Wanderlust

Never Bark Wolf

The dogs have been slowly and painfully learning that to bark in a house with a sleeping baby is tantamount to writing their own suicide note. It will not be tolerated and justice is swift. So yesterday, while I was attempting to squeeze in a forty five minute afternoon nap, they raised the house alarm by jumping off the bed at full bark as if a man with an oozie had just burst through the front door. I was, understandably, furious.

I marched them into the living room and promptly ordered them to kennel up. They both seem to think this is the worst kind of punishment, probably because they have some inkling of how embarassingly silly they look shoved into the same kennel. The barking stopped immediately and I went into the kitchen to check my email.

I was shocked just a few seconds later to hear Timber barking from INSIDE the kennel. He has never done this and I knew that once they both figured out that they could bark inside the kennel, it would lose all its effectiveness as a punishment. I raced into the living room to deal out reprimands. Both dogs seemed very agitated, so I let them out and they rushed to the back door. Figuring perhaps one or both of them needed to go to the bathroom, I was just getting ready to slide the patio door aside when I saw their fixed gaze and followed it to the man standing in our backyard.

Okay, so when I woke up, I vaguely noticed the hum of a truck outside, but didn't think much of it. I had even looked out the front window and seen a guy from Tru Green with a chemical spray, fertilizing the grass along the street. Niavely, I assumed this was something the city did to keep the streets looking so "Mormon" suburbinite. I mentally mumbled something about god damn pesticides and moved on. Five minutes later he was in our backyard. I squeezed out the back door past the panting, alarmed dogs and said "Is there something I can help you with?" He explained in a dopey Andy Griffith way that he was there to fertilize the lawn. No shit. "Not mine. You got the wrong lawn." I replied. Apparently the previous owners ("Mr. and Mrs. Glad"- I shit you not. Complete with picture of a haloed Jesus over the fireplace) had a standing contract to have the lawn fertilized or pesticized or whatever every spring.

"You just got yourself a free application, then!"

Whoppee. Free chemicals that my dogs can contract cancer from. But maybe it will teach them a lesson- you should never bark "man in the backyard" unless there really is one. I wonder if that guy will ever know how close he came to having two labradors forcing him to kiss the muddy grass.

It's Official! He SLEEPS.

He sleeps through the night! After our unprecedented Friday night marathon sleep, Owen was gracious enough to repeat the preformance on Saturday night by nodding off at 9 and sleeping until 3:30 am, whereupon he nursed and then went right back to sleep until 7:30am. Last night, he hit the hay even earlier at 8:30pm. I nursed him at 10:30pm without really waking him and he slept until (drumroll, please)... 6:30 am. Without a murmur.

It's so weird. It makes me feel like I have my life back in an odd way. Can you tell I'm completely excited? Just think of all the possibilities that are open to me now that I'm not struggling to exist on a three hour sleep cycle! Thanks, Owen. When I don't look like a hag when I'm forty, I'll thank you for not keeping me up all night for the first year of your babydom. It was awfully nice of you. I'll go out and get you that BB gun tomorrow.

My favorite things about Timber

Timber, aside from the biting incident, has been really hilarious lately and I thought I'd share some of my favorite things about "the Targ." I've also included an adorable picture of him from his puppy days for nostalgia.

1: He prefers frozen poop to thawed.
2: He has recently started taking his stuffed squirrel to bed to sleep and cuddle with. He also grooms it like it's his baby.
3: He beat cancer. see here
4: He sneezes so much when he's fighting that it makes him seem silly and ineffective.
5: He only likes to have his butt petted.
6: He howls when the phone rings.
7: When it snows, Timber clears off the back deck by eating all the snow off of it. (even the yellow stuff)
8: He snarls like a pirate in between sneezes.
9: He has a funny little dark patch above his mouth that makes him look like he has a Hitler mustache. Hence his other nickname, "Little Hitler."
10: The first thing he did when we bought this house and he came in it for the first time was to pop a squat in the corner of the living room and poop in it, as if to say "Ah... I'm home!"

Ta-DA!

This is the wonderful boy who slept through the night last night! Here's the run down of how it went down:

8:30 pm Owen gets changed, read to and snuggled. He falls alseep around 9pm.
9:30 pm Owen wakes up hungry, disturbing our tardy viewing of the Sopranos. I bring him down, feed him, and he drifts back off.
10:10 pm I deposit him in his bed withouth waking him and tiptoe into my own.
10:22 pm I slip into bed myself and promptly fall asleep on George's chest while he watches Napolean Dynamite for the upteenth time on HBO.

4:34 am I wake up in an instant, startled, in a pool of my own drool and with a shirt soaked in breastmilk. Oh my God, I think! The monitor is broken!
4:36 am After changing channels and turning up the volume I realize it's not broken and that Owen is actually still asleep. I wake George up to share the happy news.
4:40 am I realize I'm so excited that I can't fall back asleep.
4:44 am I suggest celebratory sex.
4:54 am Celebratory sex is over.
5:14 am Owen's stirring grows louder and he breaks into full cries. I go in and feed him. He smells like poop but I don't change him because he's fallen back asleep again.
5:30 am I go back to bed.
8:20 am As I post this, Owen is still sleeping.

Some people might say it doesn't qualify because he woke up at 5am. That's not all night. Let me explain- George and I get up at 5am during the week. That, unfortunately, is all night to us.

Memoirs on Mommihood: Part XI

The Scoop on Spitup

To say that Owen spits up more than the average baby is akin to claiming that an elephant is heavy. It doesn't do the reality justice. Our baby is a fountain of regurgitation, an olympic spitupper. When he was born, he should have come out with burp cloth attatched. To give Owen to an innocent bystander without ample warnings and a spitup rag is like giving a kid an electronic toy at Christmas without the batteries. It's just mean spirited.

I didn't intitially realize our little one was such an accomplished vomiter. I assumed a certain amount of regurgitation is normal, but I began to be suspicious when the doctor asked me if he spit up more than three or four times a day and in excess of two tablespoons. Are you kidding? Try three to four times a feeding and in excess of a quarter of a cup. We wear rain slickers when he eats just to stay dry. The doctor didn't seem alarmed and assured us that Owen had some acid reflux but that it would receed once his digestive system matured somewhere around four months old. Four months old! I explained that we might drown by then and to please call 911 if we didn't show up for our next appointment.

In the meantime, we've tried many different tactics to cut down on the copious amounts of spitup. Elevating Owen at a 45 degree angle while eating and keeping him elevated for twenty minutes after a feeding, using a wedge pillow in his crib to cut down on reflux, and spacing his feedings at least three hours apart (although we violate this rule to cluster feed him in the evenings so he'll MAYBE sleep though the night). All this helps, but Owen is still a pukey baby.

You'd be amazed at the different kinds of spitup you can get. There's the chunky, half digested curds- in my opinion the grossest variety. Also, the thick white paste that doesn't really dribble so Owen pushes it forward out of his mouth with his little lizard tongue. The leaker, which is just a small amount of spitup that drips from the corners of his mouth. The opposite of this is the gusher, a projectile vomiting that once hit Miles from several feet away.

With all of this liquid, George and I are bound to get wet. And we do. I have yet to successfully make an appearance in public and return home without some portion of my clothing retaining a spit up stain. George used to change clothes everytime he got puked on, which made me laugh outloud. I mean he cuddles me and sometimes I have the same pajamas on two days in a row. Does he have any idea how much regurgitated milk he is actually touching, however vicariously? Now he simply mops up his shirt and moves on, except when he's been involved in a "gusher." But even I change for those. I do have some standards of personal hygiene. They just aren't very high.

"NOW in GREAT NEW smaller SIZE!"

Doesn't sound like much of marketing slogan, huh? You know, I've been a cereal guru since my early days. I remember my mom used to pack me cereal for lunch because I hated sandwiches and it was the only thing she knew I wouldn't turn down. Lucky Charms is, of course, the best hands down. But I've dabbled in all kinds and when George and I went ala naturale, it was fun to try all the hippie cereals, which for the most part are pretty damn good. However, we still buy mainstream cereals as long as they don't have crap in them. Usually, we can buy General Mills cereals (the ones without marshmellows or that aren't in technicolors). This includes Cheerios, Chex, Kix and more. But recently, when we bought a box of Chex and opened it, both George and I noticed something eery.

They're smaller. Way smaller. And I don't remember anyone from General Mills advertising that they were going to make their cereal SMALLER. I thought it might just be a fluke, but then we bought a box of Kix this week and they're smaller, too! I'm pretty sure it's not some warped childhood memory of monster cereals. What the hell is going on here? I'm sure it has something to do with profits- I just can't imagine how.

Auntie Gretchen

A little while ago, Auntie Gretchen flew out from Nevada to visit for a few days. It was lovely and cool and I have been remiss in posting about it mostly because-

1: LAZY (self explanitory, I think)

2: BUSY ( If two dogs, a part time job, a newborn, all the cooking and the housecleaning doesn't qualify as busy, then I don't know what does!)

3: OWEN ( Everytime I even think about getting near the computer, he lets out a wail like his clothing is on fire.)

So anyhow... back to Auntie Gretchen. Like all good aunties, she came laden with gifts, including books, clothes, and a giant bear that Owen is terrified of. Owen seemed quickly at ease in her arms but best of all, it was an amazing gift for mommy to be able to tag team for a little while. "I'm sick of the crying- you're it!" Owen enjoyed lots of reading and extra playtime with Baby Einstein courtesy of Auntie Gretchen, and Auntie Gretchen enjoyed the reality of babydom and an extra strong dose of birth control.

Inside a Snowglobe

For the last week or two, I feel like I'm living inside someone's snowglobe. Every morning I wake up and the world is turned on it's end, the sky full of fat flakes that litter the sidewalks and lay in heavy piles on the lawn and roof. By midday, the world has righted itself and the gutters are streaming water in the warming afternoon sunshine. As if it had never been a snowy, December world just a few hours ago.

Letters to the O

Two Months

Somewhere in the middle of sleeping schedules, colic, green poop and your eager laughter, we watched you slip from infantdom into babydom. Two months old now, you suddenly seem all baby- akward, vocal and full of gum toothed smiles. The last month has seen you learning to drink (or rather gulp wholeheartedly in your case) from a botttle, snoozing in the lonely jailhouse of your crib, and eerily leaping from utter silence into a world of baby and animal sounds that include soft coos, enthusiastic gushings, and my favorite- the high pitched shriek of delight. Still a little tyke with just a hint of a double chin, you are barely a ten pounder now but, as your father is wont to brag, "strong like bull." A few afternoons ago I had to finally admit that your father may not be wildly exagerrating when he claims that you are attempting to skip the infant crap and move right to standing on your own two feet, a streak of stubborn independence that has me utterly terrified.

It's difficult to enumerate the thousand little ways you moved into becoming your own being. You make the loudest farting noises I have ever heard when you poop. And then when the epic booms have faded, you beam incredible, ear to ear smiles out to the world as if pooping is the most fulfilling event you will ever know. You have finally begun to nurse with your eyes wide open, peering up at me from beyond the curve of my breast and practically leering. It's a little weird and very endearing at the same time. Your little cheeks and forehead are covered with patches of baby acne and your hair has faded to a lighter brown and you've begun to develop enormously adorable little cowlicks that make you fuzzyheaded after a bath. Speaking of bathtime, it has become your favorite acitivity now that I have consented to join you, cradling you on my chest and floating you on your back, submerged in the warmth of the deep water. Your mouth drops open and your eyes go wide with surprise and then you relax and giggle, moving your mouth in guppy fish motions as if you'd like to drink the entire contents of the tub.

Your hands have opened to the world and while you still aren't reaching out for that first can of beer yet, you'll grab my hair or knead my chest with your little fingers while you drift off to sleep. The birds on your mobile and the bears on your pack n play have suddenly become your new best friends. You chatter away at them in half hour conversations, presumably about the weather and the crappy variety of food offered around here. We have a million stupid little nicknames for you... most of which end in face for some reason. O face, pumpkin face, cry face, poop face. But our favorite, which I have promised your father we can continue to call you until you're ten, is bobblehead. It's been shortened recently to Bobble, which seems to fit your smiley, nodding head personality perfectly.

We were in the grocery store today and I found myself unable to shop, unable to converse, totally oblivious to the world moving in its unaltered course around me. I had my head stuck into your infant carrier, making fish face despite the fact that I was in public because it made you literally throw your head back and laugh. Fish face! When I showed your father he was equally enthralled and we drifted down the aisles, endangering old women and small children with our wayward cart as we fishfaced you into giggles. Then and there I decided that when you go off to college, I may hug you and cry, but the last thng I'll do is make fishface at you from the car window. Because, I hope, you'll still think it's hilarious.

Brakes are used to stop the car

Since we moved, and Owen's birth, the truck hasn't been used much. In fact I think we only filled the truck up once since the beginning of the year. So we Kaz said she heard a weird noise coming from truck, I didn't think much about it. She always says there is a noise coming from a vehicle. Usually that noise is the engine on. Now most of you know Kaz is pretty intelligent, but when it comes to autos, she is slightly dumb. But, not as stupid as I am. Let me explain.

We've been pretty busy with Owen, and the truck's noise has been the last thing on both our minds. So two weeks ago, I had to go to the store for some things and I decided to check on this truck "noise" at the same time. The first time I used the brakes I knew immediately what the noise was. The sound of metal grinding metal which could only mean there are no more pads left on the brakes.

This is where the stupid part comes in. This "noise" has been like that for months. Since I've been driving the Audi to work, and we use the Audi to go everywhere as a family, I never get to drive the truck. (This is good because the truck comsumes gallons of gas on startup... well maybe not that much). So I've been ignoring a serious problem for quite some time. And to make it even more ridiculous, this is the third time I have let brakes go so far to eat the rotor. The one side of the rotor was a good 1/8" smaller than the other side due to the brake pad grinding the rotor down. I should have taken a picture of that.

So I last weekend I installed some new rotors and brake pads, and now the truck stops better than before. I don't know why my brakes get so bad. I check them every so often, sometimes when I change the oil. I guess there is one side of a rotor that always seems to escape me. This time it was the right inside rotor. Hopefully I will have learned my lesson. Well... until next time I drop the ball...

Battledogs

I suppose it was inevitable but I honestly thought it would never happen. Silly little human. Timber joined us almost two years ago now and he and Miles have been together every possible moment since then. I think they get along fabulously well- probably better than George and I. They groom each other, romp around the backyard together endlessly looking for smells in the grass, and are always helpful with obligatory butt sniffs when needed. I can't tell you the last time I willingly smelled anyone's butt. They genuinely love each other, but not in a gay dog on dog way. I don't think- although I never really bothered to ask them about it. Occasionally they tussle, but this is what dogs do. It may look nasty, all teeth and snarl but it's harmless. It's like their version of "hugging it out".

Today something went very wrong. I think it may actually have been a misunderstanding- but you can't explain that to dogs. Intent to harm doesn't translate into canine speak. Zach, the boy I tutor in the mornings, had just arrived and Owen was cooing to the birds in his swing. Miles and Timber were tussling over a bone and generally showing off for Zach as usual. The scuffle got noisy and since we are at least attempting to conduct learning here, I shoved them outside to run it off. Just a few minutes later I heard a pained cry which I knew was Timber. I was on my feet and headed towards the door when I heard another. When I walked out onto the back deck. I saw the dogs below, locked in a violent embrace. Timber was frantically struggling and Miles had an enormous amount of Timber's throat in his mouth. I screamed at him to let go but the struggle continued. I ran down the stairs, oblivious to my socks in the muddy snow, and did what you should NEVER do. I wadded right in and seperated them.

Timber's collar appeared to be hung up in Miles mouth and he was unable or unwilling to extricate it. As soon as I got it out of Miles's jaw, they fell away from each other and I realized there was alot of blood, most of it on Timber. And stupidly, I made a large mistake and assumed Timber was the injured party. Scolding Miles, who shuffled up the deck stairs rather shakily, I hurriedly went all over Timber. There was some blood near his gums but I couldn't find an open wound anywhere. There were splotches sprayed all over his coat on his chest and front paws, but no visible gushing. Puzzled, I went to inspect Miles.

By the time I got to Miles, he was foaming blood and about ready to faint. I got down on my knees and supported his body against me. It became quickly apparent that he had been bitten on the nose, sporting several deep puncture wounds on his snout. Because he is black, the blood isn't as visible on him as it is on Timber. My hands were covered and I used several towels to clean him off. The wounds stopped bleeding pretty quickly and I went over him from head to toe to make sure I hadn't missed any other injuries but found none. Once inside, I severly reprimanded Timber and made him lay in the submissive position at Miles's feet. Initially, Miles shied away from Timber but after several minutes, they acted as if nothing had happened and went back to grooming each other.

Here's what I hope happened out there today, although I'll never know for sure. Miles and Timber play fight all the time and Miles will grab Timber's throat. He's topdog and it's his right. I think Timber's collar got stuck on Miles's incisors and Timber, assuming he was being strangled to death, latched onto Miles's nose. I'm shocked that Miles never made a sound, though. It sure looked like it hurt. The other alternative is that Timber picked a fight because he feels threatened and insecure in the pack by the appearance of Owen and Miles put him back in his place. Either way, I guess it doesn't really matter. All the experts say to just reaffirm Miles's place as topdog and it will make Timber feel more comfortable with his status in the pack and stop challenging. I guess I should have seen it coming. Timber had been sneaking in and eating Miles's food and picking barking contests through the fence with the neighboring dogs. It's difficult as a doggie mama to accept that your dogs could hurt each other and somehow its hard not to blame yourself. Owen is a full time job and that means less time and attention for my other babies. It'll get better, but they don't know that. So today I took them both for an extra long walk and later, some naptime cuddling on the bed. Everybody has a bad day sometimes- even dogs.

A tale of four vaccinations

Yesterday, Owen went in for his two month check up... although he's not officially two months until the 19th. But it's Jesus day on the 19th, so we have to work around that. George left early from work and met me at the pediatrician's office, where I was fabulously late because Owen had refused to drop off to sleep for his afternoon slumber until exactly fifteen minutes before we had to leave and while he didn't protest too much when I buckled him in and threw him in the truck, I felt enormously guilty.

After another day of twenty minute catnapping and oscillating fusiness, Owen wreathed himself in smiles for Daddy and they cooed up a storm in the waiting room. I honestly have no idea what they talk about, but I'm sure it has something to do with breasts. Specifically mine. When they brought us back and the nurse began doing the obligatory weight, height and head measurements, I began to be suspicious that Owen had been bribed into the amazing pleasant mood he was in. The woman put a cold stethoscope on his little, fragile chest and he beamed up at her as if she had just offered him the keys to her brand new Ferrari. Hmmm... perhaps that conversation in the waiting room had been about BB guns.

A few minutes later two nurses returned and we laid the poor boy out on the table like a sacrifical lamb. They each took a limb and George and I took a small litttle fist- Owen's eyes were wide, fixated on the glowing fluroscent light on the ceiling and his mouth relaxed. I was glad he couldn't see the needles they were about to jab into his little thighs. When they went in he didn't even cry, but his face registered surprise and then launched into a scream of pain when they began pouring the vaccines under his skin. He had barely begun to reach glass shattering decibels when it was over. Immediately enfolded in blanket, I clutched him to my chest and he ceased crying the instant we made skin contact. Five minutes later, when I set him down to wrap him tighter in his blanket, Owen gave me a wide grin. "See, that wasn't so bad, Mom!" To which I replied, "You are not getting a BB gun before you're ten. I don't care what your father promised you."

When Dr. Allred came in, Owen was practically giggling. Let me preface this by saying that Owen LOVES Dr. Allred, despite the fact that the man is MORMON. This worries me. When he hears his voice- soft, calm and impossibly low, Owen begins searching the room for the source. Where is that lovely sound coming from? It's from a man who has sampled the punch and fathered ten children in the name of the prophet. Run Owen, run! But Owen shrugs his shoulders in delight and shows Dr. Allred his gums and even allows prodding of his penis without protest. According to Owen, that man can do what he wants. He's been ordained by God himself and he's getting a planet in the afterlife. Who are we to argue?

The nurses informed us that drugging Owen on infant Tylenol was a necessity because of the possibility of fever, pain and swelling. When we got home, it was promptly administered, depsite the fact that it contained substances similar to antifreeze and cancer inducing artifical sweeteners like sucralose and was in no way anything I would ever pour down my throat, much less my gas tank. But there must be something in that junk that alters brain chemistry, because today, when I put Owen in his swing, he began making noises I have never heard coming from a human throat before. He had discovered his own ability to change pitch and was chattering away to the birds on his mobile in their own language. Great. My kid is a bird whisperer. I hate birds. Fantastic. Thanks Tylenol.

Another reason the LDS church will not be on my Christmas card list this year

There's this lovely park on my walking route and I stroll past it everyday with Miles, Timber and Owen. But we never stop and it's not because I'm a walking nazi (although I am). You might think the chain link fence surrounding it doesn't appeal to me, but it's quite the opposite. The prospect of a fenced area where I could let these neurotic labradors loose to pee, poop and run in every direction is actually very enticing. What stops me is that fact that the place is padlocked closed and bears the sign you see here. Translation: If you don't love Joseph Smith, you can't come in.

Here's what pisses me off. I've never seen anyone in it. No- that's an exaggeration. I have seen exactly three people in it on two occasions in the last year. One old guy who was cleaning the restrooms attached to the pavilon and two kids who looked suspiciously guilty and I think had scaled the fence despite the threat of God's wrath. That's it. Otherwise, it sits abandoned and pristine, it's long stretches of softball field and picnic tables waiting for the legions of the faithful that never come. An enormous open park in the center of a suburban neighborhood, locked and deserted.

Listen, if you LDS jerkoffs aren't going to use it, could you at least unlock it so the atheists can make god use of it before we're damned to eternal hell? Seriously, you get a whole planet when you die. I'm just asking for a lousy park that you weren't using anyway.

Owen Updates

We've finally managed to slough through our mass of Owen pictures and put a few up on the internets for Owen's fans (translate- Grammy and Grandpa). We've actually taken many less pictures than I had anticipated due to the fact that just being with Owen requires both hands, half a brain, and all my patience. We don't have anything left over for digital electronics these days.

On the sleeping front, you may or may not give a shit when I tell you that last night, Owen fell asleep in my arms at around nine o'clock while downstairs watching TV with the fam. I tiptoed upstairs and put him to bed without nursing or changing him, anticipating he would start making demands around 11- "Where's my milk, bitch?" etc. I didn't hear a murmur form him until 1:30. After a quick feed, he nodded off to sleep by 2am. And then... miracle of all miracles...SLEPT until 7. 7AM. I am not shitting you.

God, I love him.

Memoirs on Mommihood: Part X

Weighing on My Mind

I try never to step on a scale. It's a kindness I do myself as a woman. This is not to say that I am oblivous to my physique, but I prefer to use the measure of my size 7 Lucky jeans. If they fit too snugly, it's time to lay off the HoHos and walk an extra lap around the block until they stop constricting the flow of blood to my limbs. Otherwise, I don't sweat it. I exercise frequently and lift weights several times a week to keep the jiggle at bay. The arbitrary numbers on the scale don't frighten me anymore, although I have been known to go into fits of neurotic behavior in the past over impending weddings, birthdays and after any run in with an ex boyfriend or an estranged father. You know. Normal girl stuff.

Pregnancy took my normality and set it on its head. Because, you see, it's not normal to treat your body as a human incubator. There are consequences to be suffered. Some of them (please God, no!) might be rather PERMANENT. But I was determined that the 50 pounds I gained in the last nine months wasn't going to be one of them. Yes, that's right. 5...0. Let me explain why I sound so complacent about that rather large number.

Let's head back circa college years. I began college as a size 9. I ended it as a size 14. I have a combination of forces to thank for this, including those 2 am pints of Ben and Jerry's and all those Grand Slams the morning after. At my heaviest, I was only five pounds shy of what I weighed when Owen was born. So, I'm not afraid. I've been down this road before and those big bad numbers that oscilate before me on the scale don't scare me. Now Billy Blanks- he scares me. And clowns. But that's besides the point.

The point is that I've battled my weight before and won. And I don't intend this time to be any different, although I'll have sleep exhaustion and a pooping, screaming, spitup machine to contend with as well. When I went to my postpartum visit, I discovered I had already dropped 30 pounds in the six weeks since Owen was born. And while those Lucky size 7's don't zip up yet, these last twenty pounds that are circling my hips, thighs and stomach don't seem like such a Heruclean feat. And for all those folks out there, men and women, who seem to think that once you have a baby you have doomed yourself to a life of wearing frumpy shirts that hide your middle and a droopy ass, I have one thing to say. Not me mother fuckers.

Just give me until July. Or until Owen starts sleeping through the night. Whichever comes first.

The Green Light

George and I were looking forward to yesterday because I had my postpartum appointment. While the ordinary person might not be too enthralled with an appointment designed to survey your vagina and talk about birth control, we were totally stoked. Let me explain. This is when your midwife gives you the green light to return to full sexual relations. After months of pregnancy woes and weeks of irritated stitches and bleeding, it was time to return to bonking. Except wait. Not so fast.

What George and I had failed to consider is the simplest factor in all of this. This is what got us Owen in the first place. You must wait TWO weeks for full birth control effectiveness. TWO. Now, while two weeks might not seem like such a long time in the context of things, consider that we've already been waiting about three months. Then two weeks will seem like the nail biting, frustrating torture it is. We endure living together and the hell of marriage so we can enjoy full sexual privileges on a consistent basis. This is the height of unfairness.

However, as tempting as it is to run that light and take our chances, it only takes one night up with Owen fussing and pouting and mewing every two hours to convice me. Yeah, two weeks isn't that long.