Monday, August 22, 2011

Sleeves and Grace

Most of my blog posts are actually really lengthy extensions of my already really lengthy facebook status updates, and this one is no exception. Today's really lengthy status update was as follows (you know you're self-absorbed when you quote yourself...did I mention the word "self"?):

"Lana bla bla bla (fake facebook name) just resigned from a brief and highly disconcerting church gig, and it feels SO liberating! No more critiques of my sloppy attire and my diction and repertoire choices. I'm sorry Mary Baker Eddy, but I'm pretty sure Jesus doesn't give a rat's ARSE how long my sleeves are, and enough with all the the talk about 'Error'. Did you somehow skip the section about forgiveness and Grace in the Bible?"


What followed was the usual silly string of comments about shirt sleeves and prostitution. But then a good friend whom I've known for many years sent me a message that said "We've talked about grace in the past. I like it when you talk about grace". My knee jerk reaction was to respond with some witty pun ("who is Grace? Why are you so obsessed with her?") but then I thought that perhaps this would be a good chance to partake in my annual "hey, I'm actually kinda spiritual n' stuff" religion-themed post.

I've had many singing gigs in churches. Most of them have been an odd but lovely concoction of interpersonal relations, desperate soprano section pitch matching efforts, and last but never least (much as I try to make it so), God. I once sang at a church in Tucson which had a, hem hem, "cowboy service". I will never forget the visual image of the round elderly folk scattered through the pews, their cowboy hats bobbing diligently atop their heads as they nodded along to the sermon. Nor will I forget the time the stoned organist at another gig dropped a large Bach cantata score onto the organ in the middle of silent prayer, causing an obscenely loud and flatulent organ tone to resonate through the sanctuary. Needless to say, I did not succeed at maintaining a professional demeanor, and am still not sure how I recovered from the fit of gut-wrenching giggles that ensued.

So I was unpleasantly surprised when I began this latest gig and found myself missing all of the quirks I had come to love in my previous positions. The interpersonal relationships consisted of passive aggressive phone calls about the dress code and may failure to meet it. There was no pitch matching, because I sang antiquated and joyless solos to a small frowning congregation. Who knew I would miss those screechy untrained soprano section voices so much? And finally, there was no God. At least not the God I have come to believe in...who is, in my humble opinion, full of Grace.

But what the hell IS Grace (note: currently resisting more puns about the name)? I think it's different for everyone. For me, it's easier to identify what it isn't. It's NOT the idea that God is sitting at a judgement table above, ready to pound the gavel (is that even a word?) whenever we screw up. It's NOT the idea that you will be punished for all of your mistakes. And it's NOT the idea that if you take a wrong turn in your life, all will be lost.

I found grace in the second chances life gives you, and trust me, I've needed every second chance I could get. I found grace in the fact that the people who love me are far more understanding of me than I ever am of myself. I found grace by meeting my husband at a wedding in Montana, despite the fact that he worked two blocks away from me in Seattle. And I found grace by getting pregnant unexpectedly while trying to recover emotionally from a miscarriage, and later giving birth to the greatest joy of my life.

So when it comes down to it, I left this gig not because of the passive aggressive wardrobe suggestions. I left it because the liturgy was full of language about "Error"; How to fix it, how to control it, and how to rid it from your life via studious devotion to the cryptic writing of a 19th century woman named Mary. I just couldn't take it anymore. I've wasted too much of my life in toxic churches that heap more guilt onto my counterproductive tendency to punish myself for the slightest screw up. Maybe if we earnest Christians (or recovering Christians) could all just get the frick over ourselves and our guilt about being human, there would be more room in our spirits for grace and God to find a humble home.

Last, since any discussion of God would be incomplete without music, I'll conclude this post on a happy note (chortle chortle) with one of my favorite grace-themed songs by the great Stevie Wonder (click here).






Friday, June 17, 2011

Why I will never be one of those jogging stroller moms...

Yet another profound revelation. I will never be a jogging stroller mom (henceforth referred to as JSM, because my fingers are lazy, at least when it comes to some activities..insert innuendo here).

Before I had my own chid, I would shuffle around Greenlake and stare with admiration as the JSMs passed me by with their limber size -2 postpartum bodies, their children sitting like perfect dolls in the safe confines of a pricey stroller Hummer. I sort of hated them, mostly because I knew they probably lived in some adorable 5 bedroom craftsman bungalow in a prestigious Seattle neighborhood which I would never be able to afford. Have I mentioned that envy is one of my biggest defects of character? But I also sort of loved them, because their toned bodies meant that if I had a baby, I would not be forced to become a chubby, frumpy mom with a cheap haircut and pleated stone-washed jeans. They offered proof that I could be a mom AND a fitness goddess, both goals that I hoped to achieve before age 45!

I've achieved one of those goals (I'll let you guess which one) and today, I took that fussy little goal on our first jogging stroller adventure. During that 20 minutes of sheer unadulterated non-bliss, I realized a few things. And thus commences yet another blog entry list:

1) Although I am utterly and completely in love with my child, why would I bring the fussy creature WITH me when I exercise, when I can use exercise as a way to get a few precious hours to myself???

2) I don't care how well designed a jogging stroller is or how many gadgets it includes. Pushing a large object wile running is simply NOT A NATURAL HUMAN ACTIVITY! I can't tell you how many times I nearly a) ran into the stroller when it slowed down, b) ran into the people walking by me and smiling at my screaming child, or c) pushed the stroller INTO the lake I was running next to.

3) I had to stop about 40 times due to Elliot's fun new game, called "throw my binky from the stroller, say 'uh oh' in my little imp voice, whine at mommy until she returns said binky despite her assertive proclamations of "ALL DONE BINKY", suck on binky for roughly .006 seconds once I've worn my annoyed mommy down, and then commence the game again".

After Elliot's binky mysteriously propelled itself 20 feet in the air for the umpteenth time, a JSM prototype passed me by. Her perfectly colored hair bounced cheerfully as her slender legs carried her and her non-binky-catapulting child forward. Then she did something utterly unexpected. She SMILED at me! I think she thought "yay! Another JSM, she and I could be BFF!". Little did she know I was mentally exploring my entire lexicon of curse words. But I smiled back at her in a friendly JSM club greeting, secretly thinking "you seem nice lady, but this club SUCKS".

And yet again I've realized that the things that I envy are not always what they seem. So I'm starting my own club called "mildly fit moms who go to yoga and Zumba as often as they can so their wonderful husbands have to put their fussy child to bed".

Wednesday, June 15, 2011

Why shave this summer, when you can wear THIS???

That's right ladies. Put away those razers, trimmers, waxers, and other doodads that I have never figured out how to use. This fashion gurista is here to tell you that full-coverage swimwear is in your future! I have yet to find any full-coverage swimwear that isn't considered an antique item from the 1920s, but that is neither here nor there.


Seriously though, each year as summer approaches, I live in dread of my annual bloody battles with the dreaded bikini line. My husband will be the first to tell you (in a very mournful tone) that the razor and I are NOT BFF. In fact, we're not even FF. We're more like EF (enemies forever??? DUH!). And this is because the razor hurts my skin, my confidence, and my mood.

So why not wax, you may ask? I've done it before. Twice in fact, and both times in lovely serene spa settings. The first time was a month before I gave birth (mainly b/c all the mom blogs told me to do it, and I somehow thought I would end up with a C-section if I didn't wax and get a pedi before entering the hospital). The second time was a week before we went to Hawaii last fall. I would love to go to wax spa new age music therapy on a monthly basis, but who can afford THAT?

This may lead you to ask the next logical question, "why not go to a cheap Asian spa for a cheap Asian wax job?". Um, no thank you. I love the women who work in such places, and I have nothing against people of Asian heritage. However, the Asian spa ladies are not known for gentle touches OR tact. If I wanted to be insulted and plucked violently, I would hang out with my $2 razor, thank you very much.

And so in my attempt to maintain my dignity and avoid razor burn in awkward places this summer, I've just purchased a wonderful little invention called "board shorts". They are...wait for it....shorts that you wear while swimming!!!! Who knew? Granted they are designed for athletic surfer chics...which I am clearly not one of. But I'm willing to walk around with a fake surfboard if that's what it takes to gain the right to wear shorts to the pool. Either that, or I'll travel in time to the 1920s, when swimwear was more dignified.

Tuesday, April 12, 2011

Shameless 1st birthday gushathon

My baby boy is turning one in two days. I have absolutely no clue how to wrap my brain around this, let alone put words to how much I adore the little imp.
At times I can actually feel my heart stretching and filling with unfathomable amounts of love for him. Not to say that there aren't times when I feel my pulse racing with unfathomable amounts of annoyance and fatigue. You know that inhumanely tear-jerking scene in Titanic when Leo freezes in the water and Kate then lets him go and he floats down into the depths? Well, I love this kid so much that I would float to the bottom of the coldest sea for him. I also love him so much that I will never force him to watch Titanic.


So my sweet precious son, as you blossom from a tiny infant to a little a toddler, these are my birthday wishes for you:

May you find the world as goofy and silly as it really is (if you ever forget this, take a look at the obese squirrels in our backyard, or the wombat picture in your room).

May you learn to walk through trials instead of around them. And may you learn to walk in general, you know, whenever you're ready.

May you know that you are loved; imperfectly by your family, and perfectly by the Divine.

May you march to your own rhythm, even if it ends up being faster or slower than that of your peers.

May you stay out of the scary neighbor's yard.

May your young passions blossom into sustainable and fulfilling relationships.

May you be blessed with friends...and may your friends not be total brats.

May you realize that your mom and dad are probably the coolest (and humblest) people on this planet.

May you find hobbies that feed your soul. And may you find them on your own, without anyone pressuring you (speaking of which, I have you signed up for voice lessons next year).

May you fall in love with learning, and seek out knowledge because you just can't help yourself.

May you learn not to pick your boogers and eat them in public.

May you never feel alone in this world. Because guess what? You never will be!


I love you baby boy! Happy Birthday!

Monday, March 28, 2011

The unconditional parenting happiest baby whisperer on the block libary.

Parenting books scare me. They stare at me from their dusty home on our bedroom shelf, taunting me with their guilt-ridden advice. Sometimes at night, I hear the authors whispering "if you read my book, Elliot will become the president someday. And by the way, I have 5 PhDs and you only have half of one...do you really think you are equipped to raise a child?".

I've managed to avoid most parenting books until now, despite their attempts at manipulation. Because every time I pick one up I am tempted to call CPS and report myself for committing such awful crimes as a) feeding my child right before he sleeps b) feeding my child too soon after he wakes up c) feeding my child too much produce or d) feeding my child anything other than organic produce which I grew in my own garden and mashed up with my own hands to avoid the perils of electricity exposure (which, by the way, causes Autism). If you feel confused by this paragraph, trust me, I'm more confused than you.

But lately I've been asking my mom friends for parenting book recommendations. What led me to this desperate place, you ask? It has a little something to do with the fact that I find myself saying "no Elliot!" every other second...as Elliot inserts wires into his mouth, attempts to grab tasty morsels from his dirty diaper, prepares to dive down lengthy stairwells, etc. And every time the word "NO" emerges from my lips in various shades of panic, I wonder "is there a better way to do this?".

Despite years of teaching experience I will be the first to admit that I know absolutely nothing about how to discipline a child. My parents did a great job raising two (really awesome and really attractive) kids. But I also missed 50% of 6th grade because I stayed home whenever I pleased (I know this because the school sent a very official letter). So I feel like my "discipline" technique is a blank slate, and now I'm faced with the monumental task of picking the right story to fill that slate (or write on that slate...what the hell do you do with slates by the way?).

I know there is no perfect theory or solution, unless the Super Nanny will agree to come live with us for the duration of Elliot's childhood. So the primary principle I am going to stick to for now is compassion: for myself as I fumble through parenthood, for my child as he fumbles into toddlerhood, and for all the parents who I've ever judged (except the parents who abuse their children- sorry jerks, I'm not that zen yet). Because when it comes down to it, the majority of us turn out OK. I skipped half of 6th grade and went on to have a 4.0 in high school (except for that stupid gym class, which I got a D in because I refused to take the body fat test in front of my snickering classmates), and my friends who were raised with stricter parents are all loving, well-adjusted people. As tempted as I am to treat parenting like an assignment with 1 correct answer, I will have to accept that there are no perfect answers. And as long as I don't fake a fever and stay home from 6th grade parenting school, I think Elliot will be OK in the end.

Wednesday, March 16, 2011

Size [n > 10] and LOVING it.

You know those weight loss articles in fitness magazines that show the women before and after their 30 lb. weight loss? They typically include all the stats about pant size, weight, etc., and let's just say my pant size and weight tend to dwell stubbornly on the pre-weight loss end of the those stats. And for the first time in my life, I can truly say that I'm fine with that.

I began dieting as a, hem hem, "pleasantly plump" 12 year old. 7th grade lunch period equaled calorie counting. I remember joylessly chewing on my "light" wheat bread and tuna sandwich while the other big-banged pre-teen girls stuffed greasy tator tots into their mouths with careless abandon. After school I would rush home , put on an awkward 80s leotard and aerobics video, and flounce around the living room in an earnest attempt to shed the pounds. I lost a fair amount of weight this way, and I will never forget shopping at the gap and finally fitting into a size 10. What victory!

After that first taste of dieting obsession, I never stopped counting calories. During my 20s my weight fluctuated more than a bipolar person's mood. If I were to chart my weight during this time, I'm quite certain the graph would resemble a sinusoid. And the low amplitude portions of the sinusoid would occur after each break-up. But one thing that never fluctuated was my ability to list every calorie I'd consumed on a given day.

As fun as that perma-diet was, counting every calorie you consume is an exhausting practice to say the least. So I've stopped counting, and I really have no clue anymore whether I've had 2000 calories or 4000 calories each day. Perhaps it's because I'm now using all of my "calorie counting" neurons to keep track of what I feed my son. Or perhaps it's because I've realized that there are more important things in this life than obsessing over how thin I am. I think it's a combination of the two.

This is not to say that I've thrown in the towel and plan to spend my evenings cuddling up with a box of oreos (or watching the final episode of the bachelor while inhaling a box of girl scout cookies...you know, just a random example). I still try to eat healthy and I exercise when I can. But now when I exercise, I do it to strengthen my heart rather than tone my ass. I do it to keep myself healthy and energized so I am not out of breath when I play with my kid. And I do it to get a few sacred hours to myself. When I look in the mirror at the yoga studio, I no longer fixate on every imperfection and lump. I have grown to appreciate the unique landscape of my figure, knowing that the hills and valleys brought life into this world.

Tuesday, March 8, 2011

LATCH ONTO THIS Giselle (and other semi-cynical thoughts about modern day breastfeeding guilt).

Recently the supermodel mom Giselle was quoted as stating that mothers should be legally required to breastfeed their babies until at least 6 months of age.
Before I had Elliot, I must admit that I agreed on some level. A lithe, mildly anorexic Giselle sat on my shoulder during my first months of motherhood, encouraging me to keep breastfeeding through cracked nipples, mastitis, and thrush. I loved breastfeeding my baby, and there is nothing sweeter than looking down at a tiny human as he suckles contentedly on sustenance that you created for him.

But when Elliot stopped wanting to breastfeed at 4 months due to the pain caused by his reflux, there was no amount of Giselle-guilt that could get him to latch onto my nipples again. And there was a LOT of guilt, trust me. Part of this was my own grief that my breastfeeding relationship with Elliot seemed to be over. And part of it was the fact that every source I turned to for information poured salt on the wound. I remember taking Elliot to a lactation consultant shortly after he stopped wanting to breastfeed. We discovered that he hadn't been gaining weight, and determined that he would need to supplement with formula. As she handed me the carton of formula, she said "just so you know, studies are now showing that formula can actually CAUSE some diseases". As I searched parenting books and websites for information about how to help Elliot with his reflux, it seemed that every page I looked at said in bold "formula makes reflux worse! If you want your baby to recover, you must breastfeed".

Every time I came across these messages I added extra pumping sessions to my day and pounded fenugreek, all in an effort to increase my milk supply. Until finally Rob and I decided that it was more important for me to be present for my son than to continue agonizing over my dwindling milk rations. Elliot gradually transitioned to formula as my supply faded (despite my continued pumping efforts) and once he got on the right medicine, his reflux did get better.

I truly do believe that breast IS best. And I think any mom who has ever picked up a book or talked to a doctor believes this as well. So this leaves me to wonder who the current high-pressure breastfeeding campaign is geared towards. Because none of the moms I know need any more pressure or guilt. So to all of you doctors, authors, mompetitors, and super models who judge moms who have tried their best to make breastfeeding work but don't succeed, I say "LATCH ONTO THIS, JERKS" (insert lewd image that may or may not involve me holding my breast in a very threatening fashion).

I write this post in the hopes of offering another perspective to guilt-ridden moms (and because I'm stuck in bed with a flu). Breastfeeding is a wonderful thing. But if your child never figures out how to latch, your breastmilk supply never comes in, or you have to supplement with formula for other reasons, please know that you are still an amazing mother and that you are not alone. Your child will still thrive, and will still bond with you. At some point, when you look into your child's eyes during a bottle feeding, you will be amazed to find him or her starting up at you with complete adoration and love. And there is nothing more pure than that.

Friday, February 25, 2011

To Baptize or not to Baptize?

First let me state that I am not sure if I am still a Christian or not. During my childhood I attended a broad spectrum of Protestant churches, from Unitarian to Southern Baptist. I even had a brief encounter with true fundamentalism (as in people speaking in tongues, or drunk from the communion wine, or perhaps both). I went to a fairly conservative Christian high school, participated in Mission trips to Mexico (all the while wondering why the people we were helping seemed far more content than me, but perhaps that was the diarrhea speaking) and attempted to pray on a daily basis. Then I went off to college at a public University, met lots of amazing people from various belief systems, and quickly crawled out of my close-minded little box. I suspect this happens to 50% of devout adolescents. The other 50% get married at age 18 in order to avoid premarital sex and begin a process of copious breeding. Not that there is anything wrong with that [pregnant pause].

Since that time I've migrated further and further away from identifying myself as a
"Christian". Yet I still love Jesus. The problem is, I also love Buddha, mother nature, Yahweh, and the many amazing people in my life who follow these "beings". I don't want to get into a theological diatribe (mainly because I have little knowledge to back it up) but I simply cannot believe in a God who would send non-Christians to Hell or view loving gay unions as a sin. And in my VERY humble opinion, true religious "faith" emerges from the instincts in your gut that tell you things like "wait, if God is so loving, why is he sending a large portion of the people he created to hell?". And if you have to force your gut to believe something that just seems wrong on many levels, then perhaps you've migrated into brainwashing territory. For me, that territory was the Mexican desert, when I tried to go through the motions of being "born again" on mission trips but just could NOT get the hang of it. It was like being constipated (except for the aforementioned diarrhea).

And so my gut (i.e. my faith) has led me believe in a Higher Power who is far greater and far more mysterious than a single human belief system. I find this Higher Power in places like Franz Biebl's Ave Maria (to hear, go to http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dVBsNUXg_YM) and Rachmaninoff's Vespers. The problem is, I'm not sure how to expose my son to this Higher Power. How do you educate your child about something that you yourself find to be a complete but beautiful mystery? Do you arbitrarily choose a favorite church based on superficial factors ("hey this church has good communion wine and a choir that sings in tune, let's join!")? Do you expose your child to lots of churches, or no churches at all? Do you volunteer on Sundays, go hiking to pristine spots, and take him to hear divine music instead of subjecting him to organized religion? As much as I love the idea of letting Elliot figure it out for himself, I would like to play a small and humble role in exposing him to the wonders that I have found from my faith.

This brings me to the question of baptism. We have the honor of serving as Godparents to the baby girl of our good friends this Sunday when she is baptized into the Catholic faith of her family. We attended a class and rehearsal on the baptism process, and I was surprised to find myself yearning for a way to offer Elliot a similar blessing. As Rob and I now ponder how to include spirituality in our parenting of this miraculous little boy, we are faced with an abundance of questions. Perhaps teaching Elliot to question, wonder, and maintain an open heart is the best blessing we can offer him. But a little dash of water and beautiful ritual won't hurt, will it?

Saturday, February 12, 2011

I HATE bras. And other fashion challenges.


As I sit here clad in balloon-like linen pants which are at least a foot too long and never cease to trip me, I reflect upon the greatest mysteries of human existence...why are we here? what does infinity really mean? What kind of bra should I wear under this ill-fitting blouse? Can I get away with wearing a form-fitting yoga tank top INSTEAD of a bra? What will the people of Egypt do with their hard-won freedom? You know, the usual deep stuff.

I think I am far more likely to answer the infinity question than the bra question. Because despite a few sputtering and futile attempts to become stylish, I just don't understand fashion and I never will. I say this not to complain, but to state a fact, and to also offer fair warning to anyone who may see me and wonder whether I'm wearing a bra. If in doubt: assume I'm not.

It all began when, as a hippi child in San Jose, CA, I refused to wear clothing. It's true. I have plentiful photo evidence, which I would post if a) I could figure out how to hook up the scanner I received for Christmas or b)I was not afraid of getting flagged by the cast of Criminal Minds as a person who posts pictures of children for less wholesome reasons. My poor mother made some half-hearted attempts to enforce the "cover up your body with clothing" rule, but she had no luck. At least in the nude I was safe from the disastrous fashion choices that marred my 1st grade social life. As a stubborn 6 year old, I was convinced that one should wear pants underneath their dresses. Twenty years later the pants under dress look did become a short-lived fashion trend, but sadly I cannot claim that I was ahead of my time. I really just didn't feel like crossing my legs during floor time.

And it wasn't just about clothing. For example, I didn't experience the joy of brow waxing or pedicures until I was in my mid-twenties. Who knew that the black caterpillars residing on my brow line could be tamed into graceful lines that accentuated, rather than hid, the eyes beneath? Or that you can actually pay a very modest amount to have someone (usually not from this country) transform your toes from rotting stumps into little pink petite fours (or should I say petite fives...snicker snicker)? Thankfully, through the years I was visited by a few fashion fairies who bestowed their great wisdom upon me, by way of subtle hints and mandatory makeover sessions.

But even with my new found ability to schedule pedicures and brow waxes, I still find myself mystified by some of the primary rules of fashion. Just to name a few:
1) layering. WHY ON EARTH would you buy 3 separate garments when you can be just as warm in 1? And how do you get the garments to complement each other without exposing various rolls?
2) earrings. They're small, they're easy to lose, and they never cease to turn my ear lobes into red flaming crustaceans. Not pretty.
3) skinny jeans. Enough said.
4) Stripes. Enough said.
5) Shoe collecting. I just don't get it. What's wrong with having 2 or 3 good comfy pairs of shoes which you wear for years, until their aroma causes crowds to part like the red sea? I try to act sympathetic when my girlfriends vent about how they just can't resist buying more shoes. But really I am thinking "I could have bought an entire layer-free outfit for the cost of 1 of your shoes".

So I've come to the conclusion that I will never be fashion-savvy. And I am OK with this for multiple reasons. As a mom, even my "nice" clothing winds up splattered with baby prunes and baby poo anyway. Plus, Rob never complains about my unique style (or lack thereof). Although come to think of it, he is the one who pointed out that my pants were balloon-like.

Friday, February 4, 2011

Ode to Grandmas and coconut bras.

As I prepared for the joys of motherhood, I was frequently cautioned about the dangers of the grandma who lends too much advice. So great was my trepidation that I diligently prepared a mental speech, which I would boldly deliver in the event of a grandma-advice-overdose. The speech basically stated: "I know what I'm doing, so shove off!".

I have yet to feel the need to deliver this eloquent speech, because what I didn't realize is how incredibly LUCKY I would feel to have a number of loving parental units in a 20 mile radius, all eager to help with Elliot in any way they can! How many children can say they have six grandparents who they see on a regular basis? And yes, they may offer advice from time to time. But most of the time it's good advice! In fact, sometimes I even (drumroll) seek out their input. Countless times I have called a mom-figure in tears, trying to figure out how to mend whatever was wrong with Elliot (usually gas). And during the reflux JULY FROM HELL (see earlier blog post about tubing) my wonderful mother stopped by my house almost everyday and kept me company while I sat on the couch in tears, desperately trying to get my baby to eat.

Disclaimer #1: this does not lend you Grandmas free license to unleash those bits of wisdom you've been patiently storing in your head while watching Rob and I fumble our way through our first year of parenthood.

Disclaimer #2: I may have jokingly implemented a daily advice quota for my own mom, which she frequently surpasses. But all I have to say is "quota alert!" and she usually moves on to a new topic.
.

I say this not to brag about how lucky I am. Because I'd have to be a complete asshole to do that (keep the jokes to yourselves, readers). My true intention is to commend all of you parents who are traversing the rough terrain of new parenthood without much family support. Whether it's due to career-related distances or family rifts, many new parents these days aren't graced with the blessing of family help. And to all of you in this situation, I offer a big fat salute!

This does lead me to question why so many parents seem to be going it alone these days (as compared to the days of yore???). The biggest factor I can identify, via the very scientific method of thinking about our circle of friends for 2 minutes, is career. People move away from family to pursue their careers, because they are passionate about what they do. And my fortunate family situation is largely due to the fact that Rob and I haven't prioritized our careers. For example, Rob would make an excellent fireman, and this has always been his dream. If career were his top priority, he would apply all over the country for positions, instead of localizing his search to the very competitive Seattle area. Sometimes we think about what could have been (especially when I imagine how hot Rob would look in a fireman uniform) or bemoan the fact that we don't have the incomes that our career-focused friends do. But when it comes down to it, we are happy with the choices we've made, because we are richer for the tremendous family support we have at our doorstep.

I do not think this is the right choice for everyone, however. Being closely knit with one's family does have its, erm, challenges. And some family situations are so dysfunctional that a 1k+ distance between grandparents and children is the best thing for everyone involved. However, I do have to say that there's something appealing about the idea of communal family child-rearing. (Parents: please take a moment to visualize yourself, your parental units, and your child/children living together in a large communal dwelling, wearing grass skirts and coconuts on your breasts for some reason. Sounds kinda nice, doesn't it?). But for those of you who have chosen your career or sanity over a communal hut in your homeland, may you find community and support in other ways, including visits from your friend Lana. I promise not to wear a coconut bra. But I can't make any promises about the grass skirt.

Friday, January 28, 2011

Bye bye Lake MOBY-gone, Hello Ergo-centric!

What is the most challenging part of parenthood, you say? That's easy...it's not the midnight cries, the various shades of poo, or the baby food flung across vast distances (usually landing upon mom's hair, where it lurks for awhile before migrating to the nether regions of mom's pants). Those challenges pale in comparison to the greatest parenting hurdle of all: BABY GEAR. Because what no one tells you when you're gleefully tearing apart gifts at your baby shower is that most baby gear requires assembly skills that can only be gained by completing a PhD in origami.

Let's take the moby wrap, for example. This trendy item consists of one very very very (infinity) long piece of cloth. The length of this cloth is on par with one of my blog entries. Yeah, it's THAT long. And the only item on this epic length fabric that provides ANY sort of direction to a new and confused parent is an indescribably small tag that says, and I quote, "Moby". If you translate the word "Moby" from motherese, what it really says is "HA! Good luck asswipe! Wish you got a bit more sleep, don't you? Bet you wish your baby wasn't crying right now either, huh???"...in so many words.

Rob and I attempted to use the Moby wrap numerous times. When it didn't end in a near death suffocation incident for everyone involved (including the cat), it led to many tears (also from the cat). Because in order to correctly wear the infamous "MOBY", one must attain the perfect balance of cloth on shoulder and cloth around waist, and then somehow live to tie the remaining cloth in a knot. Oh yes, and then as an afterthought, one must put the baby INTO the resulting "wrap". This is actually easier to do with a cat than a child, at least if your child's name rhymes with Schmelliot. But Alas, even if one DOES manage to assemble this arcane torture device and then cram their baby into it as if they are a glob of turkey stuffing, there are still challenges ahead. Because there is no warning on that nice succinct little tag to tell you that YOU AND YOUR BABY WILL BOTH SWEAT UNTIL YOU ARE SOAKED AND DANGEROUSLY DEHYDRATED.

See picture of one of our few successful MOBY attempts. Notice the rings under both of our eyes. Those are not from sleep deprivation, but from MOBY trauma.


Needless to say, we no longer use the Moby wrap. In fact, for months I used NOTHING to carry my child except for...wait for it...MY ARMS! It was incredibly liberating. But then we stumbled upon (and by stumble upon I mean we put it on our amazon wish list for Christmas) this marvelous invention called the Ergo. Like the Moby, the Ergo is also made of cloth. But the similarities end there. Because when a less-new but still confused parent looks at the directions for the ERgo and tries to mimic the 80's hair mom featured in the pictures, she actually achieves this goal within minutes. Aforementioned hypothetical mom then swells with pride and gains enough energy to insert fussy and squirmy child into ergo, much like the 80's hair child featured in the pictures. It's an amazing invention. And Ergo Inc., I will gladly become your next spokesperson. And so will the cat.

Tuesday, January 25, 2011

A ghost in our home? OR: the danger of crime dramas and mother bear hormones.

I wish I had the nerve to go knock on my neighbor's door. But I don't, because I've watched far too many episodes of Criminal Minds. First, a bit of background.

We moved into our house, a tiny 800 square foot "cottage" in a suburb of Seattle, almost 3 years ago. The cottage, which I often refer to as the "smurf house" when providing friends with directions, is surrounded by towering evergreens and lush green Northwest greenery (pictured here, along with neighbor squirrel).


It is also located about 500 feet from our neighbor's "cabin". Cabin is the only word that comes to mind, because the main materials that comprise our neighbor's home appear to be wood and moss. Tree house may be a more appropriate title, were it up a tree. And it may as well be, because the density of the forest surrounding the cabin is on par with the background scenery of an X-files episode.

The occupant of this home has been, and continues to be, a mystery to us. He looks like a disgruntled Santa Claus, rarely has visitors, and rarely returns our timid waves when we do happen to see him emerge from his wooded nest. I can't say we've been knocking down his door (literally OR figuratively) to befriend him, but we've definitely made a few efforts to let him know that we're friendly. Yet we've never spoken with him. To this day, our only background knowledge of the person who lives next to us is from the old ladies on our block.

Apparently the neighbor's family used to own the entire block, before there were any other homes there. Little bits of the land were sold off one by one, eventually leaving the neighbor's family with only a few acres. Our neighbor, the last surviving member of his family of origin as far as we can tell, now has the last remaining piece of that original land. And our bit of land was the last piece to go. However, before our little parcel and home was sold to, um, whoever it was sold to first, it used to serve as a guest cottage for some type of elderly person in the neighbor's family. Perhaps his grandmother? We don't know.

What I do know is that I've watched too many episodes of the X-files and Criminal Minds. I frequently imagine that the grandmother died IN our house, and still hangs out there, smoking ghost cigarettes out in the backyard and spooking our former cat (perhaps this is why former cat would whine ALL night long, hence the "former" status). I'd love to know more about this imaginary ghost, and about the history of our house in general. But the problem is- I'm too busy imagining that our neighbor is the subject of a Criminal Minds episode, harboring innocent victims in some underground lair of his cabin.

So my overactive imagination went haywire this past weekend when, in the midst of a bathroom remodel, my husband found a newspaper from 1926 underneath the old flooring. The spooky part: our house was supposedly built in 1952. Insert creepy synthesizer X-files soundtrack here.

We'd love to get to the bottom of this mystery, and the answer is probably something completely mundane. Perhaps our house was moved to its current location from another plot and thus the date it was built was actually the date it was moved, or something like that. And if anyone would know about our house and the chain-smoking ghost who occupies it, it would be our neighbor.

So my goal is to calm my overactive imagination and have a bit of compassion. Perhaps I might even work up the nerve to knock on our neighbor's door, without having to call Moulder and Scully or the FBI special victims unit for backup. Most likely, he is just an odd and lonely old man who would actually love an occasional visit and a cute little boy running into his forest from time to time. And I refuse to become one of those hyper-vigilant moms who lives in fear of the worst possible outcome to every unknown situation, simply because of my mother bear instincts. I've come to believe that 99% of the humans on this planet have good intentions. Now if I could just stop watching horrible TV shows about the other 1%, I might be able to live by this belief.

Monday, January 17, 2011

I heart cream of mushroom soup (warning: may contain a recipe or two).

It's true. Look at any homemade churchlady cookbook from the midwest (which apparently represents true American cooking in my book) and you will find that 80% of the recipes require cream of mushrooms soup. In the past year I have become completely obsessed with casseroles (insert comments about how this may relate to the baby weight clinging to my sides like, um, something that clings to ones' sides a lot), and I think every single recipe I've tried involves cream of mushroom soup.

Why is this? I'm almost curious enough to pick up a book about the history of American food. Almost, but not quite. So instead I will pull some theories out of my casserole-enhanced ass.

Theory 1)the Native Americans actually own Campbells Corporation, and were operating secret soup factories when the annoying pilgrims arrived to destroy their lives. When sitting down for the first Thanksgiving dinner, the Native Americans told the Pilgrims, "you cannot eat this green beans without cream of mushroom soup". They then pulled out a canister of oddly preserved fried bits of onion to put atop the resulting green bean casserole.

Theory 2) Something to do with poverty and World War II and canned goods and Americans becoming inventive with their limited food choices. I think I actually read something about Velveeta cheese that suggested such a theory. Back when I used to read.

Theory 3) The cream of mushroom soup is just a vehicle for the true gold: MSG and cottonseed and/or palm oil.

I suspect it's a combination of theory 2, theory 3, and some actual history and facts. Either way, I confess that I love cream of mushroom soup. And I dare you to try the following recipes and disagree.

1st, from my blog hero who, despite resembling Sarah Palin in more than one way, is a great example of bringing a sassy attitude and creative spirit to an otherwise traditional life, via her blog. The fact that she calls her husband the Marlboro mans makes me cringe a bit, but I will forgive her since her recipes never cease to give Rob and I food-gasms. And, she's pretty cute. Here is the link which you must cut and paste into your browser because I can't seem to make the link function work (help fellow bloggers?):

http://thepioneerwoman.com/cooking/2007/06/chicken_spaghet

2nd, from my mother-in-law Tracy (Tracy, I promise I will share the proceeds when I become rich and famous from this recipe) who grew up with a Southern family by way of Europe and Costa Rica, and somehow mastered the art of American cooking along the way. I'm not sure where she got this recipe- I think she may have found it on the back of a cream of mushroom soup can. Pasted from her email:

Tracy's Easy Cheesy Potatoes

2 - 1 lb bag frozen shredded potatoes
2 cans of Campbell's Cream of Chicken Soup (Cream of Mushroom for Vegetarians)
16 oz. shredded sharp Cheddar Cheese
1/2 - 1 stick butter (approx.)
1/2 C. cornflake crumbs (approx.)
1 finely chopped white onion
1-16oz sour cream
1 tsp. Salt
1/2 tsp. black pepper
paprika
Greased 9x11 pan

Directions:
1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees.
2. Pull potatoes out of freezer (1 hr prior), so they can be 1/2 thawed (easier to work with).
3. Mix soup, onion, sour cream, S&P in a bowl. (I don't put salt as soup has salt).
4. Dump potatoes into BIG bowl, them add mixture from step 2 (I use my hands----brrrrr). Mix well!
5. Grease baking dish.
6. Put potatoes mixture into baking dish and push down to compact.
7. Add cheese to top.
8. In a small bowl melt butter and add to cornflake crumbs with a fork (lil butter at the time).
You want the mixture to be wet but not dripping butter---so just add more cornflake
crumbs until the butter is all absorbed (I just eyeball this step). Sometimes, I add more
crumbs to cover the entire top (up to you).
9. Sprinkle paprika on top for decoration.
10. Bake approx. 1 hour.
11. When it is dark brown on top (not black) and bubbling.........it is ready.

Note: You can cut this in half if you wish!

Enjoy!!!!


And I think that should be enough to fatten you all up for now. But to any Van Bovens out there, does anyone have Grandma's tater tot casserole recipe? I'm 100.1% certain that involved cream of mushroom soup.

Next food-related blog-topic: capers! They're slimy, smelly (like fish even though they're not from the sea), but somehow taste really good.

Friday, January 14, 2011

Tribute to my girlfriends with non-human children.

This is going to be shortest entry EVER, but the brevity does not reflect lack of importance.

After welcoming 3 baby boys to this world in the past 4 months, I can now say that 99.9% of my close female friends have babies. This is fabulous! However, a few of the women in the random collection known as "Lana's ridiculous and lovable friends" have not made the leap to motherhood yet, and to them I would just like to say "THANK YOU FOR BEING SO PATIENT, SUPPORTIVE, PATIENT, POSITIVE, UM, AND DID I MENTION PATIENT?!!!!!"

Before I had a baby myself, or even a rotund cat named Francine who I treated like an infant, I appeared to be patient and positive on the surface when it came to planning even the most casual social gatherings around the variable nap schedules of my friends' children.
Usually my patience was sincere- because I may be biased, but my friends have the cutest children on the planet. BUT, underneath my pseudo-patient exterior was always a little Napoleon Dynamite, sighing in a very disgruntled fashion while considering the merits of a hysterectomy.

So I have continued to be amazed at my non-mommy friends and their ability to either MEAN it when they say "that's fine, just text me when Elliot wakes up and we'll meet up then", or just fake their patience really well.

THANK YOU LADIES! Your kindness will be paid back in full someday...i.e. when Elliot is old enough to care for YOUR babies, whatever species they may be. Note: Elliot's pet sitting specialties include ox-like dogs named Briley, and a multitude of opinionated and vocal cats.

Thursday, January 13, 2011

Phone-aphobia.

I hate the telephone. And I mean HATE. I'm sorry to use such an evil word, especially when the use of hate-related language appears to incite crazy people to do crazy things, at least according to NPR and my lefty facebook friends. But for this topic, that four letter word is necessary.

I will answer aforementioned subject of HATE now and then when it is absolutely necessary (i.e. I fear for the life of the person calling, the person calling is taking care of my child, or the person calling refuses to use email or text messaging and I will no longer be their friend if I never answer). But I've just never liked the phone and here are a few reasons why:

1) I can't HEAR what people are saying! And as a former Speech and Hearing Science graduate student, I can say with pompous and educated assurance that hearing is a VERY important part of communication. But because I am a people pleaser, I try to pretend I heard what the other person said, which gets awkward very fast. Example:
Other person: "So I remember you telling me about this great book recently, what was it called?"
Me: "Yeah, totally".
Other person: "ummm...no, I don't think that's what it was called".
Me: "Wait, what??".

2) I always start talking at the same time as the other person, which leads to lots of sputtering moments of awkwardness the resemble this conversation:
Me: "So..."
Other Person (synonymously): "Did I..."
Me: "You go ah...sigh"
Other person (synonymously): "DID I TELL YOU...wait, what?"
Me: long pregnant and confused pause. "YOU GO AHEAD!"
Other person: "so did I tell you about (insert story here)."
Me: complete silence b/c being both softspoken and forgetful, I completely forget what I was going to say in the first place.

3) As you may have noticed, I love to write. I have always been far better at expressing myself through writing. I've tried to learn to have more difficult conversations in person rather than in writing (also a challenge for a people pleaser) but at the same time, I have had some amazing communication over emails.

4) Now that I spend half of my time chasing a small person around the house with a wet rag to clean his bottom/mouth/hands of poo/spit-up/food, it's just plain easier to sit down and compose an email or text once he is asleep and not covered in the aforementioned substances.

This is not to say that I haven't had amazing phone conversations. And if I DO pick up the phone, you can be sure that I really would like to talk to you! And those of you who may be reading this from afar, I really do want to hear your voice once in awhile. Although I'd much prefer to see your lovely face.

I just felt the need to explain this once and for all, in the hopes of dispelling with the guilt trips I have so often gotten about never answering the phone. Plus, in this day and age, I think the electronically written word is just as valid a form of communication as the telephone.

And on that note, I'm going to go make some phone calls.