Wanderlust

BLUSTERY

Fair weather has descended upon Utahians, but not without the obligatory march winds. We live on the edge of an enormous ravine or gully. On our side, suburban mayhem. On the other side, Hill Air Force base. In between, an abyss that can whip up a dense and furious breeze. I have been attempting to take a walk daily with Owen and the dogs, although our plans were foiled last week by persistent snow storms and messy sidewalks. Let me clarify by saying I do not walk them altogether. That would require an extraordinary amount of patience, brute strength, and the nonchalance of not giving a shit when you look like a moron in public. And deep down underneath my clothes covered in spit up and my unshowered, bandana head- I still care. A little.

So I walk a dog at a time. This may seem tedious and unecessary to most people, but consider the advantages. Each dog gets a substantial walk, no one gets injured, and my fat postpartum ass gets around the block twice as much as it would otherwise. In my opinion, the advantages far OUTWEIGH the drawbacks- pun intended. George thinks I am ridiculous and retarded.

Normally, my biggest struggle is to keep the stroller form veering off course in the large cracks, untrimmed lawn edges and snowbanks that dot our walking route. And to keep the sun off of Owen's face by constantly repositioning his stroller awning. Today, it was like trying to push through the wrath of God roaring down upon me. I struggled, cursed, and sheltered Owen in the changing direction of the gusts, and tried not to lose a dog. I heard Owen make a noise, which almost always means "I have lost that god damn pacifier again- where the hell did you put it Mom?" Peeking in to asess the situation, I found Owen, eyes wide as quarters, gasping and giggling at the wind that rushed across his face and squirming in delight. Seriously? We could have stayed at home and just gotten out the hair dryer.

Owen's Daddy

When we discovered we were going to have Owen, both George and I trembled in fear. Us- a kid! It would be a baby first and that would be terrible. We both wanted the experience of being a parent, but without all the inconvenience of midnight feedings, messy diapers, financial dehabilitation and being virtually housebound the first year. Unlike some married folks, we actually LIKE each other most of the time and we weren't looking forward to the prospect of changing our life together. George had some sort of vision that we would fall into a tense and awful existance as a couple where we would only nod at each other over Owen's head and never date again until he was thirteen and we were too old to do anything bad. I had a more idyllic picture of us carting around a perpetually smiling baby on the trails of Moab and in cafes in Europe. The reality, as always, is something in between. George works overtime, does dishes and makes dinner often without complaint, soothes fussy Owen in the evenings, and snores beside me through the nightime wakings. I eat, breathe and sleep Owen and in the cracks in between try to shower, walk and perform normal human functions. My favorite hobby is napping.

My point is, we were both worried that our lives, already bogged down with the schelp of suburban living, work and financial quicksand would become something less than exceptional if we had a baby. We would be... well, everybody else. Our lives already lost to the current, setting our purpose adrift beyond ourselves, out of reach of our intentions and beyond reclaiming. And yet... neither of us wanted to give up Owen or the challenge of having him in our lives. Parenting is a momentous experience and dying without undertaking it seemed less than worthwhile to both of us. So here we are... a month later. Owen's parents. Still shell shocked, we often gaze helplessly at each other at night in front of the glow of the TV while Owen is bounced and giggled to sleep on someone's tiring knee. Dear God, what have we done?

But happily, I have a partner in all this. A man who understands how I might have misgivings and still love Owen beyond all reason. A man who comes home to me napping and snarling at every noise and still has the courage to ask me how my day was. A man who never says no when I pass him a crying, frantic bundle after he's worked ten hours and driven a long, bleary eyed commute. A man who was promised dinner and comes home to a dark kitchen and happily turns on the lights and whips up a meal. A man who did all the shopping for the first month by himself, stumbling around after work in the feminine hygiene section and calling me on the cell phone just to make sure I really wanted overnights and wings, even though he might have absolutely no clue what either of those criteria mean. A man whose patience thins and wears at the edges but doesn't break. A man who probably doesn't hear thank you often enough.

Thank you, George.

Our lives may not seem exceptional right now, but at least you are.

Letters to the O

One Month

I hope I won't make people gag on the cliche when I say it is impossible to believe it's only been a month since you were born. I feel like I must have known you my whole life. I remember growing up and realizing with awe that my Mom was going to be the only person who would know me my whole life, from the very beginning moments until the tumultous present. A strange and humbling idea.

I've poured over every inch of your baby skin, learning the contours of your bones. I've spent long mintues gazing into your wide, wide eyes and wondering what on earth you could possibly be thinking about in there. Nachos... nipples... water skiing? I've memorized very baby noise, the intonation of every cry in an effort to cross our communication barrier. I had a dream the other night that you were some kind of boy wonder and suddenly began to speak. And not just a few coos and garbled syllabels, but full sentences falling from your baby lips as if you'd been waiting to speak to me since day one.

I find myself often wondering how much of what I know of you now, in your messy babiness, will be uniquely yours later in life. Will you still make that O face, with your saucer eyes and chubby cheeks? Is that wide, toothless grin that crinkles the corners of your eyes the same one I'll see at five and ten and twenty years from now? Will you still have hair on your back and the fringes of your ears like some sort of prehistoric caveman? And are those enormous feet omens of your future, where we'll have to buy special shoes from off the internets just to find some that fit? Those long, long fingers- will they play a concierto by eight or know the curve of a baseball intimately by five? The future seems incredibly wide and spacious for you. And I spend my time wondering what I can do to give you every opportunity and advantage under the sun.

In the meantime we rest and feed and sleep. You're on the doorstep of sleeping through the night and have given me a six hour stretch recently. Your father and I are going to reclaim our bed this week, but you'll be an arms reach away for now. Where I can still hear your grunts and sighs and fuss and know that you're really here with us and not a dream.

Run people, run!

It seems every other week or once a month (I'm not sure), a group of about 100 people run past my house on Saturday morning. The first time I saw it, it was around Thanksgiving, and I thought it had something to do with a walk for the homeless, or a walk for cancer. Around the T-day/Xmas season would be a good time to do that. But I noticed it twice since then.

What is weird is that some of them are serious runners. They got the gear and they run fast. But towards the end of the group, there are the straglers, barely running. Sometimes I see strollers, dogs, and children. There are various ages as well, although I don't see anyone really old (65 and over). It takes about 20 minutes for all of them to pass by. I figure it didn't start too close to my house because the group is spread out. Sometimes 20 seconds pass and you think it's over, and then come another 20 people running past the house.

I have no idea why they run. Are they running for Christ? I can't help but think that because of the Mormons. Maybe it's a club of people running like Forrest Gump. Running just to run. I have no idea. I know one thing, it is strange.

Grandma Magic

My parents dropped in for a short visit earlier this week and I learned what every other parent already knows. Grandma possesses this strange voodoo magic that can tame the fussiest baby. And your baby is always better behaved for someone else, especially if that someone else might be the person who will always get him what he wants for Christmas, no matter how loud, expensive or unreasonable it is.

Owen had, of course, developed the fussies accompanied by bouts of gas and constipation that exactly coincided with the grandparent's first visit. When my Mom and Dad arrived he had been enduring a bath quite patiently but then began shrill, pathetic cries for their amusement. As soon as he was enveloped in a warm blankie and cuddled into Grandma's shoulder however, Owen became calm and serene. And that was where he stayed. As soon as he began to fuss and impatiently whine, all it took was a few minutes of Grandma magic to soothe him. I would say things like, "He doesn't usually nap at this time of day" and then Owen would nod off to sleep on her shoulder like he was overcome by narcolepsy. Or I would remark that perhaps he needed his pacifier for a few minutes and Owen would suddenly calm and reward Grandma with a big grin. George and I went out and left Owen for the first time on Valentine's Day for a quickie date of ice cream and the bookstore. When we returned home, I rushed inside to see how he was and found him cuddled into Grandma's chest on the couch, practically snoring and impossible to rouse.

Of course, it probably helps that my Mom has done this FOUR times before. She knows the precise kind of rock to put babies into sleep orbit. Grandma speaks baby language- she knows that when he pulls his feet up it means this, or that sudden grin means that. And when she left yesterday I gave her up reluctantly, and not just for Owen's sake. It's always nice to have a little Mommy magic.

Memoirs on Mommihood Part IX

Holy Lactation

I'm not sure if I'm the only one who feels this way- but having milk pouring from your breasts is the most surreal, weird experience of young mommihood I've yet encountered. It just seems so twilight zone somehow. For most of my life, these mounds of flesh have sat on my chest not doing much of anything useful, although George might disagree with that assessment. Then, pregnancy and they take on girth and become fairly... akward. At least for a girl whose used to having just enough cleavage to make a small shadow between her breasts. After the baby is born, they begin to ooze and within days they are producing so much milk, you can shoot your offspring in the face with an accidental leak during feeding. You sleep on your side and wake up in the night, shirt drenched and the breast facing the bed heavy and engorged. You start to notice the faint smell of sweet, sour milk permeating all your clothing and bedding and you're never sure if it's from the copous amounts of spitup you seem to be constantly swiping up or the insane amount of leakage from those milk jugs attached to your body.

Yesterday we took Owen and actually went out in public. Together. To go shopping. It was long and hellish and mostly unpleasant, although Owen slept through it like a champ. As we were in the grocery store I looked up suddenly at George and said,
"It's been three hours since Owen was fed."
"How do you know?"
"My milk just let down."
With breasts like this, who needs a watch.

Pushed by a cop

On the way home today I was talking to Ken on my cell phone. When I first talked to him, I noticed I was doing 80mph. I decided to slow down a little to aviod any interference with cops. I then proceded to tell Ken about my crazy week at work, because it was a very weird and busy work week. I think I put in about 55hrs. Anyways, I was about 5 minutes from home and I was at a stop light. I was still talking to Ken because he was listening to me bitch about all the crazy work stuff going on. The light turns red. I push the gas peddle and the car sputters. So normally I make sure I am in the right gear(even though I have a stupid automatic) and then look at the rpms. That is when I remembered that I am low on gas. The low gas light has been on since I left work, at it takes me about 35 minutes to drive home. Shit. I was at the bottom of a hill (a good 1/4 mile long hill), and I knew there was a gas station about a mile and a half away at the top of the hill.

Ken said I should try and make it, so I started up the hill. About half way a truck in front of me slows down so I had to let off the gas and loose momentum. Right after this the car start to sputter and then the sound of silence struck the car. I was officially out of gas. I then started to slow down and I was actually only 1/4 of a mile away from the gas station and just below the apex of the hill. I had already pulled onto the shoulder and then I looked in my rear view mirror. That was when I noticed the cop. He got out of the car and I opened my car door and said the stupidist thing. "I think my car just ran out of gas." Duh, no shit, the gas gauge is below empty and the car is sputtering. I should have made a definitive statement, but I think I was still in shock that I could be such an asshole to run out of gas.

So the cop said I should put it in neutral and he would push me the rest of the way up the hill and right into the gas station which was not even 3 minutes away on foot. So he pushes me into the gas station and I motion to him that my gas tank is on the left side so he knew where I was going. We eventually got the car next to the gas pump. I then got out of the car and the cop said "I saw your gas tank lid is on the right side". I look down towards where it should be and then remember that I am a stupid asshole. The gas tank lid indeed is on the RIGHT side of the car. He said he can push me over into another spot. I made some comment that I feel like a total idiot and thanked him for the help.

Out of no where these two guys, obviously brothers, tan like they work outside all day everyday, and blond, offered to push it into the correct location for gas to flow into the car. They helped me, I thanked them, and they left in a blue work truck.

My tank apparently hold 15.98 gallons of gas. I never knew this. On my way home I called Ken back and told him about the cop, and then I noticed in the right side view mirror that I forgot to close the lid to the gas cap. Wow. I didn't really notice the fact that I've had a really tough week until I looked into that side view mirror. What also struck me at that moment is that I was doing 80mph when I first stated talking to Ken. I was really excited to go home and be over with the work week. If I would have been doing a normal speed, I might have had another couple of ounces to make it right into the gas station.

Letters to the O

Three Weeks

We've decided to succumb to the inevitable. We gave you the dreaded NUK this week, mostly in an attempt to save my poor nipples and induce sedated sleep without resorting to drugs. It works well, except when it falls out of your mouth, which is just about every thirty seconds on average. It's hard to feel sorry for you though, wailing away when the thing is just inches from your mouth and you don't have the coordination to get it there. Even Miles could manage that feat of dexterity.

Everyday seems we stumble on another milestone. I hadn't expected them to come so quickly. Just the other day, you smiled at me- a sincere grin of recognition. Hey, I remember you. You're the lady with the milk. I like you. And then yesterday, you grabbed an inanimate object in your hand- quite by accident I might add. Although you held it away from yourself instead of bringing it in closer, which was a shame since it was your NUK and you had just pulled it out of your own mouth and were crying bitterly over the injustice of it. Your father has been trying to convince me that you have extraordinarily strong legs and can almost stand on your own. Since you're still having trouble balancing your bobble head with that scrawny neck of yours, I sincerely doubt you'll be supporting your own weight by the weekend.

Last night you slept five hours practically straight through. I was shocked and then terribly frightened. Because I now know what five hours of sleep in a row feels like. It will be hard to go back. You've been "co-sleeping" with us, which basically means that when you can't sleep, nobody else gets to either. I sometimes take you into the office and sleep with you there just to give your father a break. But I've been reluctant to give you up to your own bed. I keep saying I'll transition you next week... or maybe the week after. But I like sleeping within the comfort of your little breath just a few inches away, your warm, snuggled body under my arm. Except those nights when you mew and pout every twenty minutes and your father snores like a freight train. Then it sucks. But I keep reminding myself that two weeks ago I couldn't envision you being a month old. And now we're on the doorstep of that. And you'll never be a newborn again. So even when you keep me awake all night, I try to remember that I'd rather spend the time savoring these moments then let them pass me by asleep. And that's what I'll tell you when you're five and I wake you up every night with a cold washcloth on your feet at 3 am as retribution. You'll never be five again, sweetheart. Wake up and savor it.

Yesterday

Yesterday afternoon, just as he finished a long nap and a good feed, I sat Owen up. He's usually very alert at these times and this was no exception. He was six inches or so from my face and I was talking and smiling at him. He stared back at me and suddenly broke into a giggly smile, ear to ear. And for the first time, I knew he was really smiling at me.

Memoirs on Mommihood Part VIII

THE BIG SLEEP

Yes, I heard all the warnings over and over. Sleep would be precious and fleeting after Owen's birth. I should rest rest rest while I could... blah, blah, blah. Yes, I understood this was probably true. But nothing ever feels real until it happens to you. And now I can definitely say that I would trade one of my limbs and maybe an eyeball for two nights of uninterrupted sleep. Because frankly, I'm already operating at half mast so the idea of becoming further incapacitated doesn't bother me much. I crave sleep like a shipwrecked unfortunate on a barren island dreaming of Big Macs. My mouth waters at the thought of it.

Perhaps I should explain that Owen is not an unusual baby. He doesn't suffer from long bouts of colic or extreme episodes of unexplained crying. His thirst for breast milk, however, keeps him cycling on and off the tit at two hour intervals. But there are nights when he sleeps three hours straight at a time. THREE HOURS. And then he follows that marathon nap with a five hour period of incessant whimpering and grunting, usually between the desperate hours of two and five in the morning. This is the origin of true madness. To be hanging on the edge of exhaustion at three am for the third night in a row, listening with rage to your partner snoring beside you.

Fortunately, there is one nap I can count on. Owen goes down like clockwork at three in the afternoon. I started this ritual when we first came home and the routine is always the same. We plop down in bed with the remote and turn on a decorating show or a HBO rerun movie. I haul out a breast. He eats until, half an hour to forty-five minutes later, the nipple falls from his mouth and he leans back in sleeping ecstasy, milk running from the corners of his little mouth. Sometimes he even grins. I lay him down next to me and lower my head to the pillow. Sometimes he wakes up and we stare at each other sleepily, holding hands, until one of us drifts off. The dogs curled at my feet, those are the best two hours of my day. Thank God I spend them sleeping.

Miles and Timber: The dogs they have become

While we've been busy buying houses and having babies, Miles and Timber have been growing up. Long past puppihood, they have entered the world of full fledged canine adulthood. The physical changes have been pretty noticeable. Miles has a stronger snout and a flabbier chest (although this probably has more to do with his lack of exercise because he has enormously lazy and increasingly fat parents). His paws are enormous and well calloused from hours of yard romping and neighborhood walking. Timber has lost much of his puppy face and has taken on a serene, almost regal look, which seems laughable for people better acquainted with his true character.

Their demeanor has also changed. Timber no longer pees and poops and tears things apart in the house. In fact, he has become nearly trustworthy. (I say nearly because he did eat a Christmas present from under the tree this year. Although to his credit, it was a rather tantalizingly smelly present for another canine.) Miles has become a window watcher. He sits for hours by the picture window in the living room just waiting for that stupid cat from next door to traipse across his lawn so he can bring all hell crashing down in his wrath. They both still beg for food and act like attention crazed idiots for the first half hour that any visitors drop by, but otherwise they are frighteningly obedient. Content to be where we are, inquisitive and playful but not intrusive. Practically perfect- which is a good thing because we don't really have time for doggie drama these days.

People often ask how the dogs are adjusting to Owen. I think they still are wondering when they get to lick him to death, but otherwise they are polite and friendly towards him. His crying doesn't seem to bother them- although perhaps they are immune to it now. Miles has, however, taken to grooming Timber excessively while I am breastfeeding and Timber has started carrying around his duckie with him everywhere he goes. Who says nurturing is just for bitches? The other afternoon, when Owen and I were napping on the bed, Miles wormed his way up towards Owen and slept with his paws on either side of him, his drooling head draped across Owen's swaddled legs. While we've been careful to continue to give the dogs special privileges and lots of affection, Miles and Timber seemed unfazed by this new family member. Seems they've got plenty of doggie love to go around.

Here's a new batch of doggie pics taken in the backyard a few weeks ago.

Eating and sleeping

Last night Kaz and I were hanging out watching TV and I had to take a picture of this. This proves that Kaz is the mother supreme around here. I made some pizza, while she ate it on the couch while Miles and Timber were sleeping and Owen was breast feeding. Unfortunately Owen doesn't seem happy unless he is at the teet.

Letters to the O

Two Weeks:

You're snuggled up to my breast now, sucking away. That's pretty much how it goes these days. Always hungry. We took you to the pediatrician today and since you left the hospital, you've gained almost a full pound and 3/4 of an inch. Your umbilical cord dropped out perfectly and the doctor says you're a textbook perfect baby. Which is to say that you never sleep according to anyone's schedule but your own and you excrete poop hourly.

I feel like we're digging each other lately. You stare into my face and I know you're really seeing me rather than arbitrarily focusing on that funny stain on the ceiling. I find myself wondering if you'll have a fixation on armpits since you spend so much time staring at mine while nursing. I can get you to coo and smile when I bounce you on my knee to "Marrakesh Express" and make your head bobble like one of those little bobble head dolls. When your mewing for nipple turns impatient, I can hear the desperation in your cry. When you're simply pissed off that I set you down when you really wanted to be held, your face turns an attractive shade of purple and you show me the entire inside of your mouth when you yell. Plus, you have hair on the edges of your ears like a forest gnome. That's when I know you really are your father's son.

This week I discovered an alarming thing about your father. While he adores you and does not hesitate to smother you with kisses in public, the man doesn't know any lullabies. He hums you CHRISTMAS CAROLS. And even those he only knows parts of and mumbles the same choruses over and over. I worry this will cause brain damage but then I remember that you're going to live in this house, full of dog hair and sarcasm. The damage is done.

We still have those nights when, paniced with sleep deprivation, I wonder where on earth this baby came from. And I still wander in and out of your room when you are sound asleep just to make sure you're still in your crib and haven't been beamed up by that alien hovercraft. I recently had someone suggest to me that I might have hated being pregnant and that my blatant honesty about it on this website might hurt your feelings later in life. Let me make this perfectly clear. I abhorred being pregnant. But I can already tell by the long hours I have spent swimming in your deep baby blues that you're the kind of boy who'll understand that life doesn't have to be a fairytale to be beautiful. It just has to be honest. And when someday you're old enough to read all of this, I hope you'll throw back your head and laugh. Because your mother is so god damn funny.

Afternoon TV

Previously, I would have had to be dead or sick with some really awful communicable disease to be caught watching TV in the afternoons. It seems like the height of laziness. It's a declaration to the world- I am of no use to anyone anymore. But now that I'm somewhat of a housewife, juggling the death defying schedule of a newborn, I find myself parking my ass in the bedroom for a few hours in the late afternoon, nursing Owen and roaming through TLC and Discovery shows. Hey, at least it's not soaps. I don't think I'll ever be that retarded.

Yesterday I was watching Trading Spaces and they PAINTED the appliances in someone's kitchen black. With auto paint- engine enamel in glossy black to be exact. Let me explain why this is vitally important. George and I loathe our stove. It's an attractive seventies yellow and plastered with impossible to remove grease and black residue. These are its redeeming qualities. It only has one temperature, in the oven and on the range- Super Ass Hot. Water begins to boil in the pot as it approaches the burner. We routinely adjust baking temperatures about 50 degrees to avoid setting off the smoke alarm AGAIN. And so I thought- wow, I knew this afternoon TV thing would reap benefits someday. We don't have to buy new apliances for the kitchen. I can paint them black. The stove still won't function correctly, but it will match everything else in the kitchen. And isn't that really the point?

George Bush should watch more afternoon TV. Maybe he could find the solution for world peace. But at the very least, he could figure out the right shade to color Laura's hair. Can you say fake highlights? Please.
I've gotta watch more afternoon TV, man.