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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Nursing homes are the new opera house.

Recently I was asked whether I've done any singing since I became a mom. My knee jerk (or should I say voice jerk) reaction was to say "oh no, I don't have time right now...I just sing to Elliot sometimes". As I offered this pretentious response with an aire (singing pun intended) of humility, a nightlight-voltage light bulb turned on in my head. I thought "wait, doesn't singing to my son count????".

I spent what some would call the most formative adult years of my life (age 16 to 22ish) toiling away in practice rooms, desperately yearning to reach the pinnacle of success for a classical singer: a career as an opera performer. Starting in high school, I worked my opera-singer sized booty off to become the best soprano I could be. I took weekly voice lessons. I spent my evenings (OK every other evening if I'm honest - I never did practice enough) vocalizing on every vowel sound in the romantic languages, at every tempo and on every pitch I could physically produce. Ambitious as this may sound, I probably worked 10% as hard as most professional singers do. Because classical singing is nothing short of a sport; a complex, demanding, and mysterious sport that requires an intricate dance of fine-tuned yet invisible muscles.

The story of my decision to leave the opera path behind would fill a novel-length (and very tediously self-absorbed) blog entry. So instead I will sum it up in 1 short list. I left the opera path for these reasons:
1) while I do have a good voice, I don't have the vocal stamina or emotional drive to sing for a living. In short, I just don't have the chops.
2) I wanted to settle down in one place and have a family.
3) Although performing is fulfilling, and sometimes even enthralling, it just stresses me out too much. I knew I wasn't cut out for a performance career when I landed a lead role in Steven Sondheim's "Passion" at the Eastman Opera Theater (with a steamy sex scene to boot) and my primary reactions were panic and anxiety.

Since I left that world behind, it's been difficult to find the right place for music in my life. I'm sure many of my trained singer friends would agree. I've oscillated between extremes: from supporting myself entirely through music-related jobs (church gigs and teaching) to avoiding musical activities altogether. While I don't think there's a perfect answer, one thing I'm learning is that I shouldn't stew in a sulky soprano silence while waiting for the perfect solo opportunity to present itself.

The most fulfilling musical moments I've had in the past year or so have sprung up in the most humble and intimate circumstances; when my mother-in-law and I sang "Amazing Grace" at my Grandma-in-law's bedside moments before she let go of this world, or in the sparsely populated dining room of my Grandmother's nursing home, where I sang "Smoke gets in Your Eyes" with the resident physical therapist/pianist and my gleefully growling son. And last but not least, singing to my son in a variety of goofy and absurd contexts: when he's screaming in the backseat of the car, or when he won't drink his bottle because of his feeding issues and the only thing that will keep him sucking contentedly is a coloratura aria.

In short, when I get over myself and get the hell out of the way, my voice can actually do a bit of good in this world. And I know there are other voices out there that have stayed silent for too long (ahem, cough, you know who you are). In many cultures, people sing their way through the day to commemorate both the subtle nuances of daily life and the monumental emotions experienced at weddings and funerals. So why should we singers (trained OR untrained) deprive ourselves of such joy and comfort?

the womanly art of tubing (i.e. motherhood)

Yes, that's right, I said tubing. And I don't mean fallopian tubes (which I will someday learn to spell without spell check) or breast pump tubes (which I never did disinfect before returning my rental breast pump). I mean inner tubing, the kind you do on a river.

First, a little background. Many summers ago (OK only 2, but 2 sounds less dramatic) I learned a profound lesson about life while inner tubing down the Yakima river with my fabulous cousins, Sarah Joy and Rachel.

We began our tubing adventure somewhat spontaneously, as most adventures begin. It fell at the end of a two day girl's trip to Leavenworth, WA: a Bavarian themed tourist town surrounded by mountains and rivers, and overflowing with businesses whose names begin with "Der" or "Das". We had just checked out of "Der Ritterhoff" hotel (famous for its 50 foot plastic statue of a knight in der shining armor) and had picked up a few food items at "der Safeway" (I am not making this up) when we decided we could not conclude der weekend without one more sporty adventure. And thus we arrived at Der Inner Tubing place (I AM lying about this title, because I can't remember der actual name).

Clad in ill-fitting skorts and fresh farmer tans, we boarded a dilapidated van and traveled with our Bavarian tubes roughly .23 miles down the road to the riverside. I should have known I was in for a rough ride when the other tubers (not to be confused with flower bulb appendages) began their graceful glide down the river while I was still planted on the shore, desperately searching my inner tube for a hidden compartment in which to put my beverage (it ended up in my crotch...thank goodness for skorts).

Once I was finally IN the water, all was well...for roughly .23 centimeters. At which point I encountered some frightening rapids (OK, just 1) and began the behavior that has now come to symbolize my less impressive moments as a mother. I am not sure how to describe this behavior. If you imagine a beetle stuck on its back, flailing its numerous legs in a desperate attempt to flip over (and wearing a skort for some reason), you may get the idea. Except my flailing was part of an effort to steer away from the imminent rapids. I applied all of the skills I learned in swim team to this effort, but to no avail. Because apparently when you're in a tube, circling your arms rapidly and gyrating your torso in an upside down butterfly stroke does not give you much leverage. In fact, it just makes you swirl around in clumsy circles as the river carries you towards what you fear most.

Thankfully, at this point my cousins (who were peacefully floating about 500 feet ahead of me like water nymphs) came to my rescue by yelling this profound advice: "Just go with the flow Lana!". I said a small prayer to God to take care of my husband and family when I was gone, imagined what the reporters would say ("champion swimmer found at the bottom of the Yakima river, wearing a skort for some reason")and grudgingly ceased my frantic beetle/butterfly stroke. And you can guess what happened next, because I am here to write this very profound blog post. I passed safely over the rapid(s) and eventually joined the nymphs on the journey forward, or downward. I then spent the remainder of the journey rambling about how life is like inner tubing, and you must just let go and go with DER flow.

Although I remembered this lesson often in the following years, it appears to have been erased from my psyche by motherhood hormones. Motherhood has been amazing; all the cliches you hear, and then some. I never knew it was possible to love one little person so much, and life with a child is incredibly fulfilling. But (cue change of mood music) there have been countless moments of frantic flailing since I became a mommy six months ago. Part of it can be blamed on that good old scapegoat: hormones. Part of it is the responsibility of caring for a helpless human who is totally dependent on you. And part of it, I believe, is the monumental stack of expectations I brought to the adventure of motherhood.

When I was pregnant, I made many cocky statements such as "I think breastfeeding problems are largely psychological, so I'm just not going to worry about it" and "I'm just going to take my baby everywhere..I mean you still have to live your life right?". I envisioned myself the quintessential Seattle mom; strolling through farmer's markets, wearing my cherubic infant in a trendy wrap, gushing breast milk and a calm maternal aura. I'm not sure where I got this image- but I suspect it may have something to do with the childhood pictures of my hippie mother nursing a naked 3 year old me in various pristine natural settings.

So it came as quite a surprise when Elliot was 2 months old and I still found myself afraid to take him anywhere alone. I bravely ventured out one day to join a new mom's group in order to vent about my fear of venturing out. Five minutes into the journey, Elliot began to cry (as babies do, I'm told) and I turned my inner tube around in a tearful butterfly stroke and rushed home, singing "the Wheels on the Bus" at an increasingly frantic tempo. Thankfully I am blessed with numerous wise mother friends (including my mother and mother-in-laws) who reassured me that Elliot WOULD survive a tearful car ride, and would not be damaged for life if I took him to the grocery store.

It came as an even bigger surprise to discover that breastfeeding problems are NOT all psychological...unless you consider flat nipples, mastitis infections, and nipple blisters to be psychological challenges. I forged my tube over these rapids and continued to breastfeed, with the aid of many visits to the lactation consultant water nymph. But nothing prepared me for the biggest rapid of all. At 3 months of age, Elliot began to pull away and look at me like I'd stabbed him each time he nursed. I did everything I could think of to get him back on the breast, but most of the time we both ended up in tears. I could go on about this issue, but what it came down to was a bad case of infant acid reflux. Basically, it hurt Elliot to eat, and so he learned that nursing equaled pain. Not exactly the hippie mom nursing nirvana I had planned on.

I spent about a month (which I now refer to as "the July from HELL") flailing down the reflux river, pumping a dwindling supply of breast milk and bottle feeding a resistant baby about 14 times a day to get him to eat enough to grow. Just when it seemed that Elliot and I were going to capsize, we found a medication for his reflux that let him eat with far less discomfort. That was 3 months ago. Today, he only fights the bottle in public or when he first begins to drink, and he is grazing in the far greener pastures of solid foods. We are incredibly thankful.


I still find myself gyrating in a frantic butterfly stroke whenever Elliot's reflux flares up or he just isn't very hungry. During these times, my husband serves as the water nymph (visual of Rob in a speedo) calmly reassuring me that Elliot WILL be OK. Elliot's smiles, drooly kisses, and giggles also remind me to relax, take a breath, and go with the flow. Once I stop flailing and let go of my expectations for myself and my child, I realize that motherhood truly IS a beautiful thing- even if it's a bumpier ride than I anticipated.