The Power of a Band-Aid

I hurt my back the other day. I was doing a pilates move I thought was kosher during pregnancy...apparently, it was not. It didn't hurt too badly at first...it was a minor annoyance more than anything else.

But last night we met some good friends for dinner at Station Tavern in South Park. (If you haven't been there...hello! Yummy, cheap food with an outdoor, gated play area for the kiddos. Think: drinking wine or beer while watching your kids engage in gravel-throwing, running and debauchery from a safe distance.)

When I took Marley to the bathroom for a potty break and lifted her onto the seat...OUCH! Whatever was wrong with my back got a LOT worse. I could barely walk out of the bathroom, and had to resort to a sideways, crab-like walk.

Whatever. I have an appointment with a chiropractor on Monday. Until then, I will survive!

Last night when I was putting Marley down to bed, she asked me why I couldn't lay down in her bed with her.

"Marley, Mommy's back hurts," I explained. "Mommy has an owie on her back."

Marley immediately ran to my side, stared at me intently with great concern.

"Mommy has an OWIE on her back?" Marley asked, clearly distressed by this information. "Where?"

"Right here." I showed her where the owie was, on my lower back on the left-hand side.

Marley pondered this for a moment. "Hmm," she said. "Mommy, you need a band-aid. You put a band-aid on your owie, and when you take it off, it will be MUCH better!"

She smiled triumphantly and kissed me on the cheek, so proud to cure my owie with this profound morsel of medically-sound information.

"Oh Marley, that's so sweet," I said. "Thanks for the great advice! Will any kind of band-aid work?"

Marley thought about this for a moment.

"No, Mommy," she said. "You should use a PRINCESS BANDAID."

Of course. :)

Why I'm Boycotting Maternity Clothes...or, Top 10 Places to Buy Non-Maternity Clothes when You are Preggers

Maternity clothes...AGH, what a rip off! Sure, they require more fabric than normal clothes, but HELLO, do they really have to mark them up so much? Seems to me the average maternity garment costs DOUBLE the price of a non-maternity item with the same fabric and style.

Here's the thing that makes me really mad....they KNOW that pregnant women are hormonal, anxious, and feeling fat. They KNOW that shopping when you are 30 pounds bigger in the middle, tired, dying to go pee, possibly carting along a crazed two-year-old, is troublesome and depressing. So they are TAKING ADVANTAGE of us in our sorry, weakened state.

This has to stop!

And so...I'm calling for a MATERNITY CLOTHING BOYCOTT.

Pea-in-the-Pod, you make-me-puke. $185 maternity jeans? I think not. So here, for your reading enjoyment, I have listed the Top Ten Places to Score Non-Maternity Clothes when You are Pregnant.

1. Old Navy. I loooove me some Old Navy! First off, their stuff is cheap. Secondly, all you have to do is buy that cute sundress or tunic in a medium or large, and you're ready to party! I bought a dress for a bachlorette party and two more for upcoming weddings.

2. Forever 21. Again, cheap and cute stuff that you won't mind stretching out a bit. Keep in mind, they generally operate under juniors sizing, so you'll probably be getting a large in most items.

3. Charlotte Russe...same as above!

4. Wal-Mart. You have to go there anyway to stock up on some basics for the nursery, so you might as well check out their apparel. I've scored some cute, super-long 80's print t-shirts that are perfect for working out and running around town.

5. Gilt.com. If you've seen my post on Gilt, you know I love this site. Well they have great yoga clothes and tank tops on sale made from nice, super-soft cotton. I just ordered some Michael Stars tanks in a large to get me through the last hot months of pregnancy.

6. Target. If you're like me, you know you can't leave that store without dropping a minimum of $150. Might as well contribute to the pregnancy wardrobe while you're spending all that dough.(But stay the hell OUT of the maternity section--they mark their sh-t up too! Just buy larger sizes in the normal section.)

7. Kate's at the Hotel Del. Yes they are more expensive, but they have great sales on designer clothes. Score a cute trapeze dress or baby-doll top super cheap!

8. The discount shops. TJ Max and Marshalls are my favs. Buy some organic, super soft tops and stretchy pants you'll live (and grow in) for the next few months.

9. Your friends. Ask other mommy friends if they have any pregnancy clothes they are anxious to get rid of. My friend Cyndi hooked me up with an insane baby-doll style dress that made my engorged boobs look great! Thanks Cyndi!

10. Your closet. Don't forget to shop your closet! Do you have a cute, cheap cotton dress that you could turn into a shirt and wear with leggings? How about that shirt that was always a little too loose? With your new pregnancy boobs and belly, chances are, it will fit just right!

And BAM! You have a rockin' new pregnancy wardrobe, without contributing to the gratuitous, predatory world of maternity clothing marketing.

And if you have any shopping tips to add, please share...inquiring (and anxious and hormonal) minds want to know!

Losing My Religion

Jesus Turning Water into Wine

I'm in search of a church. That's right, folks. I want to join a church...preferably here in Coronado.

I know, I know...when I was little, I hated going to church. My parents had to practically drag me to the car, kicking and screaming the entire time. It didn't help that this particular church was super hardcore, and basically outlawed drinking, smoking, and sex before marriage...you know, all the good stuff.

I knew from an early age that I wasn't cut out for that particular brand of Christianity. As soon as I tasted my first sip of wine, I knew that I was destined to be a wino, living a life of sin and moral ambiguity. As soon as I was able, I abandoned my church and continued to slide down the slippery slope of ungodliness (all be it, with a smile on my face.)

Good times. So why do I want to join a church now?

Well, when I was pregnant with Marley, I found myself...thinking about God. And starting to pray. Because I was scared! I was having a baby. What was I DOING? I didn't know how to be a mom. How could I possibly be entrusted to raise a child? I could barely take care of myself. And the whole pregnancy thing was just so unnerving! All those terrible prenatal tests...so many things to worry about. So many things could go wrong! I thought Marley was safe, snug in my belly...and then I find out there are a host of ailments that could occur in nine months to threaten a healthy pregnancy.

So I prayed. And praying made me...happy. It gave me a sense of calm and peace. It gave me comfort, the assurance that there was a higher power, that my fears and worries weren't my burden alone. I was GLAD that I'd gone to church then...GLAD that I knew some of these prayers and bible stories. If Daniel could survive the lion's den, if David could overcome Goliath, I could handle an 8 pound, 10 ounce bundle-of-joy, right?

I continue to pray every day, even if it's just to thank God for the sunshine, or my healthy family, or the dolphins I saw leap in the waves this morning. It helps me focus on all the positive, wonderful things I have in my life and keeps me grounded.

So now, I am determined to raise Marley (and soon Baby Holland) in a church. I really want to expose them to religion and God, and give them some basis...some framework...to work with. And if they follow my rebellious footsteps, so be it! At least they will know what they are rebelling against.

Trouble is...which church is right for my family? I wish there was a church called, "The Happy Church that Believes in God and Jesus but Doesn't Hate Gay People or Judge Others that Don't Embrace our Church." Alas, none exists.

But, after a brief search, I thought I'd found the perfect place. It's here on the island, and is populated (for the most part) by smiling, serene old people. There were a few young families with kids, and everyone seemed really nice. I felt a happy, calming sensation the first time I attended a service. Although I didn't really understand what the pastor was talking about, it certainly didn't offend me. It seemed positive, happy, and benign. Could this be the right church?

I came back the next week, and a few other times. Finally, I brought Marley to the Sunday School. She loved it! I was all set to join. (My husband, God bless him, doesn't care which church we join. As long as I don't make him go very often and I don't get in his face about it and he can still drink lots of beer.)

So, a week later, I found myself back in this church. (I had attended maybe 5 services so far.) I had noticed a trend...the services seemed to get a little more...forceful. Yet, I was okay with it.

This time, the pastor was out of town. The speaker was actually the head of the children's Sunday School. Great, I thought. This lady seems so nice! Now I'll get to see first-hand who will be shaping the minds of my young children.

She started off the sermon with a true/false quiz.

"True or false," she said. "For the most part, people are mainly good."

True, I thought to myself. This would be easy!

"True or false: it doesn't really matter what you believe, as long as you believe in a higher power and you are a good person."

True! I was nailing this.

The quiz continued in a similar fashion for a few more minutes...and then she gave us the correct answers.

FALSE. The answers were all FALSE.

Apparently, the world is NOT full of good people, and was in fact populated for the most part by BAD people. Didn't I watch the news?

And I guess it matters A LOT what your specific belief set is, because you won't be climbing the stairway to heaven unless you believe certain things...no matter HOW good of a person you are.

I was devastated. How f-cking depressing! It reminded me of an ex-boyfriend who was super smart yet SUPER NEGATIVE all the time, always viewing the world with an aura of pending doom. I had to break up with him, he made me so damn depressed.

Here, I thought I found the perfect church, and now my entire belief system was being challenged. But I knew I was right.

How can you think the world is made up of mostly bad people? Sure, the news is full of garbage and violence, but a bunch of happy people standing around and smiling does NOT a front-page story make. (Believe me, I know, I worked in news for years!)

And what about your day-to-day experience? Wouldn't you say that most of the people you encounter seem pretty good? Of course they aren't perfect, but if most of the people I encountered on a daily basis were f-cking as-holes, I wouldn't really want to be here!

I don't want my daughters raised thinking the world is populated with mostly bad people. I believe your experience is dictated by your mindset, and if you think the world is bad, your experience will be bad.

So. We didn't join that church.

There are a few more on the island I'd like to try, so hopefully I will find the right one. I know I won't agree with everything, and that's okay. And I'm aware that some of the beliefs mentioned above might be at the core of some pretty prominent religions, so I don't want to offend anyone here. It just wasn't my cup of tea.

But one thing I DO know...my God is a good God. He loves all his children and he knows the truth in our hearts. He is a source of strength when we are scared and light when we are filled with darkness. And so, I send you off with this bible verse...

The earth is full of the goodness of the Lord. Ps 33:5

So there!

I Think I'm Cool Because...

...my blog post, The Black Widow in my Bed, was featured in "The Saturday Spotlight" on Studiothirtyplus.com. Weeeee! (In case you didn't know, Studiothirtyplus.com is a pretty sweet website for bloggers--you guessed it--over 30 years old. I just KNEW my thirties were going to be cooler than my twenties.)

Every week they feature some blog posts in their Weekend Spotlight, and this week they included mine. Hurray!

Anyway, if you're into that sort of thing, you should check it out. I've been pretty impressed with some of the stuff my fellow bloggers are coming up with...including some pretty amazing poetry!

This poem about motherhood, although it was dark, almost made me cry.

Anyway, thanks to the good people of Studiothirtyplus.com for featuring my blog! You like me...you really like me!

Getting into Graham

I'm a little embarrassed to admit this, but it's true: I've been completely obsessed with getting Marley into Graham Preschool.

I know, I know. It shouldn't matter that much where she goes to preschool. After all, no matter where Marley goes to school, she won't emerge quoting Shakespeare. She'll probably still pick her nose.

But for some reason, Graham is the preschool to send your kid to in Coronado. Everyone talks about it and recommends it. Whenever I ask someone on the Island with older kids where the child went to preschool, the answer is always the same: "Oh, he/she goes to Graham. He/she loves it. It's the BEST. Is Marley on the list?"

There are, of course, other options. I've heard great things about Resurrection Preschool, and supposedly there is a Montessori school as well--it's just more expensive. (Mind you, I've never even VISITED any of these schools.) But Graham is the "it" school. Supposedly it's the best. And of course, for little Marley, nothing but the BEST will do!

Because GOD FORBID she not get into the "it" preschool. It could jeopardize everything! Her reading would suffer (do they even TEACH reading at 3 years old?) She might not be able to sing the ABCs on pitch, or be able to tell the difference between purple and magenta. She wouldn't be able to draw a perfect isosceles triangle. She would enter Coronado Village Elementary academically BEHIND the other kids, which would deflate her self esteem, essentially ruining her for life. I pictured her junior high school years filled with special-ed classes, and her dropping out of community college. (Never mind that Ian didn't even GO to college. True, he can barely read, but he makes more money selling boats then some doctors I know, lives a full and rich life, and never bemoans his utter lack of education.)

I digress.

Anyway, since it's getting so much more competitive to get into Graham, it's important you get on the waitlist as soon as possible (preferably at birth.) When it came to the waitlist, I was uncharacteristically slow on the uptake, and didn't get her on until she was 8 months old.

It was a terrible decision...one that would haunt me for years to come.

Marley's best friend Luca has been on the list since birth. His grandma tried to put him on sooner (actually, while he was in utero) but she was told they wouldn't put him on the list until he was actually born. (I guess that's a fair policy.)

When it came time for the fall enrollment process to start a couple of weeks ago, I sat on pins and needles every day, waiting for a phone call from Graham. Would she get in?

I placed a couple of friendly phone calls to the kind and ever-present Dana, who works at the school. You know, just to "check in" to make sure they had our new address, and say "how excited" Marley was to attend Graham in the fall to begin her academic studies. (Meanwhile Marley was sitting on my lap eating play-doh.) Dana assured me that we would hear something soon.

But we didn't. And others did. The news started to trickle in. Some of the girls at Book Club were getting calls from Graham...their kids were getting in. "Have you heard anything?" they'd ask me in hushed voices.

"No," I'd answer brightly, plastering a fake smile on my face. "But I'm sure we will soon!" Inwardly I panicked, silently cursing myself for getting her on the list so late.

The word on the street was that Graham was overwhelmed with the highest enrollment in history, and that many kids on the wait list would not get in.

I waited for the call. Nothing.

Then a few days ago, when I was rushing to get ready for an afternoon at the office, my good friend Cyndi called me. (Marley takes music and dance class with her daughter, Kaia.) Cyndi got Kaia on the waitlist just a few months before I did.

"Kaia got into Graham," Cyndi said. "She's in the Tuesday/Thursday program. I think she got in by the skin of her teeth. Have you heard?"

Although I was sincerely happy for Cyndi and Kaia, my heart started pounding and I heard a faint ringing in my ears. "THAT'S GREAT. I HAVE TO GO. I CAN'T TALK RIGHT NOW. I HAVE TO CALL GRAHAM. I'LL CALL YOU LATER," I said, practically in tears.

My hands were shaking. It took me three tries to dial the number for Graham correctly. "CAN I SPEAK TO DANA PLEASE? IT'S URGENT," I said to the receptionist when she answered. And, God bless her, Dana was in. She took my call, and gave me the most wonderful news...

MARLEY GOT INTO GRAHAM!

I was practically in tears. When I got off the phone, I jumped up and down, let out a YIIPEEE!!!! and grabbed Marley and swung her around the room. I was as excited and giddy as I was when...well, I can't remember the last time I was so excited and giddy.

"Marley, you got into Graham!" I said.

"Mommy, I built a tower with my blocks and poured juice on it!" Marley responded, with an equal amount of enthusiasm.

So yes, I am very happy she got into her preschool. But seriously. Why must we put ourselves through these things as mothers? If she hadn't gotten into Graham, I'm sure something else would have worked out, and it would have been great. I mean, if I'm this emotional about Marley getting into preschool, how am I going to feel when Marley starts applying to colleges? Will I pull a "Forrest-Gump's-Mother" and whore myself out to college chancellors to make sure she gets into her first choice?

Of course not, but sometimes I wonder. I guess Motherhood makes you a little crazy sometimes. Go figure!

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.