2, 4, 6, 8 - We Don't Like To Separate

That is the face of a baby that does not want me to leave. EVER. Yes dear friends, it is separation anxiety time at the McCall household. Separation anxiety is when your baby knows who you are, that they like you, that you are fun, and oh yeah, you carry those treasures that provide a steady supply of frothy milky bliss and if you leave them, they think you have stumbled into a black hole of non-existence so they start to panic and cry uncontrollably. Babies are so stupid. This is the stage in which Maggie has to grasp onto Object Permanence, wherein she recognizes that when I leave to go into another room, I still exist. I told you they were stupid. This does not really cause too much of a problem, but at night, after I nurse her and try to slip her back into her crib she is revolting. Because she is all - hey booby lady, where are you? Where are you? WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU? I love my daughter, and for the most part, she has been a wonderfully easy baby. But for that all goodness, there had to be one bad. And that bad is a cry that is absolutely piercing and ultimately destructive to my nerve core. It sounds as if she is being stabbed to death, it is not a cry - it is a gut wrenching wail of wounding. I can’t listen to it without an immediate twitch in my right eye combined with a searing pain behind my temples. All those not familiar with the wail of banshees, I submit to you the following: In Irish Folklore is a spirit in the form of a wailing woman whose appearance is an omen that you will die. Although in Maggie’s case, it is just that I want to die. Oh, separation anxiety, how the hell did I forget about you? Oh yes, I know, because one tends to block out traumatic injuries to the psyche.

Its Hot and My Body Tricks Me (Almost)

You know how hot it is today in San Francisco? About Eighty-Eight degrees.
You know what I did at lunch? Run.
You know what that makes me? Stupid.

I ran at lunch and thought death would quickly befall me, it was like running in hot soup. It was terrible, but now about forty-five minutes have past and my body is responding well. And my mind is doing little "you are so awesome" songs. I really did not want to run in hot as Hades weather, but my last run was just about a week ago, and it was promised that within The Goal of Thirty there would be no more than six days off. I had a good excuse - my monthly course, so it was not mere slacking off. Which brings me to another point: my body is at war with my mind.

I was five, count the 1-2-3-4-5 days, late. Now since the scare of last month, I have been militant about protection. So imagine the surprise when faced with a missed period. I took a pregnancy test that came up negative, so I waited, and waited, and waited. I am not late. Never - except that one time, and it resulted in Owen. So on Monday, my friend finally made her fashionably late appearance. I was happy, until it came to my attention that Monday means one thing - I NOW WILL BE OVULATING ON MONDAY. Damn you ovaries!!! Those not familiar with reproduction, please note that an egg is fertilized when a woman ovulates - which with a twenty-eight day cycle, means about Day 14. Since I have a 28 day cycle, that means I will ovulate Monday. Now you may be saying - so big deal. But as parents of a toddler, John and I like many tired and weary souls save most of the fun for the weekends. So my previous Thursday ovulation worked out perfectly. But now with this entire Monday ovulation scenario it seems that although my mind says no, my ovaries are saying yes. I understand this somewhat as I am approaching thirty-five, so my eggs are going to start going all "LAST CHANCE FOR CONCEPTION. ALL MEN ON DECK." But holy cow, who knew one's own body could be so devious and cunning. As a side note, I really cannot believe I will be thirty-five at the end of October. Holy old - I was fifteen 20 years ago - which is the year I got my first period. I have been on my moon bike for 20 years people!! So what will be the result of this dastardly move by my biological clock? Only time will tell - but I tell you, I will not go down without an easy fight - or at least six more bottles of vodka, 3 bottles of tequila, 18 visits to the Park Chalet, and a round of Six Cups.