Guess What I Did?

This morning while standing in my closet in my underwear trying to decide which pants to wear, I did the unthinkable. I reached for my blue j crew khaki pants, the ones that fit me prior to becoming pregnant with Maggie. And guess what, they fit. Sure, they are a tad tight, but there is no camel toe, so hello pre-pregnancy post-owen sized pants. Obviously this entire running and eating right thing is working. I mean I can fit into my pants only 18 weeks post baby. Yeah me. However, this is only the first step in my goal of getting into my pre-Owen pregnancy pants. Which I hope occurs, because I have an entire wardrobe in my closet. But I am of the impression that perhaps my waist will never be that size again, but we shall see. The battle forges on.

What a Boob

The thing about nursing and having a well endowed rack is that you can’t really find the lift and support your fat puppies need. In fact, it is said by the La Leche League of Loudish Preachy Crazy Hippies that one should not wear underwire because it may interfere with breastfeeding leading to plugged ducts, mastitis, etc. I had mastitis after Owen, which pretty much involved having a fever of 105 degrees and thinking I could possibly die at any moment, so I heeded those words. But underwire to the big breasted gal, is like black clothing to the teenage goth. Necessary! So after a few months of a mono boobish life, I succumbed and purchased an underwire nursing bra. Boobs fixed and I had no near death experiences. Unfortunately, those bras were in size 38G and I am now a 38DDD (triple D-lightful) so wearing them now makes my boobs look pretty heinous in the sense of cockeyed nipples and belly grazing lows. I suffered my mirrored reflection because nursing bras are fucking expensive. However, I could no longer stand being made fun of behind my back (cross eyed nippled lady and she of the one boob), and purchased a Playtex bra on Amazon for 15 bux. Holy cow, let me say that I love Playtex. Sure, they make the ugliest bras known to man, but my boobs and Playtex are like moustaches and the 1970s, a match made in heaven. I have lift and separation people, LIFT AND SEPARATION. My boobs are for the first time in 17 weeks above sea level, and they look freaking awesome. No lie, I have gazed upon them at least twenty-five times today, each time saying in my head “Oh my god, they are still huge, but holy crap, I think they look good. Like really good.” So needless to say, I purchased some more Playtex underwire nursing gems and am considering stripping for money. But only that bra and panty type stripping, because I don’t want to be getting off the pole and tripping over my boobs. Because I think that could actually happen.

Parenting 101 - Solutions for a Modern Mom

Last year when discovering I was pregnant, in addition to the “what the hell did I just do” there was the one other thought - Owen needs to get out of that crib. Taking the initiative early, I bought and assembled a toddler bed and after three weeks of give and take Owen was fine. He loved his bed, I had a crib for Maggie, and all was golden in the world.

As time wore on, it occurred to John and me that Owen never got out of his toddler bed. In the morning he would call for us, and at night, even if he was upset, he would never get out of the bed. For in his mind, that bed was a crib, a crib with invisible bars. We heard stories of other parents of toddlers fighting to keep their child in their bed to no avail but we just chalked it up to tackling the bed issue at an early age. Even my mother could not believe it.

This Tuesday, in a phrase my father likes to use, the dawn finally broke on Marblehead. Seems our son came to the realization that he could in fact get out of bed, and nothing was holding him back. So after John finished his stories, instead of crying in protest. He got up, opened the door and walked out of his room. Go back to bed Owen. “No.” “Owen it is bedtime. “No.” John and I looked at each other in horror. It has come to pass. As John lay in Owen’s room waiting for him to sleep, I frantically googled strategies to keep your toddler into bed. The experts recommend that you state just once to your toddler that “It is bed time. You must stay in bed and go to sleep.” Each following time, you are not to talk, not to make eye contact and continue to lead your child back into their room and back into bed until finally they will succumb. Flash to that evening at 12:30 a.m. when Owen awakes and exits his room. John does as is instructed for 30 minutes. I then join the party for another 30 minutes until finally I put him in the crib since he still is unable to climb out of it. As a side note, to the makers of the Bratt Décor Dick Crib, I love you. I adore my son, but he is of the stubborn lot, the Irish in him flaring. Although I suspect this shall be an excellent quality for his future, it makes his toddlerhood all the more difficult.

The following day I asked some friends about their son’s forays with getting up to be greeted with the following “Congratulations, at least we know that Owen is not stupid, but nothing has worked for us.” Back to Google, where it basically the same going back and forth until the child finally succumbs. And since “Ridiculous Stubborn Toddler of an Insanely Stubborn Mother Gets Out of Bed, Needs To Stay There” did not elicit any results, I went back to the tried and true, denial. I mentioned to John three times that day, “Well, maybe he won’t even get out of bed tonight.” John took pity on me with a “Suuurrrrreeeee he will.”

That evening as Maggie slept, and Owen’s last story was told, I crossed my fingers. But as John left his room, so did Owen. We took him back to his bed, tucked him in and said “Owen close your eyes and listen to music. Go to sleep. It is night time. You have to stay in bed.” But Stubbowen was having none of that. I brought him in his room, he exited. I brought him back, he got out again. I brought him back and then I held the door shut. And what do you know, after a screaming, kicking an almost rabid meltdown, he returned to his bed. FOR THE ENTIRE NIGHT. Yesterday, the holding of the door lasted 30 seconds. Tonight, who knows? I do know that when dealing with a manipulative stubborn toddler, the best remedy is to get down and dirty on his level. Because it works, and I did not have to waste who knows how many hours of my life playing this back and forth no talk, no eye contact nonsense guide to parenting. I held the door shut. And it may not win me Mommy of the Year, but I slept. Well I might add.

My Kind of Math

Maggie will be sixteen weeks old this Monday. And now for some quick math - 52 - 16 equals 36. 36 x 7 equals 252 . 252 x 24 equals 6048. 6048 x 60 equals 362,880. That is 362,880 seconds until I can drink a grey goose gimlet. The Triple G!!! I now know what prison feels like. One would think that an Irish girl going through nine long months (plus 2 weeks) of pregnancy would come out of the hospital with a swaddled liquor bottle. Not this girl. This girl needs to breastfeed for a year so there is no hard stuff consumption because your milk is tainted with awesomeness (just not awesome for the baby, unless a slow half witted child is your thing). Pump and Dump my ass. That being said, I think it is only 362,725 now. Thank God. Check it out.

Three Reasons I Would Not Want to Be 10 Years Younger

Lately, whenever I think of my forthcoming birthday there is a certain shudder at the prospect of being thirty-six. Mostly because thirty-six sounds old, and matronly, but let’s face it, this vagina has delivered two children, matronly suits me. But I really don’t care, because even though technically I am at the cusp of thirty-six, my brain is that of a twelve year old, a twelve year old boy. That being said, I was thinking, what if I was ten years younger, twenty-five instead of thirty-five. And you know what, no freaking way. My reasoning is illustrated below:

Every girl in their twenties borders on psychotic when dealing with relationships, a psychosis that can technically last into your thirties (but shouldn’t). Every man reading this right now is shaking his head yes, because let’s face it, a twenty something girl is just a fraction away from being institutionalized. I have no idea in this day and age how anyone dates. There is just too much stalker friendly technology. Facebook, Twitter, Blogs, Texting. Did he write about me? He is going where? He defriended me. What does this text mean? It is enough to make my head explode just from thinking about it. No thank you. I will take my husband, my children, and the sad fact that my twenties were spent in the 1990s.

Which brings me to my second reason, if I were twenty-five today, I would fall into the hipster category of life. Because I am an alternative band whore, although I bet the kids today don’t call it “alternative” music, but my 1990s sensibilities say it is. Anyway, this would lead me being surrounded by the bearded alternative gent. As there seems to be this god forsaken trend among the 20s male of growing beards. I am sorry, but the last thing I want to do when drunk at a show is make out with Jesus. I would have a no-beard policy, because in addition to the fact I lack a Christ fetish, I have very sensitive skin. I could see myself waking up hung over on a Saturday morning, my entire mouth area flaming red because I engaged in an ill advised make out session with Moses. No thank you hipster bearded men.

And finally, I would not like to be in my 20s because I could not handle fashion. Skinny jeans? These tops that make one look pregnant? I have a big rack, a small waist and hips. Nothing youth oriented in fashion would flatter me unless I became an anorexic, another seemingly very popular trend among those in their 20s. Eat something already.

To sum up, thank goodness I was born in 1973 instead of 1983 because I got to miss stalker dating, the bearded man and a foray into bulimia. So bring on thirty-six, hopefully with gimlets.

Tales of Muni . . .

Yesterday while sitting on the N Judah making my way home, I looked across the aisle and saw a homeless man sitting down. I was about to begin reading when it suddenly occurred to me that said homeless man was good looking. Looking again, I confirmed he was handsome. I had stumbled upon the ever elusive Homeless Stud. I began to wonder if homeless life was easier for him with his carefree boyish looks, whether all the homeless ladies in town spoke of him in girlish giggles and if being good looking in the downtrodden clique was a bonus - like high school. But then he opened his mouth to reveal tarred and yellowed teeth, three of which were missing. And I stopped thinking, because I had suddenly become ill.

Placenta Encapsulation

As luck would have it I stumbled upon an article by Joel Stein. Yeah, you read that correctly, EATING YOUR PLACENTA. But fear not, dear readers, this is America, it is not as if someone would actually take the placenta and eat it “as is”. No, no, no. It has to be steamed, dehydrated, ground and then put in capsules. Proponents state that some of the benefits of doing this are to ward of depression and to increase milk supply. In fact, one reviewer said “I pumped 1.6 oz of milk and my lactation consultant was amazed so much came from one boob.” Sure, she was. Please note that I pumped one of my boobs three days after Maggie’s birth and pumped 7 oz. It is amazing to me that people actually believe this, and no one even thinks that the entire process of cooking and dehydrating probably kills everything that could potentially be useful. Never mind the studies showing animals that do not eat their placentas do not become depressed. You know what a dog does after birth also? Lick its vagina clean. Let’s see you do that one. I guess these days we live in a world that wherein “natural” means better. One only has to look at the Zicam fiasco to see that just because something promises to be all natural and beneficial, does not necessarily mean it is. Sure, that cold totally went away, but you no longer have the sense of smell. People forget that this stuff is unregulated, that any goofball with a strong stomach and a dehydrated can do this for a premium. In fact, the people Mr. Stein’s wife used have a certification program ($300 bux), start-up kit ($250 bux) and referral membership ($300 bux). Can anyone else say scam? It seems to me anything that has to do with pregnancy, birth and/or parenting these days are targets for a good old fashion shakedown. My father once told me that if something sounds too good to be true, it probably is. I think those are words to live by.

And Just Like That

Today I did it, I ran to the ball park and back and I did not stop to vomit, walk or curse. I actually jogged the entire way. Day 10 of the Goal of Thirty proved the one. It makes me hope that when Day 30 comes around, I will be rounding around the ball park happy as a jogging clam. The good news is that I am losing weight, even without dieting on the weekends, which is what we of the diets consider an added bonus. I feel good. I feel accomplished. I tasted the runner’s high. And it goes, my friends. It goes. In other news, my son, Owen Patrick McCall, is a bit of a ham. When asking him “Owen, can you say ‘Happy Fourth of July”. He said “Yeah.” Okay then. Ask a stupid question.

Oh No They Didn’t

There is a something in the corporate world, called the day before a holiday. Usually one is let go early on such a day so that they can embark on whatever three day weekend is before them. This makes all happy, because let’s face it, half days in the working world are non-existent, and if you can get out a few hours early, you are totally and completely loving it. In Boston, we would be let known of the intentions the day off, because I worked in small law firm. Usually around noon and e-mail would go around announcing the office closing at 3:00 p.m., and didn’t I just jump at joy at the prospect of heading to a bar for a Grey Goose Gimlet. However, now that I am at a larger firm there is no announcement day of because we have a time tracking program so they usually inform us in an e-mail a few days prior. Starting Monday the office was all in a tizzy awaiting the letting go early e-mail, because our office has been very good about doing this lately. Monday passed, and no e-mail. But we had hope, I mean it was only Monday; it will have to be tomorrow. Tuesday will produce the unleashing. It had too. There was nothing in the morning, but then Tuesday afternoon it happened. THE E-MAIL. The blessed e-mail has arrived. I quickly opened it and to my horror and utmost dismay, there it said “Come Celebrate the 4th of July, with an ice cream social at 3:30 p.m., July 2.” Oh no they didn’t. I think I was just corporately bitch slapped. Tempted to immediately reply with a “Sorry, but I am on diet, could I just go home early?,” I refrained. But seriously, I mean come on dude. What the hell? Perhaps I am just spoiled, but an ice cream sundae social does make not up for the fact that you purposefully took away my 2.15 hours of freedom. It’s July 4th for Christ sake, do I really need to start a revolution, again?

For the Owes

This morning we took Owen to his two and a half year wellness pediatrician appointment. His percentile ranks were 75% in height and 80% in weight. Needless to say all of those “he is built like a linebacker” comments since Day 2 of his life did not go to waste. He did great. He made his patented “show me your eyes” face when Dr. Langston directed light into his pupils. The face evidenced here:



We are fortunate he is the picture of health, and a great kid to boot. He is getting older, and bigger, and more talkative. And that is sad in lots of ways, but totally amazingly awesome in much more. I feel blessed to know the person he is becoming. Hooray for Owen.



And that person is a complete goofball, or as I like to say “Goofball McCall”. But look at his parents, was there another way? So to Owen, Happy 2.5. I love you very much.