2009
Thanksgiving and Thanksgetting
So! Thanksgiving!* We covered the turkey with bacon again, and lo, it was a steaming hunk of juicy, fatty heaven. We set out the fancy dishes and the fancy wine, and we even donned non-spandex-based pants for the occasion, although just barely, and I was in green fuzzy slippers from bed-time to bedtime, holiday finery be damned if my feet aren’t comfortable. Despite a few minor mishaps (the baby kicked my ugly-cute turkey figurine into a candle and melted its polyester wing; I hung up the baby’s first holiday-appropriate hand-turkey** before the glitter glue dried, and it ended up looking like the orange My Little Pony fell asleep on it with her mouth open; on the two days we had someone in the house who would happily deal with the baby before the crack of noon, the little cuss slept until 10 a.m.), it was a great weekend. Simon’s mom hitched a ride up from SoCal, made enough stuffing to last three addicts four days, and played on the floor ad infinitum with her only grandson, which perfectly dovetailed with my plans to sit upright on actual furniture and drink a cup of tea from start to finish like a civilized person (in fuzzy green slippers). And for that I am thankful.
On Sunday after we said goodbye to Simon’s mom and set her in motion on the bumper-to-bumper train of cars that I-5 no doubt was at the end of the holiday weekend, our little family put on our most attractive sweaters*** and attended what was ostensibly a laid-back tea party but was in actuality, for me at least, several hours of cookie-fueled volunteer docent work at a zoo comprised of seven kids in one small condo, all of whom were VERY LOUD but at least content to remain inside the plastic play-yard, all of them, that is, except the one who wanted to swirl his hands in the toilet and pull over the kitchen garbage can and shake down the Christmas tree and sample from teacups abandoned on the coffee table, and I bet you’ll never guess which kid that was! I broke out my Very Stern Mom voice and everything; a wiser baby would have been Very Afraid, or at least a little bit faster.
And that was how this Very Busy Week started. Up next: On Tuesday night, I’m going straight from work to home to the city, where we’re meeting Will and Nina for cocktails (our first time seeing them since their superstar Vegas wedding!) while Holly and Sean spoil Wombat and hopefully send him home with better manners and/or some of that delectable hot pumpkin bread desserty thing they make. Then, on Thursday, we’ll be joining our SF blog crew for the BlogHer holiday party, by which time I really hope I’ll have (a) something to wear and (b) a babysitter, lest I arrive clad in nothing but an Ergo (and fuzzy green slippers).
And then, on Friday–oh, you’ll never guess what’s happening on Friday! Simon’s band is recording an album. This is all very exciting, blah blah can’tsharedetails blah blah twangcakes, but what I will say is that I hope I get an extra special credit in the liner notes acknowledging my true steadfastness as band-aid extraordinnaire and my long-suffering willingness to watch the baby BY MYSELF for TWO WHOLE DAYS on the weekend penultimate to a Major Life Event so Daddy can play country music with his friends. Martyrdom: Who says it has to be a thankless pursuit? (Seriously, though, they’re recording an actual album, all originals, many of which Simon wrote, and I would be a fool to ignore the fact that I’m in with a real, live rockstar and that–to be a bit less selfish–my husband-type person is living his dream, the lucky duck.
He’s also, by the way, living my dream. Observe. Simon, yesterday: “I need a haircut.” Simon, today: “Look at my haircut!” Me, for the last six months: “I need to buy more hats.”
Yes, it’s going to be a hell of a week (I forgot to say that on Saturday I also have an appointment with a clothing stylist–more on that later–while Beck watches Wombat (thank god I started blogging eight years ago or I’d have no one to babysit my child!)), but if all goes well, by the end of the week I’ll have spent some good time with some awesome people, and I just might get that haircut after all, and maybe even work in some time to pee on a blasted peestick.****
*These days I start pretty much everything with “So! [Insert subject here]!” It’s a great way to just jump right to the matter at hand, no pussyfooting around. “So! You’re babysitting our kid, who just learned to walk for reals! Please apologize to your cats and valuables in advance!” “So! I’m at a cocktail party wearing nothing but an Ergo! Thank god it’s a no-host bar!” “So! Your house is full of ants and fleas!” (Oops, I mean my house. MY house is full of ants and fleas. GAH.)
**He made Simon a hand-turkey for Father’s Day and one for my (gainfully employed! at last!) brother for his birthday in October.
***Another thing no one tells you about your post-maternity wardrobe: Unless you think hard about it every time you get dressed, your maternity bra will probably show with everything you own. And because you won’t be able to think hard about what you’re wearing hardly EVER, most of the time you’ll never realize your fashion faux pas until your friend emails you photos of yourself flashing your undergarments like a Dutch redlight window-dancer except with whiter, wider bra straps and flap hooks that are more function than form and, oh, also totally unintentionally.
****My Twitterfolk will know that there’s been some recent speculation ’round these parts about my…well…my parts. I’ve been waiting on my period for a small eternity (think Godot), and although “precautions have been taken” and I’m still well within the breastfeeding-causes-irregular-periods safezone, I can’t help but FREAK OUT because, jayzus, this is not only the month before my itty-bitty baby turns the big (gigantic, enormous) one, but it’s the month after I switched my health insurance from my awesome (and awesomely expensive) plan to my catastrophic-only HSA, which pretty much covers nothing short of being hit by a bus such that everything below my neck would require amputation. I’ve spent the past week wringing my hands, checking my panties, and trying to push it all to the back of my mind, avoidavoidavoid, even though I know that this–like house fleas and haircuts–is something that won’t just go away if I ignore it long enough. Problems like these just tend to get worse rather than better, don’t they.
2009
Countdown to One
You guys, I think this time I’ve really lost it. Wombat’s birthday is in less than a month (and Christmas just after that, in case I haven’t mentioned this unfortunate proximity about two hundred times), and I’ve gone and painted myself into a corner with glitter glue by deciding I need to handcraft the invitations and decorations and maybe a gift or two, as well as whip up some Christmas stockings for all three of us (so we don’t have to use the Betsys (Betsies?) again). And don’t forget all the regular party prep that never fails to stir me like a whirlpool until my eyes cross and I fall down, oh, and we’ll be having houseguests as well, and we all know how I feel about that.
Then, let’s add to all of this the derangement of deciding that most of these projects need to be Top Secret, meaning I can only work on them when Wombat is sleeping and Simon’s out of house, which only leaves me about three hours on Thursday nights, while Simon’s at band practice and the baby’s asleep, subtract next Thursday because it’s Thanksgiving and the Thursday after that because it’s the BlogHer holiday party and the Thursday after that because it’s two days before Wombat’s birthday (observed) and I’ve scheduled that evening for lying prostrate on a pile of polkadot fabric mumbling awful things about jingle bells and avocado pie. On second thought, maybe I need Simon’s help after all.
And speaking of avocado pie and Simon, please help me remember how much I hate food preparation, and then let’s hope that serves as reason for me avoid it entirely and just buy all the food pre-made (yes, even the birthday cake) because, man, I may be crazy, but I’m not sick. Anyway, I think a straightjacket might compromise my ability to enjoy the festivities, although now that I think about it, at least it would mean I didn’t have to stress out over the perfect party outfit, which I hadn’t though about at all until right this second and now I think I have to go breathe into a paper sack.
[Yes, I know Wombat won't care about the food and the decorations and even most of the gifts, but even though it's his birthday, this year it's not really about him. Now, I'm certainly not going all out because I feel I have to or because I need to impress anyone (no, not even myself) but because, gah, you guys, my baby is turning ONE, and if I don't spend the weeks leading up to it planning and crafting and worrying, I'm afraid all that pent-up emotion (joy, pride, nostalgia, disbelief) will collapse inward on itself and give me a rash. Besides, shouldn't a first birthday be about celebrating the parents too? And so shouldn't we throw a party that's as much for us as it is for him (especially considering that as each day passes it looks less and less like I'll ever have a wedding*)? Come to think of it, maybe I will take the time to handmake some edibles after all--some bathtub whiskey for Simon and a pan of brownies for myself.]
*We’ll still get married, of course, just maybe not have a wedding (in part because I spent waaaay too much at the craft store this week; did I really sell away my wedding for five yards of red ribbon and a basket of seashells?).
2009
M*therblogger
Ladies, germs, onlookers, and bystanders, I’m here to take care of some bidness and that is all.
Aquaphor skincare product review (and photo of Wombat in the tubby) here. Enter for your chance to win cash! and prizes! (I love it best when regular readers win my contests, don’t you?)
Then, let’s talk about swearing in front of the kids, shall we? (We’re the $%@#ers who said we’d stop saying &*!% and #@&! as soon as the baby was born and then…well, we just got so *%@#&!+ busy, you see, and cleaning up our language just felt like too much to take on.) Come join the party here, won’t you? (Someone’s already said “motherfucker” in the comments, which I think is awesome.)
Now, back to my regularly scheduled rushed and panicked crafting in preparation for Wombat’s birthday and Christmas, which are eleven &$%*ing days apart and just around the corner. (Christmas music in the craft store. Christmas music in the craft store! Code Red! Code Green!) If ever there were a time for swearing, it’s now. This year I’m trading out Johnny Mathis and Bing Crosby for Eminem and Insane Clown Posse.
Later, bitches.
