Mom My Ride

Just for the next five days, I will live my fantasy of having four children.

Chebbles' three cousins (ages 6,8, and 10) are currently on a train heading southward from their home in the Pacific Northwest, and we're going to pick them up at the station shortly.

For the occasion, I've rented a honking minivan, which I am thoroughly enjoying! I feel like the queen bee of the road.

Last night, I stuffed a bunch of neighborhood moms in the minivan to drive to dinner, and they said that it was ungodly clean in there -- not a natural state for a minivan. They told me it was high time that I "mommed my ride." I'm posting the video now! (Love the duct tape...)

Welcome bees!

The bees are back and I'm so excited!

Our wisteria is in full bloom. When I opened a window to the backyard this morning, a purple pollen cloud seeped straight into the house.

It smells waaaay better than raccoon hide or cat pee, yes?

Just now I traipsed into the backyard (to wash some cat pee off of a rug... what else?) and discovered that our lawn has transformed into Yeats's "bee-loud glade."

What a the marvelous explosion of flowers and bees! I could only see a dozen bees, but there must be many more, based on the deafening buzz. They were methodically crawling into each wisteria bloom and doing whatever it is that bees do in there, coming out drunk and heavy with pollen.

Man, I could stand there all day, under the cloud of pollen and bees. But there are cat-pee rugs to wash before I sleep, cat-pee rugs to wash before I sleep.

Off the deep end

I've ordered the OV-watch.

If you're mad about my purchase of an "ovulation watch," you can blame that darn Stella, who forwarded me an e-mail about it as a JOKE.

I don't think she realized how gullible I am, and how much my sense of humor has been whittled down to a nearly indiscernible nub.

Anyway, this watch mysteriously measures the salt content in one's skin, and alerts a woman when her skin gets super-salty and pre-ovulationish.

They say it's better than peeing on the LH-surge tests, because it gives you a load of advance warning.

But I just ordered it because they're having a special. If I don't get pregnant after using the watch for three months, they will give me $99 in free products. I just wanted someone else to have a stake in the matter, you know?

What did that child just say?

The Chebs had a LOT to talk about this morning. The topics she brought up were:

* Poop.

* Bums.

* Farting.

* Boobs.

This whole train of thought would have made more sense if she had actually pooped, or farted, or if I'd burst into her room topless, but there was nothing discernable which triggered these thoughts.

I'm guessing that this is a phase that will last for a looooong time -- maybe what we could call the "funny word" phase.

And I already feel like I've screwed it up, because I haven't given her good words to work with. I've just thrown out the words that *I* use to discuss these subjects. She's also figured out that I think these words are funny when she says them.

For example, I think we should have said "tush" instead of "bum." Yesterday in the grocery store, Chebbles was indicating various people, and noticing how they ALL had bums. The grocery clerk had a bum ("HE has bum.") and the customer in front of us had a bum, etc. Then a lady very nicely turned around and told Chebbles that she has a "TUSH," not a "bum." Chebbles was kind of stunned at this development. Now she thinks that some people have dainty tushes, and others (such as ourselves) have more pedestrian bums. Wait until she finds out about derrieres!

And I also realized too late that nice people say "B.M.," not "poop," but it's already so ingrained in our family's psyche. We're poopers, not B.M.'ers, I suppose. Sorry Chebs.

As for farting, I am afraid to admit that she learned to laugh at farts from me. A good fart joke can make me pee my pants just as well as a high jump on the trampoline. She also understands that farts are poop's cousin -- so she'll string them into the same sentence: "Poop and fart, Mama." Ha ha ha haaaaaa!!! (oh, sorry, I'm NOT supposed to laugh). I should have taught her "toot" or "pass gas" or something, right? Too late.

And finally, the boobs. I've always just said, "boob" to her. She'll be watching me get dressed and she'll happily point them out: "BOOBS!"

They are her old pals, her nurturance of yore, so I think it's OK that she likes them so much. But she also likes to tell other people about my fabulous boobs. "Mama has BOOBS," she'll tell anyone, including any and all of her grandparents.

Recently she figured out that SHE has boobs too. She's pretty psyched about that, and she's not afraid to tell you as much. But I wish we had a nicer word for them. "Breasts" seems a little too formal. "Knockers," "hooters," or "udders" are all wrong. Is there a better word for boobs that I haven't yet discovered?

Well, thank HEAVENS I was on top of the "popo" situation, anyway. Before going too far down the "vagina" path, I was able to throw the term "popo" into the mix, and that's the only word we're using around here. The last thing I need is a toddler pointing out people who DO and DO NOT have vaginas around the grocery store.

Post period to-do list

I'm getting on top of my post-period morasse by accomplishing items on my post-period to-do list:

* Playgroup. I DID volunteer to organize my new playgroup, and the former organizer was ECSTATIC that I did so. What have I gotten myself into? I feel as though I've insinuated myself into a power vacuum here -- snatching control over a group of hapless suburban mothers.

* Cookies. I have purchased ingredients with an eye toward making cookies from scratch next week. I even got special sugar crystals for decorations. I'm not dicking around here, folks.

* Hub-D's Wiki? Not yet. Too intimidated by the technology.

* Hot tub/bathroom renovation. I spied on neighbors' hot tub set-ups from their backyards, with an eye toward secret duplication. They weren't IN the hot tubs at the time, so I don't think this necessarily qualifies as stalking.

* Upcoming visit by Chebbles' older cousins. Well, I bought an air mattress for them at Costco today. That should be good entertainment for a day or two, yes?

* Dinner parties -- I am proud to say that I have just concluded a dinner party where no one threw up, stomped out in anger, and I only had to spend 20 minutes picking food out of the rug we foolishly placed beneath our dining room table. The food I cooked was dry, but it's so energizing having people over.

* Vegetable garden... Our gardeners weeded the last giant weeds today, leaving me with a soil-based tabula rasa with which to erect a masterpiece of horticulture. Now what the hell do I plant?

* Aaaaand, the master bedroom clean-up project is underway, as usual.

I'm proud to have these things in process. See, each time I get my period, it's like a brand new surge of energy. Sure, it's energy based on disappointment, but I'm getting stuff done, so I'm choosing to roll with it for now.

Just three more periods before I get CLOMID prescribed. Yum yum!

Reflexology Rocks

Last night, Hub-D and I wandered into a foot massage parlor.

Doesn't that sound shady? I thought so, but it looked so cozy and plush in there, and we could see a man getting a whiz-bang foot massage through the window.

The parlor is run by Cantonese people, who told us that these kind of establishments are a dime a dozen in the streets of China. Everyone who is anyone gets their feet rubbed, sometimes on a daily basis! (There, it costs $3/hour -- Here, $40/hour.)

The masseuses were new immigrants, somewhat overdressed for the occasion. Hub-D's masseuse would have fit in at the opera in her fancy black dress. And the man who was assigned to rub my tired dogs wore a collared shirt and a very serious expression. Neither of them spoke any English.

But they definitely spoke FOOT. After soaking our feet in wooden barrels of orange-tinted scalding water, they proceeded to, well, rub our feet. But that doesn't do justice to the experience. This isn't the absentminded footrub I'll give Hub-D after work. This was the most painful and extraordinary footrub either of us has experienced in our lives.

Hub-D's masseuse actually produced a series of torturous instruments which she pushed into every angle and inch of the sole of his foot. Mine was gentler, but the footrub still consisted of painful prodding and tough foot love. He deliberately pressed his fingers into parts of my feet I had forgotten existed, all the while looking at me in the eye with that serious expression. What was he waiting for? Cries of pain? Terror? Delight?

I just smiled and told him it felt good and directed my gaze back to my feet.

He finished by pounding the bottoms of my heels with his fists, and it was a terrific full-body sensation that lasted for hours afterwards.

So anyway, on our next date night, you'll find Hub-D and me plopped in the footrub parlor again, wincing and yelping our way to podiatric ecstasy.

Google-B-Gone

Really, what would be the objection to my ordering this? If I had 250 pregnancy tests, all of which test for just 20 mIU hCG, making them the most sensitive and accurate tests on the market, wouldn't all of my problems be solved?

In other news, if one is experiencing stinking night sweats as I am, the last thing in the world one should look at is this. This is the takeaway from the site... If you're experiencing night sweats, it's because you're either:

(a) Too idiotic to remove your down comforter
(b) Perimenopausal (oh yeah, sister)
(c) Suffering from tuberculosis
(d) Coming down with AIDS
(e) Experiencing the first signs of lymphoma
(f) Eating too much candy, or
(g) Eating too much Viagra

Well now that's solved.

Lately, I stink when I sleep.

And it's not a normal stink. It's not a nice athletic stink, or a "haven't bathed because I'm caring for the child full-time and feeling martyrish" stink. It wasn't even related to Ethiopian food, which is usually a likely stink-culprit.

No, I've just started stinking when I sleep. I get really, really hot and then I start stinking. And it's so bad that Hub-D thinks I should see a doctor about it.

First of all, if there is anything Hub-D hates it's a BAD ODOR. So it really speaks of his love for me that he hasn't shacked up in Reno to escape my smell.

Second of all, I'd like to congratulate Google's ad server, which was oddly prescient in this case.

Third of all, why do I stink? It must be something dire, yes?

I have settled upon "menopause" as the most likely reason for the odor.

Last night was the first time I really woke myself up with the stink and the heat -- and I had some time to ponder my horrible stinky heated condition.

It's gotta be hot flashes, right? It is so intense and horrible, sweaty, stinky and unpredictable -- it must be the death knell of my reproductive years.

I drew other conclusions in the middle of the night, including but not limited to:

* This is the reason for my miscarriages -- the babies couldn't stand the heat, so they got out of the kitchen.

* I will probably have to have a hysterectomy because my symptoms are too intense.

* This problem will only get worse, and extend throughout the next two decades.

* I need more soy in my diet.

* Should we adopt children? Or should we hire a gestational surrogate after my inevitable hysterectomy? How could we be sure she wouldn't smoke? And what if it's like that episode of "Law & Order" when the surrogate runs to Mexico with the baby?

* What if Hub-D goes to Mexico with the gestational surrogate in order to hide from the terrible smell and be with someone who can bear his children?

So, as you can see, my night sweats and accompanying odor have a lot of implications, many of which I'm only beginning to absorb.

Swing Low

I dropped off my sister at the airport this morning, and we were both so sad we were just paralyzed by it. It is not right that we're stuck at opposite ends of the country when we so obviously belong closer together.

She and Chebbles had a whale of a time together, despite Chebbles' propensity to call her "Grandma" repeatedly throughout the week. Yesterday I took them to Sears Portrait Studio and snapped some "Auntie and Me" shots that are real keepers.

But today, with Aunt E. out of the house, I am just scraping the bottom emotionally. I wept the whole time I was putting Chebbles down for her nap, and my eyes are constantly brimming with tears. It's too much!

I get my period, and my sister also takes a negative pregnancy test, then she leaves this morning. To top it off, the plans I made with a friend today seem not to have materialized. I NEEDED THAT. I was counting on that little get-together to keep my spirits up in this time of woe, but, I haven't heard from her.

This is a bad time for "California Flakiness" to rear its head. So many times this happens to me -- someone says, "Let's DEFINITELY get together on Saturday afternoon," and so I happily block off the afternoon and prepare to get together with that person. And then later I find out it was just a "tentative" plan.

What is wrong with me that I keep falling for that crap? I feel like Charlie Brown trying to kick the football again and again. Hub-D says I'm being a little melodramatic today, but there you have it.

I miss my sister.

.

Hellooooo period. I guess I'm on a 30 day cycle now.

I'd be lying if I said I wasn't disappointed not to be pregnant, but I would also be full of crap if I didn't admit a certain measure of relief.

Now I can also get my much-beloved cortisone shots (ahhhh) to relieve the ever-increasing pain in my wrist tendons, and I can drink like a fish when my friend Stella comes up to visit today.

This means I'm one step further to traipsing around Paris pregnancy-free.

Anyway, I must go now, as The Chebs has awoken and started singing "Trampoline! Trampoline!" from the confines of her crib.

Mystery lingers

Day 29 of my cycle, no period apparent, and one negative pregnancy test.

Things I will do if I'm not pregnant

* Volunteer to organize my new playgroup. The current organizer is moving, and they need someone to coordinate their meetings.

* Bake something from scratch for an upcoming mom's meeting. It will involve chocolate and become a legend among the neighborhood. I will refuse to give out the recipe.

* Go on Hub-D's "Wiki," whatever that is. He's been asking me to do that for weeks.

* Work on the hot tub/bathroom renovation. The hot tub now has active vegetation growing from it.

* Set about planning elaborate activities for an upcoming visit by Chebbles' older cousins.

* Learn how to throw dinner parties, then have a series of amazing ones that involve multiple magnums of wine.

* Plant a badass vegetable garden.

* Clean up the whole master bedroom so I don't have to ashamedly shut the door of that room every time anyone comes over.


Things I will do if I AM pregnant

* Panic.

* Check my underpants.

* Panic regardless.

Ping-Pong Anticipation

In an hour, this house will be packed with children, as I've offered to host my new playgroup's weekly meeting.

I am determined to make more friends, for me and Chebbles. During my second pregnancy and miscarriage, I discovered how much we need friends -- we were relying too heavily on too few, I felt.

So I have two huge bags of Pirate's Booty, a trampoline and a swingset warmed up and ready to go. Only I'm sitting here typing instead of cleaning the house in preparation.

Why? I'm a sack of nerves because my period was due yesterday. I feel like Captain Kangaroo, waiting for the ping-pong balls to fall down on my head. Either I'll get my period and I won't be pregnant, or I won't get my period and the HELL WILL BEGIN.

Either way: ping-pongs.

OK, I'm going to go straighten up and try to take my mind off of this. Where's Mr. Greenjeans when you need him?

What is this crap?

Don't give me that crap about a cat food recall, lady. This AIN'T my "Priority" brand seafood mix. It's some janky "Friskies" Mixed Grill . Mixed WHAT? What's in there, what is it mixed with?

I like one food, and it's "Priority" brand. Recall, shmecall, I'll take my chances.

The ice cream man cometh

When I was growing up, our ice cream man was named Chuck. Or at least his truck said, "Chuck's" on it. He had a strange tri-tone horn -- nothing like the tinkling amplified music or little romantic bells of today's ice cream men. We could hear Chuck's special horn as he entered our subdivision, and from there it was a mad dash.

We'd first have to locate our mother, and secure permission to get ice cream from Chuck. This was fairly easy. The next step was GETTING MONEY. Inevitably, our mother would be at the furthest possible location from her money when we heard the blare of Chuck's horn. So we'd have to do our best to connect our mother with her money before Chuck passed us by.

I remember the scrambling, trying to locate her wallet, and the terrible days when we'd secured her permission, found the wallet, delivered the wallet to our mother (or dug into it ourselves) only to discover that she HAD NO MONEY. Chuck doesn't take checks. You're hosed.

At that point, our mom would try to soothe us by saying she'd MAKE us popsicles or some such blather. Sorry, there is NOTHING, but NOTHING like the red-white-and-blue BOMB POPS that Chuck had. Or the chocolate-banana-chocolate combo he dished out.

In occurs to me now that we were never expected to pay for Chuck's ice cream out of our OWN money. For that I thank you, Mom.

But anyway, my sister is visiting us now. And yesterday as we sat in the backyard, soaking in the sunshine, we heard a strange tinkling music rising up above the trees of our subdivision. It got louder and we focused all of our attention on it. It was our own ICE CREAM MAN!

His truck stinks, it says "BS Ice Cream" on the side in magic marker, and he wears a fascinating orange turban. By the time I'd found my cash, BS was already past our house, so I BOOKED IT. Yes, with Aunt E. hauling Chebbles behind me, I ran full tilt after the ice cream truck, waving my arms and hollering, "Stop!"

BS stopped the truck and patiently waited while we debated the merits of various ice cream bars, settling on the most "natural" one for Chebbles, and a big fat fudge-n-banana combo for Aunt E. I tipped BS. Is that customary? Well, he did stop and back up his stinky truck for us.

So the tradition continues. And now Chebbles is going to get acquainted with BS's music. Perhaps in years to come, she'll learn the mid-summer mad scramble, hollering out, "MOM! BS is coming! Can I have ice cream and where's your CASH!!??"

It's character building, yes?

Evidence of Frenchness mounts

Last July, I speculated that my child was French. The theory still holds as our trip to her "motherland" nears.

She still loves frogs, cheese, and wine. And now her motto is "Fashion ABOVE ALL."

Every day she wears the same dress. This is the same one she's been wearing for about three weeks now. If I should try to put anything else on her, she screams as though the garment were ON FIRE, and works to remove it, screaming, "OFF! OFF!"

Everything must pass her muster, and it's better for me to just sit back and let her dress herself. This photo depicts an entirely Chebbles-conceived outfit. You'll see here:

* Blue necklace (ALWAYS)
* Frog boots
* Container of blueberries, which she calls "baie" -- which happens to be the French word for "berry."
* Flowery leggings (they "go" with the dress)
* THE pink dress (discreetly laundered by her mother while she sleeps)
* The Elmo painting smock, which has been designated her favorite "bib."

Also, we spotted a bizarrely fashionable woman in Costco yesterday. It might have been Anna Wintour, we can't really be sure, but Chebbles was instantly fascinated with her, enthusiastically pointing her out each time we crossed paths. The woman ignored Chebbles' entreaties, going about her Costco business.

Who was this woman? Why did she sport huge sunglasses, heels and a massive pearl necklace? Did she try and/or like the yogurt samples we bogarted? Only one thing is for certain: she is Chebbles' new goddess. Chebbles ogled her at full tilt. Betcha five bucks my child will be bucking for a big pearl necklace in short order.

Pourquoi pas?

Hot new dress

Me: I am so hot in this new dress! I can't believe it was just $25 at H&M. It works perfectly as a housedress during the day, but looks nice enough to go out to dinner! I feel so smart and fashionable. And I fit into an '8!' Maybe this hot pink doesn't work on most people, but it sure works on me. Hot, am I hot! Maybe I shouldn't even take a walk outside in this dress because it's almost too provocative in its hotness...

(So I took a walk, and on the way, two 8-year-old Chebbles fans came running over to her stroller to talk with her. Then one of them turned her attention to me...)

Neighborhood Girl: (points to my belly) Hey, are you having a baby?

OH MY GOD. I went home and changed immediately. The "hot" dress is now banished to my maternity collection.

No one leaves here without a limp

Oh that Chebbles! Whenever I get good and worried about her, she gets better.

Today her limp was much less pronounced. It's still there, but she really seems to be on the mend. Whatever it was, it's going away.

She was not slowed a BIT today, as she wreaked havoc with two separate playgroups, getting in screaming tiffs over the possession of balls, swings, Crocs and Pirate's Booty -- naturally.

We had a bevy of babies on the trampoline again today with only one small injury. As I told my friend J., our new household slogan is, "No one leaves here without a limp!"

In other news, Chebbles found a treasure trove of cat shit in the yard. She smeared it up and down her arms, so delighted in the pliable "rocks" she had found, before I discovered the situation. I want to burn all of our clothes now, all of our furnishings, and maybe the whole backyard. We will never be adequately cleansed of cat poo.

But anyway, she's not limping quite so much. Just stinking now.

NO!

"MINE!" (Chebbles slaps friend)

"NO, MIIIIIINE!!! (Boo hoo hoo hoo)"

"MIIIIINE!"

"Cookie? COOKIE? COOOOOKIE!!!???? MIIIIINE! (Boo hoo hoo hoo)"

........

This is a phase, right?

Right???

Paris

Even though we're trying to conceive what will be a high risk pregnancy...

Even though our daughter walks with an unexplained limp...

Even though I'm afraid of my daughter anywhere near balconies...

And even though I can't speak French to save my life, not even to say: "Bonjour monsieur, I am having a miscarriage and can you save my limping child from the balcony?"...

We are going to Paris. Screw it. Screw all of the worries and limitations. We're going to Paris in May. I've bought the tickets and we're going for cripe's sake. (For crepe's sake?)

Grandma R. is going with us to help care for The Chebs. Take my word for it, when you enter the land of severe sleep deprivation that is world travel with a small child, you need help. So Grandma R. is heading to the city of lights with us. Huzzah!

I'm a little nervous, having booked nonrefundable tickets, but we're just taking the plunge. If we are successful having another baby in the near future, our world travel plans will be greatly curtailed for the forseeable future. And Grandma is available NOW as she is between jobs, so we're donning matching berets and heading nine time zones into the future.

Holy merd!

Limpy McNutt

Chebbles has developed a limp in her left foot. It began about 5 days ago and has steadily worsened, so I took her to see Dr. M. today. He hypothesized that it's a sprain of some kind.

BUT since it's gotten worse throughout the week, he ordered a set of X-rays, just to be sure.

"Doctor," I said as he left the room, "Just reassure me that she doesn't have bone cancer."

He came back in. "I didn't want to scare you," he said, "But a limp is sometimes the first symptom for cancer and leukemia. She's too healthy, though, for me to suspect that. If it continues, we'll do some lab work to rule that out."

Holy crapola! I've already been on edge about Chebbles' safety since my miscarriage, and now I have to sit around and wait for this limp to clear up and/or lab results to tell me she doesn't have LEUKEMIA?

OK, let's be rational for one minute here, Mama. My friend T.'s son developed a limp at the same age. They never figured out what it was, but he outgrew it. The hypothesis was that one leg just grew a little faster than the other.

Chebbles is in perfect health, with boundless energy and doesn't seem to be in any pain. In fact, she's been somewhat over-adventurous in the last week, and I've had to throw some discipline her way.

It's almost hubris to think that she might have some terrible disease -- it's so unlikely for many different reasons. And yet, it wrings my heart when I see her limp around. This evening, she was trying to run in the kitchen and her limp tripped her up.

So I took her to the radiology center. When Chebbles saw the X-ray machine, she became VERY upset, clinging to me and shouting, "NO!" Nothing could calm her, not even Mimi. I had to pin her down to the table for four different angles of shots while she hollered and wept. It was just as horrible as last time.

The X-rays will tell us if she has a little bone fracture of some kind. Dr. M. said that toddlers will occasionally develop these odd walking fractures.

It definitely seems possible that she hurt herself on our new play equipment. "It's the goddamn trampoline," Hub-D theorized this morning, but I really don't think so. She never has any impact with anything when she's in the trampoline, but she horses around on the ladders with some regularity, and she has had some hard falls.

Dr. M. did say that, if it's a sprain, it very well may have happened on the trampoline -- if she jumped up and landed funny. But the kid never gets any air. Me? I jump way high and pee my pants when I land too hard. But Chebbles just stands there bending her knees and cackling.

Maybe I don't want to admit that Kate's comment regarding the trampoline was RIGHT and it's a deathtrap to which I've subjected my whole neighborhood, with the karma being a lasting injury to my only child with accompanying fear of deadly childhood diseases.

Anyway, here is hoping that Dr. M. sees nothing alarming in the X-rays, and Chebbles wakes up tomorrow with her sprightly gait intact.

Bruiser update

According to our resident expert, Bruiser is currently "hiding in the car." He may also be crouched under the bathmat in her bathtub.

We're rapidly approaching Snuffleupagus territory here.

You sad? Lay it on me!

I realize now that I have sucked at sympathy my whole life.

There are legends of my heartlessness. When my little sister was wheeled from the recovery room after her tonsillectomy, I whispered in her ear, "I know you're faking it."

I still think that's funny, but anyway...

It wasn't until I had my own tragedy -- that miscarriage at 10 weeks -- that I realized that how bad sympathy can be screwed up.

The crappiest sympathy comes in the form of people who give you things to do and to think about surrounding your tragedy. "Perhaps you didn't get enough sea vegetables," was one post-miscarriage comment. Another unhelpful thing is the crowd who told me that perhaps this miscarriage was God's will because the baby was grossly deformed or retarded.

That's sucky sympathy. But that's the kind of thing I've said my whole life, believing that I could "logic" people out of their sadness: "Well, at least he didn't suffer," or "People who don't wear helmets are just asking to die."

I told one friend whose mother committed suicide that she might feel better if she came up to visit me for awhile. No, Mama, no. No one feels better after spending time with you, you type-A, problem solving heartless maniac!

So it wasn't like I deserved to have a terrible thing happen to me, but it's certainly been enlightening. And now I get it:

People who are going through a difficult time want to know that their pain registers with others.

AND often these difficult times reverberate for months and years after the fact, so a good friend will remember and honor their friends' losses for a long time to come.

Today I returned a book about miscarriage to a friend of mine, and I said, "Let's hope we don't need to lend that to anyone else," and she said, "I hear you, sister."

But you know what? If someone does lose a baby, or a friend, or has a shitty setback of some kind, I'm a lot more ready to help them. See, people don't want to hear solutions or theories when they're sad -- no matter how brilliant those suggestions might be! Nope. They want to hear, "Oh, that really sucks."

Having begun to emerge from my own shell of sadness, I finally see this. There really is a difference between people who have experienced a terrible loss and those who have been avoided tragedy thus far. And now that I have entered the former category, I am ready to sympathize.

You sad? Lay it on me!

Crap and B.S.

We got a letter addressed to Chebbles a few days ago. I pulled it from the mailbox and said, "Look, Chebs, it's YOUR NAME on this letter!"

Brimming with excitement, we made our way to the front porch and opened it together. "It looks like it's from your cousins on the East Coast," I said. We never hear from them, not even a Christmas card this year, so it was triply exciting that Chebbles had a LETTER from these mysterious cousins!

Damn if it wasn't a chain letter.

"Oh Chebbles, I'm so sorry, it's a chain letter. Those things are crap."

"Crap," she said.

"They never take any interest in us, and then they want us to send a book and six letters? It's B.S."

"B.S.," she said.

"Yes, Chebs, this is crap and B.S."

"Crap and B.S."

"Exactly."

I don't want to sow bad feelings within our extended family, so I'm going to send a book to the person listed at the top of the letter. But I refuse to send out more letters and pass on this DISEASE to other parents. I don't want Chebbles' friends thinking they got a nice letter from her, only to discover they are tasked with sending a book, and a letter to six other people.

This is some of the verbiage of the offending letter:

"This is not your typical chain letter. The U.S. Post Office has given it permission as part of the U.S. Literacy Campaign. It is meant to give young children an interest in books. A preschool class started the letter as a project. If you don't wish to participate, PLEASE send the letter back to me."

At the bottom of the letter, someone has scrawled, "P.S. Hello to Mom & Dad!"

OK, shut the hell up. That wasn't even PERSONALIZED! They are suddenly coming out of the blue and they don't use our names?

And I looked it up: The U.S. Postal Service has NOT authorized any chain letter campaign of any kind. Like every other offensive chain letter, it's against the law to ask for any item of value through this kind of scheme. And there IS no "U.S. Literacy Campaign." And while I'm at it, WHICH preschool started this program? You people are so full of crap, I don't even know where to begin.

Why do people fall for this kind of thing? It's not fun to participate in sticker clubs and chain letters like this.

I sure wish that family had just written us a letter and actually said "Hello" to my child, rather than instantly bullying her to send a book to the eight-month-old child listed at the top of the letter.

It's crap and B.S.

Bruiser

Leave it to Chebbles to create her first imaginary friend out of a Hollywood dog.

A few weeks ago, I went to see "Legally Blonde, The Musical" (which was awesome). I brought home the playbill, which was immediately spotted by Chebbles. "Dog!" she pointed at Elle Woods' little chihuahua on the cover, "Dog!"

"That's Bruiser," I told her. "That's her little dog. Isn't he cute?"

"Bruiser," Chebbles mimicked, and one would think that was the end of that.

Ohhh no. Bruiser has since been spotted in an alley in Oakland, in a tree in our backyard, and several retail establishments in the Bay Area. Today I took Chebbles on a walk, and she emphatically pointed out a house to me and said, "Bruiser's house."

There is no dog at that house. We don't know those neighbors. There haven't been chihuahuas or any other kind of dog in the places she has pointed to and shouted, "BRUISER!" Nevertheless, the Bruiser sightings continue.

Bruiser, I have concluded, is Chebbles' first imaginary friend. He fills her with glee when he's spotted dancing on our neighbor's rooftop. And he's welcome to join our family, that nutty dog.

A girl shouldn't sleep with her friend's guy

My friend Alice had the shittiest thing happen to her. Rather than try to explain her situation, I'll tell you what happened to me in 1990...

I was 18 years old, a freshman at the University of Michigan. I had dated M. since arriving at college.

My best friend was T. She was one of my three roommates and my #1 confidante in all things. She made me laugh so hard I peed my pants. And she made me pee my pants with such regularity that our shower stall always had 2-3 pairs of my pants in it, awaiting post-pee laundering. She could do it just by looking at me sideways.

We did everything together, T. and I. She taught me how to drink beer. She got me to be cool, where I had been kind of dorky my whole life. I learned to do my hair in a much prettier way, and I wore her clothes about 90% of the time.

She was one of seven kids from a Catholic New Jersey family, and she could tell stories all day long... her older siblings who got her drunk at her 6th grade graduation, her younger brother who insisted on peeing in various containers under his bed, her neighbor who was killed by a balloon. I loved T. immensely. We all did, I think.

So this cute boy, M., and I had had a long relationship, as far as freshman romances go. We bonded in our mutual loves for Billy Joel. He met my family and we enjoyed snuggling in the cold Michigan winter, I nursed him through his fraternity initiation, his horrid Russian class, and Navy ROTC woes. His roommates came to be some of my best friends, and all four of us laughed our heads off together.

M. and I broke up in February. And I learned soon thereafter that he and T. had been sleeping together for some time.

M.? My sweet boyfriend?

T.? My best friend?

"We were so drawn to each other, we couldn't help it," they said.

"We have so much in common. We want to have a big Catholic family together," they said.

"We didn't want to hurt you," they said, pitying me as I wept, feeling small as the carpet fibers around me.

It was our third roommate who "outed" T. She told T. that she had to come clean with me because she couldn't live with the secret anymore.

"What secret?" I had asked. So naive, so trusting.

It's been seventeen years since the day I learned my best friend had betrayed me with my boyfriend (and vice versa). And I feel I finally have some perspective on the extreme heartbreak I experienced in the weeks and months that followed.

What really burns me up is T.'s behavior. I recognize this is sexist, and that they both had a hand in their evil deeds, but A GIRL SHOULDN'T SLEEP WITH HER FRIEND'S GUY.

And with that creed, I mean any guy she's been interested in for all time immemorial. I will make an exception for women who have the decency to approach their friends BEFORE AN AFFAIR BEGINS and explain that she's started having feelings for the guy in question, and to ask her friend for permission to pursue these feelings.

But I make no exception for beee-atches who sneak around having secret sex with people. It's gross. It's mean. It's twisted.

To all of the protests, "But we couldn't HELP it! It was some kind of animal magnetism!" I say -- give me a break. What are you, a chimp? You're a psycho, and you don't deserve to have girlfriends if you're going to betray them in such a deep and unforgiveable way.

Epilogue #1:

In the depths of my heartbreak, I wandered into the Student Publications Building and joined The Michigan Daily, having nothing better to do with my time. I looked up to the editorial staff of The Daily, and learned so much from them as a writer and editor. Their guidance is what propelled me to pursue writing throughout my undergraduate years, then an MFA in writing shortly therafter. So SCREW YOU, T. and M., you can kiss my Master's degree's ass.

T. and M. broke up the next year, proving my theory that "Evil Cannot Collaborate." T. met and married a different guy, and the two of them became lawyers. At a wedding in 2004, I saw T. and her husband. I was skinnier and prettier than T., and I noticed for the first time that she was just a depressive weenie. She sulked on the sidelines while her husband and I cut a rug to the hits of the 80's.

M. went to business school, and tried to sleep with me when I visited Chicago in 1996. Case closed.

Epilogue #2:

Alice! Poor Alice! The same thing happened to her at her graduate school last week. The guy + the "best friend." OY! How can women keep doing this to other women? Don't they know that 17 years later their betrayed friend will still be gnashing her teeth and gloating about her comparative skinniness on a blog ostensibly founded to praise the developmental milestones of her innocent baby daughter?

But I know Alice will emerge stronger from the experience. I assured her that she can get wonderful writing out of this shitty circumstance. This experience will motivate her for the rest of her school years, and I hope that Alice and I together will innoculate the young girls around us from this terrible behavior.


Ladies, if we have nothing else in life, it is the support of other women. This is why the CREED is so important: A GIRL SHOULDN'T SLEEP WITH HER FRIEND'S GUY. There are enough other guys in the world to meet and marry -- there is no reason to wreck relationships with your friends for the sake of a guy. Case closed.

Compliance is optional

Chebbles and I have both come to a realization this week, and that is: compliance is optional.

"Chebbles, time for bed!"
"No."

Whoops, I guess my obedient child has taken a willful turn. Her visiting grandmother assured me that this is a healthy stage, and that Chebbles' ego is developing, which is why she suddenly doesn't want to wear socks (under any circumstances, thank you very much), have her diaper changed or get out of the car. Ever.

I'm scrambling to keep up with this new development. I have no response, because up until now my word has always been LAW around here. "Whaddya mean, 'no?'" I'm the QUEEN, Chebbles, and what I say GOES!

"No."

So of course I started thinking about how her new stage might apply to ME. I think I too am developing more of an "ego."

I went to my grief counselor on Wednesday and told her that I want to scale back our visits, and now we're meeting every other week, at a location much closer to my house. She wasn't telling me I COULDN'T stop coming or I HAD to see her until the end of my reproductive years, but it took more balls than I usually use.

Yesterday I met with my new OB. He's great although he's not in my insurance plan. I chose him anyway -- screw the insurance company. So I said, "No" to my old OB and their crappy treatment of me.

In my meeting with the new OB, I held fast to my desire for another natural childbirth. He told me that I don't NEED to experience pain in childbirth. Yeah, be that as it may, I'd rather do it without an epidural. I'm saying "no" to drugs for now. I think Chebbles' drug-free delivery -- not induced or anything -- benefited her, so that's what I choose again.

I just feel good and righteous and in charge for the first time in a long time. My polyp is out, because I was brave enough to sound the alarm and ask for the operational hysteroscopy. And if I am lucky enough to get pregnant again, I will have medical care that is LEAPS AND BOUNDS better than the care I received when I was pregnant the last three times. Because I said, "No."

So I guess I'm proud of The Chebs and her "No's." Her will is as inspiring as it is annoying. So maybe when she wakes up from this nap, I will con her into going to the grocery store with me, but we're NOT going to wear socks, and that is OK with me.

Mama Shakes Again

We had another earthquake this morning! It was a 2.7 "microquake," but it was based just a mile from our house, so it was another good shaker for us.

We are not supposed to be in the line of fire for earthquakes. Our earthquake insurance payments are low because we're in "Zone 16" -- meaning there is almost no chance we will sustain structural damage from an active fault line. Well, State Farm better get on the phone with Planet Earth because we've been having temblors up the WAZOO lately.

Hub-D was in the relative safety of San Francisco during this earthquake, which I find to be NOT FAIR. Isn't San Francisco supposed to be the epicenter for seismic disasters? (see photo) Why does Hub-D get to coast through the quakes while Chebbles and I cling to the edge of a heretofore undiscovered faultline out here in the suburbs?

Every time there is an uptick in earthquake activity, people say it's building up to the BIG ONE. And other people say that there won't be a big one because the earth is "blowing off steam" with the smaller quakes. I can't think about the BIG ONE, because I'm still so freaked out by last Thursday's earthquake.

That one felt HUGE, with an epicenter just 3 km from our house. Every picture frame in the house went askew, and my eyes went blurry from the house moving so fast up and down. Every quake I've felt up to then was fun, but that one was damn scary. Chebbles slept through it, even though it was loud and long, and even though I burst into her room, ready to soothe her and explain geological theories in the middle of the night.

No, she slept through both of these recent quakes, and I was freaked. I used to like earthquakes, but maybe now that my life is so "exciting" from a reproductive standpoint, I've had my fill of ups and downs.

In other news, Chebbles likes fish:

In the groove

There is something about Nanny D's departure that has cheered me immeasurably. Perhaps it is a coincidence that she left at the same time as my polyp, Friday being BOTH of their last days. But I think they both were holding me back in different ways.

Nanny D was great, caring, and helpful in all the right ways. And not unlike Mary Poppins, she's gone to a family that needs her more, as they've just had a second baby girl (miniature punch in my gut).

I thought that I'd lose my patience with Chebbles when we were alone, that I'd be frustrated, trying to get things done with her haranguing me for "juicy" or "swings" or whatever else was on her mind at that moment. But now that Nanny D is out of the house, I find I'm in something of a GROOVE.

Despite my persistent head cold, I'm flying high today -- the laundry ALL has my name on it. Every poopy diaper? Mine. Every squawk or wail from The Chebs? Well, that'd be me. And it feels so natural and good right now. There is no one getting in the way.

When Nanny D was here, I'd feel obligated to run a million errands or pay bills or tackle tasks far from The Chebs. It was somehow alienating. She'd keep Chebbles in her room, happily gamboling about with books and toys, and I'd tiptoe around, screeching off to yoga class or the art store or whatever else I could think of.

And now? I have an 18-month-old assistant with all of my tasks, and we're seemingly happier. Maybe this is delusional. Maybe I'll change my mind about this no-sitter lifestyle in a week. But with no one to interrupt us, I feel like a happy homemaker at last.

Chebbles helped me with the laundry, studiously stuffing socks and shirts into the washing machine. She entertained herself for a good half-hour in the backyard so I could do the breakfast dishes and straighten up. And instead of going to the grocery store by myself, I brought The Chebs, who was VERY popular in her glamorous "Hello Kitty" sunglasses, singing at the top of her lungs from the little plastic car attached to the front of the shopping cart.

A woman stopped me in the store and said, "Take a picture of this moment. You'll never remember it otherwise."

Sure I will! Uh, what was it again?

Life without my polyp

I must go to bed immediately, but I cannot let more time drag between posts.

Hub-D, Chebbles and I went up to Washington State this weekend, and stayed in the Columbia River Gorge with our cousins. Chebbles was in seventh heaven, meeting her 7-year-old cousin K., who immediately adorned Chebbles with a tiara, velvet lacy dress with frilly apron, and many baubles of various description. Chebbles learned the word "dollhouse" and transformed completely into a little girl instead of a baby, turning 18 months on Saturday while clambering around in the dirt with her cousins (in the velvet dress, of course).

I felt horrible the whole weekend, still shaking off the effects of the anesthesia as well as a head cold. I missed sleeping with Hub-D, who moved as far as possible away from my snoring. But it was marvelous to be among such kindred spirits as these cousins. They had their first child at 34 and went on to have two more, so you could say they are our reproductive models. The kids' mom stays home with them, so we had a lot of stay-at-home mom chattering to do.

Despite all of the chaos and cloudy head, it's been great -- life without my polyp. The polyp was just getting in the way, causing all of that nutty bleeding between my periods, and likely hampering our efforts to conceive.

Was the polyp responsible for my miscarriages? There is no way to know. I plan to quiz Dr. W. further on this question at my post-op appointment. She's terrific at helping me navigate through the unknown.

And with that, bed.

Ask me about my polypectomy

I'm groggy and heading to bed, but Dr. W. found a cute polyp in my uterus today, and removed it as I dozed. See you, polyp, ya little hitchhiker.

In other news, I now have five pregnant friends. None of these women were using Clomid or IVF, and among them there are two sets of triplets, one set of twins, one singleton, and just now, the fifth pregnancy was diagnosed as having an extra gestational sac. It probably won't result in a twin, but it had been heading in that direction.

What's up with the multiples, and where do I sign up?

"Pajalsta, Chebbles"

Now that Julie and Jbeeky are looking into adoption, it must be the cool thing to do. So last night I spent a ridiculous amount of time researching the subject.

There is something comforting about knowing that Hub-D and I could have another child, even if it doesn't come out of me. In fact, with my history (three horrid pregnancies, one baby to show for it) there is something marvelous about the idea of a pre-gestated child. I looked at the various countries one can choose from... Korea and Thailand are cool because the kids live with foster parents instead of institutions while they await adoption. Guatemala is cool because you can adopt itty-bitty infants, and not lose a moment of time with your new child. Then I happened upon RUSSIA.

Here is the thing about Russia: the kids look eerily like Chebbles. No one would bat an eye if Chebbles and her new brother(s) and sister(s) walked into a room and introduced themselves as siblings. Not that there is anything WRONG with eye-batting diversity within our family, it just struck me that Chebbles looks Russian.

Combine this with the fact she looks NOTHING LIKE ME, and you have the potential for LIES APLENTY on the playground. Yes, I've decided to test out the notion of adopting from Russia by introducing Chebbles as my adoptee. She's so cute, and bears no resemblance to me, so she's the ideal partner in crime. Plus, she can't speak up for herself, submitting memories of having emerged from my very body.

So if anyone asks, she's newly arrived from St. Petersburg, OK?

Anyway, I love the idea of adoption. While I was pregnant I soothed myself by watching every last episode of "Adoption Stories" on TLC. So I'm a veritable expert on the paperwork, the traveling, the pros and cons of domestic and international adoption, the post-adoption traumas for parent and child, and the glory of a big, full family despite my uterus's comings and goings. As far as I'm concerned, dasvidanya, doctors!