superhero

I bodycheck the hand-me-down couch - recently acquired from my parents - with all the force and disorientation of a tornado touching down. The couch is slightly sagged in the center from years of use, which serves to make it more restful, if less aesthetically pleasing. The down feathers pull my cheekbones, rib cage, hips and knee caps down, down, down into their comfort as if with magnetic force. I feel heavy all over; eyelids, body, brain - not from a glut of knowledge or anything, because thoughts don't bear physical weight anyway. But wouldn't it be great if they did? Karen Smith would be walking around with her head practically flying off her shoulders with its weightlessness

via

while Bill Gates and Ke$ha walk around with their heads bowed down near their ankles.

No, my brain is heavy not with cognitive power but with grog. The poor Weston child contracted a "viral infection" last week, the diagnosis of which could not possibly be more vague and all-encompassing. With it, he has seemingly lost the ability to sleep within the proper time confines as most of the general populace. 

Sean and I hit up urgent care a few nights ago after a battle to the death between Weston's vomit and the elephant print sheets (bile won), accompanied by a fairly high fever and complete listlessness. The poor little guy. He was so lethargic and lifeless, it hurt to see it. We stayed long enough for them to bring his fever down and were sent home with a prediction that the virus will stick around a few days.

The day after urgent care, I carefully planned our morning. I calculatedly timed meals and errands and cleaning around afternoon naps. At 12:30, both kids were freshly fed and diapered and pampered and loved, and firmly put in their respective prisons. I promptly proceeded with the formalities outlined in the first paragraph. But I had forgotten. I had forgotten Weston's superpower.

There is this fuzzy, nondescript place in my mind that directly follows consciousness but teeters on the precipice of full on sleep mode, wherein I know myself to still be connected to my time and place, yet things are a little nonsensical and bizarre. I think it's my brain trying to convince my body to let go and fall into total unconsciousness, but the two of them duke it out for a little while in the in-between. It is this Carroll-esque state that seems to eep from my cranium, traverse the 15 steps from living room to bedroom, wind up the legs of my baby's crib and set alarm bells off in Weston's head. Because - almost without exception - Wes has woken a-wailing at THE EXACT moment I pass into naphood. For ALL eight months of his life. Whether he has slept fifteen minutes or two and a half hours, he is acutely aware of any attempt on my part to take a day snooze. 

Sean frequently asks why I don't try more often to nap when the kids do. The truth is, I think I've had three successful endeavors. Weston's Spidey senses are finely tuned, and so I busy myself with other things during naps, be they restful or choreful. So long as I am deadly silent, of course - and believe me, I've mastered this. I mean, it's a gift.

And then over there, there's Jordan with her superhuman ability to volley from cutesy flirt to screaming banshee to polite debutante to violent ax murderer to overprotective sister to sobbing depression master to studious crayon wielder to backtalking teenager. Annnnd repeat, with all the volatility of a superball on a trampoline. 

Amusement park of emotions and all, this girl is a straight up character. Her comedic timing rivals Woody Allen's and she's about as introspective as a Wes Anderson flick. Her budding conversation skills quite often give me pause to wonder where in the H she picked that one up from. The other day, she and my brother were having a tea party and, as she poured herself a cupful, my brother requested one as well. She told him, "No, Unca Lukey, you can has your alkyhol." (oh, perfect.) The same brother asked Jordan's permission to pinch Weston's cheeks and, lioness of an older sister that she is, she reprimanded "NO! ONLY kisses." 

These kids and their heroics, I tell ya. I'd really love to hear what your babes are doing these days. Are they quirked kids like mine?

PS - Wes is doing just fine. He spent the weekend at the beach and couldn't have been happier about it. He even felt well enough to eat some sand.

totes recovered

productivity in the time of babyhood

o - m - g   you guys, this last week. A crazy train, I tell you, and I'm all aboard.

Last Saturday night, Sean and I and a few members of my posse (...siblings) attended the annual dinner dance that benefits Life Centers of Ventura County. It's always a grand time and I, being stellar blogger extraordinaire for the ages, took approximately zero pictures and therefore have no proof that I curled my hairs and shadowed my lids and coated my lashes and inserted contacts into my eyeballs for the first time in a century. No testimony showing I put on a nice dress and adorned my feet in not-Uggs/flip flops and practically re-pierced my ears trying to put a pair of danglies in because it had been that long  since I did myself up enough to justify earrings. It did happen though. A few whiskey cokes happened too and holla at the husband who gave up drinking for Lent - as good a DD as a pregnant! (Ok fine he may have started his "Sunday" a little early but who am I to huck him under the bus?)

For about a decade or a little more, I've helped the Life Centers out with the dinner dance when and where needed, and have chiefly been in charge of working up bid sheets for the silent auction. Every year on the week leading up to the dance, there's a big push for last minute donations to the auction, which loosely translates to me staying up much too late working on bid sheets and emailing the other members of the committee frantically trying to get details on the items or starting bids or whatever. It's always been relatively stress free; it's as hard as inserting info into a template and coming up with a little tagline to make it sound enticing. I mean, there were 115 items, so it's time consuming, but it's not rocket science.

But this year: I have two kids. This year, one of these kids has some attitude, um, quirks  that are in perpetual need of adjustment or consequence

"I'm funny Mom" (on repeat)

and the other of these kids would prefer his person to be Krazy glued to my person, please and thank you.

"Let's run away together Mom."

Friday, the day before the dance, I of course had 285 things to do - give or take - to make the deadline. The kids, in turn, had 285 tricks up their 2T'd sleeves (yeah..they pretty much wear the same size now) and took alternating micro naps that did not coincide in the slightest. Every time I cracked the laptop lid, a needster got it's wings and flew into one kind of demand-fest or another. Both kids were finished with their naps for the day at some ridiculous time like 2 o'clock (naps start at 1, so) and I was powering through bid sheets to a soundtrack of Super Why and Weston Cry.

At a certain point I could no longer stand the wailing and indignation of it all, and succumbed into a defeated heap on the floor, that Weston could crawl and gnaw and touch touch touch until his needy heart's content. As Weston attempted to clamber up the summit that is my bum, a concerned Jordan lay next to me on the ground as I enumerated the thousands of wispy soldiers that had abandoned my head during these months of post partum hair loss, in favor of entangling themselves in the sheisty company of the carpet. She alternated between ardent professions of "I luss you, Mom" (we'll purchase "proper pronunciation of V's" Vanna) and earnest pleas of "Mom, could you moose over?" so that she could slide between my hulking frame and the couch. I obliged and scooted a millimeter to the left, simultaneously turning my head to be greeted by Weston's uvula as he made his best effort to ingest eyebrow to cheekbone of my terrified face.

Jordan can be heartbreakingly intuitive about people's feelings, and she addressed my crumbled stature with repeated appeals to "don' be sad Mom"  and lots of pats on my head and cheeks. It was there as I lay prostrate on the floor underneath the weight of my fat baby son and beside the worry of my sweet albeit crazy moody toddler daughter, that I pondered whether God had neglected to fully equip me for this stage of motherhood. By my estimation, I was lacking at least one of the following necessities:
more patience: this is a character flaw on my part. I have patience up to a certain point and then I explode over the drop of a cracker or the spill of a milk drop.
more sleep: Wes plays a cruel joke about once a month where he sleeps relatively well for two nights in a row, and I'm convinced my exhaustion sentence has been lifted. He's done this probably three times over three months, and follows up each of these periods with horrifying nights for the next week. Aside from this, an average night sees us up together twice or so, which isn't horrible but I'm over it.
more help: the three of us stumble our way through the day until 5 when Sean comes home, and he's good for a pool date with the kids (Weston enjoys observing the splashy antics from his rocker) while I recuperate by compulsively cleaning the living room or making dinner. He'll often do the dishes and he always does the Jordan half of bedtime duty, but he is not the Weston Whisperer. Nor is anyone, really. I'm seriously considering some sainted mother's helper; I love that red headed angel-monster to the moon and back but I need to escape the cling. Just for a minute.

a slight variation of a recent 'gram of mine..but this is more or less any of Weston's waking moments

Naturally, all three of these would be ideal. But I feel that if I had even one! Sigh...the possibilities. I remember being grateful in that moment that, of all the blog skipping or skimming I've had to do recently (because of the dinner dance, I mean. I fell SO behind on my e-stories. There were like 55 in my feed at any one time), I hadn't missed this one of Jenny's about how these everyday, grueling, tiring trials and tribulations can be acts of love.

>>Our mortal toil here on earth is exactly that: work. A lot of it. No matter the circumstances or situation of one's life, nobody gets out without putting in some hard time. And children are a lot of work. In fact, they're kind of the perfect means by which those of us called to the married life can work out our salvation with fear and potty training. 

But they're more than just work, however ardently popular culture - and tired mommy bloggers like me - might try to convince you otherwise. They're also immortal souls. Little images of the Word made flesh, Who dwelt among us. And they deserve to be seen as more than accessories or add-ons to an otherwise 'perfect' and ordered life.<<

So I remembered that post - thanks Jenny - smiled at Jordan reassuringly and picked up Weston for another round of "let's trick him into being distracted by some toy in Jordan's room and then sneak out real fast and stay hidden from view and see how long he forgets that he needs my presence." Don't get me wrong, I still led a harried and rather frustrating day, trying to meet the quickly approaching deadline while trying to keep children happy and healthy and out of the pantry wherein there is always some inevitably accessible something or other that makes a colossal mess while my back is turned. But it goes a long way to have a good shot of solidarity every so often.

The dinner dance was super fun. Sean and I dressed up and got a little break from the babes; my siblings and a few friends and I sat around an outside patio table in ridiculously pleasant weather with some delightful alcoholic beverages; I didn't win anything in the auction but it was great looking around at the work we had put into it and the huge success that it turned out to be; we raised a really good chunk of change for an important cause. Not to mention, my sweet cousin who babysat the youths for us insisted "everything went so great!" (I later had my youngest sister, who I had sent over to help with Jordan, give me the real skinny. She informed me that "...yeah, Weston cried almost the whole time.." but I was so grateful that my cousin brushed it off and put on a brave face so that I could feel better about the night.)

And what is all this to say? Aside from a narration of my every complaint and whine? I don't really know, except maybe that being a parent is kind of a mysterious and wonderful thing. Kids - or my kids, anyway - do their very damnedest to give you hell, but they honestly can't help but be our little glimpses of heaven.

"i got the black lung, pa" - a poetic narrative

'Twas 3 o'clock last Monday morn
when Jordan stumbled out,
clutching a clean diaper
with a face all full of doubt

that the pain within her tummy
had anything to do
with the feelings that would normally
accompany a poo.

She shuffled toward the couch,
where her wakeful mother lies
these last few weeks in vain attempt
to flippin' ferberize.

And as she crossed the threshold
to the living room - my perch -
I heard that ghastly, loathsome sound
that made me up and lurch

toward Jordan, did I hurry.
Alas it was too late;
the tired gross beige carpet
by now had met its fate

by way of Jordan's insides
spilling out upon it.
Yes, it is of puke and wretched sick
that I now pen this sonnet.

Over hours four and twenty
(that felt a month or more)
Jordan and the toilet
engaged like ne'er before.

(And oh, that is your update
of how potty training's faring.
No big girl panties worn.
No triumphant trumpets blaring.)

It passed. It passed. It finally did -
as stomach flus will do.
But if you are not vigilant,
it'll pass right on to you.

So Tuesday night at half past ten:
here I set my scene.
Having settled nicely into couch,
I felt myself go green.

Most of you don't know me,
so I'll tell you in this breath:
puking tops my Fear List,
beating public speech and death.

I reassured myself
"It's the nightcap that you had.
Though I don't remember So-Co*
ever settling this bad."

*Southern Comfort & Ginger Ale. Never again.

I stalled for fifteen minutes;
'twas the longest I could hold.
I braced for the inevitable
and off the couch I rolled.

I tip-toed to the bathroom
(if Wes woke up, I'd die.)
and back and forth I went
as the gruesome night slipped by.

A couple things I noticed
from my stint on tiled floor:
toilet hinges look like goal posts,
so is throw up, like, a score?

And I think I like my hair
parted better on the left.
Which I never would've known
had hair-gathering not been deft.

Third, I glom to lyrics
that narrate my situation;
just one line ran over as
I manned my porcelain station.

(It was The National
that sang my plight, so dire
as I "live[d] half awake
in a Fake Empire.")

The flu has since abandoned
this apartment in the 'burbs.
I cling to hope that no one else
it seeks out to disturb.

I've met my throw-up quotient
for a decade at the least...
This has been the story
of Pansy and the Beast.



 

scot free

(therefore embarrassing photo publish sans permish.)

apple of her eye

A few days ago I was all geared up to write this fantastically optimistic post entitled something totally lame like "How Jessie Got Her Groove Back." I've never seen that movie How Stella Got Her Groove Back and the context of the title is probably inappropriate in some way and not at all related to what I was planning on writing about. Stella was probably trying to "find" herself in some Eat Pray Lovey type of way after some breakup or trauma or something, and ends up stumbling in to some off-the-cuff relationship that gives new life to her life. I'd imagine.

I, conversely, was going to tell you guys about how, yay! There's light somewhere down there at the end of that tunnel, and not the kind that they tell you not to go towards because it means you're dying. After an embarrassing number of months, I felt that I had finally groped and tripped and wobbled my way in to a routine of sorts with these two shifty-eyed fireballs. Not in small part because it seemed that Weston had somehow reconciled himself to the night and was only troubling me for one feeding, if you please mum, then returning right back to peaceful repose. 3:30 a.m. had never felt so exhilarating.

After committing the Queen Mother of All Mistakes and telling one or two people that it's happened! it's happened! The prodigal sleep has returned!...alakazam. My blue-eyed angel by day re-tapped into his red-headed hellion by night alter ego and here we are. Hi Square One. We've met.



This morning,* after a humdinger of a night, I shuffled to our Nespresso latte maker (thank you Lord Jesus for finally allying my tastebuds with coffee and its powers and thank you Sean's parents for gifting us this amazing machine of wonderment) and, in what I can only assume was done under the duress and disorientation of 4 feedings in 7 hours, I threw the coffee pod to the bottom of my mug and stared at it. As if it was going to bippity boppity boil me some brew. I came to, and put the pod in its rightful home and nestled the mug under the sacred drip thingy, then went to the utensil drawer and grabbed a fork...with which to spoon sugar into my coffee. Thus does the morning of a winner begin.

*this post took a little longer to write than expected. by "this morning," I mean "Friday morning."

And SO, instead of post Bright + Shiny, I give you the above preface - for which I hope you had some wine to accompany all that whine - AND a delicious Apple Yogurt pancake recipe kicker. Oh Joy pinned this yum a few days ago and Jordan and I have enjoyed it like four times in the last week. Funny little observation: this is what apple pancakes look in all their pinned glory

fresh figs and pure maple and you know you'd see this in some hipster café

 

THIS is Apple Pancake via Jess

 

as they say on The Pinterest: nailed it

 

 

Anyway, their lack of pleasing aesthetic does not make them any less desirable to eat, shockingly enough, and they actually make for a relatively healthy breakfast. When they say Apple Pancake they mean Apple Pancake - there are four apples and it makes like six pancakes. Very appley. Perhaps I should write apple a few more times. Apples.

 

I changed a couple of things from the original maaaiiinnnly because I'm lazy and who has time to boil apples? Not this guy. Unboiled apples still perform to my standards, but those are lowish so you can decide for yourself. Also, in the original recipe it orders you to "whisk flour, baking powder, salt and honey together," but after quadruple checking, it seems they forgot to tell us how much salt in the ingredients. I put in about 1/4 teaspoon, and it works out fine for me. Alright then:

 

Ingreeds:

 

4 apples, peeled and grated (I use 3 Granny Smith and 1 Fuji for mostly tart with a leetle sweet)

1 cup flour (I use all-purpose but I bet you've got something healthier lying around?)

1 teaspoon baking powder

1 tablespoon honey

1/4 teaspoon salt (as randomly decided upon by moi)

3 tablespoons Greek Yogurt (but I've been using plain whole milk yogurt from Trader Joe's)

1 egg

 

oil for frying (use coconut! the flavor has been fantastic)

butter & pure maple syrup

 

1// First combine the flour, baking powder, salt and honey. The first time I made this, I grated the apples first and they turned a little brownish by the time I finished the other instructions. Didn't affect the taste, I don't think, but it just doesn't look that pretty.

 

2// Add yogurt and egg and stir it allll up. Grate your apples and throw them on in. It will take a while to incorporate the apples fully because there are a LOT. And that's a good thing. Just make sure all your apple shreds are coated in the batter.

 

3// Heat up some coconut oil on your pan. Since I make this for Jordan and I (we've talked about how Sean don't eat no fruit, right?) I just fry them one at a time. But I'm sure you'll be more efficient. Throw a heaping spoonful of batter down, then flatten it all out. You know, like a pancake. This insures that the middle gets nice and cooked and the edges get nice and crispy.

 

4// On medium heat, these take about 3 minutes a side, I'd say. You be the judge. Once done, lay a nice thick slab of butter atop and dowse with some delish syrup. There are about 6-8 pancakes total, and we throw our leftovers in the fridge for next morning's breakfast. They keep nicely.

 

see, it's good.

 

Enjoy your Sunday. May your Masses be tantrum-free.







ferberize shmerberize

Really and truly, I meant to state my noble intentions and resolutions for 2014. Since one of them was stop procrastinating, I'll let you judge how things are progressing. Another was to eat healthier and whole, which is my explanation for the speed-eating of Christmas treats as efficiently as possible the last couple of weeks. The sooner I eat all the junk, the sooner I can begin a cleanse. My logic is sound.

I did make rather a cliché list of 2014 to-do's, but it really kind of annoys me to think about them because they're almost exactly last year's, which remain mostly unaccomplished. I'll go ahead and blame it on pregnancy and newborn and what have you, but honestly I just need to be a big girl and get shiz done. I'm not going to bore you with my resolutions of body improvement, home improvement, and potty training. They're old news and they're not going anywhere. I am, however, smack dab in a new addition to the list: sleep training. It's not going well, friends. It's not going well.

Jordan was something of a professional sleeper at 4 1/2 months, which is Weston's current age. It took less than a week of crying it out before she was rocking 10 hours a night, and thus my back was sporting a bright shade of pink from all the prideful self-pats. I set out to do the same for Weston a couple of weeks ago because, well, boy just don't sleep.


nor does his tongue know where it's proper home is

 

Here's the deal: we live in a small 2-bedroom apartment whose master bedroom shares walls with two neighboring master bedrooms. I've had no problem letting Wes cry out during his naptimes - which he does in ten minutes or so - because, hey, who else is home at 1 in the afternoon? At night though, the ungodly hours that Wes deigns meal hours (read: all the hours, beginning with elevensies in p.m.-sies, fat hobbit that he is) amplify the ferberizing such that 10-15 minutes feels more like 10-15 heart attacks. I know I would be quite displeased to be awoken 5 times a night by Not-Skinnie the Pooh entreating his mother to satiate his rumbly tumbly, and I'm not here to piss anyone off. On the other hand, Weston is becoming increasingly demanding and I increasingly tired and the whole nightly ordeal is just not working out.

 

I know the problem; I know the difference between Jordan and Weston. Jordan loved, idolized, craved a pacifier nearly from minute one. With Weston, you might as well have offered him his diaper to snack on, the way he reacts to the binky. He spits and chokes and looks mortally offended. I know the reason here too. He recognizes the binky for what it really is: a boob imposter. This boy won't even take a bottle brimming with mother's milk; he buys only the real deal. My sister calls him Oedipus Wes, such is his glaringly obvious adoration for me and my feeding powers. It's flattering!, his ready, half moon smile and bright, admiring eyes that light as soon as I enter his peripheral. But it is exhausting too and this new year will WILL bring me at least four hour stretches of sleep, lest my foggy days continue to go to hell in a handbasket woven of tears and caffeine capsules.

 

Tips? Advice? Routines? Witchcraft? Leave me what you have and I'll desperately employ your tactics.

 

***

 

Meanwhile, on the Jordan front

 



 

We are actively potty training and she is actively progressing even if only to summon all her energy and circulation for the equivalent of a cocoa pebble, that she might put a sticker on her potty chart.

 

We enjoy full conversations now and she has taken to telling me to "be caresul!" multiple times per car ride (not sure why since we've never been in an accident?), and advising me to "doh worry" as she pats my face (usually a defense mechanism should she sense she may be in trouble). If she encounters a locked bathroom door, she stands outside shouting "you POOPIN? you NAKED?" until the door be opened unto her.

 

She is only the best big sister I could've imagined, and is confident that Weston already possesses conversational skills as she sits next to him and inquires "you want toys Wesson? Yeah? Ok!" (sprints to her room for an armload.) She is - not altogether misguidedly - concerned that Weston will reach into his or her own dirty diaper (I usually change them together and side by side) and holds his frantically roving hands while chiding "you can't touch poopy, Wesson. No touching poopy, Wesson."

 

So yeah, 2014, I expect some changes from you. Expect some from me, as well. But don't change everything. There's some stuff I'd like to stay the same. For like, ever.





a little rest, a little booze, a little perspective

A week ago, I was starting to get comfortable. Almost resting on my laurels, as it were. I felt surprisingly healed from the c section, Weston slept and fed, slept and fed, slept and fed, with nearly no tantrum or cryfest to speak of. Jordan made sure she was throwing the rogue meltdown to keep us on our toes, but mainly she was being a sweet and thoroughly engaged older sister. Two kids. Boom, I got this.

About a week ago, Wes...woke up. He started crying more, in little sessions at first. Easily consoled though, and it didn't bother me too much. Babies cry, it's right there on the label. The last few days, well. If he's not sleeping (still doing quite a bit of that, praise be) or eating (pretty sure the kid would stay on the boob all day if I let him) he's having a total breakdown. That frantic, shrill newborn cry has been ringing throughout our probably extremely annoyed apartment complex. It takes a little time and some energetic bouncing, however I can usually talk him down off that ledge.

Oh but just you try and put me down, Mom, I dare you. You can inch at that rocker at the speed of sloth, but I smell your intent and I. won't. haveit. My sister needs a meal or a diaper change? You have to pee? You have 17 missed calls? Try me.

Sunday I was just, ah, I was so tired. Weekends are so important to my psyche because I have Sean's set of helping hands and because I require that we get out of the apartment. I need that change of scenery, I just do. But Sunday, I gave up on any sort of outing. After multiple meltdowns from both of my children, I decided to have one of my own. Or I guess my body and hormones decided. I sat on our unmade bed amidst dirty laundry and stale air and Weston and I just cried. A pathetic sight we made. When Sean finally coaxed Jordan into her bed and I had speed bounced/rocked/whateverittook Wes to sleep, I completely knocked out.

An hour and a half later, Sean crept in carrying a plastic bag. He had sneaked out to the store to buy "things he thought would make me happy." Apparently, those are Budweiser Lime-a-Ritas and Haagen Dazs milk chocolate ice cream bars. I slid out of the room without waking the spit-up breathing dragon and Sean and I had an in-home date of faux margaritas and two episodes of Ray Donovan before the taskmasters woke up.

Here's what I learned: my body completely responds to my state of mind. I started feeling sore and post-surgery-y again over the weekend because I was all stressed and frazzled. But I was so concerned about "wasting" the weekend by staying in; that time is too precious to me. However, sometimes "wasting" time is exactly what I need. I needed that sleep, I needed that [those] Lime-a-Rita[s] (they're actually pretty dang good), and I needed to waste that time with my husband in our shady living room watching some gritty Showtime.

I'm new to this, the two kids and the staying home and the trying to figure out what to do with my day. I mean, aside from making sure two little tummies and one not-so-very-little tummy are nourished, dressing three people, trying trying trying to pick up this place (failure thy name is Jessie Pope), and preventing tantrums if at all possible. And DANG, those things do take up a whole day, don't they? Yes, they can, but it's nice when I can get out to talk to people who know how to talk, too. That doesn't happen everyday though. So I'm adjusting. Jordan is actually a pretty hilarious conversationalist anyway - and she called me by my first name yesterday ("Hi Dassie") so I guess that means we're friends.

I have joined your legions, stay-at-homers (at least as of now), and I'm happy to be here. And while I know I have many more meltdowns in my artillery but I'm doing my best to wear my big girl pants and lead by example here. Survival tips, friends?

i need a bullseye and i suck at darts

you never realize how much toothpaste your toddler has splattered across your mirror until you take a selfie

Here's the skinny. (<--- irony is my favorite.) My due date is tomorrow and I had a doctor's appointment yesterday. In answer to her query, I'm feeling fine really, but with a healthy dose of pressure at the base of that prodigious belly. I've been interpreting this to mean the baby is dropping, but my doctor tells me I'm not at all dilated. Fine, okay.

...and then she tells me: she's going out of town beginning tonight and through Sunday. Wait, there's more. My parents are leaving for a cruise for their 30 year anniversary (30! Aren't they amazing?) starting a week from tomorrow. Hold on, I'm not done. My sister Mary departed for a wedding in France a couple of days ago and won't be back from her Tour de Europe until October. I've got a couple more kickers: Sister Right-Hand Audrey leaves for college a week from today,(what are the chances of my talking her out of pursuing higher education? It's for the birds, says I. I need her.) while Sister Left-Hand Anna will be dropping her off via road trip, accompanied by my brother Luke - the last remaining sibling eligible to take care of Jordan for extended periods of time. They'll be back Sunday the 2nd-ish. I'm pulling a Dad in My Big Fat Greek Wedding right now:

Why you want to leeeave me??

This all wouldn't feel like such a big deal, were I not attempting a VBAC with this baby. That's [Birth via who-ha] After Cesarean. (I have an unhealthy fear of the clinical names for all parts private. My siblings and I have an extended list of euphemisms that honestly are probably much more disturbing than the true words but, comfort levels, friends.) Jordan was an emergency c-section, if you'll remember. And it took a good deal of research, switching of insurance plans, and pros v. cons weighing over the last seven, eightish months to find a doctor who was willing to let me even attempt a VBAC, (insurance and liability and hospital policies for those are a b, as I found out) let alone a doctor who I really really really like, and have put up with a terrible commute and office disorganization from hell to see and build a rapport with. If I go in to labor this weekend when she's not here I shall crumple into a heap of contractions and emotions. She assures me "our plan" will still be in place with the doctor on call, but I haven't met her and I'm not big on strangers all up in my lady regions.

So, don't come this weekend baby. But please come before Tuesday afternoonish, because I'll still have helping hands to take care of your sister during our hospital stay. Do you see the dilemma? I'm priming my uterus for labor commencement late Sunday evening, with a skip on over to the hospital perhaps in the wee hours of Monday morning, and a son in my arms by Monday afternoon, if you please. 

Snort, cackle, chortle. Anyone who's given birth knows that birth plans are basically useless. A curve ball will be thrown, that's a promise, and when you're toting a belly like the above you can't expect your dodgeball skills to be particularly Vince Vaughn-esque. 

I don't know. I haven't been particularly nervous up to this point. I leave all that to Sean. 

"So you're sure they'll have crash c-section team on site?" "Why don't you just let them slice & dice? Then you won't even have to labor!" "The hospital's 45 minutes away, what if we don't get there in time?" 

a) Yes. b) I am not recovering from a c-section again, if I can help it. It really sucks. And don't say slice & dice. c) Well, sometimes you just gotta get down with a car birth.

But now I'm weaving a timeline from some tenuous scheduling conflict threads and as my mind wanders to all the different scenarios I start to freak out a lotta bit when all I really want to do is lay on our uncomfortable couch and hug a pillow and browse Pinterest and wait for labor. But what if we have to bring Jordan with us and she witnesses the birth of her brother? That's scarring. Or what if the on-call doctor isn't really amenable to VBACs and forces the c-section issue? That's frustrating. Or we have Jordan in the hospital and she's being a nightmare and Sean is wrangling her in the waiting room and I give birth alone and he misses the birth of his son? That's... unlikely. What if A, B, C, X, Y, Z, gamma, epsilon, omega? The possibilities are boundless in the overactive imagination of a pregnant.

I guess what I'm saying is: if you have a moment to offer a very specific time-stamped prayer in the vein of my proposed timeline above, I'd be grateful. Thank you. I'm focusing all my chi on it, but I'm not quite sure what chi is so my efforts are likely fairly fruitless. Anyway, I'll be here (here being: papasan chair with narrow pillow wedged at the base of my back and cushy pillow behind my head and attractively swollen ankles parked on the ottoman) since I'm not mustering much more energy these days than to simply keep Jordan fed and watered and freshly-mmmm-maybe-semi-freshly diapered, so I'll just go ahead and keep you guys posted k?

catching fire

Let's start with saying: Yes, I'm a wimp. But now can I commence complainfest? I covered my bases.

Let your visual aid for my physical state be this

but I also feel that my thighs are accurately portrayed here

so I could really just be all of the villains in Disney's Hercules including that dragon that, once you chop of it's head, three more grow in its place - if we let one head be equal to one complaint quelled, followed by three new complaints cropping up out of nowhere.

Alright, so my neck of the woods is no Death Valley, and I'm certainly no crazy local running in a Darth Vader costume in 129 degree heat in order to break the Guinness Book of World Records. But hot damn, if this heat wave we've been experiencing isn't just about to break me. Sean, of Sacramento/might-as-well-be-hottest-place-in-America origin, claims it's "not that bad." (For my reaction, please refer to picture #1.) We do, after all, have an AC unit in our living room. Which is helpful, you know, if you're willing to staunchly hold your post by the front door, which is the extent of the air flow trajectory. Circulation, thy name is not cheap apartment AC unit.

Pool time is usually Sean and Jordan's jam, and I just go about my business of cleaning the kitchen, concocting the tallest glasses of chocolate milk, trying to straighten that one kink out of my hair, and occasionally lurking on my precious' from my balcony perch

but the unbearability of it all has set me and the bump poolworthy. This found me, yesterday, deep in a conversation with a five-year-old from which it was hard to extricate myself . After taking stock of our impending arrival (via starestareandstaresomemore at the belly, then finally come out with "are you gonna have a baby?!") and inquiring after the sex, he insisted that we should name the boy Jordan, when he's born, and change the girl's name (with a nod in current Jordan's direction) to Kendra. I then asked him if he didn't think it would be confusing to [current] Jordan if we all of the sudden changed her name, and he insisted no: she looks like a Kendra because of her hair color. We're taking it under advisement.

Bedtime has been the real clincher though, because the fan that we haven't turned off since mid-May (really) is not cutting through the true heat of summer (read 92 degrees). I repurposed the freezable gel breastfeeding pads - that were included in that congrats!-you-had-a-baby! hospital bag of free samples and crap from a couple years ago - as frozen slippers, and have been sleeping with them atop my ember-toes. The problem is, they melt within a couple of hours, and my body has been making the unfortunate decision to wake up to pee circa 1:30 or so. It is then that I realize how sweaty I am; how Sean's idea of beating the heat is to be completely spread-eagle across the bed so that each limb pretty much reaches each corner and I'm kinda like under an armpit; how much this in utero lovebug adores a good sesh of early morning kickboxing; how I'm never never never going to get back to sleep. Hence: posting in the wee hours of 4 a.m. 'neath the protection of living room AC.

And here's where I implore your assistance. There's zero percent chance of my survival even one more week under such conditions. (What do you mean, melodramatic?) I welcome any and all recommendations for an affordable yet EFFECTIVE! box fax/window AC unit/rentable igloo/I-don't-care-just-please-help-me-to-stop-sweating. And thank you from the bottom of my sweltering soles. 

We're coming for you, Amazon Prime, and your 2-day shipping. Until then, I'm holing up at my parents' well-ventilated place while they're out of town on vacation. Like a grown-up.

five (not) faves

I totally wouldn't blame Hallie if she personally uninvited me from joining her legions of favorites ever again after what I'm about to do: use her bright and sunshiney link-up for evil. I've been trying to come up with things that I am fired up about this week, but what my brain is actually doing is: oh that song? I HATE that song. That song SUCKS. or That recipe was GROSS. or This product has done NOTHING for my skin, why should IT be a favorite. I have lots of not favorites and no new favorites.

Basically, I've been on my broom. I try to internalize my witchier moods, and I think I mostly do, but there are certain things that just do a little dance on the very last weathered and beaten nerve that my bulging body possesses so, what do I do? I write about it. Then I link it up. (Quickie and handy example: there is a persistent bugger of a fly doing rotations around my head even as I type, and I wish I could real quick pull a Katniss and arrow that b to the wall. Then I would laugh like Mr. Incredible when he's in the volcano and has gotten the kink out of his back. These are the things I think about. PS, I've never even read Hunger Games. Thank you Netflix and Jennifer Lawrence, for keeping me abreast of relevant pop culture.)

Not Favorite, the First// Pregnant Feet

Forget the dry, cracked heels. I've got a Pinterest recipe that promises to remedy that. Those always work, yes? No, that's not even the problem with my pregnant feet. They're swelling big-time. Ok, I wouldn't say they're Kardashian status quite yet

but then I'd never try and stuff my sausage toes into ridiculous, not-even-cute shoes such as those. The problem with my feet is that they're stupid tiny. Therefore, as my ankles become cankles, and my feet continue to swell, they are becoming increasingly monoline, and have taken on the appearance of fat hooves.

Here, I snapped this one of my pretty feets for you

And also, they're ON FIRE. I'm pretty sure I could power Google for a good few hours with the heat radiating out of my tiny toes. Suddenly CAKE's song Nugget takes on new meaning:

Clever feet that flicker like fire

And burn like candles in smoky spires

Do more to turn my joy to sadness

Than somber thoughts of burning planets.

So very true for me right now. Except my feet are not clever, just beefy. Beefy feet that flicker like fire. (That song is purposefully not linked. It is overrun with f-bombs. I'd go so far as to say the f-bomb plays a starring role.)

Not Favorite, the Second // Exercising/Not Exercising

Exercising and I are at an impasse. I hate exercising in the same exact proportions that I hate not exercising, as mathematically improbable as this may seem. The dread leading up to exercise is equal to the relief felt after exercise.

There is a steepish hill at the end of my regular walking route and, as I was huffing and puffing and nearing death while tackling it the other day, I glanced across the street to an old guy carrying a briefcase, probably on his way to the bus stop or something, and he didn't even need to open his mouth to breathe. Then I just felt like Ron Livingston in Office Space when he's sitting dead stopped in traffic and the 90 year old with the walker on the sidewalk is moving faster than him.

Not Favorite, the Third // My persistent desirefor My utter dependency on My full-blown addiction to chocolate

There was this cute little four-second stint during my first trimester where it seemed that I'd been freed of my lifelong shackles to sweets and was ready to move forward toward a more mature palate. Yeah that's over now. The thought of chocolate consumes me all day. It consumes me nearly as much as I consume it. The reason the dimensions are unequal is because

1 all-consuming thought about chocolate = 4-7ish of those little chocolate bricks consumed

Let me reiterate: I don't buy this stuff. I try to stay out of harm's/carbohydrates'/20+ grams of sugar's way. But when I go into work, I know where that bowl of Hershey's chocolate-almond bricks is kept at my co-worker's desk for people to graze at will. When the image of one of those gold-clad blocks of goodness floats across my cerebellum, it's like zombies to the smell of flesh. I muuuuust have it. Help me out here, does anyone have some will power/self-control/big girl pants they could throw my way?

Not Favorite, the Fourth // My hair

Ok it's not that I don't like it all short like this. It's just.....ugh, in order for me to like it I have to do it. In order for me to do it, I have to invest 8-12 minutes with the blow-dryer and straightener. And sometimes, I'd really just rather invest that time to Pinterest. Or Instagram. Or blog rounds. But when I don't do my hair it looks eerily like Sir Dudley Moore's

minus the volume and plus a few unfortunate kinks due to a couple ill-placed cowlicks at the back of my scalp. I'm tempted to splurge on Hallie's recommendation though, and just sea salt the crap out of my hair. I'll probably just end up looking like an '80's Rosie Perez without excellent nasally sass though.

Not Favorite, the Fifth // Construction

California, what the deal is. Alllll the sudden alllll the road things need to be fixed at once? The potholes, we must fill them! The perilous overhanging branches, we must trim them! The double lines whose pigmentation is venturing dangerously into more of a butter yellow than a deep marigold, paint them! paint them! California....are you pregnant? This looks a lot like nesting. And hey, I feel ya. But here's the thing: your hormones are seriously impeding my daily commute and my treasured punctuality. Tighten up on your reins, you're runnin' wild. Not all the tax money needs to be spent all at once, you know.

Now you know my innermost concerns, and I have defiled a perfectly lovely link-up with my doom and gloom and nonsense. A day late no less. (I started this post 25 hours ago. That fly from the beginning? He's dead now.) I'm going to redirect you to Hallie's now, where other linkers have better things to say. In the meantime, I'm going to sit here and assure myself that the sun will come out tomorrow.

And it will probably be really flippin' hot.

external order

I was going to name this post "Spring Cleaning" but then I remembered when I named one of my posts "Maid Service" and I got all these spamsies about "we clean house for you." Do you think I've fooled the robots this time? I guess we'll see. (realllly just need to disable my anon comments but then I've lost hope forever of my mom figuring out how to comment..)

Ok. So. It's coming on sooner, much much sooner, than with my first pregnancy, but I am nesting and it's no joke. It's so not funny. I have been hating every square inch of this apartment; I have my eye on four large pieces of our furniture that I'm burning to revamp/refurbish; I want to throw this couch out and never lay eyes on it again; I've started a Goodwill box that about half of my clothes are currently in; the kitchen MUST must must must be clean at all times or I will have a flippin' meltdown I tell you. I'm hormonal - something I've never really experienced this heavily before (except perhaps directly post-partum. there are some stories there.) - and the only real option I have to alleviate the stress that is nesting is to make things clean. No Jess, put the primer down. You can't paint the walls. Stop hauling the sectional out section by section, we can't afford a new couch.

At my tiny tiny private high school, the whole school would gather for assembly every morning to do a daily dedication, followed my announcements and oftentimes a quick address from the headmaster. He used to say something, frequently enough that it would make me do a (mental) eye-roll, that resonates with me more now than it ever did ten years ago.

External order produces internal order.

At the time, I believe he was addressing the omnipresence of locker crap overflow into the halls and our slovenly desks that looked like they'd been ransacked. We were a small community; clutter made things claustrophobic. But now, as I look at the fruits of Sean's and my Saturday labors, I understand the second part of that phrase.

Walking into our apartment the last few weeks has been an immediate downer. It's been messy, cluttered, cramped, and nothing I want in terms of a home. My mood would turn nasty and I'd be a wench. There was no external order, (neatness, really), so I was not at peace with myself. After a quickish she-might-actually-be-manic-meltdown to Sean (who was not feeling well this weekend), I attacked the kitchen with a vengeance, then spent an hour and a half cleaning the bathroom, focusing my efforts on the shower/bathtub, which hadn't seen a real scrubbing in months.

Sean obviously sensed my crazy, and went out and rented a steam cleaner for our disgusting carpets.

All the earthly possession stacked not-precariously in the uncarpeted area

 All those white spots? That's where we sprayed carpet cleaner. THAT'S HOW MANY SPOTS THERE WERE. 

Helpful and Helpfuller or Vacuum Cords are Necklaces Too

Trendsetting with his cuffed jeans while Scaredy-Curious looks on

Dad's doing all the work - muahahah.

Cleaning is boring. I have a new playcubby. I'll be over here being unproductive.

Magic.

There's endless upon eternal upon neverending things that I want and need and have to do with this place, but a little cleanliness goes a long long way right now, and I'm feeling a little more restful. I followed up our cleanfest with confession (all by my lonesome), and BAM. Internal order. As part of my penance (am I allowed to tell you this?? oh well...) the priest told me to do something fun just for me. He advised me, in heavily accented English, that if I let stress build (ok, I must have sounded stressed out? Because I did not confess stress as a sin.) then I will be like the balloon getting bigger and bigger and bigger until I pop. I smiled behind the screen at this analogy, because over the months that's probably just about exactly what I'll look like, but he's right. 

After I left, I got a M&M McFlurry (judge me.) and went to my favorite park, parked the car, turned off the radio, and ate ice cream. I probably looked the profound lurk as I did not exit my vehicle, but I felt like it'd be more awkward for me to sit on a park bench by myself, eating ice cream, than to creep on people from behind my windshield, eating ice cream.

This day could not have been any more gorgeous so what the frick was I complaining about. Clean apartment + clean soul + McFlurry = External Order + Internal Order + Tastebuds Tingling with the Delight of Rebellion = Happy Pregnant Camper = Not-Wench Wife = Not-Scared-for-His-Life Husband = Blissful Family Unit.

It's just math, people.

Sometimes

it's one of those mornings. Such was Friday.
It was my fault really, I didn't recognize the signs. If I had, I would have embraced the inevitability of downward spiral.

I woke up voraciously hungry, which is rare for me, and we were out of zucchini which is my usual brekkers. Bust. Ok.

I heard Jordan complaining immediately upon waking - also a rarity, as she usually likes a good half hour of alone time in the morning (for singing her rendition of the Indiana Jones  theme song - no really, Sean's been teaching her - and chatting with Sockmonkey and flipping through The Napping House) before I invade her privacy. But that's alright, I like to hang out with Jordan. I'll just whip up her morning cup of milk and we can commence with our chillfest.

Nope, I forgot to get milk after Sean drained the last of it making his 27th latte of the day the previous evening, with his new Christmas present IncrediCoffee 2000. (I don't really know the name of the machine so I subbed in this badass title. Patent pending.) And I'm pretty sure Jordan is going to notice my not-sly waterbaba decoy.

I walked into the smell of a thousand souls shedding their searing tears for the demise of the universe in The Event that was Jordan's Diaper. So much for that onesie. Well, the contents of the diaper that had found their way up her back nearly to her rat-tail explained her unwillingness to play in her cell for any duration. Mystery solved.

After a wipe bath - and to offset the distinctly unfeminine affair we had both just been party to - I dressed Jordan in a tutu, because ridicule is my favorite. And because she can say "tutu" which is super entertaining. But I'd regret that decision in a minute too.

Jordan didn't want to be Ms. Independence of the Kelly Clarkson variety this particular morning, she opted for the Clingy McSaranWrap persona. Hey ya know, that happens sometimes, and while it slows my preparation-for-work process, it's kind of funny getting ready with her sitting on the counter while I pretend to apply mascara to her lashes and pluck her eyebrows. She tried a sneak attack reach for the open glass container of homemade bath salts that Kimmy gave me for Christmas, so I quickly latched the lid back on, narrowly avoiding a catastrophe that I didn't have time for.

Upon finishing our makeup routine I lifted Jordan off the counter, and what oh what  should her tutu be caught in but the huge, heavy, breakable Ball jar of bath salts. I freaked out until I realized it was very tightly caught, and did not detach and shatter all over the bathroom floor, but swung whimsically from Jordan's delicate ensemble.

I really need to amend my resolutions to be headed up at the tippy tip top with: THINK BEFORE YOU ACT JESS. I made a feeble and ill-advised attempt at athleticism in unlatching the lid with one hand while keeping Jordan pinned to my hip and yep. You guessed it. The whole flippin' thing clunked to the floor. Bath salts broke into a thousand pieces and they all went skipping about, and that was the beginning of fairies.

The jar did not actually break (shout out to the patron saint of clumsy), but I was on all fours scraping my beloved peppermint-scented granules from long since deserted corners of the bathroom, while Jordan berated me for my audacity in releasing her from my grasp, all while I should have been ten minutes down the freeway.

Wouldn't ya know it? I was slammed nearly to the degree of death by drowning in work, and got a particularly rude phone call from the condescendingest* of condescending customers. It was nearly 5 by then and this dang day had me itching to be sarcastic and passive aggressive right on back to him, but that's not what they pay me for, so I merely added an extra layer of saccharine to my already Mary Poppin'd professional voice. HA. That'll show him.
*fake superlatives make me feel better.

Now just look at that: I made it all the way through this much too complainy narrative with nary a snapshot and aren't you proud? However, it's affecting my psyche so I'm not going to let you off the hook.

Jordan's gleeful leer (gleer, if you will) is clearly enunciating:

"You can be kinda dumb sometimes, Mom."

No Jordan. Fridays can be kinda dumb sometimes.

The Good, the Bad, and the Grimy

Bath time. A rapturous time. A time in which mother and daughter share a slew of emotions together, including but not limited to: frustration, defiance, tearfulness, disdain, animosity, chagrin, despair, distress, agitation, fear and loathing (not in Las Vegas, in Las Bathtub). Alright so some of these are physical rather than emotional states but you say potato. and I say potato too.

Here's the rub a dub dub: Jordan loves the water. Loves it.

Ocean Water? Check.

She's mostly naked too, so it's like a humongous, salty, freezing cold bath.

Lake Water? Check check.

It comes with a huge floating couch - what is not to love, pray tell.

Sink water circa age 1 month?

Soothing, comfortable, paradisiacal - check, check, check.

But bath time these days is a veritable battle of wills. We start off ok if Jordan's left to her devices. Her devices are named Rubber Ducky, Rubber Seahorse, Rubber Blowfish, and Rubbermaid Tupperware. They all get along swimmingly if you'll excuse the pun, but I don't blame you if you won't. It used to be that I would let Jordan play leisurely for twenty, twenty-five minutes at a time while I sat cross-legged on the bath mat making my blog rounds. Only after she and her bathmates had tired of Marco Polo would I pull out the dreaded shampoo and get down to the business of making clean.

Then, It Happened One Night.

If you're a mom I'm pretty sure you can handle this story, but if you're included in the clan of easily nauseated I'll let you see yourself out. I was minding my own business. I was poring over my stories. Jordan was filling her Rubbermaid with bath water then dumping it out repeatedly and without losing enthusiasm. She sweetly started sing-songing her favorite phrase "uh-oh." But Jordan doesn't know too many phrases and this one is applied to most situations, including the one where she chucks her binky the length of the room (she hasn't figured out the connotation of "unintentional" that is usually attached to the expression). So I kept on with my affairs with nary a glance up, while mindlessly repeating back "uh-oh" to her. Until. One of the uh-oh's was accompanied by a something landing on my lamb-appliqued pj bottoms. My daughter had flung poop on my lambjamas.

There was an emergency evacuation from the tub. The rubber bathmates were subjected to a bio radiation decontamination soak in a sinkful of hydrogen peroxide. We lost Rubber Hammerhead in the Event, as his tail was used to corral toxic waste down the drain. After a vinegar-baking soda scrubdown of the tub-potty - all carefully supervised by a very naked Jordan - the Offender was plopped in a fresh vat of the bubbly and aggressively and effectively washed by the Offendee.

I'm sure you can understand why bath time is no longer fun and games around here. We're in there to degermify, and fast. These days Dirty Harry greets both bath and bather as such

Don't come at me with that Aveeno, bro.

And I sneer

You've gotta ask yourself one question: Do you feel clean?

Well do ya...punk?

For a good fifteen minutes after each disinfection, Jordan and I aren't on speaking terms. She flirts with Sean, tries to make me jealous, shoots glances in my direction to make sure I'm paying attention, and it's all very convincing until I pull the milk carton out. The "baba" makes all things new again; we kiss (Jordan kiss = foreheads bonk) and make up, I give her a little extra toothpaste on her brush by way of an apology, and we turn in for the night amicably.

In true toddler fashion: one millisecond you're in, and the next...you're out. I'll just keep the milk handy.