Oh Dear Lord

You want reality? Try being pregnant twice in three years and then trying on an outfit you bought ten years ago. Uh-huh. Actually, you want a quick trip to the nearest mental hospital? That is what I did this weekend. Dear readers (all three of you) know that I have been running and dieting, my Goal of 30 slowly progressing. But there is nothing better to snap you back from any weight loss delusions you may start to have than trying on a skirt and top made of silk santung from Ann Taylor circa 1999 that you bought when you were twenty-five (the fit year). Forget what I said the other day about fitting into my pants, the road ahead, she is long. I don’t think words could quite describe the carnage that lay reflected in the mirror. Hot dog and sausage factories, much acquainted with casing and overstuff meat products, would provide a better description. Estimating high, two pounds a week will have to be lost by November for this dress to be worn. Breastfeeding makes this a near impossibility. However, forge on I shall. Because let’s face it, The Goal of 30 has pretty much been met, and motivation continues to be needed. Yesterday, I could not zip, could not button, but could get the dress on. A good starting place considering the skirt was over my hips and my arm flab contained in the shirt sleeves with not a single burst seam or material rip. It occurs to me that I should snap a photo of my progress week to week, but I don’t want to horrify you. Or myself. Wish me luck.

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.

Update of the Exercise

Today made eight days of running, the results of which are evident but not in the way I would like. Basically it is like my lower half and my upper half slowly are progressing to my middle in an effort to say - TA DA, body back. Except for my boobs, my boobs have remained massive in their girth. Sometimes I catch myself in the mirror and say - holy jesus, look at those things - their largess more evident with the rediscovery of my waist. However, this time around the pregnancy merry-go-fat ass, I am way ahead of the game. With Owen I was in denial until I went to a weight watchers meeting, step on the scale and was scared straight. Mainly because of those assholes who say that breastfeeding helps you lose weight really fast, well you know what, breast feeding does not do that until about six months into the process. Yep, read the fine print. It is right after the insatiable hunger of a circus fat lady clause and right before the clause about how you will leak boob milk at your office at least once causing people to pity you. But I digress, the good news is that it is happening. I am doing it. And sure it totally sucks, and I hate it, and I wish there was a way to cut off my extra thigh meat and serve it for dinner, but I can’t do that, so I run. I run, and run, and run some more.

Love, Exciting and New

This weekend while checking Facebook, the following came up in the news feed as commentary to a photograph of a couple:

R: Not sure if I like this....I look really tired, maybe because I WAS.
J: I think you look adorable my darling.
R: Thank you my love.

My immediate reaction: BARF. Which I repeatedly tried to comment, but was denied. Obviously, God does not like me to be snarky. But it got me to thinking, when is this appropriate? I mean sure if you want to be a candy ass loser in the privacy of your own home, by all means, but please do not subject me to it. I have never been really big on the entire lovey dovey, hand holding, unicorns, rainbows and fairies romance, because to me it is unrealistic. Maybe I was raised in an Irish American unloving household, but thank god I was. There is a general pussification of the American Male that is epidemic in its proportions. I don’t know how it happened, or why it happened, or how term “metrosexual” used by any man as description of himself not the immediate cause for a belt beating. And I am sorry, but never should the term “soulmates” be used to describe a relationship. I once had a friend who was on Soulmate #22, or was it 23. And it’s the immediate jinx of death. I would never use the term “soulmate” to describe anything other than a bottle of vodka, tequila or whiskey. Or would I use Facebook as a way to declare my love - I do that by farting in bed and saying the Fartatollah So Many has arrived. Enough said.

A Few Things Friday

Because I have no real story to tell, I think I will just rattle off “A Few Things”, which I think will make for a lovely series. So I present to you the very first “A Few Things Friday”.

Holy Fucking Jesus does breastfeeding make you thirsty. I am a big water drinker anyway, but currently I must down about 200 ounces a day if not more. And the funny thing I don’t pee that often, so you know my body is using it. I am an endless pit it seems. I wake up in the middle of the night my mouth caked with dust and down my entire Kleen Kanteen 40 ouncer.

Which brings me to another thing, I really thought the Kleen Kanteen was super stupid, because you can’t really see in the bottle to clean it. And who knows what myriad of grimey bacteria has taken harbor, but what you don’t see, don’t hurt.

My son last weekend was singing as song. That song was the following, “Blue, Blue, Blue, Blue Balls. Blue Balls. Blue Balls. Blllllllllllllllllluuuuuuuuueeeeeeeeeee Ballllllllllllllllls.” I am not lying.

Every time I tell people or even think that Maggie is a really good baby, and how lucky I am. I feel I am cursing myself into the misery of sleepless nights and a future biting toddler. Can we say altogether, “catholic guilt.”

I have to make brownies tonight for 75 people for Owen’s preschool picnic. I am not buying them, but making them, because I am stupid.

The Risque Walgreens

Because an IUD now exists in my pelvis and not in my uterus, and the fact that the diaphram I was prescribed is discontinued, I had to make a purchase at Walgreens of condoms. As a married lady with two kids, I feel that condom purchasing by me feels like I am embarking on the first steps of an affair, because do people in long term relationships actually purchase condoms? I don’t think so. I even think the lady at the register was all, this lady has a ring on her finger. What a tart! But then as she rang up the total and said $7.11, I realized that all of my trials and tribulations were worth it for this moment. The price of condoms was $7.11, as in 7/11, as in lucky, as in getting lucky. Oh Walgreens, you joker you.

And So It Goes

Oh Jesus, please let this running at lunch thing get better. Each day I feel as if I will die and fall to the concrete thinking this was the last thing I did? Run!! Not drink myself into alcohol induced oblivion? But it continues. I know with time this desperation at the difficulty of said running will be laughed at, but it’s so hard this time around. Yes, likely due to the thirty pounds of baby weight still to lose and the fact that my legs had an eight week hiatus from any sort of meaningful work. But dear God, let this get better. I don’t’ want to be that fat lady eating bon bons on the MUNI and taking up two seats with my ass. Of course, if that was me, I would have to change my name. Because in my fat person fantasy world, her name is Devereaux Jane Dawson, DJ to her friends. Which she has over often because she needs help scrubbing between her many flesh rolls, luring them with her homemade goodies of tarts and fried chicken. She has a southern accent, of course. Okay, I guess I did watch too much Paula Deen on my maternity leave, but can’t you all just see it? DJ Dawson, her bon bons, her hair polished and coifed, her dimpled chins laughing with delight. Not this Cassie McCall, huffing and heaving her way up the Embarcadero with a forehead scarlet from perspiration and an overwhelming need to vomit. But I can do it!! I will survive, and not go the bon bon way of happiness. Hopefully these running high endorphins, which have been elusive thus far, will emerge and I will be giddy with exercising excitement. I just hope it is soon.

The Results Are In (Kinda).

So did I kill my hair stylist? Nope. Did my ass fall asleep due to the fact that this haircut took about 2.5 hours? Yes. You ever try to walk after your left cheek has fallen into such a slumber that there is no feeling. It’s hard. Do I like my hair? I believe so. It is longish with lots of layers. It will suffice until the pregnancy weight is dropped so that the one and only blunt bob can return. My being at the core is the blunt bob. I feared doing it this weekend because I am far away from blunt bob body. This photo will be my goal in both hair and body:



Once pregnancy created asszilla, bellyzilla and upper thigherzilla are slayed; we can venture back to the bob. Progress is good since John informed me this morning that my ass is half the size it was after giving birth. And yes ladies, he is taken!

This weekend I decided that I have had enough of the moob. Those not in the know, the moob is the result of a big breasted lady wearing a shelf bra tank top as her only support. There is no definition between the breasts, creating a one mammoth boob, or mono-boob, or moob for short. TM pending. In order to have the moob eliminated from my being, I am now wearing one under wire nursing bra and then the shelf nursing tank. Hello boobies! However, it does feels like an anaconda is squeezing the life out of my lungs. But I care not, because it creates two inches of lift. You know how I know this? Because yesterday I leaked breast milk with the bra/tank combo. I then removed the bra. Looking in the mirror there was a two inch differential from the milk stain and where my nipples lay. Two freaking inches. Gravity is not loving to the nursing mother, especially one that has traveled the road before. But I rather have the gravitational pull problem of the big breasted girl, than the deflated balloon problem of the small/medium breasted girl. Because a bra can fix the lift, there is no getting around the deflated balloon boobies. It’s like a gastric bypass patient after weight loss, too much skin and not enough fat. And that ain’t pretty.

Please God, Just Once . . .

Dear Hair,

Tomorrow you have a date with a pair of scissors. Due to pregnancy, bed rest and life with a newborn you have managed to attain record length. Aside from an ill advised decision in college to grow you (oh those photos), this is the longest you have been for a while. Quite frankly, I hate you. Right now your evilness is harness back with an elastic, because when unleashed you seem to engage every orifice on my face causing me to curse and turn red with rage. Not to mention the post pregnancy shedding, there are so many long blackish brown hairs one can take. And I have reached my limit. However hair, there is a problem with the cut. Since arriving in San Francisco almost five years ago, I do not think I have had one haircut in which produced delight within. After the WHE following Owen’s birth, one could say that I have been scissor shy. Actually I am razor shy, because razors and my hair do not agree. I swear to God, if this lady tomorrow attempts to cut my hair with a razor I will punch her and then claim insanity at the assault and battery hearing. So hair, I ask you to behave so that I can get a hairstyling to thrill. I don’t know what I want to do, but it may involve a few shorn inches, maybe bangs, maybe a Pulp Fictionesque Mia, hopefully not tears. Haircutting gods please allow one haircut in which from the salon I emerge without the will to kill. Thank you.

Cassie

Tit for Tat

Today while pumping in our lactation room surrounded by the other pumping bags, all of which were black, it occurred to me - why hide our breast milk pumping ways. I think if I were to design a breast milk bag it would be flesh colored with big boobies on it, maybe a tag that says “Yes, I do in fact, got milk.” I would carry it proudly as people would stare at me and say “Wow, that girls boobies are ginormous for a reason.” or “What a freaking hippie, why do that to your ta-tas?” or “Look at that, the Mother Teresa of nipples.” Why do I have to go camouflage with a bunch of other big black bag having gals about town. At least my bag has an actual purpose to it, rather than an unnecessary object that is continually slamming into my right thigh on MUNI. Do you really need to take your entire apartment with you to work? Do you?