Historic Day

When getting dressed after my run today, I looked upon the tag on my way too big bra. Seriously, my boobs look like pin balls entangled in frilly laced machine: nipples cockeyed and gravity a cruel mistress. But this is your reward after two babies who each nursed a year. And let us not forget the sixty pounds I lost this year. The tag on the bra said 38DDD. Which meant that I had to be 36DD? Which meant Victoria’s Secret carried that size. Which meant fleeing my office giddy with the prospect that my days of playing knee soccer with my flesh were numbered.

I tried on every single 36DD bra that they had in the store. Thank you understanding sales associate who just gave me the 36DD bins to have at it after the words “just finished nursing”, “need support” and “I used to have really nice boobs, really.” Fifteen contenders later, I settled on the Victoria’s Bio Fit Bra and an uplifting demi underwire. Uplifting key as it refers to both spirit (mine) and the manual act of lifting, heavy lifting. Again, gravity plus pregnancy plus breastfeeding equals shield yee eyes children from ancient time honored horrors. But due to the advances in bra engineering, this girl once again possesses cleavage. C-L-E-A-V-A-G-E, bring on the free drinks sort of cleavage. My four year breast journey is best summed, as follows:

1. The starting point of 36 D.
2. The frightening heights of 38G.
3. The still need to lose the baby weight 38DDD.
4. The holy god not another pregnancy 38Fs.
5. The I don’t care if they are ugly and horrible and made by Playtex nursing I give up on life 38E.
6. The I lost 60 pounds, and stopped nursing, and need a bra capable of heroic feats 36DD.

Thank you Victoria’s Secret for saving me thousands in breast surgery. You are the best.

Did He Just Call Me Fat?

Last night Owen was resisting putting on his very cool outer space themed pajamas. A proven technique to get a toddler to do what you and not he wants is to pretend that you desire what he does not like. It is helpful to be overly animated and a tad bit psychotic. Something that is right up my alley.

“Oh Owen. What awesome alien PJs. I love those PJs. My PJs. Mmmmmmiiinnneeee.”
“No, no, these mine PJS.”
“No way Owen, mine, mine, mine. I want to wear them now.”
“No Mama, you too big.”

And just like that, I now have one child.

For Maggie On Her First Birthday.

Unlike your brother, I did not photo document your first year. You my find out someday that having one kid is easy, having a new baby with a two year old requires you to organize your time in such a way that you are not insane by 8:00 p.m. Today you turn a year, an entire year of your existence in our lives.

When taking the pregnancy test and getting a positive result, my immediate thought went to - it’s a boy. It’s a boy. I can’t wait, the mother of two boys, awesome. But this was all for show, I really, really, really wanted a girl. I wanted to be a mother to a daughter, and just thought boy in an effort to prevent disappointment. But then I got sick. Gut wrenching morning sickness every single morning for almost the entire nine months. I never got sick with your brother. I also got acne that would make a teenager happy not to be me. I was craving healthy things like pears, turkey sandwiches and salads. With Owen, it was a steady stream of ice cream, chocolate and glowing skin. When the 16 week ultrasound to reveal your sex arrived, I thought maybe, maybe it will be a girl. The ultrasound tech said immediately, “I know what it is.” Dad and I in unison said, “Boy.” At this moment, all the images of a dress clad, chin length brown haired girl gabbing a flowers in a grassy field vanished and was replaced with the horrifying image of me wiping clean the toilet of which three men made use. I still shudder at the image. But the tech said, “No, it’s a girl. A girl. I see labia.” LABIA! Never has something so disgusting in sound made me so ecstatic in thought. A baby girl. My girl. My daughter.

Months flew by. We survived bed rest and you being nine days late (please note that this is probably not the first time you have heard this - NINE DAYS LATE MAGGIE, NINE PAINFULLY LONG DAYS). Your dad likes to say that you came out, looked around and then went bananas, as if to say “no freaking way people.” You were beautiful even if you were totally pissed. You took to me immediately, settling into a nurse locking your eyes with mine. This is where my heart grew about twice its original size. The love was so immediate and so intense; I had to catch my breath. Although that might have been the entire giving birth vaginally part, but let’s just go with the love.

Maggie, you were an incredibly easy baby. I count myself extremely lucky to have had you. Within two days, at night you only woke up to eat, falling quickly back to sleep belly filled and content. Owen would smack you in the head, your response being only a blink as if to say “Bring it on, First Born.” Of course, for every blessing we had, there had to be that one thing. That is your cry. Never has a wail been so ear piercing and soul shocking. You want what you want, when you want it. Truthfully, this is something that makes me fearful of events in the next year. Especially since you already throw tantrums when you do not get your way, pretty much eight months early. However, this is not surprising, because you have done everything early: smiling at one month, rolling over at two, first teeth at three, sitting up at four, crawling at five, pulling up at six, cruising at seven and walking at eight. Dad and I like to say thank goodness we had Owen first. Or we would have thought he was tad slow, I mean he only walked at 10.5 months. Idiot.

So on this your first birthday, I can tell you that your gifts are the bright twinkle in your eyes at the realization of finally figuring something out, your contagiously happy smile that showcases your slightly cute dimples and your feisty spirited nature. Our gift is that you so effortlessly entered our family making it wholly complete. Maggie Nicole McCall, I cannot wait to see your path into the absolutely lovely and intelligent woman you will eventually become. As Owen said this morning, “Appy Birdday Mags. I wuve you.”

Proof I Am Cursed - A Continuing Series

I am currently about fifty-four hours into what some call “weaning”, but I like to lovingly refer to as my official return to alcoholism. Let’s face it, you cannot be a drunkard on wine and beer. For the distinction of alcoholic, you need vodka. Or whiskey. Which after an almost two year hiatus, this tongue had a taste of last night. Glorious. Even with the suffering of rock hard, pressure filled and horribly aching boobs. You want to know what the pain of the end of nursing is like. Imagine a balloon being filled with water. Keep on filling it. Keep going. Now what happens? Yes, it breaks. It bursts because it cannot take the amount of liquid that is bubbling inside. Now imagine that pressure being kept inside your boobs. Imagine the hot burn, the pain in every turn, the slow descent into insanity. Then punch yourself in the stomach repeatedly and often, because guess what? Your period, that thing you last saw around June 2008, has picked this week, of all weeks to return. Because searing breast pain is not enough, you must also be saddled with Advil resistant cyborg cramps. So yes, I am cursed. Is there any other feasible explanation?

Pretty

I took this photo getting off the NJudah the other night.

It Is Worth It

Sometimes as a parent you will stand holding your screaming banshee like child retreating inwardly to ask yourself was this worth it? Not to mention the fact that you have been sober for almost two years. But then one day your three year old son who is very curious about body parts says to you “Mama, what is that?” while pointing to your nether regions. Since you have a degree in Biology, you make use of it by saying “It is my vagina, Owen.” Your son turns to his Dad and says “Daddy, where is your vagina?” You then fall to the ground in a fit of laughter thinking, oh yes, absolutely worth it.

Out of the Mouth of Babes

My trip to Boston could be summed with one word “Family”. If using four, “a shitload of family.” It was great, I saw my nephew, cousins, aunts, uncles, parents and friends. Even though the plane ride to San Francisco was anxiety riddled hell. You want to torture a person - put them on a plane with an eleven month old that only wants to walk, explore and touch. It was so bad that when finally arriving, I saw John and burst into tears. Then I had a six pack. You may take the girl out of Boston, but you don’t take the Irish out of her. I have many great memories of my trip, but the following was worth its weight in gold.

My brother has a son Nicholas who is four and a half years old. I have not seen Nick since my visit in June of 2007, we did not really bond then because he was a toddler, and I had a six month old who really liked my boobies. As he sat at the dining room table drawing, I decided to join him. Nothing says bonding like a serious coloring session. Now I do not consider myself gifted in the art department, but I can draw. I can draw a dog, and it looks like a dog. People have said, “Wow, you can draw.” And I am all, “Bob Villa Bitches!”

We sat and I asked “Do you want me to draw anything?” This is where Nick said “Ncredible Ulk.” Seems my nephew has this speech issue where he drops the first letter of every word. He is getting help for this because although insanely cute at four and a half, I am pretty sure when you saunter up to some girl at a bar in college and ask “An I uy ou a ink?”, the evening is not going to end in a drunken grope session.

Unfortunately, I did not take a photo of my Hulk, but as Incredible Hulks go, it ranked an easy 7, possibly even an 8. Then I showed Nick. “The Ulk oesn’t ear nderwear, Assie” (The Hulk does not wear underwear, Cassie). You see I had drawn a pair of super hero undies for my Hulk. Granted, the kid was right. The Ulk does not wear Nderwear. He wears pants that are frayed because he just got super pissed off that some bitch on MUNI decided to wear an entire bottle of Whore Island perfume (side note: I am just guessing here). Not once did Nick say “Wow, Assie, good drawing.” Instead he showed me his Hulk, which was the size of a dime and a stick figure colored green. My guy had hair, frayed pants, bulging muscles and a menacing hulkish grin. But whatever, do I validate my drawing ability from the eyes of an almost five year old? Fuck yeah I do. So I did what any self respecting adult would do, I stopped drawing. And he did not even care in the slightest. Which means only one thing - this kid is his father’s son. Next year, he will be taking me up the bathroom to “do my hair” like the other girls. Yes, in high school my brother took pity on me and my social leper status to inquire of his harem how to perfect late 80s/early 90s styled hair. I am unsure what pain to you is, but at 16 years of age, this was debilitating.

Until August, Nicholas, until August.