In search of rolling hills and deep valleys

All right. I promised a post about boobs and I will deliver. But, with apologies to Christina at Rockin’ the Suburbs, I fear my problem is the exact OPPOSITE of that detailed by Linda at All and Sundry.

I wasn’t well-endowed before I got pregnant, my friends. I was a generous B cup, and with my huge hips and generous butt, it looked a little odd, but not comical. I was still somewhat proportional. When my body began to blossom from the pregnancy, the B cup stretched to a C cup, and I was delighted (the D and double D that came late in pregnancy and while nursing were a little much, even I will admit).

But now, post-pregnancy, post-breastfeeding, post-baby-weight-loss, I’d be lucky if someone guessed me at a full A cup. Now, I haven’t been measured for a new bra yet, but I’m wearing my favorite pre-baby one right now, and if I suck in my stomach/chest/rib area enough, the bra will touch my skin only at the shoulders and a little bit under my arms. Sad.

Is that all? Of course not. Because even though they are tiny, there is still enough to sag, though mine seem to be migrating toward my back instead of my belly. And they look so sad that way. Sad, sad, saggers.

I tried to take advantage of the situation by going braless with my tank tops. But Angel Face heartily discourages that practice by pulling the front of my shirt down (at any moment, while I’m carrying her, while she walks by me as I sit on the couch or floor, while I’m feeding her breakfast) and pinching my nipples with all her might. I understand that they are fascinating, but damn, that hurts.

So while Linda dreams of jogging and horseback riding and eating dinner without dragging her boobs through it, I fantasize about filling out a bikini top again and wearing a tank top and baseball hat without getting mistaken for a boy and halter tops … oh the halter tops.

I know it’s ridiculous and shallow and trivial and oh-so-meaningless. And were you to ask me if I would trade my post-pregnancy boobs and Angel Face for my pre-pregnancy boobs and nothing, I wouldn’t even entertain the possibility. But sometimes a girl just wants to feel like … a girl.

Of orchids and eye-makeup

 So, I’m a big crab and I jump to conclusions and I should generally be condemned to life in prison. But not to death, because the dresses were still ugly and my dad said the eye makeup and hairstyle made me and my fellow-bridesmaid sister look like the girls in Robert Palmer’s “Addicted to Love” video.  

But other than that and some general crankiness from the bride and frostiness from the other bridesmaids (and a seemingly never-ending 2.5 hours between wedding and reception in which the bridal party was awkwardly locked in the bridal suite, sans alcohol, playing a me-inspired game of charades), my brother’s wedding was really beautiful. In my defense, the photographer was with us (to add to the awkwardness), and I thought charades would make for some fun wedding pictures for the new couple. And also, I had very little to say to most of the people in the room, the majority of which I’d known for only two days. 

We (most members of my family) were generally dreading the fact that they wrote their own vows because he can be… wordy… and odd to the point of it being painful for others. But I can honestly say that what he said to his bride was eloquent and thoughtful and, best of all, he really meant it. And when she struggled to fight back the tears as she spoke to him, it was really moving.
I bawled like a baby. Apparently, it was very noticeable – to the point that the photographer noted to me that he took my picture whilst I was crying. Thanks for the solid, dude. Appreciate it. 

The crowd was blocking my view of the samurai sword cake-cutting, and I was pretty busy babysitting my drunken mother to see how that went, but I assume it went well because there were no huge gasps or guffaws from the crowd.  While the flights generally sucked, some fun was had over the weekend, including singing “If I Had $1 Million” during the rehearsal dinner with my brother and sister (we’re total geeks), taking silly photo-booth pictures at the Queen Mary with my sister and dad and moping over breakfast every morning with same dad and same sister. 

Things I won’t want to remember include the crippling cough and Kermit the Frog voice (which still did not keep me from the karaoke stage), the hangover after the rehearsal dinner, not eating all day on Saturday so as not to mess up the makeup that was professionally applied at 9 a.m. (I thought it was only the bride that had to suffer like that), the ridiculous flights and equally ridiculous seat mates, the drunken mother, the chilly weather, the exhaustion (I never really adjusted to Pacific time from Eastern) and missing my husband and daughter. 

But I hope I will never forget standing on that bridge in the Japanese gardens at Long Beach State, looking at my brother as he promised to love his bride for the rest of her life and realizing that he is a wonderful, grown-up, honest, loyal and loving man.

From the Wagner to the Mendelssohn with some vows in between

So I’m off to the wedding of the century, where all bridesmaids will have the same dress, shoes, jewelry, make-up, hairstyle and for all I know UNDERWEAR (just kidding. She hasn’t asked us to buy matching underwear… yet…). My flight leaves in just more than 12 hours (so…early….), and all I have on my mind is… mimosa? or Bloody Mary? 

Funny aside on the bridesmaid dresses – if you click the link above, you’ll read my husband’s response to the dress, but my brother-in-law’s reaction when my sister put hers on was priceless. “Don’t ever put that on in front of me again,” he said, and walked out of the room. She comforts herself with the fact that she’s likely to be three sheets to the wind the next time she puts the dress on.  

 I’ve already had two phone conversations from my packing sister (who currently lives in southern Florida but is moving to Pennsylvania a week from Saturday, crazy, I know), and because I am refusing to check luggage because I have to change planes and endure multiple-hour layovers because a certain airline stopped offering the direct flight I purchased on a nonrefundable ticket, she is agreeing to pack shareable girl items for me. Like shoes. And shampoo and conditioner. And a hair dryer.  And maybe that kicky sweatsuit I’ve seen her wear. Yeah. Maybe I can borrow that for no good reason.  All I can say, certain airline, is you better count your lucky starts I opted not to bring my toddler with me because you’d really be hearing it when I am stuck in the Atlanta (!! THE OPPOSITE WAY THAT I NEED TO TRAVEL!!) airport for four hours if I had a cranky, napless, hungry, tantrum-prone 17-month old child with me. As it is, you can content yourself with the one angry phone call you got already.

So wish me luck and hopefully I don’t trip in these teeny-bopper wedge heels we have to wear on Saturday. Because it will surely be the shoes and not the alcohol in the flask my sister got me for Mother’s Day that’s hidden in my bouquet. (Seriously. She got me a flask for Mother’s Day. I was joking about it in the earlier post, but she was dead serious. Is she great or what?) 

Also, my brother plans to cut the cake with his new bride using a samurai sword. I’ll let you know how that one goes. 

And look forward to a future post on boobs because I read Linda’s at All and Sundry and wanted to comment but she already had 62 comments and really, what’s the point?

Mother of the year, part 1

I have a feeling that this type of post will become a regular feature. So it’s Sunday afternoon, and my husband’s grilling of dinner is taking a little longer than anticipated. I feed Angel Face a snack and believe that I’ve quelled the beast of toddler hunger momentarily. I retreat to the living room to start tidying up the explosion of toys while Hubby is rinsing some utensils in the sink. 

Angel Face comes toddling into the living room, obviously chomping on something with great delight. I demand to know what she is eating, looking at Hubby accusatorily. He denies giving her anything to eat. So I pry open her mouth … and feel total HORROR. I am so appalled, I can’t even clean out her mouth, and she happily finishes chewing and swallowing with a huge grin. When I start to cry, Hubby asks what is wrong. She’s eating DOG FOOD I tell him. DOG FOOD! He tells me to relax, it’s not like we actually have to feed her dog food. 

Three days later, I still can’t think of it without cringing. Child Protective Services can’t be far from my doorstep. She’s got skinned knees because I put her in shorts when she can’t walk steadily yet, she wakes up three out of seven days soaked in her own urine and she eats dog food.

I swear, I’m a good mom. I swear.

Cleanliness is next to godliness

A couple of things that have caught my attention recently: 

• A sign magically appeared in the bathroom at work recently that entreats us to wash our hands before returning to work as the CDC recommends hand washing as an important way to stave off the spread of germs. After random, unscientific research, I have discovered that these signs appeared in all four bathrooms on every floor of my workplace, male and female restrooms alike. My issue with this is several fold: 1) I really hope that my coworkers knew enough to wash their hands before returning to work without requiring a sign (in strangely tiny print) about the hazards of non-hand-washing to warn them. 2) I have worked here for three years and the thought that #1 might not be true really creeps me out. 3) Has there been some sort of disease outbreak in the building and they are afraid to tell us? Are we all going to die of some flesh-eating bacteria because Rhonda on the fourth floor forgot to wash up after her morning constitutional? Is there some sort of public health hazard caused by someone in this building? Help me!
• Criss Angel simultaneously creeps me out and irritates the crap out of me. I’m not big on magicians to begin with, but this guy (and David Blaine) is an exhibitionist magicians, which for some reason makes me irrationally angry. Maybe I don’t like them because I can’t figure out their act and I don’t like to feel stupid. Maybe I’m on to something there.
• Hubby was working late last night when “The Office” finale aired. As soon as it was over, I had to call him and tell him how much I loved the episode, because I’m sorry, “Pam’s” reaction when “Jim” asked her out was so perfectly played by Jenna Fischer. I’ve been that girl so many times… okay… I WISHED I was that girl so many times and maybe actually got asked out ONCE. But still. It was awesome.
• I haven’t watched Grey’s Anatomy yet, but I taped it so DON’T TELL ME.
• I probably watch too much television. But by the time I get Angel Face to bed and dinner cleaned up and at least one of about quadrillion chores done, all I want to do is veg out and not think. Sometimes I don’t even watch the television; I just lay in bed with it on and listen. I don’t even have the energy to open my eyes.
• I am praying for no major home repairs this year. Though the garbage disposal suddenly stopped working, so that sucks. But in the last three years (we’ve only lived in this house for three years), we’ve replaced a furnace, air conditioner and roof. Granted, hail damage meant insurance paid for the roof, but all that other stuff was expensive.

Paying $25 to do something we could do down the street from our house

Yes, Mother’s Day was totally awesome. This picture was taken on Alternate Mother’s Day, but that’s a story for another day. We went to the zoo, where Angel Face got to point and wave and growl at all the animals and, to her intense and immense delight, PLAY ON THE PLAYGROUND.
She’s a little damp here because they had the water shooting up from the ground which at times intrigued, delighted, confused and shocked her. It’s a lot for a 17-month old to take in.
She’s starting to sing. She’ll sing as she walks along, or sing along with a song on the radio or sing to herself as we push her in the stroller. I’m not saying she’s going to enter American Idol anytime soon, but it’s a really cool development.
To her father’s great joy she has also started throwing balls in a rather strong forward motion, mostly so that the dogs will chase them. The toddler belly laughs after a dog picks up a ball she has tossed (or, better yet, grabs an about-to-be-thrown ball out of her little hand) are second-to-none.
As she grows more independent, my longing for another Angel Face becomes stronger. Many of the women who were pregnant at the same time I was (this weekend is the 2-year anniversary of us breaking the news to our families) are either pregnant again or (gulp) have another baby already!
Hubby and I have a new policy - he will not tell me when he hears of another woman’s pregnancy, and I will keep my mouth shut about how badly I want another one. Unless, of course, either of us has had more than two drinks, than all bets are off.
I know it doesn’t make financial sense for us to have another Angel Face right now. But my uterus and ovaries just seem to be telling me that they’re not done yet - they still have life! They have not fulfilled their purpose!

bummer dude

I hate it when a perfectly promising day is ruined by a meaningless argument before I even leave the house for work. HATE.

I also hate it that I have to fly to LA next week for my brother’s wedding to Bridezilla (read about here and also here) and therefore miss my husband’s birthday and four whole days of Angel Face’s heartbreaking adorableness. And a relaxing holiday weekend.

So I’m just totally bummed out today and really wishing that it would be okay to have cocktail hour at work. Plus, after days of beautiful sunshine it’s suddenly grey (shut up, I like the British spelling better) and gloomy out.

Let me let go…

I came to a shocking realization this weekend. Already, at 16 months, my daughter is no longer simply an extension of me. She is her own little person. Already. She has her own wants, needs, desires and maybe even dreams that are completely separate from me and what I want for her. 

My job has suddenly (though probably not-so-suddenly) transitioned from keeping this little thing alive another day into giving her a foundation on which she can build a life to achieve those dreams. This is terrifying. 

At the same time that she is growing more independent, I need to learn to start letting go. I read something somewhere (probably another herhangout blog!) that said the moment your child is born is the moment you have to begin letting go. Sing it, sister. 

I can’t see myself as a success or a failure based on her successes and failures. She is her own person. I can protect her to the best of my ability, but when does protecting her become counter-productive? 

To this point, I have been trained to answer every cry and whimper with a plethora of options until I find the one that works. Is this now becoming a disservice? Does she need me to fulfill her every whim, or is that teaching her that there will always be someone there to give her what she wants? 

Am I turning her into a brat? 

All my life I’ve had this driving desire to be liked. It hasn’t always served me well. I shouldn’t be surprised that this has extended to my own daughter. But when does her liking me become secondary? When will I let go of that? When will I learn to do what’s best for her and not what feeds my own ego? 

It’s hard, this parenting thing.

Dateline: Bangalore… I mean Pasadena

I think this is horrible precedent. It’s outsourcing to the extreme. 

As a former newspaper reporter, I am offended and appalled and I hope the people of
Pasadena demand better of their news-gatherers. The Internet may have changed the face of journalism forever, but it should not change journalistic practices. 

The editor in this case says that you can cover local news from a different continent because you can watch all the city council meetings online. If that’s all his reporters were doing, attending city council meetings and writing about what happened, maybe you can do that from somewhere else. But that’s not what a good reporter does. And you certainly can’t effectively cover “city government and the political scene” that way. 

A good reporter will stay after the meeting, talk with council-people, chase down people who spoke in the hall during the meeting, follow up with office visits the next day, get to know administrative assistants who hold the keys to all the information and BUILD PERSONAL RELATIONSHIPS. 

How are you going to do that from Mumbai?  

Okay, off my soapbox. Now I have to go take Angel Face to the pediatrician for some shots and other pleasantries. Good luck, me.

Blow up furniture totally rocks

Reading in my new chair

Originally uploaded by MichelleCamille.

Angel Face, in her hairless glory, loves her new baseball glove chair. She sits in it to read and have snacks and watch Elmo and Barney. She can get up and down on her own and does so, often. Sometimes several times in the same minute.

But she’s getting so big! The only thing that saves me from a total no-more-baby moment is the hair.

I miss her when we’re not together.