Stainless Steel Is Turning My Kid into a Narcissist

It's been awhile, and I'm eating my lunch, so I'll be brief. I was just wondering if anyone else has noticed their young ones staring at their reflection in the stainless steel? Last night while I was preparing the already prepared dinner (my brother still mocks me for burning no-bake cookies back in the day), I turned to see Q moving between the oven and fridge, turning her head to the side, giggle, move to the other appliance, repeat.

Of course I did what any good parent would do - laughed and totally reinforced the behavior.

Anyway, we went on a run this morning. Had to share a cool photo. We continue to be happy with our decision to move out of the big city. We've missed the conveniences (particularly the 10 different Vietnamese and Thai restaurants outside our door compared to the two in the whole Cincity), but we're dealing. :)

Famouflage

This, my friends, is a wonderpus octopus--a complete studette in the sea world. Not only does she have a rockstar name, she can deftly evade any pursuers by simply changing colors and blending in with her surroundings. You can find her anywhere from Bali to the Philippines.

Like the wonderpus octopus, the Curry family is assuming the position of blending in - or camouflaging ourselves - into the current surroundings. Don't worry, the huz will still be whipping up mad dishes and the babe will still be wreaking havoc on our bathtub; this is change is only superficial.

We started with the babe. They had these baby Toms in my recent purchasing spree and I just couldn't resist.

I found the next addition to our camo family at the checkout line at the WalMart. The huz had snuck a pair of {shorts} into the cart, unbeknownst to me.

So basically, I'm the only one left before our famouflage is complete and we're fully immersed in our surroundings. I've been investigating some options and thought I'd open them up to you to decide.

1) Camo Dress. Check this out - A WHOLE WEBSITE dedicated to formal camo wear - GOLD.

2) Heels. I don't even know what to say about this.

Ya'll Ain't from 'Round Here - Are Ya?

It was like not wearing green on March 17th in Dublin. A sea of blue flowed through the Wal-Mart in Florence, KY, and I was one of three people in several long lines queueing at the express checkout not donned in Wildcat gear. In less than six hours, UK will battle Louisville in the Final Four - and yes, the other two people in line are wearing red.

I should have known what was up when the lady giving me a pedicure scoffed at me when I told her, no, I didn't want a "UK" on my big toe.

"Ya sure?" she asked.

"Yeah, I'm sure."

"Ya want a flower at least?"
LORD LADY. She would have been 10x better at selling CUTCO than I ever was.

"Nope."

"You mean you just want a plain color and that's it?" she asked in a voice of 3/4 cup of shock, 1/4 cup of disappointment.

"Yeah, that watermelon color would be great, thank you."

We spent the next 15 minutes in complete silence. She clearly had nothing in common with me and didn't want to waste any time with small talk. If my feet had lips, they'd totally be smiling. They always wanted to bite the bitches who talked too much.

That was today. Rewind to yesterday, I had encouraged the huz to a 2 mile hike to an awesome market in downtown Cincinnati. We set out just before lunch, hoping to grab veggies and meat for dinner, along with some tasty lunch treats. The babe leaned back in the jogging stroller and admired the sights, we were all excited and fueled by adrenaline as we made our way across the bridge for the first time. We made our way up the hill, cutting through the guys in suits.

Trudging on, we admired Zaha Hadid's design at the Museum of Contemporary Art. We were stoked to see a gastro pub, theaters and boutiques all populating a busy downtown. Q squeaked intermittently, but nothing that caused a pause in the step. As the foot traffic began to thin, she started throwing things. We probably let her toss the bottle of sunscreen four times before finally taking it away.

We stopped for coffee. She wailed.

I gave her the cap. We toiled on.

The sun popped out of the clouds and started blazing down on us.

I got out my phone, trying to map our directions.

We had .5 miles left to go.

"Let's go down this street," I suggested, trying to vary the route to keep it interesting. We walked more quickly as the boutiques turned into cash exchanges. Anyone who has seen The Wire would be able to recognize the almost immediate proliferation of corner boys who occupied the streets.

Coming from the worst neighborhood on the north side of Chicago, we were FINE, I reconciled. And at the end of it, we were fine. We made it to the market. We ate. Q saved her meltdown. People just looked at us, shaking their heads as they shouted drug orders across the street or to drivers stopped at a red light - knowing full well that we were just trying to get through there as quickly as possible - clearly not from around those parts.

The best anecdote comes from earlier in the week. The huz goes out to get a plunger at the hardware store about five blocks away. He wants to get there quickly, so he hops on his bike. Again, as a well experienced rider on the streets of Chicago, the huz feels confident riding on the streets. Any Chicago biker can tell you that if you can ride Clark Street downtown, you can ride anywhere.

Approaching an intersection, he sees a big F-350 stopped at the light itching to turn right. The huz takes his green light, acknowledging the man with a head nod for not turning in front of him.

The guy is in awe of his blatant disrespect for his diesel-powered black beauty. He turns behind the huz and slows, turning down his latest Blake Shelton jam before shouting out the window,

"You ain't from Kentucky, are ya?"

We moved here to be closer to family. And we'll get there, but we feel like we jumped countries moving here. But I'm not ready to turn in our Toms for socks with sandals yet.

Over the River and Through the Woods: The Kentucky Files

Operator: "Hi, I am here to help you transfer your water service."

Me: "Thanks."

Operator: "I understand you're moving to XX Main Street in Covington."

Me: "That's correct."

Operator: "It says here Antoinne Curry lives there, I know Antoinne, are you his wife?"

Me: "No, I'm not."

Operator: "Oh, I was wondering, I didn't think Antoinne had a wife."

One Week, One Month, One Year and a Cake

In one week, we will be leaving Chicago. In one month, we will be celebrating one year with Q.

Today we said goodbye to all of her friends at music class, including Jake - her first kiss; Shelley, her awesome instructor; Violet, Aysla, Addy, Maya and a bunch of other cute babes. Music class rocked.

In one week, we'll move from the great state of Illinois to the even greater state of Kentucky. Or maybe the more infamous state of Kentucky? Regardless, we'll trade in our title of "Chicagoans" for "Kentuckians" or something like that. We'll be exchanging Lake Michigan for the Ohio River; 312 for moonshine. It should be blogworthy, to say the least. The pros of all of it is that we'll be closer to the fam, so nanna, pappy, gaga and gp3 will all be able to watch q grow up. That part is pretty rad.

But on to important things - one month after the move, we'll be celebrating Q's first year on this planet. It's gone SO quickly!! I couldn't resist to share some of the cute stuff I've seen while planning the festivities.

I'm thinking a strawberry theme for our little strawberry lover.

We'll start with the cake - doesn't this look incredible?

You can find the full recipe here.

For the obligatory one-year cake eating fiasco, I found the CUTEST pair of diaper covers on Etsy - just insane.

Now to build around the rest... while moving, can't forget the moving. Happy St. Patty's Day!

I Filed for Divorce

I just couldn't take it anymore. It was a really bad relationship. You disappointed me daily and brought me down. You overwhelmed me and disrupted my work. You made me think awful things about people I really didn't even care to know about. You isolated me from my friends in your weird, manipulative way. You made me compulsive, obsessive and stalkerish. I'm divorcing you, Facebook.

I think the final straw was a nice long email from a great friend, not on Facebook. It was a comprehensive recap of some of the things his young son was doing, recent trips, work highlights and family updates. It made me think about how I'd been cheating on those communications with you. I'd previously relished in developing correspondence with old friends - coming up with funny memories or anecdotes as we caught up in a quick email exchange. Personalizing my news. Customizing it for each individual rather than delivering factual updates or random thoughts en masse. It made me realize how you'd cheapened my life - and my insight into my friends' lives. So with that, I am finally over you.

It's almost been 24-hours since I said my last goodbye, but you didn't make it easy. You buried your "deactivate" button deep in your countless and confusing security options, taking me nearly 15 minutes to figure out how to finally let you go. Twice throughout the day yesterday, my left index finger instinctively went to the "F" key with the cursor pointed in the URL bar, but that blank ugly sign in form provided the perfect reminder for all I was not missing. You are bland, baseless and boring, Facebook. I refuse to be held captive by your whims any longer. All the cool people stopped posting shit a long time ago. Now all I have to read about is either 1) people with lives exactly like mine or 2) people who are out partying and living the life I used to lead, and both are pretty damn boring. Watching my baby swallow every piece of her dinner is 10x more intriguing to me than the update from the chick who used to sit beside me on the bus in third grade and had a rough trip home that evening.

So with that, Facebook, I'm curbing my voyeuristic inclinations and redirecting my focus. From now on, my family, my work and my FRIENDS will get my focus. See ya.

This Chick Rulz

This chick RULES. Parents are rock stars.

That's all. Happy Friday.

Audios Amigo

"How do I say goodbye to what we had? 

The good times that made us laugh 

Outweigh the bad. I thought we'd get to see forever

But forever's gone away It's so hard to say goodbye to yesterday."

**Boyz II Men**

It has been one hell of a week. We're in the process of moving and it's an effing nightmare. Mix moving with moving across state lines - it's like DMV bad. Moving across state lines with a 9-month old? That's like sit in a locked room with Sarah Palin for 48-hours bad. So when I came across this article on the Huff Post where this woman lamented about things lost (reading and hot meals, really?!) and I got really bored and depressed. So tame, honey. And I'm sure YOU were the one that stuck with the trombone throughout high school, weren't you?

So in the spirit of letting off some steam in advance of my long anticipated chick day on Saturday, I thought I would provide my own PG-13 version of the things I used to do before I had children. Mom, sorry again.

1. Day Drinking. If you're half a human, you've spent more than a week of your life, at some point, belly up to at least three bars before 1 p.m. You know what I'm talking about - the kind of day where you crawl into a very dark hole early in the day and emerge several hours later, surprised by the sun, instantly cowering like a gremlin and shriveling beneath its rays.

Fast forward to today. Now I'm that woman with painted scorn on my face as I see you coming out of the bar, trying to usher my kid into the car as quickly as possible. And now I know it's not disapproval on those people's faces, dressed in their church clothes while we were having a Sunday Funday - it's JEALOUSY.

2. Speeding. When I got my first "real" car after college, I felt like the first day I had my license and drove home from volleyball practice in the family Celebrity. Careening around corners, my foot didn't feel comfortable unless it was thoroughly extended and pointed toward the floor. The best part was racing people on the outer belt or down the interstate, giving grannies anxiety attacks as I passed them on the right.

By the time I was 25, I'd racked up a grand total of four speeding tickets in a six-month period, which earned me a nice big trip to the local judge to have my license revoked. Fortunately for me, my brother had a lawyer on his smile retainer who was able to get my last ticket reduced to a "loud muffler" violation.

Now, I feel like a giant ass hat if I breach 10 mph over the speed limit. As my foot draws to the floor like a drunk to White Castle, I look up to my rearview mirror and see that sweet face. And I slow down.

3. Smoking a Ton. I LOVE/D smoking. I loved smoking anything I could smoke. I remember in high school this kid I was studying with was smoking some cool Indian cigarette that stained his lip (AWESOME, let me get a drag of that bizness!). When I lived down under, my roommate suggested we try smoking some of the leaves in the mandarin tree beside our flat and we rolled them up. When April 20th came around, I was ... STUDYING, duh.

Anyway, I haven't sniffed a smoke of anything since the wee one has come into this world. Now I want to punch anyone walking ahead or two miles behind us with a cigarette. I can't BELIEVE that people pay that much for a pack of puffs! I have supplemented that delightful stash of tobacco curls in the bottom of my purse with mum-mums and rattles. I probably don't smell any better for it either.

4.  Sleeping until 2 p.m. Ah, the childless It didn't even have to be a late night to spend the ENTIRE next day in bed. Swimming throughout the pillow sea, we'd make our way to the most amazingly comfortable arrangements, playing in our PJs and talking about what we wanted to be in life.

Now, we're waking at 2 a.m., moaning about life, grabbing for any available pillow and wishing someone would put us out of our misery.

5. Shopping. Back in the day, I'd spend hours tarrying around shopping areas, people watching, scouring for sales and digging deeply in racks trying to find the most interesting print that I was convinced no one else had purchased, let alone seen. My closet was filled with combinations from all types of stores gathered from different parts of the country.

The HuffPost writer laments spending $150, I can't even get in the effing DOOR to give the city my 10 percent sales tax.

6. Rolling with My Homies. From my brother to my huz and my girls, I used to spend hours idling away the hours just hanging out. We might spend 10 hours doing absolutely nothing. It was a really special day if we convened with another group of people or engaged in another social gathering, because we typically were just happy hanging.

Now, I hang with Baldy the Baby, Raylan the Rabbit, Sophie the Giraffe and maybe Grover if I'm lucky.

7. Manicures. Going to get my hands rubbed down was a weekly event. I was BUDS with my nail people. There was John Juan, Kate, Jenny - some of these know more about me than many of my closest friends. There was nothing better than strolling into the salon on a Saturday and just chilling with them, catching up on everything that had happened during the past week or two.

These days, I'm lucky to get the babe's claws cut, let alone my own. My fingers look like they came from West Virginia along with the bags beneath my eyes.

8. Swearing. I like swearing. A whole bunch. Particularly when someone cuts me off and I feel like throwing something at their car. But I think the worst word I've ever heard my mom say was "hell" and that might have been in reference to the actual place. While you won't ever catch me EVER uttering, "H - E - double hockey sticks," my days dropping bombs are in the rear view mirror. Fuck.  

Mama's Got Big Guns

"Flexin, flexin, all day I'm flexin'. If flexin' was a crime then somebody come arrest me."
- The ever prolific Young Jeezy 

Yesterday, while walking back to the office from a quick trip to Trader Joe's on State and Ontario, I realized that mama is STACKED. In my bags, I carried not one or two bottles of wine, but four (don't worry ma, we've got visitors coming) and a six pack of beer for the huz, and it didn't even phase me. Back in the day, I'd made it to the corner of Clark before having to massage my arms. Now, after months of rocking 25 lbs of love in my arms every day, I've got arms of STEEL, baby! 
You want tickets?

Jan Jams

January sucks. Well, unless it's your birthday, January sucks. Fortunately for me and the other other bajillion Capricorns out there who likely drink work too much and don't play enough (at least according to this site), a good playlist can help break up the monotony that is going to work, go home, play with, feed and bathe the babe, play with the huz and go to bed.

For a little boogie in your night (or day), peep the following:

1: I LOVE Andre 3000 like I love Budweiser and a good pair of red heels. This new jam, in intense anticipation of the March 13th album release, makes me happy: Play the Guitar

2: The new Black Keys album: The whole thing is fantastic, but check out Sister or Hell of a Season. Both quality jams.

3. Mama loves some Keith Urban. That being said, I would have been better off spending the $20 on his last two albums on some BOGO deal at Payless. "You Gonna Fly" is reminiscent to the epic jams on his Be Here album though, so I may have to give it a shot.

4. The title track off Florence + the Machine's new album is worthy of easy Sunday cleaning tunes - or a baby dance jam.

5. And for a fun, final way to close out this very short playlist, definitely give Lykke Li's "I'm Good, I'm Gone." It's not new, but it's cute, fun and lighthearted for those sunless, dreary, January days.

Top 10 Gifts for Parents of Teething Babies

It’s the most wonderful time of the year – but not for parents of teething babes. Can you imagine what it must be like to have multiple sharp objects penetrating the surface of your gums? I mean, I get a canker sore and I’m bitching – I can’t imagine what it’s like to have a mountain range popping up in your mouth.  Unfortunately, a pained infant equals distraught parents who frantically seek to tame their screaming little monsters. It’s really not a fun time for anyone.

If you know any parents of teething babies, below are a few gifts ideas that will go the distance:

1. Sophie. This dog-toy turned baby teether phenomenon, Sophie the Giraffe is a phenomenal toy to tame even the fussiest of babies. She squeaks, gleeks and pacifies babes everywhere. And she’s cute.

2. Whiskey. While an age-old remedy, whiskey can also be good for parents of teething babes. Buy them a nice bottle so they can enjoy several glasses before bed to ensure a restful sleep.

3. Cool cubes. Ice is good for aching gums – and also for whiskey on the rocks. These stylish ice cubes can entertain the sorest mouth and add a little fun to a much needed drink. 

4. iTunes gift card. For when they can’t take it any longer, give wearisome parents an iTunes gift card to rock out to a new album like Feist or Florence. Let them turn up the tunes and drown out the noise.

5. A year supply of aspirin. Babies teethe for a LONG ass time. To help reduce the pain of parents and babies alike, a year’s supply of aspirin is just what the doctor ordered.

6. A weekend getaway. Be a good friend and HOOK IT UP. Treat tired parents to a weekend getaway in a nearby big city or weekend hiatus in a tranquil B&B. Check out Bloomspot Travel for great deals.

7. Biscuits. Who doesn’t love a good soggy biscuit? Dogs love them. And the British. 

8. Massage. Just because the babies are in pain doesn’t mean parents should also suffer. Help relieve stress and anxiety with a deep tissue or hot massage. Groupon and YouSwoop seem to have regular deals on good massages – snag one of those up for a friend.

9. Cool towel set. When babies teethe, they drool--a lot. This drool can wreak as much havoc on a business suit or blouse as spit up. Equipping parents with a cool burp cloth set or equally cool and effect dish towel set can help them to protect their best garb stain free.

10. A free night of babysitting. Don’t have the resources to give them a trip away, but want to offer them some freedom from the wailing? Offering five hours of your time so they can do some shopping, see a movie or just get out of the house will likely mean more than anything you can buy them.

HERE’s to some sleep this holiday season!

Time Out - Cosmo Country

Buschtinis

The Country Music Awards (CMAs) are an annual event in our household. They present an opportunity to celebrate our rural roots and enjoy some of life's finer - and simpler - pleasures.

Now, I realize that the combination of the words "country" and "music" likely make many of your hairs stand on end, but I believe this is a culturally Pavlovian response.  If you like the 'Biebs (J. Bieber) and "hate" country or "listen to everything but country," give it five minutes - replace any of his references to girls with "beer" or "trucks" and the tracks are interchangeable. It's like Katie Couric and headaches - country and music just go together.

In our home, there's a defined decorum for celebrating this time-honored tradition. And as with many holidays, this is centered around the fare. While not a huge country music fan, the huz looks forward to the CMAs each year because of the food - and such refined fare it is! (shameless plug - for a variety of amazing fare options, check out the huz's site.)

down home delights

This year's menu included the following:

Country fried steak
Collard greens
Mashed 'taters

And this year's beverage of choice? Busch Light

E's bromance with ZB

With the baby asleep, mom and dad were ready to rock. We had previously selected our favorites and placed bets on who would win the most categories. With gravy and beer a'flowin', we squinted from the glare of Carrie Underwood's legs, shook our heads at Brad Paisley's terrible jokes and watched performances of some of our favorite songs of the year. We wished Eric Church would have sang Smoke a Little Smoke, that we would have seen a little less of Thompson Square *what is that song about anyway* and that Keith Urban would have karate chopped Taylor when she guffawed and sapped over winning entertainer of the year, but it was a great night and an even better way for mom and dad to have some fun at home.

FUPA Busters - The Kid Crunch

I know you all know what a fupa is. If you don't know, I'll give you a few hints. It's not what the girls in middle school sang to me from the back of the bus when it was my "it" week. That was "Andi's Got Big Buns" (to the tune of "Janie's Got a Gun"). It's not why my brothers called me "Andrea the Giant" when we played King of the Dock. In fact, my fupa is about 5" north of my "thunder thighs" - (how's that for a three-sentence overview of my hellish teen body image issues!?).

No, a fupa is an inverted muffin top, a 12-pack too many, a party in the panties.

It's also... the bane of my existence. It's the result of 10-months of feeding and nurturing this beautiful growing baby that makes me smile 1439 minutes of the day. It's the marsupial version of myself. Mom, a FUPA is Fat, Unforgiving Post-prego Andi.

(It's okay, if you still don't know, go ahead and check out the Urban Dictionary definition of it.)

However, like most working moms, I'm still trying to figure out how in the hell I can get everything done to feed, dress and keep the baby happy while still loving the huz, being responsive to clients, employees and my boss--and not looking like the Bride of Chucky throughout the process.

Basically, I have zero time to myself. And if I do, I'd rather spend it zen'ed out in the tub with an awesome malbec or cuddled up in bed trying to pick up where I'd left off in the book I'd dropped by my bedside six months ago. Yes, that would be more appealing than sweating profusely over an elliptical machine while watching "Growing Pains" reruns. Even though Kirk Cameron's hair used to be SO hawt. 

But I found a solution. It's the kid crunch. Want to spend time with your kid AND exercise? Set that little beautiful babe on your stomach, curl your legs up and crunch. To the tune of touch your elbow to the opposite knee bicycle crunch - drop the knees and neck down to the ground, then up with the baby, twist and crunch. Try three to four sets of 20 and that should do the trick (particularly if you have a 21 lb. six-month-old). The baby giggles, you giggle, bye bye fupa!

Boo Ya - Bronze Medal

 

Booyiddy. I'm celebrating my "bronze" medal in BF'ng sweet baby Q today. If you haven't done it, hooking yourself up to a machine to be milked several times a day isn't the most glorious experience in the world, but it's worth it. I started the day with sweet congrats from the huz and a bottle of wine and the sweetest note from a friend that helped put it all into perspective. Nope, it's not fun, I never imagined myself doing it, but whenever you have a goal and reach it, it feels absolutely AWESOME.

My Jobs

Dear Q,

I’ve been gone for two days and it seems like two years.


I remember back in the day when traveling for work offered a sense of satisfaction – an affirmation of some sort that I was doing what I am supposed to be doing and was on the right path. In my 20s, I would pack minutes before leaving for the airport, shoving everything into my bag before sliding into my seat under the glares of fellow passengers just minutes before departure. Once situated, I’d pop in my earphones and turn on my barely charged first generation iPod, pull out Wired or some other weird magazine and order a glass or three of wine. Upon arriving, I’d excitedly deplane and take a deep breath to take in whatever new experience awaited. My favorite place was the hotel bar – or any place with people, really. I loved meeting new people and hearing about their ventures. It didn’t matter if it was New Orleans, Vegas or Chicago, I’d revel in the fact that I was going and exploring new things, seeing and experiencing – and it was my job.

Now, leaving for just an overnight trip to Toronto takes intense research and planning. Your dad and I spend entire dinner conversations figuring out how to pack the pump to limit the items I need to lug through the airport. I no longer haphazardly pick where I’ll stay, but intensely research the best option that will not only offer the closest proximity to wherever I’ll be spending most of the day so I can run back and pump, but making sure that they offer a fridge so I can keep the milk cold. During the day, I see your face every time I open my computer, I think about you and your dad every second I’m not engaged in conversation or focused on a task. If possible, I try to catch you and dad for a quick Skype before heading out to a client dinner. The minute the bill is paid, the only thing I can think about checking in to make sure you went to sleep without any problem. Now, I have an even more important job.

Today, as I was heading back from an agency meeting in Arizona, I stepped out of the restroom stall with two bottles in my hands, complete with the nipple shields still screwed on tight. I looked up to see a very pregnant woman entering the restroom, dressed in a suit and on her phone. She looked at me and laughed. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve done that very thing. Amazing what you’ll do for your baby, isn’t it?” she asked rhetorically before returning to her conversation. I slowly poured the bottles into plastic bags, feeling much better about potentially exposing your food to unsanitary conditions. It gave me comfort knowing that she too had missed her little baby at night. She’s wondered if she’s missing her baby roll over for the first time or say “da da.” She’s probably dreaded the thought of having some random TSA officer pulling out her milk and handling the bags for testing. She’s definitely worried that she didn’t put enough ice packs in the cooler to keep the milk cold for the four hour flight home.

I don’t like leaving you, Q. In fact, I hate it. But I have to work and when I travel, it still gives me that same rush. I love landing and seeing the mountains or smelling the salt of the ocean in the air. I love knowing that my work gives me an opportunity to make a difference. In fact, one of my action items from the meeting is to research opportunities to help build a school in India, Africa or another developing country. Granted, my work isn’t always so altruistic, but the bottom line is that it’s my job. Just like being your mom is my job. And sweet baby, you can bet that just like that lady in the restroom today, I will do whatever it takes to be the best at that job that I can be.  

Da Huz

I just have to give a shout out to the huz. He's sexy. And he cooks. That's right up there with being married to Jude Law if you ask me. Anyway, he blogs about his cooking and you should check it out. He's also blogged about some of the stuff he made for the wee one. That's right, he's sexy, he cooks and he makes stuff. With his hands. Anyway, check him out, but hands off, mamas! :)

www.akegofcurry.blogspot.com

The Secret

Remember that book, The Secret, that had everyone talking a few years ago? The book that promised to offer keen insight into wealth, love and eternal happiness? The book that after reading you felt like punching someone because you realized the secret was that The Secret was a giant ball of baloney bullshit?

Yeah, well I've got a secret about the whole child-birthing experience.

You're in the delivery room, body strapped to the birthing bed like a psych patient gone AWOL. After those 10lbs of screaming joy drops from your poontak, the nurse and/or doctor asks you, "On a scale of one to 10, how would you describe your pain?"

Clearly this broad has no kids. Or she's deaf. Or she's just a big f*cking idiot. Did you not just hear me scream this child out of me, lady? I know people in RUSSIA could have heard my bellowing if they listened closely enough - you think that shredding felt GOOD?

Throughout my stay, she and her hoard of cohorts check in asking me to identify my pain. One would think that my response would dictate the amount of pain meds I was offered, but nada. After repeatedly advising that my pain is a "10" and being handed an effing Motrin, I realize it's a rhetorical question.

Today I came across this image, courtesy of The Blogess (who is heeelarious, if you get a minute) who was blogging for her day gig. It pretty much surmised my whole pregnancy experience - giving me awful flashbacks to the ladies in blue handing me those little LAME blue pills.

The top half of the chart is post labor.

The bottom half is post post post labor.

See, people tell you that post baby sex is non-existent, boring and pretty much just like getting in the car with a bad cab driver - you watch out the window and pray for the ride to end.

But the SECRET is pretty much the opposite. It's pretty much like the chart to the right. I wonder how many times you have to do it for your vagina to fall off? Do you think if I told those nurses I was a 10 on the sex chart and that my poontak just fell off that they'd actually have given me some good drugs?

I'm Addicted...

To Pinterest. We are hoping to move into a new house next year, and I can't stop thinking about what it's going to look like. But we're supposed to be saving money, and I can't stop looking at these gorgeous outfits. And these fantastic baby things. And thinking about all the fun parties I want to throw. For which I'll need to create all this fun stationery.

Gah!  

The Booby Bar

It's been a heck of a three months, but she's here and we're rocking it. Posting was in my head  non-existent, but it's pretty much because she's already studying for her SATs and I had to assist.

So I changed the subhead of the blog title from "Pre-Sleepless Nights" to something that better depicts my current cycle of interests - shit, sleeplessness and wine. ;) I really don't have time to do fun stuff these days, but I still look and try to think about what I would do if I had 40 more hours in my week.

On a not so distant sleepless evening, following a missed flight and unexpected evening in a musty smelling hotel room in Boise, I had an idea. Why aren't there booby bars around? Not the type where women show their boobs, but the type where boobs are actually used and engaged for their original purpose and design. A sophisticated place where ladies feel comfortable being WOMEN and feeding their child in public. The double standard regarding breastfeeding just baffles me - routine studies show its benefit, yet there's such a taboo around it. Hell, even Barbara Walters admits that it makes her skin crinkle even more to sit beside someone breastfeeding.

So if you don't want to look at my boobs, and I don't want you looking at my boobs, why aren't there places we can celebrate this ability without the stigma? Studies earlier this year revealed that breastfeeding for the first six months of life could save millions of dollars and up to 1,000 lives. Apparently the new healthcare bill has requirements mandating employers provide breastfeeding employees with a sanitary space to pump or feed their babies.

Quit making moms feel like Hester Prynne. We're doing something that's good. So if you're ever out shopping and see a Booby Bar at your local mall, stop in and say hello. We're long overdue for something like this.

Hormonal Rage: Stupid TV, Stupid Reporters, Stupid Sensationalism BOYCOTT

Despite my resistance, I can feel it happening. It's as innate as the whole "nesting" phenomenon (another blog entry). It's every stereotype of the old woman chasing the kids from her yard with a broom, the cantankerous geezer complaining about his phone bill, the raucous teenager smoking cigs in the bathroom at school, all rolled into one. I am becoming that woman. That hormonal mother hen, that PTA-lovin, soccer mom, fist pumpin cliche. But it makes me mad and it stresses me out, so what all this means is that I'm boycotting network news.

Last Friday, after boogying down to Dance Friday (starts at 6:55 a.m. on NBC Chicago if you haven't seen it - a MUST), Matt Lauer filled my television to tell me about how everyone is outraged about the U.S. intervention in Libya because they haven't heard the president's plan for the mission. (Fair enough, I guess, because we all knew that when Bush sent planes into Iraq, the objective was ousting Sadam to protect our oil supplies, not pull those WMDs as he'd suggested). Then Lauer went on to Japan, highlighting how there MIGHT be an imminent meltdown in reactor #3. MIGHT BE. 

Hey Matt, where did you go to journalism school? MIGHT BE a meltdown? Well, tomorrow, someone MIGHT BE trying to blow up a prominent U.S. landmark. Tomorrow, I MIGHT BE getting a giant banana split from DQ. Only in the weather forecast is "MIGHT BE" acceptable. Try reporting the news - what has actually HAPPENED. Quit freaking me out. I have enough to worry about bringing this little face into the world rather than you contributing supposition to the mix. You know Matt Lauer... tomorrow I MIGHT BE turning on the radio instead.