The Littlest Ranger or You're Pretty Enough to Be in Pictures

This past week, we were visited by a good friend from Boston. She had never met Otter, but came filled with good will and, more importantly, gifts. First there was the portrait she'd painted, which clearly establishes the beginning of an illustrious career posing for paintings.

But, should that inexplicably fail, we've got a backup plan. You see, our friend's husband is a die-hard Rangers fan. So the family got matching gear. I see a future in soccer. My girl does look good in blue...


Much gratitude for such kind generosity and love sent our way!

Image by Emily Pins

Ima Mama

This Sunday I celebrated my first official Mother's Day. Unlike last year, when I was simply a storage compartment, this time it's fo' real. Otter and I commemorated by donning what will be the closest we'll ever come to "Mommy & Me" outfits - matching t-shirts...

Congratulatory phone calls were exchanged, the appropriate people texted, and my Facebook status updated to reflect the glorious day of all thing mother. My FIL gifted me with flowers and extravagant praise. Bree, in a bid for super husband actually began the celebration early, with a card and half dozen Crumbs Cupcakes delivered to my work on Friday afternoon. I think Crumbs can be effectively used as enticement for sectors of the population where birthrates are falling off. I challenge my most child-phobic of friends to not get knocked up if the promise of these cupcakes were to be offered as a prize for birthing.

Indeed, the rewards for mothering are many. I know - you're thinking I'm referring to the mystery of a new life created, the satisfaction of nurturing a small being, the joy of seeing your Dear Child laughing with glee at the wondrous world around it. But being a literal lass, I'm actually talking about the shwag you get, be it of the pastry, floral or bejeweled variety. Childed friends everywhere were discussing their acquisitions - luggage, diamonds and electric toothbrushes.

My own Mother's Day began with homemade strawberry pancakes and mimosas and ended with scrubbing down the kitchen before collapsing on the couch for my unavoidable, late-night pumping session. All was as it should be.

A (Very) Belated Easter

Ok, so in terms of getting photos up, I've kinda sucked. But in my defence, we were battling swine flu. So here, much belated, are our Easter pics...

Easter morning...

Grand-Diggy arrives...

A basket, for me?

B-U-N-N-Y-!-!-!

I'll get you, yet, you Wascally Wabbit!

Yeah, I like Easter.

Merry Christmas!

This Christmas season has been weirdness to the nth degree.  People who should have shown up didn't, having gotten stranded due to weather.  People who weren't expected, came knocking on doors only to leave again before Christmas actually came.  But here is the long and the short of it, or rather, the long-winded story in Cliff Notes shorthand...

Otter went for a checkup and got more vaccines.  She also got weighed and is now 11 lbs., 8 1/2 oz. Though after 15 minutes of carrying her, she seems much, much heavier.

Bree's sister Erica drove in from Colorado unexpectedly with her husband and baby.  Bree didn't get to see them, but Otter did get to meet her cousin.

Bree's mom and step-dad, on the other hand, got stranded at the airport, had to spend the night, and then went home having never departed for LA.  When they got to their house, their power was out.

We spent Christmas Eve with Bree's sister Alicia.  Erica and fam had left by this point.

On the way to Christmas Eve...

Hangin' with Dad and Aunt Alicia...

Otter hung out with Frosty the Snowman.  She may be in love.

A letter to Santa was written, cookies were left.

Christmas Day - Otter made out like a BAN-dit.  Clothes, toys, more clothes, more toys.  A freakin' kick-ass ExcerSaucer.  Thank you Santa Tien!!!  

Somewhere in the mix, Bree and I exchanged our presents, he went off to pick up his dad and I crawled off to the couch to sleep.  

For the second year in a row, Santa brought me Christmas Flu.

The 12 (eerr 11) Days of Christmas (Shopping)

I have fallen woefully behind updating, but changing sleeping habits and Christmas have been kicking our collective ass. So here, in a nutshell, are the highlights of December, so far...

Wednesday 12/10 - On the first day of Christmas shopping, Otter made her virgin trip to the mall. Granted, it was Cost Plus, which isn't a mall at all, and the Promenade, which is currently a ghost town and will likely soon cease to be a mall, but that's splitting hairs. The point is, we went to a mall and wandered around in a daze, picking up booze for everyone, and 3 boxes of greeting cards. The shopping excursion ended with me standing in the parking lot, desperately trying to disengage the car seat from the stroller, where it was inexplicably, and quite permanently stuck. I cursed the universe and wondered how long I was going to stand there before asking for help, then realizing there was no one to ask even if I wanted to. The Christmas season had officially begun.

Thursday 12/11 - We go to the "real" mall to get a picture with Santa. It's too much to expect Otter to actually smile, but Mrs. Claus does get her to at least look at the camera.

Friday 12/12 - We meet Tien at the "real" mall and are quite proud of ourselves for being only 10 minutes late. We end up at Target, wandering around aimlessly, once again looking for gifts and leaving with a stocking for Otter and a stocking hook for our fish, Hebert.

Saturday 12/13 - Otter declares her independence from swaddling in no uncertain terms. We're left standing around, wondering what comes after swaddling. That wasn't in the instruction manual...

Sunday 12/14 - Leaving Bree and Otter to the fates, I go back to the mall solo to get the bulk done. Four hours of my life are lost forever, and I despondently eat frozen yogurt on a mall bench. On my way out, I encounter a family of 12 from somewhere in south-east Asia who are under the impression that the Westfield Topanga Mall is a tourist destination. They chatter happily while blocking dozens of tired, cranky shoppers from the escalator, so that dad can snap photos of his jabbering clan. I want to kill them by swinging my overstuffed bags at them.

Bree calls me the Grinch.

Monday 12/15 - I spend the day printing endless photos of Otter with Santa, writing messages and licking envelopes. I realize we know entirely too many people.

Tuesday 12/16 - Announcing that she hates the half-swaddle (the bottom half) too, Otter refuses to sleep until 11:30 pm.

Wednesday 12/17 - Otter further announces a moratorium on napping. She will sleep for no longer than 20 minutes, and then only in my arms. If I so much as think about putting her down, she screams bloody murder. I respond by having a complete meltdown, call Bree, inform him that I hate Christmas, that life sucks and we don't even have a tree. In my defense, I should point out that it's been pouring rain and 40 degrees for the past 3 days and we've been locked inside the house with nothing but laundry and Christmas cards to amuse us.

Thursday 12/18 - Exhausted by the lack of sleep, Otter snoozes all day. I take a shower, catch my breath and send out the last batch of cards. I start wrapping presents, though we're still not done shopping. I continue whining that we won't have a tree for Otter's first Christmas.

At night, we realize that we've been putting her down too late and move up bed-time by an hour. We also decide to incorporate the Sleep Sack into our repertoire. This is a gift from the Sleep Gods and I bow down to them and offer them adulation.

Friday 12/19 - Laden with 8 packages, Otter and I head off to the post office. I take the stroller, not so much for Otter, but for the boxes that I'd otherwise be balancing in my arms. While I try to communicate with the automated mailing machine, which is asking me very difficult questions about content, shape and size of my packages, Otter makes friends with the line growing behind us.

As we're leaving, Santa Tien calls to tell me I can pick up the Exersaucer Otter's inheriting from her son. While there, we also score a kicky-standy-uppy toy. Santa Tien, you too deserve our worship and adoration.

But the biggest news of the day is the fabulous Dr. Phil Christmas Party that Bree and I are attending without the Otter. Yes, we've been away from her once in NY, but this is SB's first foray into the world of babysitters. We leave with the mix of emotions of a teenage boy going out on the town in Dad's car for the first time. There's the dizzy anticipation of freedom, the strangeness of something new, and the underlying fear that something will go terribly awry, and we will find ourselves wrapped around a lamp post. But all goes well, and when we return the Otter is sleeping blissfully while "Aunt" Pat knits away. Pat, you are a goddess.

Saturday, 12/20 - After weeks of my whining about our imminent lack of tree, and Bree's threats of a fake arbor (followed by more of my whining about how utterly lame it is for Otter's first tree to be plastic), I pushed Bree out the door to pick out our Christmas tree. Lost in a forest of trees, Bree came upon some chickens running amuck underfoot, and immediately called to tell us that he was coming back to get us. Back at the house, we got ready as quickly as we could and embarked on Otter's first tree-hunt. At the lot, she meets the local wildlife - some sheep, goats and roosters, whom she regards with some scepticism - and we depart with a very short but quite bushy evergreen.

Tree decorating and boozy eggnog with Grand-Diggy rounded off the day, and tonight, Otter drifted off sleep happily sleep-sacked and swaddle-less, perhaps dreaming of sheep.

Yes, the Christmas season is here.

Warmest Welcome

Buoyed by the warmth of family gatherings and fortified by the mounds of food we'd eaten, Bree, Otter and I set off to the Ford dealership to seal the deal, and our fate. Since we'd already picked out are car, had it transported from God-knows-where (Corona, I think) and negotiated for the price (on this last point by "we" I mean Bree), we figured it would be a wham, bam, thank you ma'am kind of deal.

We arrived full of optimism, ready to roll on our 2-hour between feeding allotment. The first thing they showed us was the car (clever dealer tactic), which I had already named (my mistake), then sat us down to do the paperwork and bleed us dry on the financing. Having a baby in tow changed things, but only superficially. While flashing smiles at Otter, showing us pictures of their own offspring, and offering encouragement, the dealers thought nothing of screwing us right in front of her. On dealer cooed about eating her sweet chubby legs. There's a part of me that thinks he may not have been speaking figuratively.

We, for our part, tried to relieve the discomfort by doing laps around the Mustangs with a stroller when SB decided she'd had just about enough bargaining. Circling a souped-up, black and chrome, special edition Mustang with a Graco Lite-rider is a humbling experience, reminding you once and for all that that is no longer your life. This is.

But what of it? After several hours during which the ROCK BOTTOM WE CAN GO NO LOWER interest rate came down another 1.5 points, we loaded ourselves up and headed home...

...with the newest member of our family. Warmest welcome, to Owen, SUV extraordinaire!

Leaving On a Jet Plane

The alarm went off at 5am. Gathering our luggage, enough for a month stay, we left for our 4-day visit to New York.

We are now officially "those" people - the ones with child seats, diaper bags, blankets, bottles and more suitcases than anyone can possibly have a use for. SB was going to fly the friendly skies.

Or not.
As we entered the terminal at LAX, we quickly came to the realization that we were going nowhere fast. It was like Disney Land, just without the rides and the fun. There were lines to get into other lines. We finally made it up the escalator to security, only to see another line snaking its way through the hallway, actually doubling back through the room. Not to put too fine a point on it, we were screwed.

And then I realized something quite liberating - we are now officially "those" people - the ones with an infant, who need extra help and time and consideration when making their way to the plane. Approaching the TSA officer, I put on my saddest face and inquired if I, traveling with a 2-month-old, had any chance of making my flight.

15 minutes later (after feeding the car seat through the x-ray machine the wrong way - apparently it goes upside down), we were making a mad dash for our gate, where we scored a free aisle, and got to pre-board.

Wow - everyone is really nice to "those" people... Maybe there are benefits to having kids.

Ikea is the 7th Circle of Hell

For those of you confused by my kinder, gentler, apology-issuing persona of last week, fear not. The ranting and raving is back, and it is ON.

For this, you can thank the kind folks who have brought us Ikea, as part of their diabolical plan of world domination.

If any of you have not had the pleasure of visiting this Hades disguised as a home goods store, allow me to give you the run-down:

Situated over 2 warehouse-like, gargantuan floors, it sits, poised like a monster, in some mall complex in a town near yours. Inside, is a labyrinth of passageways through showrooms, exhibiting "rooms" created solely out of Ikea furnishings and home decorating items. Come armed with a map, a compass, and plenty of food-stuffs to keep you nourished during your quest. Though there are signs, placards, and even arrows on the floor, instructing you where to go, their sole purpose it to get you hopelessly lost. Eventually, frightened and dehydrated, you decide that renovating your kitchen with laminated particle-board cabinets is a great idea.

Moreover, you'll need to make room for the hordes of what can only be tourists wandering the aisles with you. My theory on these people is two-fold: either they really got the short end of the stick on some package tour, and think they are at Disney Land instead (this would explain the crowds that stop dead in front of a particularly awful display of lamps or mugs, pointing and snapping photos); or, lulled in by the promise of cheap furnishing "souvenirs" to take back to the home country, they have become lost like you, and have also been wandering for days, unable to find the exit.

Add in a healthy dose of couples how have decided to make "A Day at Ikea" a family outing for their 2 screaming infants and out-of-town in-laws, and you get a general idea of what Sunday morning at this Swedish Design strong-hold has in store for you.

Oh - and -
the escalator up doesn't work;
and the elevator is long and narrow, forcing you to head in, but back out in reverse;
and while ALL the curtains, bedding, etc. are together in the jauntily named "Marketplace," children's textiles, bedding, etc. are in a COMPLETELY different location, deep in the bowls of the furniture area;
and if you happen to need curtains that AREN'T 84" long, Ikea helpfully suggests just cutting their curtains in half;
and everything has cute Swedish sounding names like "SKILHO" and "BLARG" which tell you NOTHING about what the product actually is or does;
and the signs explaining what the products are are in 3 different languages, English not always being the most prominent;
and God help you if you've taken a wrong turn and have to backtrack - Ikea is designed to be a strictly one-way operation;
and the "restaurant" smells revolting;
and there are no bags, so be prepared to carry everything by hand.

Here's what we came for: She-Blob's curtains, curtain rods, lamp, bedding, rug, picture frames, animal pictures for the walls.
Here's what we left with: place mats, bedding (for us), She-Blob bedding, 2 lamps, rug, picture frames, light bulbs, frozen Swedish Meatballs.

All in all, a rather successful trip, even if it has shaved years off my life. My greatest accomplishment though? Successfully fighting the urge to take that 12-year-old kid, walking as slowly as he could in front of me while swinging his arms and stab him with my pen.

I hate Ikea.

Image by OiMax

Gifted

This weekend, the non-baby shower, 3 months in the making, was had. Throughout the past few months, decision had been made, wheels had been set into motion, registries had been agonized over and selected, and now there no turning back from the inevitable.

There were certainly some minor hiccups in the plan - for one thing, back in April when we decided that we wanted to hold the festivities at our house, we had not accounted for the fact that by the time our 40+ guests arrived in June, our "kitchen" would be a gaping hole with bare plank floor and exposed electrical sockets, accented with more holes and plastic sheeting reminiscent of hazardous waste areas or that weird room the kept E.T. in for all those experiments.

We also couldn't have predicted that the weather would be a balmy 111 degrees, making the back-up plan of having the party outside about as viable as ice skating in the 9th circle of Hell. But we were not to be deterred.

Jessica, arriving from NYC in a flurry of activity, decided she was single-handedly going to overcompensate not only for her absent co-hostess Kate (who is off chasing tornadoes right now - no joke) but for everyone else who had ever planned a party anywhere.

I was happily along for the ride as food was ordered, a color scheme selected (and immediately abandoned when we discovered that Party City does not party in shades of brown or jungle motif), poems were attached with ribbons around mini (the only shout-out to babies) palms, balloons were purchased and strategically placed in front of the aforementioned haz-mat sheeting in an effort to disguise or at least distract from it. A trick that for reasons that defy logic seemed to work.

When Saturday, the food, the cake, and, most importantly, the booze arrived it almost looked like we had meant to have a party. The margaritas were mixed, the guests were in place, my dog heroically withstood the heat and prodding of 4 toddlers (one of whom also amused himself by trying to eat our glass coasters and sticking his fingers in electrical sockets), and by all accounts it seems that a good time was had by all.

I thrilled to the lack of shower games! I relished the fact that I didn't have to open gifts in front of a throng of people! I basked in the absence of pink ribbons! But even more importantly, I glowed in the presence of so many friends and family who had traveled from near and far to be with us and celebrate She-Blob.

***

Sunday afternoon, nearly 24 hours after the guests had departed, Bree and I stood in our backyard, hose in hand, surveying the damage. We were sweaty and tired. Literally barefoot and pregnant, I sported a white wife-beater. As we did dishes on our lawn, occasionally spraying each other down with the hose to cool off, we had to laugh. In spite of better judgement, we'd pulled it off. And got some cool-ass swag to boot!

Registratus Interruptus

I've sent out an Open Letter to my childed friends...

I've read and analyzed all the responses about things I absolutely must get. Many of them conflict. Most list items I've never heard of.

I've abandoned the responses and stared blankly at endless pages of baby items. Most of them I've never heard of and don't understand how to use.

I've made decisions based on careful research on safety and effectiveness, which was quickly given up completely by colors I liked, cool animals, or if it came in neat packaging.

I skipped categories that seemed too hard. Even if my friends had given me exact items to buy.

And so, I'm happy to report, I'm donish. Just in time to focus on tearing apart my kitchen.

Happy Birthday to Me!

This is technically not about the She-Blob, but as her vessel, I feel I'm entitled to a totally self-indulgent moment, even if it IS on her blog. Especially today. It's my birthday!

Things I get to do on my birthday:

Bask in the fact that I'm not at work...

Have an amazing birthday lunch at Daichan, one of my favorite Japanese places...

Get my birthday surprise - an incredible print by Nicoletta Ceccoli called "Crows"...

image by Nicoletta Ceccoli

I picture She-Blob like this, with ravens flying out of her hair. Is that weird?

Looking forward to part 100 of my fabulous birthday - dinner at Grace tomorrow night!

Registry Offender

image courtesy of amazon.com

Disclaimer: Before I come off as a complete and utter ingrate for all the free baby-related stuff I'm hoping to acquire from all you kind people in exchange for some food and booze, let me say: You are generous to a fault while I am motivated by avarice. My whining is just a symptom of my weakness as a human being, so pity me, and do not be angered.

That said...

We have to register. Apparently the future of my non-baby-shower, as well as the balance of the force in the universe rests upon me and Bree walking into a store and scanning items that we hope our kind friends and family will then purchase for us.

Being a working girl, the only time to register is on a weekend. Being as the invitations can't be put in the mail until we register (something I'm still a bit fuzzy on) we are holding up the shower and postal processes. Being that the date for the non-shower is quickly approaching, our registry procrastination is causing all kinds of complications. All that being said, I will now have to spend MY BIRTHDAY WEEKEND in the bowels of Babies R Us with a laser zapper. Yes, I'm bitter.

I decided to do some research. Perhaps if we could narrow down the big-ticket items we could be in and out of that land of screeching babies and irate parents in record time. And then... a light. We could use the power of personal computing technology and the invention of the Information Superhighway to our advantage.

We could...Register online!!!!

So, taking the kind responses I've gotten to my Open Letter, I began the painstaking research process that "responsible parenting" calls for. About 20 minutes later, my dreams of a quick and painless registry were being replaced by the cold, hard reality that there are about a billion baby products out there and someone has a horrible story that resulted in death and/or dismemberment about each and every one of them. They ALL break. They ALL have construction issues. They're all...dangerous.

Moreover, even after you think you've gained a little ground by narrowing down a general brand, read all the conflicting reviews, decided that for you, "ease of storage" and "product weight" are more important features than "safety" and "durability," and made the somewhat haphazard decision on which of the 15 identical-looking but differently-named models you'll go with, as you are prepared to hit that magical "register for this item" button on your screen you notice the final, ultimate, utterly disheartening detail: there are about 10 different items with the same brand AND model name, whose only discernible difference is the color of the fabric/tray attachment/wheels. However, they are all at different price points, and have conflicting reviews.

Why is the jungle fabric stroller $50 more than the pink version? And why is it more likely to kill She-Blob or fall apart? I'm really not sure.

My supervisor was walking by when she saw my look of despair while staring at a web page filled with pictures of strollers. "I think I may have one in my garage that I'm not using," she said. "Let me check for you."

Thank goodness for pity.

She-Blob's Day of Beauty

Image courtesy of www.pointedmagazine.com

This Sunday, She-Blob got carried along to a spa day. This is not her first visit, though last time she visited Burke Williams she was in her first months of embryonic life, so I doubt she remembers it. To her credit, she did survive a soak in the spa (NOT recommended) as well as a body wrap (also, NOT recommended). Suffice it to say, She-Blob is a warrior.

This time, I decided to go "by the book," opting for the doctor and spa-approved activities for the knocked-up set. It left me with far fewer options, but we're really past the point where I can convince people that I just ate too much at lunch. So while Kate dangled legs in aforementioned spa, I lumbered off to my complimentary pregnancy milk bath.

As an infant, I'm told that the only time I would put a sock in it was when my mother placed me in a bath. She seriously contemplated letting me sleep there, but ultimately the likelihood of me drowning dissuaded her. As an adult, I have a more complicated relationship with baths. On the one hand, they're warm, comforting and give you that "return to the womb" fuzziness we're all chasing after. On the other hand, after the first 5 minutes, sitting in warm water with cucumber slices and a cool, wet towel on my eyes while candlelight flickers and the soothing sounds of Zamfir's pan pipes fill the air gets a bit, well...boring. Thoughts of "Am I supposed to be doing something?" and "I wonder how long this bath thing goes on for," enter the mind.

I used my time sloshing around in milky, warm water to realize that we are not confined to the initials B.L.O.B. to achieve my diabolical naming coupe. A simple S.B. will give me the desired result of a She-Blob shout-out. "S" names anyone?

After being removed from my bath (and trying to step out of the tub the wrong way - I told you, I'm not good at this spa thing), I was led off to my Pregnancy Massage. I have one thing to say: I should have faked being knocked up a long, long time ago. This was possibly the most relaxing, comforting 50 minutes I've spent in a while. I wish I could say I had epiphanies beyond faking pregnancy, but I was too busy cuddling up to a bolster wondering why I'd never thought to ask for this before.

She-Blob seemed quite happy and re-energized by the whole procedure as well. After resting comfortably all day, at approximately 12:30 a.m., she spent an hour kicking me so hard I would double over in bed.

Holy Mother!

image courtesy of Hillstock Images

This past weekend was Mother's Day, a holiday I've long believed to be a sham. Nevertheless, I dutifully phone my mother, sent flowers to both mom and MIL and was just congratulating myself on a job well done when Bree reminded me that I didn't send Grandma any flowers.

"Isn't that my mother's job?"

"If it wasn't for her, you wouldn't be here," he said.

"Yeah? Well where were you with your sage advice when I was ordering the damn things?"

We celebrated the weekend by taking Bree's dad (the FIL) to Palm Springs, for a long overdue Xmas/birthday present. Palm Springs is the West Coast's answer to Florida, where old, rich, white people go to retire. It was two days filled with resort living, putting greens and dining where every food group had a similar, mysterious consistency (not much chewing required). I suspect She-Blob felt right at home.

Late Saturday evening, under cover of night, I slunk down to the swimming pool for a surreptitious swim. I had to utilize the bathing suit, come hell or high water, and so, like a nylon-clad manatee I plunked into the Marriott's pool and treaded water like a mad woman.

Come Sunday, I made a discovery. Apparently Mother's Day now applies to me as well. Kate called to wish me well, and I realized carrying She-Blob could be parlayed into something advantageous - namely, a bizarre, rubber chicken purse. Only in Palm Springs.

Returning home, Bree and I went out to dinner. Families gathered to eat, drink and celebrate all things "mom." At the end of our meal, the waitress came over with a bag of chocolates with a pretty bow. I could just imagine the conversation in the kitchen:

"Could we get some chocolates for the fat, knocked-up chick?"

Happy Mother's Day to me.