocation, and, if I put her down for one second to get her a treat or use the potty, she has a monster tantrum. She empties drawers in pursuit of some phantom toy, then breaks down when it is not found, leaning against the cabinets and banging her head.

The best way to describe these tantrums is, well, you know that scene from Sixteen Candles, where Sam is leaning against the lockers and crying because no one has remembered her birthday? That's about the level of tantrum we're talking about, but with much greater volume and the accusing eyes sweeping over your whole person as if to say: "YOU. YOU DID THIS TO ME."

But if I retrieve her after 6am, allowing her to cry and hiccup her way back to sleep until that hour, she's Zip-a-dee-doo-dah, bright and happy. She's Gage before the accident. She's got a lot to say and do, and the day starts with a BANG!

So, at I write this, she percolates in her crib, restless but quiet. I can see her on the video monitor drifting in and out of sleep, making out with Panda in the corner of her crib. And at 6am, I'll go get my fully-baked little girl.

She must sleep

There is no question about it, my child must sleep. I have always been proud of her sleeping habits -- 2-3 naps/day, then at least 11 hours at night.

But she is getting wily in her old age (14.25 months) and has determined that it IS possible to manipulate us back into her bedroom.

Her favorite tactics for luring us back into her room include the Panda Scream, Poop City and There's Something Wrong!

Panda Scream
This tactic involves throwing Panda onto the floor, then screaming like a banshee, pointing, and saying "MINE! MINE! MINE!" We witness this scene on the video monitor, and we know from bitter experience that she will NOT sleep without Panda in her arms, so we slink back into her room, trying to avoid eye contact, and hand her the Panda. Then when we turn around and leave? "SCREAM!!!" Eerily, it seems that someone wrote a whole album of music regarding Chebbles' behavior:

Poop City
[Shout out to my friend K., who coined this phrase.]
Poop City is the effect by which she craps about five minutes after we put her down, and she bounces all around her crib with the poop in her pants, using a special kind of Xena-esque holler to let us know that we have some POOOOOP to take care of, and we can't POSSIBLY expect her to sleep with all this poo, can we? What kind of PARENTS ARE WE? For the first several months of this behavior, I thought it was just a coincidence, or maybe she pooped as soon as she "relaxed" to go to sleep. And perhaps it did used to be an innocent act. But NOW it's definitely a manipulation tactic. She knows that when we come back into the room and get a whiff of her diaper, there will be at least five minutes of fiddling and she can further delay her naptime or bedtime.

and finally...

There's Something Wrong!
This method works best on Daddy, who is not jaded and foul-mouthed like me.

When I hear the "There's Something Wrong!" crying for the first 10 minutes or so, I hide in a far corner of the house and experiment with make-up or groom the cats until it goes away. But sometimes it DOESN'T go away, and I start to wonder... maybe the Boogeyman IS in there, possibly kidnapping her? I mean, Mrs. Lindbergh was probably trying to get her baby to cry it out, and look how THAT ended up. And she IS still getting over her bronchitis, yes? And she has some eczema on her face, and she's TEETHING, maybe she needs some MOTRIN!?

And next thing you know, one or the other of us has dashed into her room, weapons drawn, ready to fight off the rabid beast that has her in its clutches, only to find her bouncing and smiling, or WORSE, cuddled up and almost asleep, or hiccuping the glee that we've returned and we aren't going to make her sleep.

But she's GOT TO. Yesterday, she took only two half-hour-long naps and was a complete weenie by the end of the day. The day before, she slept from 9 until 9:45am and that's IT, resulting in a SUPERCRAB behavior by the afternoon.

So we're going to get tough. Daddy, with his warm heart, went in to rescue her at 4:55am today, and she was a crabby mess all morning. So, sister, welcome to the School of Hard Knocks. Your Panda Scream doesn't work on these deaf ears anymore... Mama's just working hard to stay one half-step in front of you, kid, and it's a tough race, but I'm determined to prevail!

Videogame hippocrite

Today I asked a cousin if her kids would like an Xbox for Christmas, and she said she was trying to keep game systems out of her house. "Me too," I said, shocking myself. After all, Hub-D and I work in the videogame industry.

I don't think there is anything inherently WRONG with videogames, I'd just prefer that Chebbles run around the neighborhood hanging from trees like the Von Trapp children. I want her playing kickball, making mud pies and catching bugs. I want her to be HERSELF, not a videogame character. And when she's in the house, I want her hanging out with her family, chatting and drawing and goofing off.

Oh, I know that games teach superior hand-eye coordination, and I can tell you that there is nothing like a GameBoy to kill time on a long flight or in a long line. Games these days feature plenty of cooperative, fun adventures, and nothing is so fun on a rainy afternoon than traveling to an alternate universe where you create enormous balls filled with objects for the pleasure of an egomaniacal king. (If you know what I'm talking about, then you are ONE OF US...)

But I don't want Chebbles to be a videogame person. She is so physical and scientific about everything, I don't want to wreck it by introducing Mario. Basically, I view it like smoking. I started playing videogames when I was very young. I started programming them at computer camp when I was 11, and never looked back. But I have been horridly addicted ever since. It's TOO LATE to save me. Once I get started playing a particular videogame, I use every excuse to keep playing it until I've solved it, PLUS solved all of the bonus material. Don't believe me? Just ask Ulala. I've led that chick through perfect scores on the Michael Jackson levels.

I haven't played anything since Chebbles was born, even though "We Love Katamari" was released to great fanfare. The addiction would be too great, and it's quite possible I would ignore my baby for stretches of time while I played. I know that once I find something I love, I will abandon everything that is important to me -- my loved ones, personal hygiene, obligations big and small -- in order to complete the game. I will live the game. I will dream the game. Everyone driving down the road with me becomes part of the game in my mind. Yeah Pokemon Pinball, you know I'm talkin' about you, don't you? I'll unlock those last Pokemon someday!

GAH! It's so horrible. And I don't want Chebbles to fall prey to this obsession that has killed so many hours of my life. I do think that videogames make kids antsy in general -- you are subjected to hours of "fight or flight" stimuli -- SURE, you're going to be a spaz once you turn off the machine.

When I was going through my "Grand Theft Auto" phase, I think I became a more aggressive driver. And when I represented a war-based shooter, I became completely blase about the scene where the guy gets shot in the nuts. Anyway, I would just prefer that she wait until she's an adult to have these game-related obsessions and delusions, if she must have them at all.

Maybe it's just because I know how GOOD these games are. How fun, addictive and all-consuming. I know that I regret the amount of time I've spent playing them, and I want my kid to get as much REAL childhood time clocked in as possible without being plugged into the TV. Am I dreaming?

Nellie thwarted

Last week I discussed K., the BULLY in Chebbles' swim class -- she pushes and hits, screams and steals, and generally makes swim class a terrifying place for my 14-month-old child, who, up until this point in her little life, had never faced down EVIL.

I'm happy to say that I've solved the issue. It was a split-second decision borne of maternal instinct: I hit the kid back.

OK, that's not true. I WISH I hit her back (in the most peevish part of my brain). What I did was physically intervene. Chebbles was walking to the pool with a bounce in her hot pink Crocs, so EXCITED to get in the water. K. ran up behind her and reached her arm up to shove Chebbles in the back (intention: baby flat on face). And I swooped in and grabbed that bossy little arm and held it, before she could touch Chebbles.

She swiveled around in shock. A grown-up had grabbed her! But I looked her straight in her little SHARK eyes and hissed "NO YOU MAY NOT." I must have looked kind of demonic. She looked cowed for the first time ever.

Drunk with my new power, I kept an eye on her, and more importantly, she kept an eye on me for the next half-hour. Basically, I wasn't taking ANY MORE OF HER CRAP. She can pull one over on her mom, and my kid is too little to fight back, but I am going to EAT HER LUNCH if she comes close to Chebbles again. Yeah you, I've got my eye on you...

K. tried to enact some violence once more at the end of the session, but she halted momentarily and looked up at me. I felt like Robert DeNiro... Pointing at her, looking straight into her eye. You screw with my kid, Nellie, you screw with me.

I hope this doesn't turn me into one of those moms who is constantly embarrassing her child by intervening. ("Can you please also invite Chebbles to your child's birthday party? Her feelings are hurt...") But I think I did the right thing, for now. I mean, Chebbles is 14 months old and she has every right to skip up to her swimming lessons without fearing for her safety, no?

Divorce rocks neighborhood

What the HELL is going on with my neighbors, B. and V.? They have been married 34 years. Their home is filled with B.'s oil paintings and V.'s quilts. They excel at organic gardening and give superb parenting advice.

Yesterday, B. told me, "V. and I are getting a divorce. We're selling the house."

Then he added lightheartedly, "So no more organic tomatoes for you guys...". (All summer, B. brought us bulging plastic bags of tomatoes, which Chebbles would eat in one fell swoop.)

I was in a swirl... B. and V. are getting a divorce... they are moving... someone random is going to move in next door... no more tomatoes... no more faith in MARRIAGE.

I was just starting to take marriage for granted. I mean, if you've been married for 34 years, wouldn't you stay together out of pure MOMENTUM? B. said they were ready to go their separate ways and he's going to move into an artist colony.

This is NOT OK WITH ME. When I first met B. and V., they stood together with their arms around each other, talking about how much they love our neighborhood and how much they've enjoyed raising their family here. And now this???

I don't get it at all. When you are in your sixties, it seems the best time to thank your lucky stars that you're still married to a healthy mate who respects you and shares your decades of memories. A nice warm body in bed next to you, a body who helps you take care of your home and your family, someone to chat with -- sounds like a pretty sweet deal.

So if B. and V. are getting a divorce, there must be something I don't understand about marriage. It must be more temporal than I'd thought. Perhaps there doesn't have to be an essential flaw or crime committed to justify splitting up. Maybe, after 34 years, a person can just get ANTS in their pants.

I must know nothing about marital issues... Hub-D and I have been married for two years and I love him WAY MORE than I did when we first said "I do." I thereby concluded that love perpetuates the longer two people are together. But what if it wears down to an uncomfortable nub? What if the other person devolves into THE ENEMY after 34 years?

Hub-D said last night, "Why didn't they get divorced after FOUR years instead of THIRTY-FOUR?" Maybe because of the kids? But why did they get married in the first place?

We have so many questions. But I guess I'm mostly afraid their divorce will get on us, that some little bacteria of their discontent will filter over the backyard fence. The discontent will then lie dormant for over three decards, like forgotten tomato seeds, high on a shelf. Then in 2036, they will bloom into a terrifying frenzy of restlessness, leading one or the other of us to abandon all we have built.

I told Hub-D last night that he is NOT allowed to divorce me in 34 years. He told me he wouldn't, as long as I quit being so bossy.

Kauai

When we got back from Boston, I said, "THAT'S IT. NO MORE TRAVEL."

But then, not unlike childbirth and the first three months of my child's life, the bad memories seemed to drift into the ether, replaced by sepia-toned nostalgia: "Isn't it wonderful, flying six hours with a one-year-old? All the BONDING that takes place?"

So we got great last-minute rates for Hawaii, and I'm now spending my evenings poring over Kauai guidebooks, looking for scenic hikes and baby-friendly beaches. My kid is going to crap her nondisposable swim pants when she sees all of those SEA CREATURES swimming around her in the lagoons.

We also got smart and rented a 4WD SUV this time.

On our last two trips to Hawaii, we rented a regular car. There are certain assumptions one makes when traveling within one's country -- for example, if a road is indicated by a solid line on a map, then it must be passable by a motor vehicle. ALOHA, my friends, and welcome to the RAINIEST SPOT ON EARTH.

The rain in Kauai makes for interesting roadways. Having grown up in Pittsburgh, I thought I had seen the WORST ski slopes, the WORST hairdos, and the WORST potholes POSSIBLE. In the case of potholes, I was WRONG. You can bathe in most of the potholes in Kauai. And it's not pure island water filling those potholes, but awesome Kauai MUD -- it's "cave wolf spiders" and deep sienna-colored MUD that stains your skin and your clothing. I still get sentimental whenever I come across our permanently orange-stained socks from our last adventure.

So even though gas is more expensive than lodging on the Garden Isle, I'm considering it an investment in our pure white socks.

I'm pretty excited about this trip. It was Hub-D's idea, and it's been just the thing to get my mind off of my uterus (and maybe stop talking about it 100% of the time). And, now that I think about it, I got knocked up with Babycakes just after our last trip to Kauai, so maybe there's something about that mud.

Cancel the SUV...

Mommies Group saves the day

I had thought that when I'm pregnant again, I'm really going to need my "mommies group." I didn't know them when I was pregnant before, and they would have been a real lifesaver when I was marooned, palpitating on our desolate living room sofa.

All of the ladies in my "mommies group" had daughters in the weeks preceding and following Chebbles' birth, and I could not have chosen better co-conspirators and comediennes if I'd interviewed for the positions. It's a fantastic group -- six "older" moms with great husbands and who can somehow withstand my stupid sense of humor (I still can't believe I showed the babies how to smoke bark at the playground...).

Never did I dream I would NOT be pregnant by now, casting around for solutions and numbers of good reproductive endocrinologists. And damn if I don't need these women WAAAAY more than I would were I pregnant again. Screw the difficulties of my pregnancy -- the constant vomiting, the immobility, the heart thumping, etc. etc. SCREW THAT. Being NOT PREGNANT is way worse, because now I'm wishing that I did feel any one of those symptoms.

As my maternity clothes gather dust in my closet, I wake up thinking things like:

"It seems like I have to pee MORE than I usually do when I wake up. COULD I BE PREGNANT?"

"What was that wave of nausea? I know I always get nausea on an empty stomach in the morning, but it seems like MORE."

And similar torturous thoughts... because this month was a wash again. IF I ovulated, I did so TWICE, a week apart, which makes no sense, and I'm going to throw these ovulation tests in the bay.

I don't know. Perhaps I thought I'd be kicked out of my mommies group for infertility. But, as it turns out, this group of incredible people encourages me, offers helpful advice, and keeps my spirits up, and I'm so appreciative.

Last night as I went to bed, I was feeling truly GLUM about the whole mess, doing spastic bouts of TTC math in my head (So if I have my period on the 14th then I will be fertile again by the end of the month, unless the ovulation tests are completely screwed up and I should gain another five pounds blah blah...).

But this afternoon, four of us convened, with husbands and pizza in the sunny backyard, and laughed about God knows what. And tonight, I'm happy as a clam. Nothing has changed, I didn't get what I "want," which is to be knocked up with one or two healthy babies.

But I've had enjoyed a sunny afternoon with great friends and mischievous babies, and as I go to bed, I really couldn't ask for more.

Stan

Why is our cat, Stanley, still alive?

First-off, Stanley's got three legs. No one knows why, he just showed up that way at the shelter. I brought him home five years ago, and he was my constant companion in my singlehood. I loved everything about him -- his bad attitude, his ability to SPOON perfectly (having a missing front paw helps), his hunting savvy (he rid my apartment of its entire mouse population), his LOUD purr and the fact he smells like flowers and soil.

During my pregnancy, he became an anorexic. He stopped eating much of anything. He dropped from 14 pounds to 7 pounds.

We took him to the vet for various pricey tests and X-rays, only to discover that he had no "blockages" or good reasons why he wouldn't eat. The vet guessed it was cancer of some kind, and, rather than put him through a series of painful, expensive procedures to determine what kind of cancer, we all agreed just to make Stan comfortable and enjoy him in his last few months.

That was almost two years ago, and he's STILL ALIVE.

Our next-door neighbor has adopted Stanley part-time -- once Chebbles became MOBILE, Stanley decided that he would like to LEAVE the house during the baby's waking hours. So he hops through the hedge to J.'s house, and she feeds him and pets him during the day.

And every night, after Chebbles goes to sleep, I go out onto the front porch and announce that the COAST IS CLEAR and that Stanley can leave his cozy nest on J.'s porch and return for some food and lovin'.

But he will only eat the GRAVY of Fancy Feast canned cat food -- licking it all up and sometimes begging for more. And he hovers between 7-8 lbs. at all times.

So Stanley, it seems, is living on borrowed time and gravy. He's somehow sustaining his body functions on near-zero body fat, and remains persnickety in his food choices.

I thought that maybe his teeth were bothering him -- the dude's got some wicked breath. The vet put him under general anesthesia and cleaned his teeth and gums, inspecting every molar. But that made no difference.

When Stan coughed up a GARGANTUAN hairball, J.'s grandkids found it, and we all thought, "Hooray! Maybe he'll EAT now!" But no dice... the hairball sits on J.'s porch like a cryogenically frozen mouse.

And Stanley keeps hopping around, despite his arthritic front shoulder, skinny body and bad attitude. Perhaps he's living on spite alone. But I LOVE the dude. I love his great smell and handsome face and his crackly meow.

As for his emaciated appearance? Well, I did say it runs in the family.

I am not a "Mothering" mother

Have you read "Mothering" magazine? It is a lovely publication filled with great writing about parenthood. It's dedicated to "Natural Parenting" and it's interspersed with poems and beautiful photography.

I'm cancelling my subscription, because I feel like crap every time I read it.

There seems to be an exact prescribed lifestyle that is expected of "Mothering" mothers: NO immunizations, NO formula, NO cribs, NO disposable diapers and NO crying-it-out for GOODNESS' SAKE!

When I was a new mom, I valued "Mothering"'s perspective. Now that I'm a wizened mom, I simply disagree with so much of the content. I really appreciate learning about potential dangers of vaccinations, and the value of breastmilk, and the carcinogens in baby shampoo... but every single article is so one-sided, it's become impossible to take it seriously. Plus, it makes me feel bad about my own decisions.

See, there is no real debate in this magazine, only instruction that takes for granted a reader's compliance:

Mothering: "You will practice Attachment Parenting."
Me: "What are the pros and cons of Attachment Pa--?"
Mothering: "SILENCE!!! DO AS YOU ARE TOLD!"

And I've had it.

In our household we welcome alternative opinions. If someone made a successful argument against cribs, then I might consider burning ours in the backyard. Despite our conservative voting patterns, an issue of "Mother Jones" arrives in our mailbox every months. It's interesting, it's good to survey the other side of things, and keeps us from becoming too haughty and self-assured.

But now that I have been a mom for 14 months (Happy Birthday, Chebbles!), I have learned that my child is NOT a HIPPIE, and almost none of the parenting philosophies espoused by Mothering are applicable to her.

Cases in point:

* Crying-it-out. Dr. Weissbluth's "Healthy Sleep Habits, Happy Child," the cry-it-out alternative to Ferber, is INVALUABLE for our household. When Chebbles cries-it-out, as painful and horrible as it is at the time, she is 100% HAPPIER, well-rested, almost JOYOUS the day after. I can't explain why this is so. If someone made me cry in my bed for hours at a time, I'd be a resentful pissant the next day, with firm plans to run away. But for Chebbles, it WORKS amazingly well. When I don't let her cry it out, she has tantrums, gets sick, and sleeps terribly all day long. So, we cry.

* Weaning. OY, I still feel guilty that she isn't breastfeeding any more. How many times when she was sick did I wish I could whip out a boob? But for our family, it doesn't work. We're trying to conceive a sibling, and that process (no matter what "Mothering" says) is incompatible with breastfeeding. Moreover, truth be told, she wasn't that INTO breastfeeding. She did it well for 10 months, and she was never annoyed that we transitioned to formula. Rather, she looked at me like, "Where have you been hiding THIS stuff all my life!?"

* Immunizations. I've read both sides of this debate, and talked with other parents, autism experts (how is that TWO of our friends are autism researchers?) and health professionals before making the heartbreaking decision to have my child shot up with vaccines against every possible disease. For our family, the benefits outweigh the risks. But when I open up "Mothering," there is an assumption that its readers would never POISON their children with SHOTS. Ugh.

* Diapers. When I was debating between cloth and disposable diapers, I contacted my cousin, a dad who serves in the military. I told him I couldn't decide and he said, "Listen, I've walked through the streets of Baghdad. Your choice of diapers ultimately doesn't mean anything for the environment one way or another." So, Costco disposables it is!

* Co-sleeping. I wanted to co-sleep with my baby. I thought it was such a good, snuggly, bonding activity. Even our pediatrician Dr. M. co-sleeps with HIS babies. So I gave it a whirl, and you know what? Chebbles HATED it. She really does NOT like sleeping near me. It pisses her off. OK, my body gets super-heated at night, and I'm something of an "active" sleeper. But doesn't she want to hear my HEARTBEAT and smell my distinct ODOR and be COMFORTED by her mother's sleeping frame at night? No, ew, and no thanks. She loves her crib. It protects her from my hearbeat and odor and hot, sleeping frame. She sleeps 100% better when she's with Panda, just the two of them, with me lurking outside the nursery door pathetically, "Are you suuuuuure you don't want to co-sleep with me?"... "Get lost, Mama."

So those have been my decisions. And every time I read the "Mothering" partyline, I start wondering if I've inexorably screwed up my child. I mean, perhaps I could start lactating again? Then I have to remember, THIS MAGAZINE IS HIPPIE TRIPE. This magazine is about ONE set of decisions made by some ideal mom, not about my gorgeous kid, who has never wanted me me to "wear" her in a sling (as is dictated by "Mothering) because it's CLOYING, she can't see, and there's the issue of my ODOR and HOTNESS.

So yeah, I'm giving up on "Mothering." Maybe I'll start my own magazine: "Chubbling."

Nellie Olsen is in our swim class

Chebbles and I are dealing with our first BULLY. Can someone tell me, are all 2-year-olds like this? This kid, K., takes every opportunity she can to SHOVE, SLAP, or STEAL from my child.

Her mom always jumps right in, makes K. apologize with as much sincerity as she can muster, and will even smack K.'s hand, or put her on time-out. Basically, she doesn't permit this behavior, but I've seen the EMPTY EVIL in K.'s eyes.

The first two or three times that K. assaulted Chebbles, I wrote it off as a simple swim-class-locker-room power struggle. I figured that my kid had to learn that some kids are jerks, and she never sustained any significant injury. Besides, I like K.'s mom, and she always came to Chebbles' rescue.

But today, with K. freshly back from a two-week trip to Hawaii, she seemed like she had a lot of stored-up abuse to heap upon Chebbles. You might ask, "Why don't you just keep your kid away from this HOOLIGAN?" and I will say... "But Chebbles likes her."

K. is a terrific swimmer, very athletic and interesting from a one-year-old perspective. So Chebbles is always following her around, standing right next to her when she dresses, admiring her shoes, her diving skills, her white-blonde hair.

Then K. will turn to her and silently push her down. It happens right in that moment when her mom and I look away... suddenly Chebbles is down on her rear end, in shock. Then crying. She cried a lot at swim class today, due to K.'s persistent knockin' around.

So what do I do? Her mom works hard, trying to keep her kid from causing any lawsuits. It's just that Chebbles seems morbidly fascinated with the girl. One day in the locker room, K. screamed "MINE!" right in my baby's face. And right away, Chebbles started saying it ALL THE TIME, and exactly like that... "MINE!" Just a few moments ago, as she drifted off to sleep, she was saying it, apropo of nothing... "Mine.... mine..... miiiiine..."

But I don't mind that kind of mimickry. She's going to pick up bad habits from other kids. It's the hitting and pushing that are starting to get to me. Is Chebbles going to start dreading swim lessons because of this nasty behavior. And I'm serious, K.'s eyes are like a great white shark. Soulless... looking for prey.

I asked K.'s mom if there was something that Chebbles is doing that's pissing her daughter off. Did she take something, or say something, or get up in her grill in an unpleasant way? And, exasperated, K.'s mom said that she just does it all the time to anyone smaller than she is.

GOOD GRIEF! She has other victims?

Well, the good news is that K. is SUCH a good swimmer that she's graduating to semi-private lessons next session, and our contact with her will be limited. AND there is another two-year-old in our swim class, who, as she was leaving the locker room today (I am actually choking up as I type this), came over and kissed Chebbles on the cheek, unbidden and super-sweet, as in, "Wait a minute, Mom, there's something I gotta do..." then... (smooooch)

Perhaps there is hope for humanity after all.

Chebbles

Sometimes nicknames just STICK. Cases in point, our cats... "Otto" is now "DODDS" and "Prince" is now just called "Rrrrrrrrrr," which evolved from a desire to call him "Prrrrrrrrrrrrrinzregententorte"

Others' names doesn't seem appropriate sometimes. Which brings me to a cataclysmic name change on this blog. The child formerly known as Babycakes will now be referred to as Chebbles.

I'm hereby ADMITTING that her real nickname is Chebbles.

"Chebbles" is a misunderstood nickname that derived from "Princess."

Specifically, "Princess" became "Princessa" (pronounced in the Italian manner "Prin-CHESS-a") which was subsequently shortened to "Chessa." "Chessa" stuck for while, but once she became mobile, it somehow morphed into "Chebba." Then, on our trip to Italy, it just seemed more accurate to say "Chebbles" and, I also have to admit, "CHUBBLES!"

So now we have either the gentle "Chebbles," which I croon as I wipe her fevered brow... or we have the wildly hollered "CHUBBLES!" which is most commonly used to announce her arrival into a room, or to reminisce about how damn cute she is. Hub-D and I will be sitting in the living room reading, and one of us will just convulse and say "CHUBBLES!" to which the only proper response is an equally enthusiastic "CHUBBLES!"... followed by a little bit of reminiscing from the day.

It has been gently pointed out to me that the name CHUBBLES must fade into the past if I expect her to have any self-esteem. I recognize this. No one wants a name that has the word CHUB in it, nor does anyone really want to be introduced as one enters a room as CHUBBLES!

And yet, the names Chebbles and CHUBBLES really do suit her. She's a total Chebbles. Her own name is a lovely, dignified name that will work perfectly for her once she passes the bar. Until then, I'm afraid we've got a Chebbles on our hands. Or, in cases of extreme cuteness, CHUBBLES!