I Love Drugs!

What do drugs have to do with my huge belly? Let me tell you: a lot!

First of all, let's address the obvious: yes, this is my belly at 27 weeks. That's right folks...I'm as ripe as a summer squash and I'm not even in my third trimester yet.

As you can see, there's not a whole lot of real estate left. Where is this baby going to go? Is it going to start growing out of my head? I get stopped by well-meaning people all the time who smile and ask, "When are you due?" Its pretty clear they are expecting me to say "next week!" or "tomorrow!" or even "yesterday!" When I say, "Oh...in a few months," I watch the predictable succession of emotions cross their faces. Surprise, horror, then fear. Inevitably they recover and say, "Oh, well, you look great...just great!" Then they scurry off like scared little mice.

How in the hell am I going to squeeze this baby out? Maybe I should name her "Epidural" instead of "Holland."

I mean, Marley was no lightweight. Weighing in at 8 pounds 10 ounces, her birth felt (and probably looked) like something out of a horror movie. I didn't get my epidural until I was about 8 centimeters dilated (freaken slow anesthesiologist!) and until then I was feeling no relief or break from the contractions. After the drugs, I was allowed just over one hour sweet, pain-free bliss, before the nurse midwife came in and said, "Time to push!" and ordered the anesthesiologist back to cut my epidural in HALF. (The midwife said I was a "poor pusher" and needed to feel the contractions more. If I saw her on the street today I'd be tempted to run her over.)

Well, it felt like I had no drugs at all. I quickly grew delirious with pain, practically foaming at the mouth, head almost spinning like the Exorcist. At one point I grabbed Ian by the shirt and told him to go downstairs and get the car...we were getting out of here!

When the serious pushing began, my mom holding up one leg and my poor husband dutifully holding the other, I thought I was going to die. "I'm never having another baby again! EVER!!!" I screamed. But...I am.

Poor Ian was so beside himself he grabbed the oxygen mask off my face and started breathing it in himself.

I pushed and pushed. I screamed and screamed. Then, I heard the nurse midwife distinctly say, "It's not going to fit." Not exactly the words I wanted to hear.

"Christine, we are giving you an episitomy," she said, grabbing a pair of shiny silver scissors. "I will try to numb you up first, but I'll cut you during a contraction so you don't feel it."

I felt it. I let out a blood-curdling scream I am sure is still echoing through the 4th floor of Kaiser. And then, miraculously, Marley popped out. I was flooded with relief! My baby was here! The pain was over! AMEN!!!

So yes, I used the drugs, there just wasn't enough. Next time, I'm going to make the doctor or nurse midwife or WHOEVER is delivering me swear on their life to NOT TURN DOWN MY EPIDURAL. And if I have to get an episitomy, for the love of God, make sure I'm NUMB down there first!

Oh, I know, I'm sure there are lots of girls out there who did it naturally. If you did it "naturally" then good for you. That's just freaking great. Maybe you gave birth in a bathtub. Maybe you popped the baby out balancing on a birthing ball. Hell, you could have given birth upside down riding an elephant in a circus with your doula singing ancient birthing chants.

But unless you wear a size 25 jeans and your baby was pushing 9 pounds, I'M NOT IMPRESSED.

As for me, I choose the drugs. BRING ON THE DRUGS!!!

The Black Widow in my Bed

I decided to do some housework after Marley went down for her nap today. First order of business: make the bed! I diligently pulled back the comforter to straighten out the sheets, and saw...

A BLACK WIDOW IN MY BED!

There was no mistaking it. A black spider with a red hour-glass shape on its back, clear as day!

Oh my god, oh my god, THERE'S A BLACK WIDOW IN MY BED! I screamed to myself. (I would have screamed outloud, but that would have woken up a sleeping Marley, which was even scarier than the wrath of a venomous spider bite.)

They'd been tearing up our driveway out back to install new pavers, and the bulldozers must have disturbed some secret, subterranean, Satanic layer of BLACK WIDOW SPIDERS.

What should I do???

I couldn't run away...it would burrow under the covers and attack Ian and me while we slept. Or, it would make the trek downstairs to Marley's room and kill my firstborn. Or, it would bite our Uncle Andy who was driving down from Orange County for a visit. It could kill our Pekingese Pagoda AND our cat Picasso! IT COULD WIPE US ALL OUT! MY WHOLE WORLD WAS THREATENED BY THIS LITTLE SPIDER, THE SIZE OF MY THUMBNAIL!

My course of action was clear: the spider had to die. And it had to die NOW. Every second I waited I was giving it a chance to escape, to disappear somewhere to hide and give birth to MORE BLACK WIDOWS.

I panicked. I am pregnant, after all. What if it bit me while I tried to kill it? What would happen to me and my unborn child?

Luckily, I had left a tub of Homelife Lemon-Scented Disinfecting Wipes in the upstairs bathroom. I pulled out three wet wipes and folded them together so I could grab the spider with my hands and squash it with the anti-bacterial, flu virus-killing, disinfectant-soaked wipes.

There was no room for mistakes here. No second chances. I had to be SURE.

I quickly grabbed the spider with the wipes and squashed it as best I could, praying that it couldn't bite me through the wipes and send its poisonous venom soaring through my veins. But somehow, the spider jumped out! It fell onto the floor and hobbled sideways towards the stairs, towards Marley's room.

NOOOOO! I screamed, (inwardly, as Marley was napping) and I grabbed it again, threw the spider and wipes in the toilet and flushed.

I flushed one more time for good measure.

I did it. I killed the black widow. I saved my entire family from a certain painful death. I walked downstairs slowly, sweaty and flushed, fresh out of battle. I decided to look up the Black Widow Spider on the Internet.

When I saw the picture of the black widow spider, it looked a little...different. The black widow spider apparently has long legs. My spider had short, furry looking legs. I scanned through some pictures and found the specimen that looked exactly like my spider.

Meet the North American Red-Backed Jumping Spider.

According to Wikipedia, "It is one of the largest and most commonly encountered jumping spiders in North America. While the jumping spider can inflict a painful bite in its defense, its bite does not have serious medical consequences."

Hmm. While I feel bad for killing a non-venomous spider, I don't feel so bad about narrowly avoiding a "painful bite." And I guess that explains the spider's miraculous jump. It is, after all, a "jumping spider."

Sayounara, red backed jumping spider. Rest in Peace. Oh, and if you have any brothers or sisters or cousins lurking around, please tell them to stay the F-CK OUT OF MY HOUSE or they will meet an untimely death with a handful of anti-bacterial wipes.

Peace out.

Yup...Marley and I are Famous (Sort of)

I don't know how to put this, but I'm kind of a big deal! They used my quote in this month's Parenting Magazine...SHAZAM! Check it out below.

Since we are now famous, Marley and I are anxiously awaiting our celebrity endorsements. It would be great if the folks at Serena and Lily wanted to sponsor us--like, they could hook us up with Holland's crib bedding so I don't have to spend $395 plus $40 shipping to furnish my second born's nursery. Or, Target could endorse us and ship us the rocking chair.

Seriously though, I do feel super cool that the nice editors at Parenting Mag chose to use our submission. If you haven't read the magazine lately, it's actually pretty awesome. I also friended them on Facebook because their posts are helpful and funny and not annoying.

Now, I'm just waiting for someone (oh, I don't know, like Parenting Magazine) to invite me to be a highly-paid celebrity guest blogger. Then, inevitably, someone will want to make my blog into a book, written by me of course. Naturally it will get turned into a screenplay and an Oscar award-winning film, starring Sandra Bullock. Then I could actually afford to buy the condo we are renting, join the HOA, go head-to-head with my lame neighbor and get the dumb rule overturned that says NO PRETTY AND CLASSY WHITE LIGHTS OR COOL LANTERNS ARE ALLOWED TO BE HUNG FROM YOUR BALCONY.

I digress. This is all besides the point. Thanks Parenting Mag for making me feel cool!

The Stay-at-Home Mom's Affair with a Juicy Tracksuit

I have a brown one. I have a blue one. I have a turquoise one. I even have the fake ones they sell at the Closet in Sports Arena for $10 a pop.

I admit it: I'm a sucker for Juicy tracksuits. Yes, they are kinda cheesy and lame, and are probably going the way of the Christian Audigier line after Jon started getting his photo snapped in Ed Hardy t-shirts, talking on his cell phone to skanky younger chicks.

Yes, when I think of the Juicy tracksuit, I think of Poway stay-at-home moms with big boobs and collagen lips. (No offense to any Poway moms with big boobs...but the collagen lips, really?) But the thing is, Juicy tracksuits are just...so...comfortable! And, as a stay-at-home mom myself, there is something wonderfully soothing about them.

I can throw one on and not WORRY about trying to match because it ALREADY MATCHES! I can wear one to Stroller Strides, go straight to music class and the grocery store without ever changing clothes. I can wear them with UGGs, flip flops, or tennies.

They make me feel young and spry. They put a little spring in my step. They even make me harbor the secret delusion that my butt is what is stamped across it...JUICY. They are playful and frisky, like the PT Cruisers of lounge wear.

Also, I don't have to suck in. I can even wear them pregnant because the pants ride so low...although I'm for sure stretching out the zip up hoodies!

Although I would never, ever advocate paying full price (hello, $200 for a TRACKSUIT, people?) I certainly have no problem buying them on discount at Nordstrom Rack, Loehmans, and my all-time fav, TJ Max.

Come on, admit it. You know you have one. What do YOU love about your Juicy tracksuit?

Ian's Funky Salami

This is a true story.



My dear husband, after a long day of work, decided to come home last night and cook up one of his famous homemade pizzas. God bless him!



Last night's dish was super doughy and garlic-y, with yummy sauce and delicious salami. Or so I thought.



As I polish off the last slice, Ian turns to me and casually says, "You know, you really need to zip up the plastic wrap better around the salami. It wasn't zipped all the way and it didn't look so good. In fact, I think you should take the meat off of Marley's slice."



Mind you, this is AFTER I have consumed three pieces of pizza with generous portions of the suspect salami. Oh yeah, and I'm SIX MONTHS PREGNANT.



I say, "Are you seriously telling me the salami I've just eaten is BAD?"



"Well, it's cooked, so it's probably okay, but you really need to ziplock the meat bag better," he says.



"What, so this is MY fault?" I ask, now bewildered and panicky.

Ian, "Yes, you need to zip up the meat better. And if it was bad, why was it in the fridge?"



"Dude, if it was BAD, why in the hell did you put it on our DINNER?" I ask.



As if this wasn't bad enough, after we do the dishes--just to rub it in--Ian says, "Let me show you something," and takes the bag of bad salami out of the fridge. Sure enough, it has turned a funky brown color. I start to gag.



"You put this meat on our PIZZA, then SHOWED it to me? Are you CRAZY?" I ask.



"Well, like I said, if you don't zip it up right, it will go bad."



Yes, ladies and gentlemen. Clearly, it was all MY FAULT that my husband served me a pizza with skanky salami on it. WTF???

An Open Letter to Christine's Boobs

Dear Boobs,



I was going through my wedding pictures the other day, and there, snug in my low-cut wedding gown, I saw you! My old boobs! Old friends! How I miss you, old boobs. You were so happy and perky and full of bounce and vigor!



And then...I had a baby. You turned from simply a "nice rack" (as my husband would say) to a life-support system for a newborn infant, delivering nourishment and comfort around the clock. For nine months. And then, when your work was done, you disappeared! Where did you go? Why hath you forsaken me?



Tube tops and strapless dresses--once so flattering and sassy--are now a thing of the past. Even nightgowns don't hang right! Now I don't even THINK about leaving the house without my special Victoria's Secret bra that adds up to two cup sizes (and it does, thank God!)



My husband, well, although he is a self-proclaimed "boob man" and was always your biggest fan, has taken it pretty well. I can see he misses you sometimes, but sadly, not as much as I do.



I wonder, is anyone secretly happy with their boobs after breastfeeding? (And if you are still breastfeeding, don't even think about replying because you still have MILK in your boobs.) And spare me all the "Motherhood is beautiful, my boobs are beautiful because they fed my baby." Boobs, I'm proud that you fed my baby also, but that doesn't mean I'm stoked on your decision to ABANDON me! And, even scarier, now I will have a second baby to breastfeed. What will become of you then?



Then again, maybe I'm missing the point here. Boobs, I know your job is to have a specific function in our society--mainly feeding a child--and yet we turn you into an object of lust and vanity. Perhaps this is all my fault. You did your job, you fed my baby, I should be stoked on you and not complain about you. I should be happy that--what is left of you--is happy, healthy, and for goodness sakes, cancer-free. I should be applauding you, saying "Go Boobs!"



But still. I miss the way we were.



As a society in general, I know we are too quick to run to the surgeon's office to cure our self-image woes, risking pain, recovery time, and other drawbacks. But...still.



I want you back, old boobs! (Although they wouldn't REALLY be you, they would be part silicone or saline or whatever they use these days.) I want my old body back. And if I can afford it, why not? Or is that vain, fruitless, stupid, or even dangerous?



Boobs, I guess I will just have to wait and see what the future brings. But if you want to come back for a visit...even if it's just while I'm breastfeeding...that's OK with me. I'd love to see you again!



XOXO,

me

Why You Shouldn't Put Pillow Pets in the Dryer

It was a rainy day...which means it was time to spruce up Marley's nursery. I decided that all the Pillow Pets needed a good wash. Bade (her sheep), Panda Bear, Whale (her Dolphin) and Bee all got jammed in the washer for a good suds-ing.

I read the instructions. They said to wash each Pillow Pet separately in a white pillow case and let them air dry. But really...who has time for that? I don't even own a white pillow case. What could happen? Certainly no terrible calamity would befall the Pillow Pets during a routine wash. So into the washer and dryer they went!

They emerged from the dryer looking...not so soft. And a little...singed! Sorta crispy, really. And what was that burnt polyester smell radiating through the garage?

Needless to say, I was devastated to witness Marley's family of Pillow Pets go from soft, plush animals like this:

To frazzled, bumpy, and not-so-soft, like this:

And here's what happened to poor "Bade."

Luckily, Marley was relatively unfazed by it all. "It's okay Mommy," she said, patting my back. "Bade is still soft....a little. He's a little soft."

Anyway, if you have any Pillow Pets, be sure to follow the washing instructions. And for goodness sakes...don't put them in the dryer!