Just Beth

Andy and I moved to this little town of Snohomish six years ago this week.  When we got here, I didn’t know anyone who wasn’t directly related to Andy.  Within six weeks of arriving, I was pregnant with Sally.  I was also dealing with the reality that I had left my son, against my better judgement, with his father in Los Angeles, and to top it all off, Andy and I were Experiencing A Tough Patch. 

It Was A Tough Time.  And I was l o n e l y.

After Sally was born, I was introduced to a New Mom’s group run through my midwife’s office.  The New Mom’s group was run by this chick, I’ll call her Jennifer.  I developed an intense girl-crush on this woman from moment number two of being introduced to her.  She just gave off this amazing energy… you know what I mean?  Charismatic for sure, but calm and very, very REAL.  I looked forward to those monthly meetings like you wouldn’t believe, and attended every single one I could.  I stayed late, I talked this poor girls ear off, and though I am certain that I embarrassed myself on numerous occasions, she never made me feel like I had.  I coveted her calm, radiant confidence and really, really wished we could become friends.

After nearly a year of running this group (give or take, I don’t quite recall), she decided to hand the reigns for the New Mom’s group to someone else, as she had recently become a La Leche League Leader for a local group.  I was crushed.  Hoping to keep the group I relied on going, and, honestly, kinda hoping to cultivate some kind of further relationship with Jennifer, I volunteered to take over.  While the group seemed to follow Jennifer and soon petered out – I stopped running it a few months later - and, sadly my altruism did NOT inspire a deeper relationship with Jennifer, I DID get to spend an afternoon with her and her daughter at our local children’s museum, when she handed the physical key to the midwife office over to me.  I saw her from time to time at different LLL events and even ran into her once at the airport, much to my glee.  I understood she had a very amazing circle of close friends, and I was simply unable to figure out how to get myself INTO it. 

I don’t want anyone reading this to misunderstand me.  I am not complaining about Jennifer’s lack of attention… I am not whining about cliques or feeling left out.  It was never like that.  I never felt left out.  I just wanted MORE of her.  I wanted to bask in her amazingness and listen to her parenting ideas and to laugh with her and to brush her hair.  (wink)   I simply wanted to become bestest friends with her, because she is awesome and because I was So. Lonely. 

Between then and now, I have made good, close friends with some truly amazing people myself.  My marriage is better than ever (even if still under construction, as most marriages are to some extent in my opinion…) and I’m not crushingly lonely anymore.  Some of my amazing friends are, by happenstance, friends with Jennifer, and up until about a month ago, I re-ignited my fantasy about becoming better friends with her.  That’s when I heard she was moving.  To EUROPE. 

I guess it’s the universe telling me to chill. out.  

What I didn’t expect was the intense outpouring of heartache at her leaving, of pure, unadulterated grieving from our friends - the friends and community that Jennifer and I share.  I’m not sure I’ve ever been a part of such a close-knit community.  I sit in my computer chair and read Facebook status updates filled with such pain and loss that I am humbled in its presence.  This is an amazing testament, not only to the utter and complete coolness of Jennifer, but also to the amazing love and acceptance this circle of friends is capable of.  Their ability to love and nurture is awe inspiring.  Because it’s not just Jennifer who gets this kind of love from these women.  I do.  I feel it when I meet them on the street or for coffee or by chance in the airport.  Their doctrine is as simple as it is true; love.  I can’t get away from the cheeseness of that truth, that their doctrine is love.  They love their children, their families and their friends with a largess of heart and with a warm and accepting graciousness that I am privelidged to be a part of. 

Jennifer, you’ll be missed.  By your close friends, by your friendly neighborhood girl-crush, semi-stalker blogger friend, and by the community you touched.  And thank you, by the way, for lending your ear and your time to a super lonely dork, once upon a time.  I hella appreciate it.

*not mine, from Hitchiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.  I forget if it’s in the book, but it’s in the movie!

Gratuitous funny dog picture

I hate puking.  I’m sure you do, too… I mean, I’ve NEVER heard anyone saying that they love a good vomit session, have you?  Anyway, I think the instinctual abhorrence of vomiting is pretty universal.  I’ve been doing a LOT of puking lately…  I’m pregnant for one thing, and while that doesn’t always mean that you WILL puke, I am.  Plus, I just had the flu.  It got me thinking that I might have more than your average experience with puking, and that I ought to share my experiences with others.  So here you go, my advice on how to make your upchucking experience just a little less horrifying.

First, try to think about what you’re eating.  You know it’s going to come back, so you might as well plan for it a little.  I don’t know about you, but puking nothing or BILE is the absolute worst of the worst.  If you can eat something, you’ll have more energy after you upchuck, plus you can pre-determine what it will taste like on the way back out.  Avoid things that are fibrous or crunchy, like carrots, Triscuits or anything with a corner.  Also avoid milk products if possible, because curdling your own milk is really vile.  If you’re pretty sure you’re going to puke before you get a curdle on, though, try eating some fruit loops.  Yes, I’m serious.  They’re sweet and delicious either way, coming or going.  Or coming and coming back…?  Also avoid eggs, anything spicy and tomatoes.  You don’t want any of those things coming back to visit.

Next, think about where you’re going to puke.  The obvious choice is the toilet, but I suggest you try other places.  Just LOOKING at the toilet makes me gag a little because I’ve puked into it so often.  I don’t need more help, thank you very much.  Plus, I have ONE toilet at my house.  It’s always disgusting, no matter if I’ve just cleaned it or not.  Also, I don’t know if chicks who haven’t had kids have the same problem, but I pee my pants ALL THE TIME these days.  When I cough too hard or laugh or sneeze, and ESPECIALLY if I’m crouched around the god-damned toilet hurling my guts out.  When we had the flu here recently, it wasn’t always possible to puke into the toilet so I started puking elsewhere.  I tried the sink, but not only was it a little small and shallow, the stopper got in the way of my chunkage, and therefore caused some extra needless ralphing.  My new personal favorite place to toss my cookies is the bathtub.  Now, you DO have to clean the bathtub better and there is definitely more surface area, but being able to sit on the edge and hold myself up and away from the vomit splash was PRICELESS.  It also stemmed my pee flow, which was awesome.

Last, but certainly not least, don’t hold back.  Don’t try NOT to puke, don’t try to be quiet or ladylike about it, don’t FRONT.  It’s awful, everyone knows it is awful, holding it in is just torture for yourself.  If you’re anywhere near me when I puke, I make HORRIBLE noises, I KNOW.  Yes, I’m dying.  No, you don’t need to hold my hair.  You can, however, clean the bathroom when I’m done.

Any questions?  Did I leave anything out?  And you’re welcome, enjoy!

***

update:  someone who is experiencing the nth degree of morning sickness suggested peaches as being something equally sweet and tasty coming up as they were down, and to try puking outdoors.  I love peaches and will try them ASAP, and I agree with the outdoor thing, but my dogs love puke (and poop) so I just can’t do it.  It IS a great idea, however, and something to keep in your repertoire regardless.

We are pregnant with our fourth child.  I’m so excited and nervous… is this ever going to feel like something I ‘meant’ to do?  I don’t know if it’s the surprise/shock/horror I heard in my mother’s voice when I told her, or the guilt I feel for not being richer before having more kids, but I still feel a little bit like a kid who made a mistake.

The other part of how I feel is absolute euphoria.  I’m so excited for this pregnancy, this birth, this baby.  I’m so excited to bring another awesome and amazing person into this beautiful world.  I’m excited about another opportunity to have the birth that I have always wanted – a completely non-medicated, at-home birth.

Part of how I intend to prepare for this birth is hashing out my concerns and experiences here.  I think it’s pretty interesting that I’m about to have my FOURTH child, and still feel like I’m tackling it for the first time.  I’d thought it was supposed to be ‘old hat’ by now!  Maybe everyone feels this way to a point, I don’t know.  I just know that this time, I’m doing it MY way.

I’m currently reading The Natural Pregnancy Book by Aviva Jill Romm.  Now, normally I’ll consume a book in about as much time as it takes most men to take a crap, UNLESS it’s a book that I’m trying to learn from.  Then, as now, I feel nearly illiterate in my slow and methodical absorption.  However; I Love This Book.  She’s talking about getting re-in touch with your body and understanding it’s cues… something I think is WAY overlooked in today’s society.  For instance.  I feel that I am fairly well in tuned with my body.  I’m pretty sure I know the day I conceived this baby, even though it didn’t show up on any test for a few weeks.  She applauds this sort of understanding of one’s self, instead of insisting that I ‘need’ a medical ‘expert’ to tell me what I already know.  I love that.  I love that I’ve already realized that a major hang up of mine has been bad body image.  I mean, DUH, I’m a woman and I grew up a large-boned curvy chick in L.A.  Of COURSE I have body image issues.  However, part of my personal issue is that I am afraid that because I’m fat and out of shape, that my uterus is not strong enough to push a baby out.  How asinine is that?!?  I’VE HAD THREE KIDS!  And I’m STILL afraid that I’m not strong enough!  I’m going to talk at LENGHT with my birth team about this issue, until I can get PAST it, and allow my body to do what it is meant to do… and what it has already proven it CAN do!

The other things I’ve realized haven’t come directly from reading this book, but from experience.  I absolutely refuse -JE SUIS REFUSE- to discuss or agree to a ‘Due Date’.  REFUSE.  The stress I’ve had (other than those hurled at me by thoughtless house guests and broken promises) has revolved around the idea that I was ‘supposed’ to have my baby on a certain date, and that I had to leave my other kid while I went somewhere to have the new one.

Fucking BLEW, I’ll tell you what.

So first things first, having a home-birth and NO discussion of ‘due dates’ should be a good start.

The other thing that I need to mention is the amazing community and friendships I now have to support me and my family during this process.  I cannot begin to tell you how important this is.  The family we have up here are… well, I love them to death, but they’re busy with their own lives.  Sucks for me, but there’s nothing I can complain about, you know?  My family is scattered and young and broke, so not much support there (they can’t come help or anything, for instance).  But my friends, oh my god.  I have the BEST friends ever.  The knowledge that I will be able to call on them for advice and support and actual, real live HELP surrounding the time of my birth is beyond comparable, and absolutely without doubt going to make this experience TRUCKLOADS better than my last three.

THREE.  I’m about to have my fourth child and I feel like I’m doing something brand new.  And I am.  I’m going to have this baby on my terms, with confidence in my heart and peace in my soul.  It’s going to be awesome.

Time to just write, so please excuse the verbal vomiting that is about to take place.

I find myself coming back to this place day after day, opening up a new, blank screen and NOT finding the inspiration to write.  I don’t know why.  It bothers me, though… a blank page is the most divine thing I can imagine.  It represents new beginnings, endless possibilities, coming to terms with anything that’s been bugging me.

That may be the problem, there’s been too much bugging me lately.

I’ll start with a day, May eighteenth.

It’s a big day for me, at least this year.  Two things have happened on May eighteenth that beg me to give them space here, to discuss and think about and then hopefully leave here.  The first is an anniversary.  In 2008 we bought this house.  It closed on May eighteenth.  My daughter Sally was born in July, so I was approximately eight years pregnant when we moved in.  I unpacked and organized the kitchen first, moving the plates, etc about a dozen times.  It truly, truly sucked.  Now, I love my house… rather, I love WHERE my house is.  Its a funky, old, poorly built house set on the point of a long, warbley triangle of land covered in evergreen trees and magic fairy ponds.  I  see green, lush foliage out of every window, and when I walk out back I hear rushing streams – two of them.  I love it here.

May eighteenth is also my older brother’s birthday.  Did you know that I have an older brother?  Well, I did, anyway.  Now all I have is a hole in my heart where he used to live.  Last year he created, lived in, and then routinely destroyed this place in my heart.  He did it like any dirt-bag man uses women, callously and with no care for anyone but himself.  To say that I am still hurt is an understatement, a silly conglomerate of words that lack the depth of my feelings.  I had thought for weeks about an appropriate (or rather, inappropriate) post to dedicate to him on his birthday, even coming up with the title.  Wanna hear it?  I’m going to screw up the apostrophe’s, so forgive me, but you’ll get the idea.  It was going to be called “NOT My Brother’s” Birthday.  And it was going to be about what a total and complete waste of space he is.  The more I thought about it the less I felt inclined to say, which sounds like a good thing but I am still so pissed off and hurt by him that I WANT to talk about it, to purge it from my system and close off that fucking hole he made.  I guess it’s not time for that yet.

Next lets talk about medication.  Many of you know that I suffered MAJOR post-partum depression after I had Sally, and continued after I had Bobby.  Well, it was time to go off of it, so I did.  I quit cold turkey.  Not the most fun thing I’ve done but it felt right, even when I was pretty certain that I was going to lose my mind and never return.  So I bought chickens instead.  No, I’m not kidding, and no, I didn’t REALLY get chickens to keep me from the brink of insanity.  I bought chickens because A) I want them; B) I have this aforementioned lovely patch of land, which includes a chicken coop, and C) because my family and I LOVE eggs.  Adore them.  I make about a half-dozen eggs a day, almost every day.  The real question is why it’s taken us so long to do this.  I bought five chicks, three Welsummers and two Buff Orpingtons.  They are currently living in a plastic tub in my ‘guest’ bedroom.  We’ll get a bigger ‘brooder’ box next week and they’ll begin living outside.  They’re so cute and they make the nicest little chirps when I come into the room.

I digress, though.  I felt horrible for about a month and REALLY terrible for another couple of weeks, but I’m doing great now.  If I could get some sleep, there’d be no stopping me!

Anyway, hopefully this will jump start my creative juices so I can start regaling you all with my hilarity and wit once again.  Tomorrow, I’ll post some pics at the very least.  Because oh my LORD child, the THINGS I have done with my hair…!!

Thanks for stopping by… ~xo, b!

*my* version of Cynthia Lair's Read Bean and Quinoa Chilli

I started cooking about three years ago.  Yes, you read that correctly.  Yes, I have a fourteen year old, a three year old and a two year old.  See, I spent most of my teen years pretending I didn’t exist, hiding in my bedroom with a novel shoved under the covers and acting like I was doing my homework.  My mom was a good cook, and she scared the hell out of me, so I stayed OUT of the kitchen and decided I wasn’t the Stay-At-Home-Mom TYPE.  (*GUFFAW*)  I entered my adulthood truly handicapped and without skills.

When I got pregnant with my eldest, his father had been working at a restaurant as a cook.  He was (is) a great cook, actually… when we were together we were going to start a restaurant and call it “Stick O’Butter”, because everything he made was delicious and he usually used an entire stick of butter in it’s preparation.  God, sometimes I miss the South.

Anyway, then when I married Andy, he was also the cook in the relationship.  I won’t get too far into it, but the man can make a three course meal including stuffed Portabello mushrooms and crab legs on a hot plate.  True story.

Don’t get me wrong; I used to cook the SHIT out of a couple of chicken breasts, topped with a slice of cheese, brown rice and broccoli for my eldest about three times a week.  I could also boil pasta and heat up spaghetti sauce, and make my mothers tuna casserole, which no one but me ever eats even to this day.

Then I met Cynthia Lair.  She is my mentor; my guru.  It was happenstance, really… see, I was attending my very first La Leche League Conference in October of ’06, and had a time where there wasn’t anything I truly WANTED to attend, and so went to her session on Whole Food cooking for the family.  It was before everyone on the planet figured out the goodness of whole foods, and I feel that I was a big part of the reason everyone is eating so well these days.  *wink*

I bought her cookbook, (which she SIGNED,  woot!!) took it home and studied it like a bible.  I picked what I thought would be yummy, made lists and lists of ingredients and spices, and started cooking.  It was hard at first, but it was like a trial by fire and now I feel like I can actually COOK.

Nothing frightens me (cooking wise, anyway!) anymore.  So when my friend Lorna started putting recipes on her blog, I tried them.  Well, OK, sorry Lorna, but I tried ONE.  This one, the one for refried beans.  And OMG, they’re DELICIOUS.  I highly recommend them!

Crock Pot Refried Beans

Ingredients:

3 cups dry pinto beans
9 cups water
1 onion, diced
1/2 jalapeno pepper, de-seeded and minced (WEAR GLOVES FOR THIS.  I’m not joking.  and if you don’t use gloves, do NOT use the potty for the next twenty four hours.  Trust me.)
3 cloves garlic, minced
1/2 tsp cumin
2 tsp salt
1/2 tsp black pepper

I don’t pre-soak these, although Ms. Lair would.  She would also add some kombu to hers… kombu is a sea vegetable (read; seaweed) that adds iron and other good for you minerals to your beans.  I bought a package and used all of it…  if you want to try, you would cook the beans and kombu and then remove the kombu before you mash the beans.  It’s slimy and difficult to get all the way ‘out’, just so you know.  And yes, you should get it all out.

Anyway, so you throw everything into the crockpot and cook it.  Honestly, that’s it.  When it’s done cooking, you’ll know because you will be able to easily mash the beans (and it will smell divine).  I will normally put mine together at night and set it on low for ten hours, that usually does it.  You can put it on high for six hours if you’re in a hurry, but I would recommend doing it slowly.

When the beans are done, drain as much of the water as you can, SAVE IT, and mash them with a potato masher.  You can put them in a blender if you’d like, but I find that the consistency is better using a masher.  You will need to reintroduce the liquid as you mash to get your desired consistency.  You will also want to have some of the liquid on hand if you are going to re-heat them.  I’ve kept mine going and good for nearly a week this way.  I haven’t had the opportunity to freeze them, although I made a double batch today and I am going to try freezing some of them.

There you have it!  Enjoy!

~xo, b!

About a thousand years ago, my brother, sister, mom and I sat around having a beer, talking and laughing.  We are very good at this.  Somehow, as it is our want to do, the conversation took a turn to the ridiculous, and we started describing the different ways we hide from the proverbial bogey man.  Like, how you can’t really let your legs dangle off of your bed without thinking about that scene from Poltergeist?  You know, the one with the clown…. bbbuurrrhhh… my toes are curling just thinking about it.  We all found that we were similar in more ways than we thought.  Finally, amidst tears of laughter, I admitted that sometimes, when totally freaked out, I will cover my head with my covers and hide. But that I always leave my lips out in the open, because I can’t stand breathing hot, stale air.  We were all laughing so hard it was difficult to breathe, and one by one, everyone admitted to doing the same.  So, I said… if a bad guy DID come in to our house to rob us or whatever, all he would see were LIPS sticking out of the covers, pursed and gasping for air like fish?

I was thinking about that tonight as I tried to get my (incorrigible, infuriating) sweet babies to sleep, and I still laughed so hard I shook the bed and cried a little.

Reason number four thousand-hundred and fifty-two million of What I Miss Most About My Fam.  Their ‘yips, as E would have said. 

What’s the difference between being ‘fair’ and being ‘jealous’?

My husband, whom I adore, can sometimes be a selfish jerk.  I’m sure you’re shocked.  He tends to do whatever it is he feels like doing, whenever he feels like doing it.  Since the advent of our progeny he’s gotten much less self involved; however, he will from time to time simply make a decision to do something and that’s it.

For instance.

Last summer, he spent a week on vacation with his best friend.  Fishing and road-tripping.  I ‘let’ him go because he needed and deserved the time off.  However, it was understood at the time (or so I naively thought) that I, too, was going to take a trip.  I was going to go to one of my very best, very oldest, very dearest friends’ wedding in Yosemite, and would also stop to see one of my other old, best, dearest and also very ILL friends in the Bay Area.  All together a three-day trip for me.  And very, very important.  To me.  As was his fishing trip to Tahoe very important to him.

Obviously, I didn’t get to take my trip.  And I was pissed and hurt and sad, even though I was a part of the reasoning behind not taking it.  I wanted to take my eldest; I wanted to go longer; I didn’t want to leave Sally… and in the end, we simply couldn’t afford it, so none of that mattered anyway.  Yet I cried, I stomped my inner feet and clenched my fists and cursed him for going on his trip, that we also couldn’t afford, while I wasn’t able to go on mine.

Is that jealousy?  I know that it is in part; I’m insanely jealous that he got to go on vacation with his best friend and I didn’t.  Isn’t it also unfair?  Why didn’t I get to go? What’s the difference?

Take tonight for another instance.  He stopped by a friend’s house earlier today, and this friend wanted to go to the baseball game, is a huge fan of the ‘other’ team.  This friend obviously wanted Andy to go, and obviously it sounded good to Andy, and so Andy went.  I asked if I could go, and his reply was that there simply wasn’t time to find a babysitter, etc.  So here I am, Wednesday night, alone.  Bored.  Resentful.  And planning what kind of fun activities I’m going to do this weekend while he stays home with the kids.  Again, is that jealousy?  Am I only trying to ‘get back’ at him for having fun without me?  That’s his claim… (he heard THIS next jewel on some stupid radio “Man Show”…) that women hate it when men have fun without them, and that is why they throw fits when a guy wants to go hang with his buddies (yes, he says these things to me.  I truly believe that he’s kidding.  Maybe way down deep, but kidding none the less.)

Hear me on this; I have always understood Andy.  I knew him when we were both sixteen, we dated for more than three years, and I chose to marry him despite and because of the difficulties he brings with him (and he mine, that goes without saying).  I realized a long time ago that I could either accept Andy as he is and be with him or not and find someone else.  I chose him, I choose him, I love him.  He’s not one to change and truthfully I wouldn’t change him.  Life with him can be difficult, however; his choice of profession(s), his idiosyncracies and lifestyle choices make life with him more difficult than it would be with a ‘normal’ guy.   And life with him is also more amazing and challenging and all the good stuff that comes with being with a man who is such an extremist.

So I’m not trying to change him, I know that he will continue to do what he has always done, and that is whatever the most fun thing is at the moment.  Now, I’m to the point however that I want MINE, too.  I want to do things and I’ve come to the realization that if I don’t stand up and be firm, I’ll never get what *I* think I deserve.  How to do that, though, without resorting to acting jealous and spiteful?

I feel like I’m keeping score… fuck, I AM keeping score, and I’m LOSING.  How much is too much?  Am I making this an issue because I’m jealous?  I am jealous, but am I jealous for good reason?  Or am I trying to make a stink because I’m LOSING?  It doesn’t seem fair to me, and I’m feeling petty and jealous.  I have no frame of reference at this point, so I’m asking… do you ‘let’ your husbands out on a regular basis?  Would your husband have gone on a week long fishing trip with his best friend without you?  Would that have been OK with you?  Am I just keeping score and looking for a fight?  Should I drop it, or put my foot down and fight for some ‘my time’, even though this will undoubtedly cause an argument?  How do I stand up for myself?  I can’t seem to find the middle ground between demanding my own adventure and being understanding about his right to his own.

Shitballs.

So, it turns out that you need to PAY for this whole ‘your own blog’ business.  It also turns out that I am older than hell because I totally thought the people from iPage were just fucking with me, that it had already been a year.  BUT THEY WERE NOT.  I actually spoke to someone there, and I was like, well, if I decide to cancel my hosting service with you, what happens to my blog?  And that woman had the AUDACITY to say, “well, we’d delete it’.  She might have well said ‘I’ll just take out your heart and fling it out the window’, because OMG, MY WOOORRRRDDDSSS.

I literally (ha!) almost had a heart attack.  However, it still took me a few days until I paid those extortionists and got my blog back up, and before I did, I couldn’t figure out why I was so tense .  Holy Jesus, le trepidation.

So, what’s new?  Well… nothing.  And if I were John Cusack, that line would carry so much weight you would know just by the adorable way I raised my eyebrows and glanced adorably to the side that I mean WAAAY more than ‘nothing’.

However, I have almost no strength in my hands right now, it’s actually pretty excruciating to type (but my WOORRRDS, I must WRITE THEM) so you’ll just have to wait.  Thanks to everyone who asked me about my blog and what was up… I’m glad you guys are out there.

Andy’s going to score me some good drugs (*wink*), so if my hands feel better, maybe I’ll give y’all a treat and blog while all fucked up… that should be entertaining!  Or maybe not. 

Talk to you soon!

~xo, b!

I turned thirty-six earlier this month.

I have written that sentence approximately thirty million times, and everything that I write afterward turns out to be complete crap, because honestly, I can’t get over that first sentence.

I turned thirty-six earlier this month.

That’s like, a for REAL GROWN-UP age.  Thirty-five didn’t have the same feeling, the same ring to it.  I LOVED thirty-five.  There’s no reason I won’t love thirty-six; in fact there are loads of reasons why this year will be even better than last… it’s just… I’m *actually* getting OLD.

For instance; I have very fine lines on my face.  I believe they’re called WRINKLES.  Not a bunch, but if you look close, there they are.

I have a gray eyelash and a gray eyebrow hair. WTF?

When I get all hammered (!), I am hungover and all fucked up for DAYS.  Not hours.  This makes getting all hammered and fucked up an occurance that I PLAN for; one that I actually weigh the pro’s and con’s of.  You might as well just SHOOT ME NOW, what is left for me?

I also recently decided that my family will be reducing our consumption of processed foods and increasing the amount of organic/whole foods to an eighty-five/fifteen-percent ratio. I’ve started making my own bread every day.

Another thing; I don’t really like sweets anymore.  I am not even joking.  Andy brought home chocolate Oreo’s the other day… soak that in for a minute; CHOCOLATE. OREO’S.  A year ago, NOM, NOM.  Last week? GAG.  BARF.  I’ll still eat a good piece of chocolate with gusto, but OMG gross, Oreos.  I nearly want to cry.

Excuse me?  WHO AM I??

And what about this; I scar at the drop of a hat anymore.  That’s just fucked up.  I am a clumsy person, my feet are HUGE, so I’m constantly banging and scratching myself up.  Only now, instead of magically disappearing, I am left with these lovely, purple scars.  THANK YOU.  Because scars on thirty-six year old chicks are HAWT.  Especially when you got said scar from running into a wall or something equally awe-inspiring.

It’s just weird, this changing.  I don’t feel different on the inside, which is one of those stupid cliches that OLD people are constantly saying.  I made fun of an old friend the other day on Facebook for complaining about his bunions, and then fifteen minutes later my sciatica flared up and I spent the next three days limping around the house, moaning and clutching my hip.

I know that if I exercised and continue to eat better, if I was less FAT, I would feel better.  I’ve heard that before, BELIEVE ME.  I GET IT.  The problem is that I think I might be old enough to start taking it seriously.  And THAT, my friends, is TERRIFYING.

I am a co-sleeper.  I love co-sleeping.  I love the idea and the belief behind it; I love the closeness it can foster,  I love the ease of night-parenting and the fact that I can stay in bed.  I love my bed.

My eldest son, E was born six weeks early, a preemie, and spent his first three weeks under sedation and medication to keep him paralyzed in the NICU at the amazing hospital at Chapel Hill University in North Carolina.  My mom, Masue, and I stayed at the Ronald McDonald House in Chapel Hill, and honest to god, they helped save his life by saving my sanity.  They were amazing.

how could you resist?

So he was on ‘hospital time’ when he came home, which means that every two hours, almost exactly, he would wake up, nurse, look around for a while, poop, nurse again and go back to sleep for two hours.  AROUND THE CLOCK.  See, ‘hospital time’ is twenty four hour-time, and my baby had no idea there was such a thing as ‘night’ and ‘day’.  OMG, EXHAUSTED.

I finally taught him that day time was Fun! Time! and night time was quiet, and boring, and he ‘got it’ and slept much better.

Anyway, before he learned about day and night, being so exhausted I obviously napped when he napped during the day.  I remember the first time we napped together  everything changed.  My motherhood level went from this instinctual, gut reaction to protect him at all costs into a completely visceral, his-blood-is-my-blood, his flesh-is-my-flesh, kind of recognition.  We recognized each other and the love affair began.   I remembered his smell and he remembered mine and we reconnected so strongly there was never any other doubt in my mind about Who and What Was Most Important.

That’s what co-sleeping did for me and my eldest son.  We never slept together during the night, but once he figured out that night time was boring, he pretty much slept all night and we napped together during the day.

Fast forward ten years, and change the personnel up a bit, and I have another infant.  I am no longer a child, I have a very different partner, and I have a very different infant.

This infant, my darling Sally, was and is as different as her elder brother as anyone could have possibly imagined.  As in, if you said, OK, here’s this person, and let’s make that person’s total opposite, you would have my two eldest children.

He was patient, she is NOT.  He loved co-sleeping, she couldn’t ever slow down enough with me in the room to actually ‘sleep’.  We started out with her in our bed, but not only was my husband (bless his heart) CONVINCED that he was going to crush her to death, she could never simmer down.  She wanted to nurse the whole time… which is difficult enough, I guess… however, she also wanted to be held, like up in the air, not like a little cuddle while laying down.  Once she figured out she needed and DAMN WELL DESERVED, (thankyouverymuch) to be held, she discovered rocking.  After that, she wanted to be both held AND rocked while she nursed.  All night.  I moved her from our bed to the bassinet next to me, and that worked for a while until she realized that I was in the bed next to her.  And then she wanted to be held.  And rocked.  And nursed.  Constantly.  All Night Long.  (all night, all night, all night, all night lonng)(Lionel Richie, don’t be dumb).

So she went into her own bed, a crib in the next room.  And I finally got about ninety minutes of sleep a stretch each night.  She would also nap for about forty-five minutes during the day.  It was awesome.

Fast forward again to March of ’08 and I have another infant.  Magically, Sally had decided to begin sleeping in longer stretches, mostly due to the fact that she had weaned herself the previous December.  She did require me to rock her and cuddle her a couple of times a night, a chore I adored since it was so much less intense and non-stop as before… also because she smells good and I love to hold her.

This new infant, again as different from his brother and sister as a person can be, has slept peacefully nestled in the crook of my arm since the day he was born.  I cannot tell you how easy this makes my life.  I know that some moms can’t, but I don’t really even wake up when he nurses at night.  Sure, I wake up feeling like I’m a hundred-and-nine years old because I don’t move all night, but oh…. THE SLEEP.  If you are going to be a new mom, listen to me, please.  People will tell you all kinds of weird things; stock up on your sleep now while you ‘have the chance!’, that kind of crap.  Just nod and smile and say something like ‘I sure will!’ but understand this; you will stop sleeping through the night when you’re about eight months pregnant.  This is when you have to pee every twenty minutes, so you will be waddling to and from the bathroom all night.  Plus, you will be uncomfortable, and rolling over will become A Chore.  Think of it like you’re preparing for your infant.  Your body is getting you used to sleeping in short bursts.

Sleep will become the commodity you most desire, the unattainable goal that will allude you for YEARS.  The only thing to do is accept it.  It’s the price you pay for creating your very own person.  I’m sorry.

However!  If you can co-sleep, you just might have a better chance.  Unless you go the total OTHER route, the ‘sleep training’, Ferberizing, ‘Cry It Out’ methods which… well, obviously I don’t ascribe to that line of thought, however I do believe most parents are doing the best they can and shouldn’t be judged.  My only issue is with people who don’t do the research to make an informed decision that is actually right for their family and not simply  what seems easiest at the time.

There is one detail I haven’t mentioned, and this leads to the Co-sleeping Con I started to talk about.  I sleep in a bed with Bobby in Sally’s room (it will become Sally and Bobby’s room when I move out).  Andy, my husband, sleeps either on the couch in front of the t.v., which is his preferable spot, or in our California King, comfy as hell, bed.  By himself.

This isn’t to say we have ceased… uh… relations, if you will.  They, like the sleep pattern of a new parent, happen in hurried, stolen bursts (*ahem*) of time.  But we don’t ‘sleep’ together.  I can’t remember (this is totally going to gross you out) the last time my husband and I have been naked together for longer than two minutes in a hurried, frenzied, grope-fest that reminds me of stolen kisses and caresses in high school.

So it was with enormous embarrassment that I found myself standing in front of him, naked, with my arms over my head, drying my hair.

Not embarrassed because I’m fat.  Not because having three kids has caused all of my already-ample parts to now also SAG…no not any of those reasons.

As I stood there, mid sentence, and watched his eyes widen in horror, and the gasp of disgust escape from his lips, I panicked.  What?  WHAT?  WHAT IS ON ME?? WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?  WHAT?? OMG THE PLAGUE, DEATH DESTRUCTION, WHAAT??

I focused on him and noticed that he was staring at my armpits in total and complete shock and absolute revulsion.  As I was about to admonish him,… I mean, honey… I have at LEAST a thousand OTHER things to think about and do, people.  Armpit hair removal is not high on my list.

As I took a breath to scold him for his harsh reaction to my armpits I caught a glimpse out of my left eye.

And saw Armpit Hair.

Do you understand what I’m saying here?  I could SEE the outgrowth of black, greasy, nasty armpit hair OUT OF THE CORNER OF MY EYE.  That is how long and LUXURIOUS my armpit hair has become.  I am not a hairy person by any means, and so it never OCCURED to me that my ARMPITS might just be the single hairiest place on my BODY.

I am so ashamed of myself and embarrassed… I may never have sex in the light of day again, and I totally wouldn’t blame him.

Co-sleeping can be a source of contention, with two (or three or four) different sides who all feel VERY righteous in their personal beliefs, and I support them all – as long as they play nice.  However.  Shaving or Not-Shaving your pits is only a question for the hippiest of hippies out there and I stand here, ashamed but resolved To Never Again Forget About The Armpit Hair.   And to publicly apologize to my husband.  I’m not going to shave my legs, but by god I SWEAR I will start with my pits.