She Likes Purple

What's in a name

I've been naming my children since I was ten, maybe before that. I went through many, many names before finally deciding on my favorites when I was in high school. Tanner, for a boy, and my girl would be Caris*. I carried those names with me for years. I rattled them off to past boyfriends and every one, perhaps fueled by new relationship appeasement, nodded, smiled and agreed they were good names. I knew in my bones none of those boys would be the father, but I loved that the record was proving the woman seems to have the upper-hand in naming privileges. I was sure, I was certain. Those would be my kids' names.

Then I met Mike.

The day I met him, he had a torn piece of paper in his wallet with names he liked written on it. Taylor, Tyler, Jordan.

"You've already named your kids?"

"Uh, I like those names, yeah."

"I have too."

"Really, what are they?"

"Tanner, for a boy."

"That's an awful name."

"Caris, for a girl."

"Maybe the worst name I've ever heard."

My heart sunk. Even then, I knew I wanted him to be the dad.

***************

When we found out I was pregnant, the first fight we had was over the name.

I accepted my first picks weren't going to fly. I accepted there would have to be compromise. I accepted my husband was a stubborn, frustrating man who has way more opinions over his kid's names than any of my past boyfriends. Huh, all those wrong-for-me boys weren't looking quite so incompatible when I was three months pregnant and screaming at Mike, "WHAT IS WRONG WITH ETHAN?"

***************

I went to Texas A&M. Our stadium -- picked best in the Big 12 plenty of times -- is called Kyle Field. The first time I set foot in the place, I thought, Huh, Kyle? I like that name. It'd be cool to marry an Aggie and name our son Kyle.

Then I thought, No chance in hell is that actually going to happen. Besides, he'll be Tanner.

***************

Right after we got pregnant:

"What about Kyle? I love Kyle. It's short, it's easy to spell, it's not too common but not too "where'd they come up with THAT name?"

"Um. Yeah, that's not bad, but I like Parker better."

"I like Kyle better. AND I'M THE ONE CARRYING THE BABY, MY GOD THROW ME A BONE."

"Please stop yelling."

***************

The morning of our revealing-the-sex ultrasound, we were standing at the door STILL arguing over our kid's name. Finally, exasperated, he turned to me and said, "OK, if it's a boy, you can name him. If it's a girl, I'll name her."

"Deal."

"Pinky promise."

"Done."

***************

The ultrasound tech turned the monitor toward us and said, "See that, right there."

"IT'S A BOY!" I screamed. I had seen enough boy u/s pictures to know precisely what I was looking at.

Mike beamed. We laughed and kissed. There wasn't real shock, actually. I always knew it was a boy, in my bones, the way you just know things from time to time.

"He's Kyle," I said as I looked Mike square in the eyes.

"He's Kyle," he said, slightly defeated but still smiling, still happy.

Kyle Parker he became. Kyle Parker he has always been.

***************

So, how did your kid's name come to be what you wrote on the birth certificate? And what is it or what would you like it to be?

***************

*I've never met anyone else who likes the name Caris (other than all those agreeable boys I dated and Michael Douglas and Catherine Zeta-Jones). If you like it, steal it. It's too beautiful a name not to be used by someone I know, someday.

Before you came around

Before you I never:

- wore pink.

- wakeboarded or snowboarded or did any other activity where you strap a board to your feet and hurl yourself against hills or bodies of water.

- knew what the beginning sounds of an asthma attack sounded like. I can get up and retrieve your inhaler in my sleep now. 

- cooked much of anything at all. First lesson in cooking: boil the noodles!

- listened to a single thing put out by Nine Inch Nails or Pink Floyd or Rage Against the Machine. Still couldn't REALLY tell them apart though. I know, I know!

- rode on a motorcycle. First thought the first time I did: Huh, the ground is like RIGHT THERE.

- dreamed of getting rid of my (stupid, not-cute) bangs.

- understood how anyone could spend $50 on a fish that wouldn't be served to me on a plate with sides and a glass of wine.

- played a single hand of Texas Hold 'Em. Since then I've taken money from men twice my age plenty of times. Also? I've outlasted you in more than one tournament.

- knew how to garden. Turns out "full sun" is what a plant requires, not what a plant actually is. (Funny story to share another time.)

- gave a damn about watching anything in HD or recording live TV.

- heard of Blue October. Two of their songs played at our wedding, including our last dance, which was one of my favorite memories of life, not just of that day. (18th Floor Balcony, if you want to listen.)

- traveled with a boyfriend.

- dated a redhead.

- thought much about Shark Week or life on other planets or my carbon footprint or seeing a picture of a giant squid. I've begrudgingly let you make me a smarter, more knowledgeable person on subjects that still bore the heck out of me. Although, fine, that squid show was kinda interesting.

- watched Southpark or Family Guy or Futurama any other animated television show that caters to the funny bones of grown men and 13-year-old boys. AND ONLY THOSE TWO GROUPS.

- regularly put my cart back in the cart thingamajig in grocery store parking lots. Since you? I've never not put my cart back in the cart thingamajig in grocery store parking lots. You make me better.

- knew all the work and sweat and tears and sleepless nights of the daily grind of life could be wiped clear out of memory with one smile, one look, one twirl, one kiss.

- laughed so damn hard.

Guess it's a good thing you came around.

*************

(Inspired by Taza at Rockstar Diaries. Really quirky and cool and inspiring blog. Go take a look.)

First family vacation: check!

The nice woman who gave us her window seat on the plane-ride home early yesterday morning turned to me as we finally de-boarded and said, "Is your baby always so happy?" After I made out with her right there in the aisle, I said, "Um, yeah, he's usually pretty good." And, folks, he is, he was. Our trip to Portland was lovely. He slept through the majority of both flights, and only awoke long enough to suck down a bottle or two and smile at some strangers. Even the hardened redneck who was our seatmate on the flight out turned to me at one point and said, "Well, my fears were for nothing."

I also did a lot of hand-wringing and panicking for, yes, nothing.

And Portland. Ooooh, Portland. What a ridiculously cool place you are! Not exactly the boring, flat, brown landscape I'm used to. There are mountains and trees and roses and hills and vineyards and beaches and, also, no sales tax. Did you know about this, Internet? You can just waltz into a store anywhere in Oregon and know right away if your debit card will be denied or not! Also, you can't pump your own gas in Oregon. It's kind of cute, in theory. Oh, look, it's raining. I'll just sit in my warm car while this nice attendant takes care of my errands for me. Life is hard in beautiful Portland! But, at the ungodly hour of 4 a.m., when you're already late for your flight and the rental car is on empty and the only on-duty attendant is having an intense conversation with a homeless man, it's far less cute. It's also not cute at all to try to pump it yourself (because the situation was dire!) and being yelled at by some bystander, "YOU'LL GET ARRESTED IF YOU DO THAT!" No one likes to be threatened with arrest that early in the morning. BEFORE CAFFEINE.

Small blemishes, though, in an otherwise perfect city/state.

I have so much more to say about the trip and Kyle's first vacation (he ate sand and snow, on the same trip!) and the friends we watched get married and the friends who let us crash at (and tear apart) their adorable home. I have things to say about the fantastic bloggers I met for dinner on Wednesday night and all the delicious and incredible meals we had during our trip, but I want to wait to say all that until I have pictures uploaded to include. So, be patient with me.

Until then, a brief glimpse into our first family vacation (but not our last, oh no):

 

We were in town for a wedding I was honored to be in (for my college roommate) and on Thursday night, Cherie and I joined the bride at a fun Peruvian tapas bar for her bachelorette soiree, and because Cherie's husband couldn't get out of class, Mike stepped up to watch all three babies while we inadvertently ate cow heart (oh, that's not a euphemism or code, although I WISH IT WERE). This picture captures the scene as we were leaving. Mike with a magazine and a beer. The babies plotting their coup. But, he survived! As did the babies! And we survived digesting heart by downing a bottle (or five) of some tasty Pinot Gris.

My girl

Many of you have asked me, through comments or emails, how Molly has handled the transition from only child to OH MY GOD, DOG, IF YOU BARK ONE MORE TIME AND WAKE THE BABY, SO HELP ME, I WILL GIVE YOU AWAY ON THE CORNER. Truthfully, she's handled the transition well. She's handled it so well, in fact, it makes my guilt reach new levels. She has never once growled or shown any hostility toward Kyle. She creeps up to him, daily, so she can steal a quick lick on his hand or sniff his sweet head and then she trots off to remember the good ole days. She listened to him scream as Mike and I did, from day one, and it never made her anxious or crazy, and she has never -- not once! -- acted out through chewing or having accidents or doing anything but being the well-behaved, smart and sweet dog we've always known her to be.

In our old house -- as I shared with you here via poorly-shot video -- we taught Molly how to go in and out of the house by herself. As long as we were home and the back door was unlocked, she could come and go as she pleased, and during Kyle's first couple months, that came to be the one freedom we gave her that she'll always be eternally grateful for. When Kyle would scream (and scream AND SCREAM SOME MORE, OH MY LORD) she'd slowly walk, with her head down, outside and stayed there until everyone's skin stopped melting off.

I mention above that talking about how good Molly has been makes me feel guilty, and that doesn't even scratch the surface. When I was in the throes of what I can now identify as a very normal yet still very hard couple months of post-partum depression, I used to yell at Molly a lot. I didn't want to yell at Kyle, although sometimes I did. I didn't want to yell at Mike, although sometimes I did, so I tried to direct all my anger and frustration and raw emotions at Molly. For one, she listened so well. And when I would scream at her to JUST STOP BARKING, she would. Kyle didn't respond as well when I would beg him to sleep. Ungrateful child. Anyway, she would run off to her bed and wish for a new mom, but she'd do it in silence. I couldn't control very much back then, including my own emotions, so I controlled my poor dog.

I know that every mother has a very different post-birth experience, and when I talk (a bit too openly, perhaps?) about my own, my goal is not to make other moms feel guilty for having a better one. My goal is to tell my story, the way I remember it. Not the entire story, not even half the story, but an honest part. It's the only way I know how to tell it at all. So, when I look back on that time now, I'm finally able (thank god) to see the beautiful parts, the sweet parts, the parts I completely disregarded and ignored at the time, because I was too exhausted and immersed in a vat of STRESS to see clearly at all.

I still can't forgive myself for how I treated Molly those two months, though. All I wanted was for the baby to sleep, and even though my kid can sleep through fireworks and Mama dropping things and both his parents LOSING THEIR SHIT while watching Wipeout, he cannot sleep through Molly barking. He's been woken more times by her than by anything else, and I can only equate how I responded to him crying moments after she starts barking AT THE DAMN DOORBELL ON TV is the scene in "Marley and Me" when Jennifer Aniston finally collapses onto the bed after getting her kids to nap and right then is when the trash guy decides to drive up to the house. You can see her praying for the dog to just NOT BARK, JUST THIS ONCE, but the dog freaks right the hell out and Jennifer's character goes one step further and LOSES HER MIND COMPLETELY. For the most part, that's what I did with Molly every day for two straight months.

So, many of you have asked how Molly has handled the transition from family of three to family of four, and I've been hesitant to answer because answering that question includes also saying this: she's not only handled her new little brother's existence perfectly, she's handled her mom's meltdowns pretty perfectly, too.

When I was pregnant, I threw up a lot. If you're new here, let me say what I've said so many times before, I THREW UP ON MYSELF WHEN I WAS PREGNANT. That's honest-to-god, losing-your-dignity sick. Mike was as supportive as he could be, but when women talk about how often their husbands would hold their hair back as they lost their lunch EVERY DAMN DAY, I can't help but wonder ... why, exactly? I mean, I love my husband's support, don't get me wrong, but I wouldn't let him in that bathroom with me very often. Did our marriage really need to be put through the will-you-still-love-me-as-I-throw-up-my-pizza test? But Molly would sit in the bathroom with me every single time I'd get sick. She'd sit quietly and close and she'd only start wagging her tail as I'd splash water on my face.

Someone once said that Molly is not my baby, she's my dog. I'm not her mom, I'm her master. We talked it over, the commenter and I, and agreed to disagree. See, I pieced something together a couple months back, and it's one of the reasons my guilt wraps itself around me every now and then and squeezes. Molly doesn't bark when I come home from work or when I come home from dinner with a friend and Mike is home with Kyle. She only barks when I am home alone. She may love her father more -- um, who could blame her -- but she's protective of me. She knows I need more than he does. She knows I'm scared of more than he is. She gets me, completely, and she loves me all the same. She's not just my dog. No way, no how.

While we're gone this week, my girl will turn six. She'll be with her grandparents, and she'll be spoiled rotten, just as she'd prefer it. On her birthday, on every day, I hope she knows I love her, even though I don't always act like it, even though most days she deserves a mama who treats her like the perfect sidekick she is.

Sweaty palms

One thing you should know about me if you're a new reader or you just don't pay attention very well is how much I hate the Texas heat. I get in more fights with weather.com than I get in with my own husband. I walk out of the house each and every morning (BEFORE 7 A.M.) and melt onto our new, fancy driveway. Then, when I leave work (WELL INTO THE LATE AFTERNOON/EARLY EVENING), I melt again. From the early part of June into the middle of October there is no break from the heat, and usually it makes fun impromptu appearances during November and December and March and April. So, yeah, we get January and February to feel like normal, non-sweating, happy people, but just because Texas is the crankiest bitch of all the states, we spend those two months driving through ice storms.

I've begrudgingly accepted that this is where I live, and I'll continue to live here for at least the next three years if I want to keep every dollar of that lovely first-time home-buyer tax credit I should have had a week ago. I've accepted that no place is perfect and in order to have free  babysitting family nearby, we have had to make some sacrifices. Like feeling comfortable. And enjoying outside activities. And also going anywhere or doing anything. 

We all have our crosses to bear. Mine happens to be triple-digit temperatures for half the year.

There are silver linings to every miserable situation you may find yourself in, though, and with the Texas heat comes a little something called CENTRAL AIR. Every place you go is equipped with air conditioning, and that's a beautiful thing, let me tell ya. Also, vacations. Wherever you go on your summer vacation, you're bound to enjoy a small break from the sweltering Texas heat. Sure, you have to pay for flights and hotels and rental cars, but you can pack your good clothes BECAUSE YOU WILL NOT BE RUINING THEM WITH GALLONS OF SWEAT. That's lovely.

And, wouldn't you know, I was due for a summer vacation. Leaving tomorrow! Even though I have been fairly anxiety-ridden about our trip to Portland, I was still excited because it's 1) a vacation! and 2) a vacation to a region of the country that is not known for its water parks!

I emailed my friend, Cherie, who lives in Portland and who is hosting my little family during our time in Oregon, and in between making plans and sending info, she said this little sentence that killed my soul dead:

Pack light, we may see some crazy weather this weekend. Triple digits!

Thank god for tequila.

***************

I bet many of you are embarking on your own summer vacation this week, to BlogHer, the annual blogging convention that brings together thousands of women (and men!) who spend at least part of their time writing on the Internet. I went last year, and I had a great time, even though I was nine-weeks pregnant and therefore exhausted from the moment I woke up until the moment I collapsed in bed at 9:30 each night. I wish I had felt better and could have downed a couple glasses of champagne to give me the courage to chat with some of my online inspirations, but it was still one of those invaluable experiences I am so glad to have had. I wanted to go this year, and I hope to go next year.

If you're going -- for the first time or otherwise -- try to relax and enjoy yourself. I had a typed-out schedule last year (god, that's not cool) because I wanted to cram in as much into my days as I could, but, usually, the fetus had other plans. That's how it goes, and I should have rolled with the punches better. I also wish I had loosened up a little more. I wish I had explored more and talked to people I didn't know more instead of scanning the room for people I recognized. I wish I hadn't been so worried about people liking me or not liking me and just embraced the moments as they came. I also wish I had enjoyed more free Snickers.

If you're sitting at a table alone or if you're the center of attention on the dance floor, enjoy the moment, stand up straight and remember you've found your place on the Internet, and there's room enough for all of us. Just because you may not be reading a post at the Community Keynote doesn't mean you aren't an Internet rock star to someone. You may have 15 page views a day or 15,000, but you've got what matters: a space to be yourself and a group of people who think you're rad. And they're right. You are. So enjoy yourself. Take pictures. Smile. Breathe.

Hope to meet you next year, if I didn't get to last year.

(Although, hey, I am getting to meet two bloggers during my Portland trip. The Internet is so cool. UNLIKE TEXAS.)

Life these days

Life is getting pretty exciting around here, and I can't help but think it's because a certain baby will be six months old in a few weeks. Not yet, no, but soon. Back when he was nothing more than a pooping blob of screams, someone said to me, "Just wait. When he's six months old, he'll be more fun than you can stand." I said back to this person, "SIX FREAKING MONTHS FROM NOW? Well, that does me a lot of good TODAY." (I was grouchy but, lo, I was exhausted.) That person didn't even scratch the surface, though. Kyle is not just fun, he's MIND BLOWING. He's not just enjoyable, he's UNBELIEVABLE. He's always been a person, yes, but he's now this real little boy with his own likes and dislikes and preferences and a REAL sense of humor. He's just so damn cool.

Last night Mike and I were lying in bed, talking about this and that. I said to him, "It sucked for awhile but it doesn't suck anymore, does it?" He laughed and said, "No, it doesn't. Life is good."

That's not the only reason excitement is in the air, but it's the start and the end of it all. A happy baby does wonders for the soul.

In addition to Kyle (and his grinning, drooling self), this marks the month we start traveling again. Mike and I are explorers at heart, and because we've planted roots in a place where we never thought we'd plant roots (funny how life works out, you know?), we've committed to seeing as much of the world as we can. Traveling isn't a luxury. Vacations aren't something you take if there's extra money. I believe you should plan and save for trips the way you plan and save for home projects or car repairs or other necessities of life. Life is too short to travel next year. You can explore on a budget, I assure you, and you should you should you should. This month (next week!) we're off on baby's first cross-country adventure. We're traveling to Portland to see a dear friend get married, and we're squeezing in as much fun as we can while there.

We have other trips planned throughout the rest of the year. Some with the boy, some without, but we're stoked that with these trips, we're reclaiming the part of our past lives we genuinely missed. I don't miss much (other than the waistline and all that extra cash we're now pouring into diapers and day care), but trips heal me, so I'm glad to have a few on the horizon to look forward to.

(And, I know that traveling WITH a baby is drastically different and far less relaxing than traveling WITHOUT a baby, which is why we're balancing trips WITH the baby with trips WITHOUT the baby. Our jaunt to Portland may be utterly exhausting but our trip to Vegas this October will be utterly exhausting because of all the alcohol and not all the demanding baby needs. Not to mention my Escape to Sacramento, which is going to be more of a baby-free, all-over California Adventure. So, no romantic notions of traveling easily and painlessly with an infant, I assure you!)

(That does remind me, though, any thoughts on how to fly with a baby and a sound mind all at the same time?)

Randomly going back to talk about my waistline, I've started losing weight (mentioned here) and it's amazing what that's done for my state of mind. I'm not saying the key to happiness is weight loss, but when you start eeking your way toward any goal, it feels empowering. One aspect of moving toward this goal has been meal planning, and this week marked the first week I cooked at home every single night. That's pathetic, I KNOW, but it's the truth. (Oh, to clarify, I mean first as in EVER not first as in this month or year.) (That clarification did nothing but make you think I'm MORE pathetic, I know.) Sundays will hopefully become our menu planning/grocery shopping extravaganza days, and I've become sort of obsessed with the task of bookmarking and choosing recipes, so if you have any you'd like to share, my husband and my thighs thank you. (This week we made grilled steak and baked beans, feta-stuffed turkey burgers with a side of broccoli, jambalaya and a veggie pasta. Tonight is Greek pitas with pan-seared mushrooms.)

 

Looks like someone else is just as excited about life as I am.

Tell me, what are you excited about these days?

Help me enjoy my commute

We've already established my commute blows. I drive about an hour each way. But, hey, the crazy-long drive filled with tailgating asshats is my choice, so even though I reserve the right to bitch about it, I don't expect you to feel sorry for me. I would love to fill those hours with something other than the top-40 station forcing me to listen to Miley Cyrus' new song over and over, though. Yes, yes, I could just change the station but damn if Miley doesn't put out some catchy tunes. Anyway, I'd like to listen to some audio books on my commute as I think that would be one helluva silver lining.

So, tell me, what is the last great book you read?

Will a smushy baby picture entice you to comment? I sure hope so.

He loves my phone, and on this particular day he fell asleep while playing with it. Or, as I told Mike, he was obviously keeping the phone nearby in case any hot ladies called.

Cause and effect

It's been a little over five months since I gave birth, and my crazy pregnancy self thought I'd be in a bikini by now. The same crazy pregnancy self who was shoveling chocolate croissants into her mouth at impressive speeds. Cause and effect, crazy pregnant lady. Look it up.

I've been puttering around the last couple months, wanting so badly to lose the baby weight but also wanting so badly to hang on tightly to my Taco Bell/Wendy's/Jack N the Box addictions. GUESS WHICH DESIRE WAS KICKING THE OTHER'S ASS? I wasn't doing myself any good, and every time I'd try to kick start the weight-loss, I'd trip all over my own excuses and negativity.

My next post is up at Bodies in Motivation, and in it I talk about being aware of both the food I'm consuming and the way I internally talk to myself. These are two integral parts of weight-loss, I think. As I said in the BIM post, "If I knew a friend was  struggling with weight, I’d offer a million different words of encouragement yet, before now, I never offered myself a single one." That's bullshit, right? I deserve the same positive words I offer my best friend or my sister or a favorite blogger.

I tried to skirt around this for weeks, but there's a serious connection between how you feel inside and how you look outside and although it's a crazy, destructive pattern (I feel like crap because I eat badly because I feel like crap), I think -- as with anything else in life -- acknowledging and being aware is the first, painful step. Getting over that first, painful step is crucial to sailing on to a happier and healthier life.

Additionally, in the same BIM post, I talk about being somewhat complacent about life (food, fitness, finances) and that -- surprise, surprise -- no one is going to be my biggest fan or my strongest advocate if I don't take those roles seriously myself. If I can't be proactive when it comes to the important things in life, why would anyone else be proactive on my behalf?

Basically, this past week has been a really important one for me. I'm starting to realize how much control I have over my own happiness and health, and it's as simple as believing I'm worth the energy and the time.

Oh, and this week I lost 4 pounds.

Cause and effect. Seems I looked it up.

Would like you to know

Kyle would like you to know his hand is the most delicious thing he's ever tasted. Or he's teething. Or he's just a regular baby. Basically, Kyle wants to confuse the hell out of you until you throw your hands up in despair. Then he'd like you to know you can't possibly stay frustrated with him. BECAUSE HE'S TOO MUNCHABLE FOR GRUDGES!

I would like my husband to know I need an iPhone. This BlackBerry crap ain't cutting it anymore. I may look better fuzzy and in poor lighting, but my boy doesn't.

And Molly would like you to know she was sitting just across the room when this photo was taken and no one even bothered to ask her if she'd like to be in the frame. No one even bothered to look in her direction. Not even the one who screams a lot. (Not sure who she's referring to. We all scream a lot in this family.)

I would like you to know we're about to head out to Wal-Mart, which would kill my soul if the Wal-Mart in our new town wasn't pretty OK. I KNOW. THAT'S CRAZY TALK. But, the lighting doesn't make me want to hurt myself and everyone seems to keep their shirt and shoes on.

Finally, we'd all like you to have a really great weekend, soaked in wine and sleep and reality television. We would like our weekend to be soaked in the same things.

See you Monday! Or on Twitter! Or at Wal-Mart!

Perfect post

For those of you who know nothing about the blogging community, this may sound like jibberish, but sometimes it surprises me who is considered a "bigger" or "more popular" blogger. (Of course sometimes it just plain doesn't.) Sure, It's a matter of taste -- when it comes to writing, tastes vary wildly; you still can't convince me Dickens isn't anything but boring garbage, but my eighth grade English teacher disagreed with me pretty strongly -- but, still, there are times when I see someone's Twitter followers number or the amount of regular comments they get, and I think, Huh, I must be missing something. And, sometimes I stumble upon someone who is so ridiculously talented and inspiring and honest, I simply can't believe they're not being offered a respectable salary by anyone with a brain to continue putting their thoughts on the Internet day in and day out.

Elizabeth is in the latter group.

From her post today:

"This was the week you gave your first spanking – quick as lightning, without thought, as glass shattered everywhere and your son headed for the thick of it, and then the instant afterwards, his face crumpled and you saw his dream of you change, right there, right before your eyes, and it made you hate yourself so very much. . . . and that night you sleep curled into a C, wrapped around your son, and you listen for his breathing, and you think as hard as you can that you want so much to take it all back, all the yelling and complaining and declaring 'I have had enough from you!' and it’s all you can feel, all you can think, that you take it all back, as hard as you can."

Confession: When I first had Kyle, I had to stop reading a few blogs. I was having a hard go of it, and I would get even sadder when I'd read about other people's perfect, shiny lives with children who never screamed, who slept all the time, who never forced their moms into the closet to cry. Thankfully, life is pretty sweet again, and I see the shine on a daily basis, but I'm still not inspired much by perfection. 

I not only kept reading Elizabeth during those early weeks, I inhaled her archives and read certain posts over and over. Not because her life isn't bright -- it's blinding, I'd say -- but because she's brave and fearless and real.

Sometimes I don't get a blogger's appeal. Other times, I want everyone I've ever known to click on a certain link, so they too can be changed by a few simple words.

(And her boy really is that adorable; I've met him myself.)

Adorable regression

He was sleeping solidly for a week and then the last two nights he's been up screaming at various points. (1 a.m., 3 a.m., 5 a.m.) Not just regular, don't-want-to-sleep screams, but painful, awful screams. I think maybe he's had a bad dream (is this even possible?), but, regardless, he's pretty damn inconsolable for an hour or so. Then, out of nowhere, he's asleep again, almost immediately back in that heavy breathing, deep baby sleep. Don't know what's going on. (Thoughts?) I hope it's just a bump in the road. That it's just one of those normal, expected one-step-back phases of parenthood/babyhood that reminds me how futile the goal of progress is in this new life of ours. We take things as they come. Regression is almost a definite guarantee.

Another guarantee? That I'll do my best to keep him well-documented. I can't remember every moment, so, thank god, I'll have all these pictures to jog my foggy, mom memory.

 

 

He's starting to reach for everything and anything. It makes meals especially interesting. "No, no, love, you can't have daddy's beer until you're 16 and are sneaking them in the backyard with your girlfriend." He's also started grabbing faces and pulling them towards his open mouth. It's adorable, really, although Molly would whole-heartedly disagree.

Here's Ky and his girlfriend, Payton (my friend Crystal's 10-month old baby girl who is, my god, the same size as Kyle; thankfully she likes her boyfriends strapping and beefcakey). As Crystal captioned this photo, "She can't keep her hands off him!" He's irresistible, I can't disagree.

At the July Fourth BBQ we went to this past Saturday. Kyle took another dip in the pool and was caught grabbing hands with Payton. Who says arranged marriages are a thing of the past!

For those not following the rocking chair series on flickr, here's week twenty-one.

85 toys to choose from, and he'd prefer munching on his hands.

Just try not to love a sleeping baby. It's impossible. For many, many reasons.

Happy Wednesday to you. Wish for us a scream-free night tonight!

Kinder

I've been ridiculously hard on myself since Kyle was born. I've been constantly angry at myself over losing my temper too often, for not cooking regularly, for not losing all the baby weight yet, for not handling my responsibilities better, for not keeping stress at bay. So, I've been doing something a little crazy in order to counter all that internal pressure: I've been taking on more and more and more. It's how I work. The guilt is ridiculous, so I foolishly think I can alleviate it by adding just one more thing to my plate. And before I know it, my head explodes!

Hi, I'm crazy, how are you?

After feeling like a bison for nine months while pregnant, I so wanted to go right back to feeling normal the day I gave birth, both physically and emotionally. I assumed life would be different, but I didn't want to feel different. I wanted to remain, more or less, the person I was before.

I haven't.

I'm not.

I think this is a mixture of many things: lingering hormones, stress, the extra weight, the pressure of being a new mom and what that means for me as a person and as a wife, the plain responsibility of not only raising a child but raising a happy, well-adjusted boy. I just don't think I've handled the pressure as well as I had hoped I would, at least not internally.

Life is really very good, and I always fret about putting out a negative-toned post because I'm not crying in the corner every day! There's a lot of love, a lot of happiness, a lot of laughs! We have a beautiful boy! A new home! Upcoming vacations planned! (Vegas, yo!) But, come on, isn't it OK to just say out loud, I've been too hard on myself, and I'm having a particularly crappy day today, and it's making me all introspective and shit. 

I dream big, and I look for silver linings. I think happiness is a choice, something you make, not something you are lucky enough to stumble upon. I think you wake up each day and make many, many decisions: what to eat, how to treat people, how often to smile, etc. At the end of the day, if you're worn out or exhausted or feeling blue, you can decide to start fresh the next day. Your choices. Your life. It is what you make of it. I believe these things. I believe in working hard and fighting for what matters and trying my best day in and day out. What I don't believe -- or at least don't practice enough of --  is letting myself off the hook when I fall short of who I want to be. When I can't shake the bad mood, when I can't muster a smile for a stranger, when I eat a cupcake instead of a head of broccoli, I can't let it go. I can't shake it. I beat myself up for hours, for days, for years and then I feel guilty for doing that, so I spread myself too thin to make up for it all.

My god. I'm exhausted just writing all that!

I'm sharing because I believe I'm not the only mom/woman/HUMAN who feels this way. The constant up and down of life, with all its pressures and stresses and LACK OF SLEEP and did I mention pressures? Oh, what about stresses?

I'm sharing because I think most women need to take better care of themselves, and not just in the form of girls' nights out or a trip to the spa or sleeping in from time to time or squeezing in a workout that really will make the foggy look bright, but in terms of the way we talk to ourselves, the way we mentally and emotionally treat ourselves. The way we tend to hold grudges with ourselves and keep a nasty account of all the times we've slipped up, fallen short, yelled too loud, drank too much, ate thirds when seconds was really quite enough. We forgive others so often -- at least I do. We see the good, offer the benefit of the doubt, allow the "just having a bad day" excuse to wipe slates clean and clear, but we can't do the same with ourselves. 

What much better lives we'd lead if we could.

Five months

Dear Kyle,

Just yesterday, you figured out how to play your own version of peek-a-boo with me. You buried your face into my chest and then looked at me, and I laughed. Then you got a sneaky smile on your face and did it again and again and again, waiting for me to laugh each time. Basically, kid, YOU ARE BRILLIANT. Some may say I'm tainted with mom eyes, but to them I'd say TRYING TO MAKE ME LAUGH AT FIVE MONTHS OF AGE. That's hands-down proof right there. Can't convince me otherwise.

This month has been crazy, just as all the months since your birth have been, it seems -- drop a baby into anyone's lives, and I'm sure the adjective they'd use to describe things would be CAH-RAZY -- but this month we decided to buy our first house and move into it, and, boy, did that take the crazy up a notch. Your father and I have moved a lot in the course of our relationship, but moving with a baby is different in that it sucks about 85 times more. And a few weekends in a row disrupting your nap schedule rightly pissed you off. Our first official day in our new home was last Sunday, and you spent most of that day screaming. I couldn't even blame you. I wanted to do precisely the same thing. We had family in town, so we needed to go to dinner as there was nowhere to eat at our new place except the back porch, and on that particular day it was something like 178 degrees outside. I was internally FREAKING OUT because taking you out in public in your state was like poking the world's largest and grumpiest bear. WITH A BRANDING IRON. Who takes a tired, screaming baby out to a restaurant? Well. I do. But, get this, you didn't make a peep the entire time at dinner and THEN you slept through the night that night and basically have every night since then. I KNOW! We should have moved the first week you were born!

Sleeping through the night is the milestone I have been (im)patiently waiting for and dreaming about for, oh, FIVE MONTHS NOW. I think it's actually something you could have done awhile ago; you haven't been eating much in the middle of the night since around 10 weeks or so. Basically you were just getting up to party and check things out, and, hey, I'm not judging, I've enjoyed many a 2 a.m. party myself. I know we could have let you cry it out -- we probably would have had you sleeping through the night some time ago if we had -- and if I had reached the end of my exhausted, frayed rope, I probably would have resorted to that. I'm not some superior mom because I couldn't bring myself to let you cry in your crib. I simply knew my limits, and although you came MIGHTY close to breaking them, you never quite did. So I would get up and pop that pacifier back in your mouth or hold you a little to calm you back down or turn your music thingamajig back on when you would get fussy, and then I'd try to sleep for as long as you'd let me until you needed me to do one or all of those things again. And it suuuuuucked, there's no way around it. I have big plans to record your screams one day, so I can play them back for you when you're 17 and still in bed at 2 p.m., but it never sucked so badly that I couldn't handle it, even if I had to cry and mutter profanities whilst handling it. But, it seems you've pretty much rounded the turn. You sleep (give or take) from about 9 p.m. to 6 a.m. and my former self -- my high school or college self -- would cringe at those hours. SIX O'CLOCK? IN THE MORNING? But after seeing the hours of midnight and then 2 a.m. and then 4 a.m. and then 6 a.m. at various points in the last five months, those hours are golden. Those hours are magical. Those hours are fucking perfect.

In addition to sleeping through the night, you're also becoming sweeter and more enjoyable with every passing day. I sound like a broken record when I say that because in each letter I say something along those lines, but, my god, it's true. You smile at anyone who looks your way, you flirt with anyone in a skirt who looks your way, and you adore all the people you rightfully should (your grandparents, our close friends, your teachers, your dad and me). You just like people and you just like life, and I'm always a little stunned at this because I vividly remember how you liked absolutely nothing those first couple months of your life. Over the weekend we took you to a couple different places -- a BBQ, out to eat more than once -- and several people commented on how happy you are. "What a happy baby!" they'd squeal, as you smirked and laughed at them. And, man, those words were like a gift to me. Not because having a happy baby is easier than having a screaming baby -- although, of course, it is -- but because from the moment you were born, all I wanted was your happiness. Seeing it come alive right in front of me is bliss, sweet boy. Pure bliss.

Some other things you're doing this month: the pacifier staredown (thanks, Jen!), trying to hold your bottle yourself, testing out real food from a real spoon, grabbing everything you can, putting everything you grab right into your mouth including my phone and your dad's beer (parenting win!), losing your hair, chunking up and almost sitting up unassisted (we're just a few weeks away, I think).

So, this move of ours has taken me a little farther from work and has plopped us into a small town. We regularly see goats right across the street from our house, and we had to buy a RIDING MOWER to take care of our expansive yard. Also, a neighbor brought hand-grown tomatoes over last night and said, without sarcasm, "I've been watching you for a week now to see when a good time to come over would be." Um, cool. Also, CREEPY. But for a girl who grew up in San Francisco, this twist of fate shocks no one more than me. If you had told me, even six years ago, that I'd be married to the man I'm married to, raising the boy I'm raising in an old farmhouse on a half acre of land, miles and miles from the closest high rise, I'd have laughed at you and then cried into a pillow. It wouldn't have sounded much fun to me. What about all the adventures I planned to have? What about the city life I assumed I was one day destined for? What about the bugs? I know we serve as a cautionary tale for some -- the college-educated professionals who skipped out on living close to work and close to downtown life in order to give our kid a yard and a rocks-and-dirt, hunting-for-worms childhood. I know it seems like we've sacrificed more than we're getting in return. My 21-year-old self would think the same things. She'd turn her nose up so quickly at this little life of mine, she'd hurt herself. And you may hear your dad and I complain from time to time about the driving and the yard work and, yes, the bugs. KYLE, YOU WILL HEAR MUCH COMPLAINING ABOUT THE BUGS. But know this, now and always: I have never, ever had more fun in my life or had such wild adventures as I'm having now. They don't look anything like I planned, no, but they knock any of my before-you dreams right on their ass. This isn't just the life I want, kiddo, this is the life I need.

The night we moved into our house, you were snoozing in your crib, and your dad and I popped open a bottle of champagne and toasted to our new beginning, our new life in our new home. We stood in the kitchen, boxes all askew, and smiled big and bright at one another. It's been a helluva year so far, and 2009 will easily go down as the craziest, most insane, hardest, most glorious year of our lives. The year we hoped maybe, possibly for a healthy baby and instead were handed the world.

I love you so much, buddy,

Your Mama

Winning, losing

Sometimes I remind Mike how tired I am, as if he's spent the last four months lounging in the backyard with an endless supply of frosty beers. Sometimes, when he tells me what a hard day he has had, I have to fight the urge to say, "Really? Well, I GOT up three times last night and my commute is AN HOUR and I STILL haven't lost the baby weight!" Occasionally, I walk around the house shutting doors a little harder than usual until he asks what's wrong, just so I can bite back, "I could just use a little more help around here." Sometimes, I'm hell bent on proving I do so much that I forget I'm not some worn-down martyr, I'm my boy's mom.

If I had to tell you the hardest part about being a co-parent, it would easily be keeping the desire to one-up my husband at bay. No one gets a trophy at the end of the day. No one wins at parenting. Easy as hell to type; harder to remember on a sleep-deprived Monday night. Exhaustion can be a real bitch.

That's not to say Mike shouldn't help or doesn't have it a little easier. He probably wouldn't argue either of those points, but no one benefits from competitive screaming matches or building resentment or keeping score. No one walks out of those one-upping fights feeling eager to pat themselves on the back for proving their point the most effectively. Oh, being right is such a double-edged sword. There's one solid second of feeling triumphant and grand and then, wouldn't you know, you feel like crap the rest of the day. Euphoria coated in guilt. Kind of a hard pill to swallow.

The last four months have been the hardest months of my relationship with Mike, easily. There have been tears and yelling and anger and guilt. Stifling, paralyzing guilt for all the yelling and tears and anger. There have been days I so desperately craved sleep, I would angrily guilt Mike into watching Kyle, so I could lock the door and climb under the covers. You know what I didn't do enough of? Simply asking my husband if he would watch our boy, so I could sleep. He's never said no to a request like that. He never would. I'm married to a good man, so what the hell is wrong with me?

I think, ultimately, it's hard for women to need or ask for help. There's something kind of nice about doing it all, juggling every little task, flying my superwoman flag high. Hey, I like when it feels like I'm the sole reason anything gets done around my house; that without me everything in our little lives would crumble. You need me suckers! But, GOD, do I have to do everything? Can't I just get one stupid, damned nap? Yeah. My husband probably bit off a hair more than he can chew with me.

Sigh.

So, what am I trying to say? Basically, I've gotten absolutely no satisfaction by sticking it to Mike when I'm feeling beat down. The best moments of the last four months -- and there have been tons and tons of good ones -- are when we're all taking care of one another and when we throw out the score card and focus instead on joy, on happiness, on being good to the people we vowed to be good to. Also, when we're watching Wipeout. (I'm sorry, but if you can't laugh at Wipeout -- regardless of what else is going on in your life -- you're made of stone.)

Kyle may never remember every little thing I do for him. He'll definitely never remember the changing table meltdowns or the spit-up in my hair. He won't remember the exhaustion of this time. But, safe to say, he will remember my smile, my laugh, my joy. He won't remember that his mom totally got up more than his dad or his mom drove farther to work or his mom changed more diapers. One day, though, he'll be able to sense if we like each other and if we enjoy being together. 

I've never heard someone wish his or her parents had been a little less kind to one another. I've never met anyone who wishes his or her mom was just a little less happy.