An Open Letter to the Shoppers and Employees of Trader Joe's at 11:45 Yesterday Morning.

Yes. The child who is 15 steps behind me, screaming, red-eyed, nose running down his face, yelling "MOM!! MOM!!!MOM!!!" The one that I'm ignoring? Yes, he's mine.

You might be thinking that based on the shrillness of his screams, I probably stabbed him in the eye with a Trader Joe's artisan baguette or held his hand down on the hot plate used to keep the samples of "Spaghetti with Tuscan Marinara Sauce" warm.  But alas, no. He's screaming at a decibel that is potentially damaging to the human ear canal because he asked for cheese puffs and I said, "no." I know. I'm clearly a total bitch.

First and foremost, I would like to apologize to the 25-35 of you who thought you could just zip in and out of good ole TJ's without wanting to gouge your own eyes out with spoons.  I had no idea that something as benign cheese puffs (or lack thereof, as the case may be) would cause him to cry so intensely, he nearly vomited on the floor. In retrospect, having known what I know now, I probably would have just bought the stupid things and picked a different battle. But I said no, and if there is one thing I know to be true, you've gotta follow through. This is exactly why I never say, "We are leaving if you do that one more time," if we are at an awesome party but I always say it when we are at a super lame party and then keep my fingers crossed.

But think of it this way, good people of Trader Joe's! How special it is that we ALL got to participate in one of my sons worst tantrums to date together! Like one big happy family of complete strangers! For a few of you, I have some special thoughts to share.  

To everyone I didn't see:

Yup. He's loud. And we are in a grocery store! Picture that volume in a living room hardly the size of the wine aisle, which you can imagine I frequent often. Despite what you think you heard, I swear I was not killing my son. I wasn't even touching him or causing him any physical pain at all. Although I am sure if you'd asked him, he'd tell you that nothing hurts more than the cheese puff shaped hole I ripped out of his heart.

To the Trader Joe's employee who tried to "help":

Please shut up. Because you are not helping. Far from it actually.

I mean, I get it. You and the rest if the county can hear my son yelling, "BUT PLEASE MOM!!! JUST ONE BAG!!!! JUST ONE BAAAAAAG!!!"  But the LAST thing I needed was your voice coming from behind my shoulder to say "Aw, come on, mom. Just one more bag?"

Are. You. Effing. Serious.

What my son asked for was a bag of cheese puffs the size of his torso and I said no. And so help me God, I will beat you to death with this bag of cheese puffs that my son is now refusing to re-shelve because he thinks that maybe, maybe I'll give in if he screams so loud my ears bleed. But this mama don't negotiate with three year old terrorists or listen to "advice" from strangers. 

To the lady who gave me the stink eye:

I see you there. Silently judging me. I can only imagine what you are thinking. "Why can't she get a handle on that child?" Or "She clearly has lost control." Or "She needs to take that boy home."

First of all, I have a cart full of groceries and only so much time in my day to go shopping so I can't just "take him home." Now, leave him here? That thought definitely crossed my mind. But, I get it, I've been you. I remember a time before I had children and thought for sure I had all the answers. I would never let a child behave like that in public. But then I had that child and while the look on your face is trying to make sure I know that you think I'm doing something wrong, I ask you this: do you know my child? Because if you knew my child, you would know that trying to do anything to "fix" this situation as the marbles are falling out of his brain and rolling all over the floor and his thrashing around is registering on the Richter scale, will not only do nothing to make him stop, but will actually make it worse. What you don't realize is that for my son, doing not much at all in this moment is what is actually going to help. Because he is out of his head right now. "Unreachable," as we like to call it. I have to stay zen in order for him to find his again. Yes, I am horribly embarrassed and dying a little inside with every wail but I actually do know what I am doing here. This ain't my first rodeo, sweetie. So go back to picking out which flavor of hummus you are going to try today and keep eyes on your own paper.

To the employee behind the sample counter:

To you I say, thank you. You saw the whole transaction go down and I have now walked past your counter with my screaming son in tow two times. You made eye contact with me, nodded and simply said, "Don't give in, Mama." YES!! You got it. You knew what I was doing here and validated my choice and encouraged me to stay strong. You were on my team and I needed someone on my team because dragging my flailing child behind me with one arm while I push the cart with the other arm is hard work, especially when there was no one to tap me out.

To the woman behind me in line who decided to change lanes:

Good call. My best guess is we are approximately T minus 30 seconds before this little psycho's head starts spinning around. Also, you seem nice. And I ask you this, with just the slightest whisper of desperation, please take me with you?

Bed rest, big boys and babies: A 2013 Story

I am days away from entering my 33rd year of life on this earth and I have but one request of it: please go a little easier on me than that bitch that was my 32nd.

2013, you were a doozy. Finding out I was pregnant in February was the news I had been waiting for for far too long. Finding out I needed to spend nearly half of that pregnancy with my feet elevated and flat on my back while my three year old ran circles around me was not at all what I was expecting. But we survived, and so did Paulina and she is perfect.

In the weeks following her much anticipated, and in many ways miraculous, entrance into this world a strange feeling came over me. To be very clear, I loved her beyond reason; the mere thought of how close we came to losing her altogether still brings me to a puddle of tears. However, I couldn't help but ask myself "what have you done?!?!" We had a perfect little system working, Charlie and I. The arrival of Paulina sent that little system into a massive tailspin and in my postpartum, hormonal mess of a brain, the birth of Charlie's sister completely ruined his life. Since I couldn't technically send her back (well, not legally or without her father being fairly upset with me) there was little I could do about it other than muddle through as best I could, all the while unshowered, shoving whatever food was left out on the counter into my mouth for "lunch" while breast milk soaked through my last clean shirt. And the day that both Paulina and Charlie were inconsolably screaming because, I don't know, they were too naked or not naked enough (respectively) and Grant was crouched in a corner in the fetal position banging his head against the wall I thought to myeslf "OHMYGOD WHY DO PEOPLE HAVE MORE THAN ONE CHILD!!!!!"

Well, it's for this right here:

 (Photo by Grant Shellen)

And despite what my brain thinks of when I am reminded of the bullshit that was so often 2013, there were actually a hell of a lot more moments like the one above and it's those moments are what make even all the crappy parts well worth it. I can't wait for what 2014 has in store for me. Now if you'll excuse me, someone has a butt that needs wiping. 

Happy New Year and enjoy.

Our 2013, in photos from Grant Shellen on Vimeo.

My Paulina

(This post took longer to get to than I ever expected but that is pretty much the norm when you add a second child into the mix. Your priorities are quickly rearranged and look something like this: feed children, dress children, feed self, dress self, bathe children, bathe self...maybe. "Update blog" falls somewhere between "use the restroom regularly" and "vacuum the stairs." I suppose today I just figured that I can always vacuum the stairs tomorrow.)

I was going through old notes in my phone the other day. To clear up some space I began deleting things like shopping lists, mystery phone numbers and addresses that were now meaningless and I came across something I wrote on September 25, 2012. Here is what I said:

"...you've got to weather the storm if you want to experience the rainbow. Well, I've been standing here, right in the middle of it all waiting for that rainbow. Quite frankly, I'm tired of getting wet. There is something to be said about the warm, dry feeling of quitting. Of moving on."

I'm not surprised I wrote this. I've had a lot of bad days on this journey to have my children. There are more bad days then I would like to admit. And with everything we've been through over the past six years, no one would have blamed me for quitting; accepting my life and the size of my family as it was and moving on.

But on November 7, 2013 I was so very thankful for not giving up. And thank you, my Paulina, for not giving up on me.

Paulina Mae 

11/7/13

8 lbs 1 oz, 21 inchs

So. Worth. It.

If I could just be honest for a moment...

I am asked how I am feeling all the time. At least someone, my grandma, my neighbor or the lady in front of me in line at the drug store, asks me nearly everyday. Generally, my answer is the same, "Pretty good. You know, tired, but good." I suppose my answer is not a lie; considering all I went through to get here, I am feeling pretty good. While I may not be lying, I am also not being entirely honest either. Mostly, it is not worth it to me (or them) to be totally honest to the random stranger who is just trying to be nice and conversational while we wait for our items to be rung up. But even more than that, the truth of how I am really feeling, riddles me with guilt. All the time, money and tears that were spent getting me to this place? I should feel nothing by joy and thankfulness for this wonderful blessing that is growing inside my loving womb.

But you know what? Screw guilt. I deserve to say how I am really feeling. For me, being pregnant....kinda sucks.

I'm uncomfortable and everything hurts. I can't bend over to tie my shoes or clip my toenails. My already bad back is all, "Um, what the hell is this bowling ball you have now decided you need to carry around all day long? Also, why did you stop doing your exercises? Can you just take something and be done with...wait what? WHAT DO YOU MEAN NO ADVIL??" I'm starving most of the time but everything gives me wretched heartburn. Some days I think I should just skip the cereal and pour milk over a bowl of TUMS since that is probably how many I am going to have to eat that day anyway.

I am moody and my patience is essentially nonexistent.  With the inability to self medicate with booze, my husband and son get the brunt of this exciting new development in my personality. Incidentally, I think booze has become his coping mechanism of choice to deal with all these evil hormones coursing though my baby-growing veins. Grant, not Charlie. At least as far as we know.

I kinda hate the way I look. I know, I know, I know. I am not fat, I am pregnant. But the body image issues I had before do not just magically disappear the second you start gestating life My belly is not the only thing that is growing. In addition to that my thighs, face and ass are generously spreading across my couch at a rate visible to the naked eye. Sure, I could get off the couch and do something about it but I am pretty much too exhausted most days to brush my own teeth, let alone exercise. Instead, I just look at my ever expanding body and cry.

Oh, also, I cry ALL THE TIME.

And can I just say one more thing about all this lovely changes to my body? Calling them "tiger stripes" does not make me hate them any less and curse their very existence. That's right, you stupid, purplish, squiggly lines winding their way across my belly like a mid-western road map! It's because of you little assholes that I will NEVER WEAR A BIKINI AGAIN!!!!

So why do we do it? Just recently when I was lamenting to a friend about my pregnancy woes she said so wisely, "I wouldn't feel bad about it. You don't do it for the pregnancy." This is so very true. I got pregnant to have a baby, raise a family and give a sibling to Charlie. I didn't get pregnant to be pregnant. Another friend of our told us about a cousin of theirs. During her pregnancies she suffered from paralyzing migraines, immobilizing back pain and "morning sickness" that basically lasts all day and all nine months. And you know what else? She has three children. THREE. She put herself through all of that three separate times, willingly.

And that is why women are so amazing to me. Not because of our "tiger stripes" or the the fact that we can grow another human life inside our own bodies. It's the fact that we are willing to do it all in the first place. And not only that, we will do it again and again, as many times as we have to or as many times as we want too. We knowingly put our bodies through hell for children that don't even exist yet. It's remarkable, really.

I don't know if I will have another child after this one. When I say "I don't know" it really means two things: I don't know if I want to and and literally don't know if I can. But what I do know is that IF I wanted to and IF I could, I would do it all again. Despite everything I just bitched about above, I really would. I'd do anything for them, whoever they maybe. And that, I suppose, is really what being a mama is about.

Viability

I am 25 weeks and 4 days pregnant. I have, I can only assume, the typical symptoms anyone at 24 weeks should be feeling: a growing belly, a wiggly baby, raging, hellish heartburn after every meal and a probably unhealthy desire to eat cereal all day long. But more importantly than the 10 bowls of Cheerios I have consumed in the past 36 hours, 24 weeks means a lot more to me this time because it marks the age of viability.

Of course it is not my intention to have this baby any earlier than full term.  I am well aware that a baby born at 24 weeks is not in any way an ideal situation, but survival after 24 weeks is possible. When you are not sure if your pregnancy will make it past fifteen, eleven or even eight weeks, making it to a gestational age where there is even a slight chance of viability is a big deal.

Nothing about making a baby has ever been easy for me. At some point in our childhood we get "the talk" and learn how babies are made. Hopefully, while it is a horribly embarrassing experience, it comes from an adult we respect and not from on of our classmates in the schoolyard.  Most lessons in baby making fall somewhere between the stork story and a very scientific explanation and basically go something like this: "When a man and a woman love one another, they share it in only a way two people in love can and then there is a glorious explosion and a baby is made."

Yes, what I am referring to is S-E-X and as a kid, you are thinking, um gross. I am never doing that. And then puberty hits and you are all, um, hi, when can I do that and how often!?!? Of course, you don't want to make the actual baby until you are ready so you do everything in your power to prevent that from happening. And when the time comes and you are ready, you throw away the barriers and have a grand ole time; it's just that simple.

Except when it isn't that simple. And no matter how many times you try, (and believe me, we tried), it just ain't gonna happen the way the science books say it will.  So instead of something "glorious" you are going to dozens of doctors appointments and injecting your body full of hormones month after month. Instead of intimacy, there are invasive medical procedures, a rigid schedule you must follow and your doctor is prescribing sex. So romantic. You are poked, scanned and tested and each cycle ends with disappointing news.

When it finally was good news, it is exciting but not the kind of exciting as one would imagine. For me, at least, it was a tentative excitement. Since part of my struggles involved loss, and the fact that so much when in to getting to this moment at all, in someways it feels like everyday you are waiting for the other shoe to drop. But just like with Charlie, each day passed, uneventful and calm and I could only assume that things were all going to be just fine. And then the other shoe dropped and the worst thing that could happen, or so I thought, happened. At seven weeks, all signs pointed to that I was losing the baby.

I'll spare you the details but, despite everything I thought to be true, I didn't lose the baby. But my diagnosis was not great and I was sent away from the doctors visit with "it is all probably going to be okay but we'll just have to wait and see." I was placed on modified bed rest which is about as easy as it sounds with an active three year old at home who doesn't understand why his mommy can't get up off the couch and cater to his every whim.

And really, all I could do, besides lay on the couch and watch Bravo until my eyes bled, was wait and watch that shoe. There it was, dangling by a thread, right in front of my face; taunting me and slowly driving me towards what felt like insanity. As I sat and stared at the same four walls each day I kept trying to convince myself to be hopeful. But being hopeful seemed like an impossible task because it felt like, emotionally, I had been pulled apart into two different people. One part of me was able to hit the "checkout" button at the Motherhood online store because my growing belly made maternity clothes a necessity. But then the clothes came and I let them sit in the bag with the tags on for nearly two weeks, convinced I would just have to return them anyway. And as I watched friends and family come to my house and care for my son I was so thankful for the help, but at the same time, I felt like I was failing him. He was here right now and needed me more than ever. Shouldn't I be focusing on that? But if I did too much, I could be failing the little one inside me as well. Who deserves my attention more?

Believe me, I usually have no idea how to handle my emotions, even on my best days, and I am in no way qualified to give advice to anyone. Honestly, it would probably be something like, "Um, I don't know? Did you try making cookies and then just eat all the dough on the couch alone while the soundtrack to Beaches played in the background?" However, the best way I found to cope, besides the stress eating (obviously), was through indifference. I tried not to be too far to the extreme in either direction, never overly excited and never too upset about the whole thing either either. I had my moments of sadness and fear, of course, but so long as I could stay centered about the whole thing and honestly not really think about the pregnancy much at all, I could get through the days, reminding myself constantly that every day got me one day closer to 24 weeks.

The problem with indifference, once you get good at it, is that it's hard to be excited at all. Because I am finally in that place I was striving to get to and I am not sure how to feel. The kicks and wiggles I am feeling are pleasing and comforting but serve more as a reminder of, oh yeah, there's a kid in there. I should probably start planning for that. But the thought is fleeting and then Charlie runs by with something he has dug out of one of the kitchen drawers and I am back to dealing with him instead. But then Charlie will spontaneously hug my belly, give it a kiss and say, "I'm giving baby a snuggle, Mommy. I love her." This warms my heart and reminds me how wonderful what is about to happen truly is. (By the way we don't know if we are having a girl or a boy but Charlie is insistent that it is a girl. Try to explain how the science of the whole thing works to him and be prepared for an epic meltdown.)

So, I think I am getting excited and each day that passes I feel it more and more. I probably will always worry about that dangling shoe, even though it's well out of my reach now, until I'm holding my baby in my arms. But, I know that what's coming to me in November is going to be pretty freaking great.

This picture was taken when I was only 19 weeks pregnant. Good God, I am going to have another giant baby.

Mushrooms, Butter and Cream. Yes.

When it comes to food, there are few things I hate, but I really hate melons. The only one I can stomach is watermelon and if I am going to eat it I have very specific rules for it. For example, it must be nice and crisp, not grainy or mealy even in the slightest. Also, the less it can actually taste like a watermelon the better. In fact, if we could just leave the "melon" part off of the name and have it just taste like "water" that would be...you know what, someone just get me a glass of water. But instead of water could you make it red? Yes, red water and instead of water can it just be wine? Awesome. Best watermelon ever.

So fine, a little sliver of watermelon at a summer barbeque is not the end of the world but don't even get me started on honeydew. And cantaloupe? Blech!  That one's the most offensive of all. It just sits around, looking all juicy and orange and shit, ruining perfectly good fruit salads and strips of salty prosciutto.

So, you can imagine my disappointment when my veggie box was delivered today with two, TWO of those little bastards in there. I always look forward to my veggie box delivery.  The veggies and fruits are seasonal so the box is generally the same from week to week but there is usually something new and exciting in there each week which is basically the highlight of my Wednesday. But there is nothing like a week when the mushrooms come. I get really excited on a mushroom week. Like, probably too excited. But fancy veggie box mushrooms mean that I get to make the best pasta dish this side of....well, probably just the street I live on. 

"Hmmmm....I am not sure sure about these."

"Yeah, Mom. I am not going to eat these."

"Maybe if I smell them?"

All you will need for this life-changing pasta dish are these simple ingredients. (Butter not pictured but I'm going to be sauteing mushrooms so I figured it goes without saying.)

Saute the mushrooms and minced garlic in butter until browned and tender. Salt and pepper the shrooms to taste. Cook your favorite pasta (I happen to love papparadelle but anything will work.)

It is much more cost effective to buy a basil plant rather than basil every time you need it. If you don't use it all, it will go bad in the fridge in a few days but a plant will last for weeks (or longer if you, you know, take care of it properly and don't have a three year old dumping bubble solution all over it constantly.) And, Charlie gets to participate in the meal by picking the basil for me. And it is a well-known fact that children who participate in the cooking of their meals are more likely to eat it. For the record, he did not eat it.

Add the cream (roughly about a cup) and the chopped basil to the mushrooms. Bring to a a boil, being careful not to burn the cream, and then turn the heat down and let the cream simmer and thicken up a bit. Add the cooked and drained pasta to the cream sauce and mix the pasta in. If you want a saucier pasta, before draining the noodles, reserve a little of the pasta water and mix in as well.

Top with some fresh cracked pepper and don't worry about sharing with anyone.

 

 

 

 

 

Oh my, my

 2012 was often a sassy little wench, who seemed to spend much of her time pointing and laughing at me as I walked past her in the halls. There were many days that I absolutely hated her. But nearly every moment I was about to tell her we couldn't be friends any more and she was uninvited to my birthday party, she went ahead and showed me what a beautiful life I really have. Well play, 2012. Well played.

But I got news for you, '12. 2013 has a pool, and cable and I am pretty sure we are gonna be BFFs.

Our 2012, in photos from Grant Shellen on Vimeo.

Oh my, my. Who's that child? Where is he going to? Why is he so wild? What is he staring at? Why is he so taken? Seems like he's choosing to believe. Even when he's faking.

It always feels like I'm waiting for something.