Halloween 2010

I don't know what a pumpkin fairy is - someone who brews you up a pumpkin spice latte in your sleep, perhaps? - but she makes a good one, doesn't she?

I love Halloween. It kills me a little bit that they won't want to do this with me that much longer:

I'll enjoy it while it lasts.

A Whacko Mama: Now That's Birth Control That Works

Thank you for the tantalizing comments on my last post (and for refraining from calling me some fundamentalist nut job!) Now I have to actually shut up and figure out what I'm going to do MYSELF about that whole...issue. Harrumph.


Speaking of birth control, here is our beautiful chubberbug of a six week old:

And I do mean chubberbug! She now weighs ten and a half pounds. That's quite impressive in a mere six weeks from 5'13", don't you think? Even an adult would have to spend some serious hot fudge time to do that amount of damage. Apparently I manufacture heavy whipping cream. Woo hoo!

I am a bit chagrined to admit I was moved to take some pictures of her today because last night I realized we had hardly any of her. Why? Because we are terrible at picture taking; it's hard to take a decent picture of a newborn; we (I) have been a bit - preoccupied/psychotic - since she was born? And last night I was in full "what if" mode: what if her little cough...is something more! I had taken her to the doctor, because I had never a such a wee one with a cough and it scared the pehoosuz out of me. It wasn't pneumonia; it wasn't RSV; it could have been croup, but the doctor had never seen it in such a little one...so she sent me on my way with my saline spray and syringe.

So I spent the night alternately spritzing her nose, spending time in a humid bathroom, and making sure her chest was moving up and down. And wondering if she could have whooping cough.

PVT is rolling his eyes back into his head.

She is still coughing and snuffling a bit today, but she seems better. I suppose it's not easy living with my constant castastrophizing. But if someone isn't a little crazy, something could slip by...right? That is my greatest fear.

Luckily the only thing that slipped during these 24 hours was an area of our wood floor. Where my dear Will colored (inadvertently; his marker left the paper) with a Sharpie. That shite ain't coming out.

Ah well.

Where I Freak Y'All Out with My Out-There Birth Control Views

Today I had my six week postpartum checkup with my esteemed, dignified OB. His thriving practice and formal demeanor belie a rather salty sense of humor. He loves nothing more to tell me at this six week checkup (I've had three now with him) how much lubricant I will need when I resume sexual relations, because if one were to turn me upside down I "look just like a post-menopausal sixty-five year old grandma." (The nursing, you know, thins out the vaginal walls so that they are tissue paper-thin. Not exactly conducive to...um. Juiciness? I'll stop. Erm.)

So. He also told me yet AGAIN that "nursing is NOT a form a birth control," and I have "done my part many times over" in having a family and repopulating the earth. And so what does he recommend for birth control? A vasectomy "works well for our couples," he said.

Which part of the couple would that be? Ahem. Seriously, though, it bothers me that even my doctor - a very Christian man who actually says a prayer with his patients before he delivers their babies - would abhor the thought of me having another baby. Well, actually, so would I at this point. (PVT kindly pointed out to me that I've been "flustered" lately. Translation: I have been a screeching, distracted, neurotic harridan. HORMONES NOT INCLUDED.) But. To do something so permanent? I know people who have suffered through the agony of infertility, who have had multiple miscarriages. I've blogged ad nauseum about my one loss, and the feeling of emptiness and longing for a little life is not easily forgotten. Fertility is a gift. To everyone. It shouldn't be surrendered so lightly. Whether you've had one child. Or five. Or fifteen squared. (Well, OK, maybe then.)

Stepping off soapbox now. Wiping pie off face.

Sober-toberfest

Perhaps it was a fit of nostalgia for the REAL Oktoberfest he attended in Munich so many years ago; or perhaps it was merely cabin fever mixed with a touch of insanity. Whatever it was remains a mystery, but SOMETHING moved PVT to take us all to Tulsa's "Oktoberfest" carnival-like event this weekend. I was rather thrilled, since I love getting out of the house with the kids - with BACKUP. And any activity with cheezy rides, fatty noxious foods, copious amounts of beer, and people-watching the consumers of said foods and beer sounded like an entertaining way to spend a few fall hours.



And so! Off the seven of us went!





And the boys rode cheezy rides! (Surprisingly this was thrilling for them, since we have somehow managed in eight years of parenthood to avoid the dubious local fair scene.)

And we consumed inappropriate lengths of mystery sausages!

And no one cried too much, or had a nuclear holocaust of a breakdown!

The only real tragedy of our excursion? We learned too late there were two tents for beer consumption: the White Trash Tent with lame American piss beers, like Coors Light - this tent of course being the tent for those people who go to fairs just to sit, eat funnel cakes and drink beer. (NOT that there's anything wrong with that, of course.) Here our clan landed for a short period to sample the desserts and dance a little polka while PVT searched in vain for some actual German beer. The kiddies, though, were becoming restless before he could find the Authentic German Tent with real German Spaten. Somehow the organizers of this event thought that the White Trash Tent should be featured more prominently than the Authentic German Tent.



Krikey. It's OKTOBERFEST.


And so? We VTs left Oktoberfest having consumed nary a tipple of lager.


But we are going to suck Oktoberfest 2022 DRY, my friends.

Tweaking My Resume

I had to pause when I saw this term in a little bijou of a New York Times article: "no nanny mom."

QUOI? If this term "mom" is not qualified, then, with the "no nanny" clause, is one to presume that the mom of course HAS a nanny? As in, if I am asked what I do at a cocktail party, I can legitimately say I am a NO NANNY mom? As opposed to that highlighted blonde in the corner driving the Escalade with the perfect abs, who is just a "mom?" Where the nanny is a given.

Well, then, hey. I am proud to announce my new title: NO NANNY MOM.

Although holy cripes being a no nanny mom has been hard this week. It seems like each child has had an illness (croup! pneumonia!), a terrible behavioral lapse (punching a kid at a soccer game! Really?), or a nagging conundrum I can't figure out. I feel like I'm trying so very hard and failing so very miserably all at once.

Boss? I need a raise - just for morale purposes, if nothing else.

Where I Have Been

Croup sucks donger.

The End.

Rx: GNO

My mind has been caught up in the minutiae of life Chez VT a bit too much lately. True, in order for this household to function I have to be caught up in it. But I think the various wee calamities lately - the kiddie coughs, the pneumonia, the unexpected call from school regarding an - ahem - accident, PVT's broken finger - along with all the newborn duties, have conspired to make me feel like I'm burrowing around in a underground tunnel, like a mother mole.

A mother mole who has a CAVITY, for cripes' sake. I've got to get that filled next week.

But last night I arose briefly to the surface: I went out with my girls Ravishing Red Ann and Kappa Kappa Karen for drinks! And dinner! Perfect Margaritas (or, in Kappa Kappa Karen's case, a Greyhound. With Freshly Squeezed Grapefruit Juice. Very Important that's it's freshly squeezed.) all around!

And it was wonderful! We talked! We drank! We laughed! And I realized that there is life outside my little mole cavern. And watching the other seemingly carefree people quaff and laugh was very therapeutic.

So mummies, if you haven't gone out for a while, go! Find a date, get your girls, and go! Perhaps this video will serve as inspiration (but don't watch it if your kiddies are around. It has colorful language.) (And methinks we will need to kick up our GNOs a notch around here...)

Tuesday's Tipple (A Mere TWO Days Late!)

Late again, alas! I may be tardy for EVERYthing for the next eight years.

So, on tippling: my favorite mixed drink is rather prosaic and unsophisticated - the margarita. There is nothing I like better than licking the salt off the rim of this sweet, ubiquitous drink. And I rarely meet one I don't like: the cheezy, overly sweet ones at cheap Mexican restaurants are just as good to me as the more refined lime juice versions at a steak house.

But on any given Tuesday, it's hard to imagine going through the steps of actually mixing a drink. Why, you ask? Tuesday has become what I privately refer to as "Hell Tuesday." Despite a few brief, luxurious hours alone with my newborn in the morning, around 2pm it becomes an arduous mommy marathon (well, without all that pesky running): pick up two little ones from preschool; return home; pack snacks, waters and soccer clothes; pick up big boys from school; go to piano; wait for an hour with the little ones while the big boys have piano lessons; pack up to go to Will's soccer practice; wait for Will's soccer practice to end; drop Rory at soccer practice. Along with all the clothing changes, diaper changes, nursing and potty going that this all requires.

So when I finally return home and start dinner, holy freak I need a beverage. After a long summer without my beloved margaritas (OK, I may have had one. Shhh.), that's what I crave. And my shortcut? These premixed Jose Cuervo Golden Margaritas. (No, they're not paying me. I wish!) They are delicious. Perhaps TOO delicious: they don't taste terribly boozy, so I can slurp one down pretty quickly.

And Hell Tuesday comes to a happy ending.

Slightly Cheaper Than Crack

Yes, I am Gymboree's bitch.

How can I resist all that TULLE, though? And pumpkin ensembles for newborns?

Deadly stuff. (Thank you dear reader Leslie for the coupon!)

Skip This If You Don't Like Mushy Crap

I wasn't going to blog about today - a little day I've been dreading for quite a while. I figured it would be maudlin and self-indulgent. But...it was a good day. And if remembering is maudlin - I'm guilty. I just don't want my little Garbanzo to think I've forgotten.

October here is gorgeous: the temperature is perfect; the light is golden; it almost makes up for the torture that is August. With that luminous backdrop it was just another day chez VT: well, another day with our newly minted family of seven. I'm still adjusting to the rhythm of it all: stop helping this one, stop cleaning that up, and feed or change the baby. With this new choreography, I didn't have a lot of a time to think about a year ago. And I haven't, much. Except: when I was holding Sylvie, post nursing, watching her newborn thoughts (OK, gas - whatever the feelings are, they are so expressive and beautiful as they move across her face), I thought about Garbanzo, and how much this day hurt last year, and how much it still hurts to think that I have a baby that is not with me - here. I know, I know, if I'm a Christian, it shouldn't hurt, right? Since I know the baby is happily guzzling away at the eternal whip cream bar in the sky?

But it does hurt. Knowing that we aren't all here. I am greedy like that; I want all my children here - with me. As I held my little girl, though, I thought: what if a part of Garbanzo is with her - in her? What if she IS Garbanzo in some sense, and we just had to wait a little longer for her? Bonkers - New Age nonsense, yes? And probably sacrilegious. But it was a huge comfort to me, to think that that little baby might still be here with us, somehow, in some form.

Sorry, Sir.

And our beautiful sunny day marched on; Keane was diagnosed with pneumonia, for cripes' sake. I've got my work cut out for me. But Garbanzo, wherever you might be - here, there - know that you are not forgotten, always treasured, always looked for in the littlest places.

A New Tradition: Tuesday's Tipple

What? It's Wednesday, you say? So sue me. I'm SLEEP DEPRIVED. And how could I resist all that alliteration?

So: when my parents were here, I adopted their habit of having a libation at 4:30pm.

I have not yet broken that habit.

And by broken, I mean held out until 5pm.

Anyhoo, I thought I would share this ridiculously girly drink my mother has ordered much to our embarrassment and chagrin for the past 40 some odd years. No matter where we go, no one knows what the freak she is talking about.


It is called a Pink Squirrel:

It calls for 1 1/2 ounces of "creme de noyaux" (that's almond liqueur), 1/2 ounce of white creme de cocoa, and one ounce of light cream. Sure, you could substitute milk, but I would call you a total killjoy - it's an OUNCE, girls. Live a little. Shake all of these up in a mixer and pour over ice.

Such a subversive and retro drink must be enjoyed on a weeknight - try Tuesday. Because who else besides a Very Naughty Girl drinks on a TUESDAY? Although if you're reading this on Thursday, Thursday will work too.

Or Friday. Wednesday. You know.

And look! My sister Neiman Molly alerted me to this: you can even have one if you're pregnant.

Well, duh, I say.

***

And on a totally unrelated and happy note, our new stinker has put on TWO pounds in the three some odd weeks since she has been born:

Sylvie, our little lard arse. Yay!

Because Frederic Fekkai I Am Not

I had NO idea how lucky I was when I just had my boys to get ready in the morning. The most I have ever done to their fine, short hair is pat down a cowlick.

But my daughter? This crazy bozo red rats' nest adds about fifteen minutes to an already bezerk morning. And I am not trying to "style" it; I am just trying to make it look like she doesn't live in a box off the highway. She rolls out of bed every morning looking like a bunch of gerbils had an orgy in her mane.

.

So now besides getting five kids clothed, changed and fed, I have to carefully apply detangler to her head and gingerly try to comb through just a few of the tangles. Fortunately she doesn't protest too much. But what will I do in a few years, when she actually wants to look GOOD for school? Does anyone have any magic hair products for this type of 'fro? Because I have glimpsed age 12 or so...and it SCARES me.

Where I Try Not to Freak People Out with My Postpartum Whackness

After nine months of feeding our family, buying diapers, paying for soccer, piano and 395 birthday gifts and parties, not to mention a couple of vacations AND the Great Flood of 2010, PVT and I have come to realize we have no money left. We are BROKE. We got nada. Just like every year about this time, I start fantasizing about winning the lottery or coming by a lovely tax-free inheritance (from someone I didn't even KNOW I was related to, of course).

Work, you say? MOI? Why do you think I keep getting knocked up?

Our lack of funds is too bad, because now that I'm not pregnant anymore (who knew the day would come?), I would like to shop. I'm still wearing an odd assortment of pregnancy dresses and one pair of large-ish Gap Jeans I bought out of necessity. One would think after a jillion pregnancies, I would have a great assortment of clothes in various sizes, but NO: once I lose enough baby weight, I give everything too big AWAY, convinced I will NEVER be that...padded again. Hah! Hah!

And I just love these "motorcycle boots" - they seem to be the sort of thing a suburban mother of five would NEVER wear:

Which is precisely why I desire them - they would look a bit bad ass in the carpool lane or the elementary school cafeteria, yes?

Because even though I am so far from bad ass right now, I would really like to fake it.