Consider Me Got (A Marketer's Dream)

Through the years (cue Kenny Rogers). And yes, I have been feeling super nostalgic lately...

No idea what is happening in East London on September 13, but this video is rad all the same.

It Starts Off Nice and Sweet-Like

I totally forgot to tell you, didn't I?*We went on vacation.
A wee road trip down south, past miles of cows standing knee deep in their own shit**, over freeways and through towns, across beaches and over 108°F. Not much to report except this:Tomorrow I turn un certain âge. Thursday Zoey starts kindergarten. In 2 weeks my maternity leave is over. I spent the whole week pressing my toes down hard on an imaginary brake pedal in the passenger seat and now I have a cramp in the ball of my foot.


*Neither here nor there but everywhere, do you kinda' hate when bloggers write directly to you? Like that whole Ferris Bueller breaking-the-fourth-wall schtick, asking questions and then proceeding as if you've answered, all cutesy "I know you" wink wink, calling you love, darling, insert pet name here? Cause lately I do. I don't know, it just seems condescending. Insincere. And I know that I do it sometimes, too. Still. Also? I hate when bloggers tell stories about their kids that sound like some Dawson's (shit) Creek dialogue that you just know didn't happen. Or when the writing almost becomes a caricature of itself. Just sayin.' See also: I'm totally a bitch but it's almost my birthday which may or may not have something to do with it because what do you get for the girl who just bought a glass house?

**Do cows have even have knees?

It Was A Very Good Year

Forever it was Crazy Love, the song that Zoey and I sang at bedtime. I'd tickle her back and we'd whisper the words to each other, smooshing our faces together for the part that goes kiss and hug her, kiss and hug her tight. Truth be told, this is still my favorite nigh-night song, though Zoey has moved on. Now she wants to hear Frank every night, so I turn it on, the song that softens her eyes into the faraway nostalgia of a 5 year old girl who still has to ask if 5 minutes is a short time or a long time (and won't settle for my answer that it depends).

Oh, it has not escaped me that the song starts at 17, which was apparently a very good year for small town girls on the village green, then goes to 21 with city girls who lived up the stairs, and then 35 with blue-blooded girls of independent means (my favorite), only to end there, the good years. Because after 35? It's all short days and vintage wine according to ol' blue eyes, the autumn of the years, which does not bode well for my birthday in a few weeks which has me turning twenty-nineteen or twenty-five-fourteen, because, you know, it depends.

Though I was thinking tonight, while singing the song, that it has been a very good year, when I was 38, for pregnant girls and soft children's cheeks, we counted down the weeks, and bought some real estate, when I was 38. (Lacking the soul of Sinatra, yes, but it was a very, very good year.)

Nothing Like Bob Ross To Help You Start Off Your Week

Bob Ross + a lil' Dub Step, throw in some motherfuckin' paint and carry the one = Happy Monday to you.

xo,
S

It's Official

As if the c-section scar wasn't proof enough...
I put him on my other wrist.

And now, when I wrap my arms around myself, the names of my children hug me.

With time the letters will fatten and bleed, bleached from the sun, and the words will fall from my mouth as light as an everyday truth--that's right, yes, my children.

Wunderkind Powers Activate! Form Of...

Quick! Name a job that requires one to roll over. (No, not that one you sick f.) Because it turns out Ozzy is a genius, like a roll-over child prodigy. Since he was 7 weeks old he's been performing at the level of a highly trained adult in the demanding field of rolling from tummy to back, which I didn't realize was noteworthy until his pediatrician expressed great surprise. Totally the face of an advanced cerebral cortex...

Apparently most babies don't roll over until 4 or 5 months of age. Of course I'm wondering what this holds for his future. I mean, Mozart had music, John von Neumann had math, Saul Kripke philosophy. I'm thinking that with his whiz kid mad rolling skillz that Ozzy will one day be a genius...sniper? Really good at dousing fire should he ever be engulfed in flames? What other use could the world glean from this obvious gift?

Meanwhile, Zoey has been spending her mornings at ballet class and her afternoons at Tae Kwon Do. With maybe just a little bit of trouble adjusting her body language between each class...
She is the only girl in ballet who wears a black tutu in a sea of pink and purple, and the only girl in Tae Kwon Do who wears a bow in her hair while she strikes k'ihap.

Be still my beating heart. Wunderkind powers activate. Form of: My Everything.

p.s. If you Google "my child is a..." with the intent to search "genius," Google finishes your sentence with the following: bully, brat, sociopath, monkey, psychopath.

p.p.s. Sometimes I wonder if all these photos everyone's taking these days with iphone app Instagram/Hipstomatic/Camera Bag filters will look dated someday. Like how one day in 2003 I looked around my living room at all the faux distressed cream colored furniture and realized I had somehow become Rachel Ashwell's bitch without my knowing it. Thoughts?

What's On The Other Side

Zoey and I had our first annual girlie day this weekend (and by annual I mean more like monthly only "monthly girlie day" sounds too much like menses and I have always hated the word menses). We left the boys at home to think about boobs while we went to get pedicures.
I walked in thinking I would get a pretty purple color, maybe something in the rose family, but Zoey was dead-set on rainbow colored toes and after I saw just how happy her feet looked, I couldn't resist. I do believe I've found my new go-to for summer toes.

I'm telling you--that girl? She is what keeps me stargazing.
xo,
S

First. (Well, First That Was Caught On Film. Baby Smiles Are Like Yetis In That They're Tough To Photograph And Look Stupid Creepy When Photoshopped.)

And just like that, we decided to keep him...
p.s. I have a new theory: the time it takes for your brain to forget the sharp-edged horror of pregnancy and childbirth perfectly coincides with the time it takes for your baby to decide to smile at you. Coinky-dink? I think not. That there is a Darwinian smile.

p.p.s. I mean, just look at that gummy smile! If this were one of those annoying singing Hallmark cards it would coo when you opened it up. And maybe sing Damn It Feels Good to Be a Gangsta, I don't know.

p.p.p.s. But I am not having another baby. Ever.

I Can Write About Couches Next Week

Once upon a time I wrote a short story about how everybody loves a good tragedy. That rubber-necked pull toward thankgodit'snotme, at once both plain ol' human nature, because in a way we are all in this together, married with sensationalism because, well, didja hear about--?

I wasn't going to write about this because it's not my tragedy. I was afraid writing about it verged more on the side of sensationalism since I hardly know the girl. I mean, I went to high school with her, but she was a year younger, I think, which of course in high school is a chasm of other. So while I have been following her story with horror, it has admittedly been horror from afar, from other people's Facebook posts and the local newspaper, the kind of detached horror that compelled me to donate but that's it because I hardly knew the girl, right?

So why am I writing about it now? I don't know. As far as tragedies go it's pretty fucking up there: With a brand new baby, Tika Hick and her contractor husband had to declare bankruptcy and lost their home that he had built. Then she was diagnosed with stage 4 breast cancer. So they went to Maui to gather strength before she was to undergo a double mastectomy, and while there, her husband was swept into a blow hole by a rogue wave. His body has not been found.

I guess I am writing about it now because while you might think my neck is made of plasticine I know my heart is made of something warmer. We are all in this together. And while part of me wanted to write about how I really want a new couch I also knew that I had to get off my ass and write about something more. I have readers from all over the globe-albeit a little farther away from knowing a girl from high school that was a year younger at that--but I'm asking you to please hear her story. If you're a blogger, please reblog. Better yet, donate. This girl who you don't know and who I hardly knew? She and her son need us.



Donate here.
The chasm of other is a mirage at best.

xo,
S

Because I Am a Lover of Words. But Mostly Because Inside I Am a 12 Year Old Boy.

Granted I am no epicurean (and wasn't even epicurious in college), but really? Chingalingas? Are you trying to make me say the word cunnilingus while out to dinner with my in-laws?

This is what I do know: Chinga basically translates to fuck in Spanish. When you squish that together with lingas which is a derivation of the Latin word for tongue you get tongue fucker. Come on people! Tell me you don't get tongue fucker!

p.s. I opted for the flautas.
p.p.s. This is probably why I don't get invited out to dinner more often.

July 5

You never quite got the ruckus made of the 4th, choosing instead to celebrate July 5th, or August 4th. March 20th, why not? The way your daughter gives you rocks that she finds in the driveway, brown pebbled things that were probably dirty chunks of pavement once slick with motor oil. You drop them into the only vase you own, the weight of throwing them away full of something you don't want to play with or even think about. Swim class @ 2:10 circled on the calendar, July 5th, and you find yourself promising to always be the mother you are once she finally falls asleep each night, how you stand over her forgetting the sharp no's of the day repeated, the 1, 2, 3...without either of you fully understanding the portent of 3. This is what you celebrate, this day, fireworks for nothing, and how tomorrow you will be better.

Do the Hustle!

It's hard to blog when you've got a small human being attached to your boob (evidenced by tiny hand on right side of the photo), a 5 year old daughter who wants to help (read: squeezes the side of said boob which actually does help, thankyouverymuch), plus a neurotic abyssinian cat who just wants in on the action.So yes, there's that, plus packing up our house to move this weekend (!) and the very small job of keeping not one but two children alive. I'm telling you, it's enough to make a girl feel downright accomplished, even if she hasn't showered in days...

'Course the good news aside from my new and improved kick ass family (now with more balls!) is that I am fitting into my pre-pregnancy jeans again. Which makes me feel a little bit like this, although this could also be from lack of sleep.

Doing the hustle from my living room couch,
xo,
S

Fun with the Fisheye Lens

Little did you know I gave birth to Wilford Brimley. During the day he stands in the doorway grumbling for those damn kids to get off his lawn. At night he squawks about heartburn. In reality, he is quiet. (Too quiet! says the hand-wringer inside of me.) He makes these little squeezy noises instead of cries, loves car rides and holding hands. (We haven't tried yet, but I am sure he also likes long walks on the beach.) Somewhere between slathering Zoey's butt with Desitin and discussing the merits of Captain Jack Sparrow with her (we both agree that he's an exceptionally goodlooking man), I forgot that it takes time to get to know your baby. To stop seeing character actors in his face and attributing a grumpy old man's words in his sighs. It's slow-going, but we have all the time in the world. In the meantime, he's in his La-Z-Boy Recliner right now (the one that vibrates and chirps lullabies), muttering something about what is with kids wearing their pants so damn low these days...

Publica Breastaefeedaphobia

It has been 2 weeks and 1 day since glitter spilled from my vagina in the form of baby Ozzy. (Which is kind of a lie since he was born via c section, but the mere mention of the word vagina lends the idea a bit more gravitas, no? Vagina, vagina, vagina, BAM! Just add glitter and what you get is pure magic. Ask anyone.)
The most part of these 2 weeks and 1 day I have spent crammed like so many worn tissues into the folds of my couch, one pillow propped under the right arm, another beneath the left, boobs out, back aching, wondering how they make it look so easy, though I have no idea who "they" really are. Despite the presence of nipples, here there is no glitter. Just me and my nipples, Luck be a Lady de la Leche, and at night when I use the breast pump the wheezing in and out of the machine sounds as if it's talking to me. Make more, make more, make more... (Or what a bore, what a bore, what a bore, milky whore, milky whore, milky whore...)

Me thinks that when your breast pump starts talking to you it's time to get out of the house, no?

So this weekend I decided to take this show on the road. Armed with two of my oldest and bestest, I went to the park with Ozzy, my boobs and an artfully draped cloth festooned with little cars for diversion. And at first it was easy. We were the only people there, and for a second I felt a little like Bill Murray in "What About Bob" tied to the mast, I'm Sailing! I'm Sailing! That is, until a toddler and his overly-Spandexed, Vibram-footed father spotted us. It was almost like I had cotton candy stuffed in my bra, or dollar bills--the kid would not leave me alone. He pulled and yanked at my artfully draped cloth, pushing his face beneath, even with me saying no, no honey! The baby's eating! And his father was no help, either. Guess my son's a boob man! he said, talking a little too close to my friend. It was weird. He was weird. The kid was weird. They. Would. Not. Leave. And so it would seem that my first pass at public breastfeeding was a bust, no pun intended.

And lest you think I'm being hyperbolic, yesterday I decided to get right back on the hooter horse and set up camp on my front porch. (Baby steps, people. Who knew "What About Bob" would be so apropos?) So there I was breastfeeding Ozzy while Zoey played in the garden, the sun shining the hazy yellow of a memory of a movie, when suddenly my neighbor's Chihuahua came bounding over to excitedly press his nose into my nipple. Which of course made his owner, a 50 year old man I've met maybe once, come over to see what his dog had found. Again with the the possibility of cotton candy hidden inside my bra, or maybe it was a piece of rawhide, more dollar bills, something, because the dog Would. Not. Leave. And eventually his owner had to reach down into my artfully draped cloth to retrieve him, my cover blown for the second time.

Oh, how I wish I were one of those women who whipped out her boob all so what and yeah, so? Daring you to look or not caring at all, without two fucks to rub together because she really doesn't give a flying one. But I'm not. Instead I'm a WASPY girl of a woman who thrills at the mention of vagina and glitter together, a fumbling mom with Publica Breastaefeedaphobia, a condition that does not even exist in the world of WikiGoogleWebMD so I had to make it up myself, all faux Latin-ate and official. Because the truth is I don't even sail. I get sea sick.

But How Do You Really Feel?

I have to warn you guys: my skin is like vellum right now, tissue thin and see-through. I cry at Dr. Phil which means of course that I watch Dr. Phil, an event that in and of itself signifies that something is not quite right. Of course nothing is quite wrong, either. Simply hormones stabilizing, so I stand at least once a day buck naked in front of the mirror to see if my uterus has shrunk down any farther because that is something that I can actually see, measure, wait for. (Oh, how you would have loved me as a teenager, all sighs and sads and nobody understands. I am just thankful there were no blogs back then.)

So you can imagine what the discovery of this website did to me, written by a woman who spent years taking care of patients who had gone home to die. When she talked to these people about any regrets they had, common themes surfaced again and again. Here are the top 5:

1. I wish I'd had the courage to live a life true to myself, not the life others expected of me.

2. I wish I didn't work so hard.

3. I wish I'd had the courage to express my feelings.

4. I wish I had stayed in touch with my friends.

5. I wish that I had let myself be happier.

Now that's something to cry about, n'est ce pas? And a reminder for those of us that have some time. So here's what's on my To Do list today: wash the dishes, take a shower, express my breast milk along with some feelings, let myself be happy.

What's on yours?

xo,
S

I Must, I Must, I Must Increase My...

Are you there WWW? It's me, Margaret. Behold a real life Before and After. Now, I was not able to breastfeed Zoey for a few different reasons that are now 5 years old. But this time? My milk came in and shit got real. Real to the tune of an E sized bra that is all kinds of ugly. Please tell me that this, too, shall pass. The hormones, yes, the sleepless nights, the fact that I am now chained to the couch with my nipples hanging out of humongously horrible E-sized boobs.

And if it isn't going to pass? Then lie to me.
with love from the living room,
S

Woosh

Guess who turns one week old today? This guy, that's who:
Introducing Ozzy Allston M. (I wish I could tell you our whole last name 'cause it sounds super kick ass all together.) Born May 30th, 7lbs. 13oz. This is what I know of him so far: his head smells like warm cotton, his eyes are the prettiest slate blue, particularly when he wears his blue onesie, he squeaks instead of cries and when he poops he scrunches his face up just like Renee Zellweger. Although I have never seen Renee Zellweger poop.

Here's a pic of Zoey meeting her brother for the first time. If I had told her that there was no Santa and that Unicorns simply do not exist, she still would've been smiling like this, so stoked was she to hold her brother.

Here she is being a bossy big sister, telling my mom how to properly diaper Ozzy.

As you can imagine, we are all a wee bit sleep deprived and some of us (me) have had their abdominal muscles sliced open and then stapled shut, but still--I'm going to try to post more often now. Although I should also mention that we bought a house and move in 3 weeks, so there is that. Too.

Told you. Woosh.

love,

S