Monday, April 30, 2012

Yes, Doc, the Booze Was All For Me

I have never been one of those killjoy women (do they even exist?) who insists their husbands give up alcohol while they are pregnant.  In fact, I am the opposite:  in the evening, I will hound PVT like an overzealous bartender hankering for tips:  "Do you want a drink?"  He will often humor me, and then I will solicitously (ahem) mix him a drink, or grab him a beer, but only I after I have had a sip - to make sure it's potable, of course. 

So on Saturday, being the loving wife that I am, I ran into the liquor store (obviously I don't care what the liquor store employees think of a huge pregnant woman buying a ton of liquor) to grab some provisions for PVT:  two six packs of beer and a thing of gin.  As I was balancing the beer and gin on my large belly, a guy, who seemed to have followed me in, approached me.  I KNEW who this guy was, in fact I knew I knew him quite well, but couldn't place him.  He saunters up to me with a twinkle in his eye and says, "You know you shouldn't be drinking that, right?"

OH.  Now I knew who it was.  I couldn't place him because he didn't have his on WHITE COAT.  He was my OB.

AWESOME. 

And now for those dang kids:




Keane, terribly proud of his soccer tournament trophy.  No, I was not there to see the winning game.  Yargh.


Will is speaking Chinese.  I don't know what he is saying. 



My entire family watching Sponge Bob.  Brings a tear to your eye, now, doesn't it?


And one of me:  I always have to force myself to take one late pregnancy picture, just to prove to the poor upcoming baby that yes, she is indeed a VT.  This was on my way to speak at LTYM - hence the kick arse stilettos.  And no, I didn't fall.  And the audience laughed when they were supposed to.  And then Ravishing Red Ann and I ate sushi (oh calm down I got a tempura roll).  So a successful endeavor all around. 

Saturday, April 28, 2012

If She's a Mother, I'm a Cuban Anarchist

I was going to start complaining about this suck-arse week:  two ear infections, one mystery virus that masqueraded as strep but wasn't, and my own little issues that make me want to check in to Canyon Ranch until this dear darling child makes its appearance - but UGH.  Who wants to read about that?   I can barely type it, so I know it can't be readable.  Instead I am going to laugh my head off at this picture of a "Mother" as portrayed by the Nordstrom brothers:


This little ad is hilarious on so many levels, dear Nordstrom brothers:  a) most of us probably can't afford a $550 dress to send to our mothers, much as they may deserve it; b) have a lot of our mothers even HEARD of Tory Burch? and c) REALLY?  This chick is supposed to be a MOTHER?  I know a lot of moms clean up well - 

but Tory Burch Model looks like a fourteen year old prepubescent boy who has never even SEEN a baby, much less toted one around in her uterus.

I don't even think she HAS veins in her legs that would varicose-erize.

Sheesh, Nordstrom really needs me to help with their marketing. 

***

Tomorrow I am making a little jaunt to Fayetteville to speak in this show (with my dear friend Ravishing Red Ann, whom I have kidnapped to take along with me, since PVT will be staying with the kids - what a great irony I am going to speak about motherhood and we could not figure out what to do with the darling children!).  For some reason I am a bit stressed out about going - I tend to get weirdly agoraphobic in late pregnancy - but sitting in a car for a few hours, watching a show, and doing a little 5 minute reading is probably the MOST relaxing thing I will do until 2022.   Woo hoo!  It's PVT who needs all the support and booze he can get tomorrow.

Tuesday, April 24, 2012

Of Payphones and Four Letter Words

So I'm terribly fond of this new Maroon 5 "Payphone"" song - it's dance-y and catchy (could I sound more like an sixty seven year old?), and it reminds me of my own rather poignant payphone moment. You may recall that PVT and I met under, erm, illicit circumstances. It was after our first "date" - although you can't really call it a date when you're married to someone else, now, can you? At any rate, after discovering we worked in the same Seattle high rise, we had decided to meet under the auspices of going out with PVT's coworkers for Happy Hour. The coworkers fell by the wayside one by one, and eight hours later, PVT and I were still together, four destinations (bars) later, chatting and laughing (and quaffing something, I'm sure).

The next day, because I was not at liberty to talk at home, of course, I went to run some errands, and called PVT from a payphone at a Chevron (this being way back in the Dark Ages, many years before I would have my own cell phone). I told him what a great time I had had, and that I had hoped I had gotten whatever "this" was out of my system. But I hadn't. Apparently he felt similarly, and thus began a very intense, soul searching month or so, filled with moments in which I was both deliriously happy and pukingly petrified. I was never one who wanted to conduct a tawdry "affair," and didn't want to hurt anyone - although of course inevitably someone would get hurt.

But I at least made the decision as quickly as I could.

And you know the rest.

ANYHOO, back to the Payphone song, Colette is fond of it too:

Being the awesome mom that I am, I had inadvertently downloaded the "explicit" version, which I realized when I heard Wiz Khalifa (who the freak are they? And again, could I sound more like a eighty three year old?), say "F*ck This Sh*t." Luckily Colette couldn't quite discern THAT lyric, and didn't try to sing it. Now I have found the "clean" version, so we can continue to enjoy our little song.

Sans expletives.

Monday, April 23, 2012

Where Celibacy is Going to Look Just Awesome

(Dad, please don't read this one.  Just don't.)

Well, you all.  I have reached new lows in this wondrous nine month marathon of flab.  You know I never shut up about my extraterrestrial leg from hell:
Photo courtesy of Colette

Of course (though this never occurred to me) those leg veins are quite closely connected to veins in another certain region.  A region that has never really bothered me in prior pregnancies, but this one?  The swelling in my leg has become progressively worse with each pregnancy, climbing up and up until WHOA:  last night, after a particularly active day (birthday parties, Mass, ballet open house, worrying about soccer tournaments, you know!), I just wanted to cry.  We are talking swelling.  Chafing.  Burning.  Yes, I have a swollen HOO HA, for cripes' sake.

Why have I never heard of this before?  Does it only afflict women who have been pregnant a million times?  Or do most people have a much stronger sense of propriety than I do, and just don't want to talk about their swollen hoo ha in front of the world?



Well, I guess I see their point.  But I am putting it all out there for you, dear readers, because you should go into this pregnancy thing eyes wide open.  You should know that yes, towards the end of your pregnancy, should have suffer varicose veins in unmentionable places, you may find yourself feeling like a male dog, and actually both praising and empathizing with the poor dude who invented Body Glide.


My doctor just clucks sympathetically, but for freak's sake, HE has never suffered the indignities of a swollen hoo ha.  Last night I resorted to non-maternity Spanx to try to hold everything in, but that didn't really work - it just felt like I had put a very tight rubber belt around my puffy pelvis. 

Maybe I need an old-fashioned steel chastity belt.  I guess that would solve MANY of my problems.  If you have one lying around, please let me know.         

Friday, April 20, 2012

A Whole Bunch of Nothing

Oh my this having three girls thing is going to fun (yes, that is Colette's leg in the corner.  She passed out in the hallway, so overwhelmed was she with all the Gymboree girly booty).
 Albeit a wee bit pricey.


***

Another pressing fashion conundrum:  is changing out your iPhone case the new iteration of changing out your winter bag for your spring bag?  As a "Hip Mom" (stop that snickering), isn't it incumbent upon me to be up on the latest trends - or even MANUFACTURE them myself?  I only ask because my leopard print case is feeling a bit WINTERY.  So don't I need this?



That's what I thought!  Thank you for validating my frivolous whims.

Carry on.  

Tuesday, April 17, 2012

Where I am Incapable Of Coherent Thought

The first of what I suspect will be many, many, ballet costumes - this one for a "Duck Dance."  Who would have thought after three boys?  Pas moi!


Rory, after I pointed out that this Lego mess was for ages 14 and over, noted that "It's OK, because I'm 20 in Lego years." 

Soccer tournaments, piano recitals, First Communion, Runs for Fun, kiddie music programs, "Celebrations of Learning," "Super Kids Day" - can these "fun" events bring on early labor?  Gawd I hope not, because what about that pre-C-Section waxing I had planned?

The punishment I get for gloating that I lost a pound at my last doctor's appointment?  I gained THREE at my appointment today.  Effing chocolate.

Here are my fellow castmates for the upcoming "Listen to Your Mother" show.  Don't they all seem like mummies with whom you'd like to quaff a margarita?

Must, must, must stop buying Dubble Bubble "for the kids."

Boo!  Some favorite, years-old leopard print espadrilles bit the dust today.  But these could fill in nicely:



Just because the kale salad looks intriguing doesn't mean that you should buy it.  It tastes like a lovely spring salad - for possums.

That is all I can manage this evening.  Bon soir.

Sunday, April 15, 2012

Cursed Storm Chasers

The Killer Tornado That Never Came
I am at the point in my pregnancy where one little stressful thing can disrupt my precarious mental state, which then affects my physical state, which in turn renders me useless for an entire day.

Or maybe that's just how I am NORMALLY.

Anyhoo, these damn weather dudes were forecasting Tornadomeggedon yesterday - a day we had a soccer tournament and five - yes FIVE - soccer games.  These guys were gleefully throwing out things like "it's going to be a major tornadic event," yadda yadda.  I tossed and turned the night before, imagining PVT and a child of mine spinning away, Wicked-Witch-Style, in the Suburban; or me alone in the house, huddling in our downstairs shower, hunched over many wailing little ones while an EF-5 ripped the roof off our house.

So I monitored the weather throughout the day while PVT shepherded various children to and from games, feeling nervous and nauseous, sure impending doom was just down the road in OKC. 

And then when I finally flipped on the 5 o'clock news, all they could come up with was a lousy little band of thunderstorms that would make an appearance at 7am!   For freak's sake.  So PVT and I happily left the kiddies with the sitter we had planned, and went out to a lovely dinner - our last "date" having been sometime in February.  Where we ate a real meal, and talked about storm shelters, boob jobs, those dang kids, and the relative attractiveness of the various other patrons sitting in the bar area with us.

Just another day spring day in Oklahoma.

Wednesday, April 11, 2012

Baby Dreams, and Help Us Spell Our Daughter's Name!

One would think that with each successive pregnancy, I would become less worried about the outcome each time, the previous gestations establishing a sort of track record of success.  But naaaaaaaah.  That would be NORMAL.  Each time I become pregnant, I seem to soak up the awful stories of things that rarely - but COULD - happen:  the inexplicable loss at 19 weeks, the premature baby born at 30 weeks, the stillbirth at 36 weeks, the cord accident at 37 weeks.  Fortunately 97% of us never have to suffer through such devastating, inexplicable, WTF-type losses; but those nightmares linger in the back of my mind until I am actually holding a live, healthy newborn in my arms.

So I hadn't let myself buy anything yet for this little one.  Of course we really don't need much, but I always insist each baby has a new outfit for the hospital.  Preferably from Nordstrom.  What better way to step out for the first time into the world?  So out of both boredom with this never ending pregnancy and sheer recklessness the other day, I let myself buy this little confection: 


It arrived yesterday, and oh how excited - and petrified - it makes me to envision dressing my third little girl, my sixth baby, in this darling little cotton candy pink doily.

So then I got really brave and decided to assess my current collection of 0-6 month new baby girl clothes.  I started going through them, and was decidedly underwhelmed:  this sorry pile was all I had left from two girls?  Then I remembered when Sylvie was 6 months old, and I was pretty sure I would never have another baby, let alone another girl, I gave a veritable treasure trove of baby clothes to my sister-in-law's adopted daughter's baby girl (yes you read that right).  Alas!  But, yay!  Because now I HAVE to buy a few things - perhaps this:  

Or this:



Thank goodness we pregnant hippos get to fantasize about baby clothes, because I sure am not buying anything for MOI at this point. 

***

And now, perhaps you can weigh in on a debate PVT and I are having over this little one's name:  I think we have settled on Margot.  Or  Margaux.  Yes, it is the same name, but I prefer the -ot spelling, because I think the -aux ending will throw a lot of Okies for a loop (what can I say?  I'm an elitist snob who has little faith in the locals' grasp of the subtleties of the French language).  I don't want the kindergarten substitute calling out for Marg-OX.  Although I suppose she might call out Marg-OT too.  PVT prefers the very French -aux ending, because we are suckers for anything Frenchy.  And the -ot ending reminds him of Margot Kidder.  I like the -aux ending too, although apparently it originated when Margot Hemingway wanted to change the spelling of her name to match the name of Chateau Margaux wine her parents were quaffing the night she was conceived.  So:  which spelling do you prefer?  Is the -ot ending less likely to be slaughtered?  Does it matter?  Do comment!

Sunday, April 8, 2012

Not Even The Risen Lord Could Stand the Rock Tumbler

When I was growing up, the Easter Bunny was sort of like Santa's intern; we didn't get QUITE as much loot for Easter as we did for Christmas, but we made out pretty well.  So of course I wanted to recreate the mini-Christmas for my children, which really wasn't too crazy when we had two little boys.  (PVT's Easter Bunny, alas, had a different philosophy; he maybe got a jelly bean or two in his basket.  Somehow he survived these hardships visited on him during his childhood. ) 

Now, of course, the Easter chaos is just out of control. 

Every surface was covered with toy detritus, chocolate or jelly beans.

There was a new water table.
There was excavating.


There was Bat-Caving.  And Lego-ing.  And "Rock Tumbling," courtesy of a, yes, rock tumbling machine Keane got.  This thing sounds like the engine of a 747 being tested in Boeing's propulsion labs, so loud is the rumbling and grinding while it tumbles rocks to shiny perfection.  And this tumbling process lasts for days!   So it ground along in our kitchen all afternoon until I finally came to my senses and moved it to the garage.

But the little scamps did pretty well at church, considering we didn't leave early enough (and never have, and never will) to procure a seat.

So it was a Happy, Noisy, Typical Easter here chez VT.  Just how we like it.

Thursday, April 5, 2012

Where I Tear Gwynnie Another One

Gwynnie.  Oh, Gwynnie, Gwynnie, Gwynnie.  You may be a six foot tall glamazon, richer than Croesus, married to a rock star, and may have never gotten within a mile of a gram of refined sugar in your life.  But your latest Goop, for the mother-to-be?  What, Gwynnie?  You were pregnant, once, twice - six years ago?  With an unlimited bank account, nannies, chefs and personal trainers at your disposal?  I'm afraid, Gwynnie, that while you might be able to rock a Tom Ford gown at the Oscars or work out ten hours per day, on the subject of pregnancy and childbirth for the rest of us, I am going to have to tear your little newsletter apart.

Sorry, sweetie.  Here goes: 

For the nursery, you recommend an Oeuf Eco Friendly crib for $940, and a Oeuf Changing table for $1,150.  REALLY?  Over two thousand smackers for a couple of pieces of baby furniture?  If I bought that stuff, we'd have to forgo groceries for the rest of the mouths we have to feed for a year.  And for a CHANGING table?  Those things are so dang awkward.  If I had to walk to a designated room every 23 minutes to change a blowout, I would log about 800 miles on a pedometer.  The floor where I happen to be is WAY easier, Gwynnie.

Oh, and LINEN bassinet sheets?  To be coated every hour by creamy white baby puke and flyaway diarrhea?  I do my OWN laundry, Gwynnie.

For "guidance and inspiration," you recommend a book, The Gentle Birth Method.  Apparently this book encompasses "diet, gentle exercise tips, Reflexology, Creative Healing, Reiki, visualization, emotional preparation and more" to avoided the dreaded C-SECTION!   Oh no, the C-Section.  Sure, you shouldn't take major surgery lightly, especially if you can push that butterball baby out on your own.  But I suspect, Gwynnie, that when you gave birth vaginally, you didn't push for FIVE hours only to have a mere 6 pounder suctioned out of you.  Your baby didn't look like a cone-headed Teletubby for a week after birth.  And I suspect your second baby didn't just get....STUCK.  In these cases, a C-Section is the most awesomest medical procedure in the world, and reflexology sure ain't going to change the fact that some of us just don't have the birth canals to launch that baby out.  MMMM K?

$200 J Brand maternity jeans?  Sure, I'd love some too, but I still need to afford clothing AFTER the baby is born. 

And all this schlock about using natural, organic products during pregnancy?  Well, maybe you wouldn't want to take a bubble bath in formaldehyde, or subsist on paraben-and-sulfate smoothies.  But if such innocuous beauty treatments like USING PERFUME or RED LIPSTICK were actually harmful to a gestating fetus, whole swaths of Beverly Hills and the Upper East Side would have ceased to exist long, long ago, their populations decimated by lipstick-crazed mothers-to-be.

OK, Gwynnie, I'm done.  Still friends?  You stick to the red carpet, your Tracy Anderson workouts, and your juice fasts.  Leave the pregnancy newsletter for the masses to me.

Wednesday, April 4, 2012

VTs on TV

Oh yes, we are now famous! Well, not really, but if you want to act like paparazzi around me or screech for my autograph, I wouldn't mind TOO much.


So do you think we can parlay this into a reality show with a Kardashian-style paycheck? Or maybe garner some interest for "The Real Housewives of Green Country?"

Alas, we are probably a little too dang wholesome. But we could really sex it up, Bravo! I can start drinking heavily in about two months, if you want! Get some of my friends to strut around in tank tops and claw their way into terrible hair-pulling fights over some compelling PTA drama - it would be great!

Ahem.

Oh, and leave it to me to appear on TV for the first time in my life almost eight months pregnant and needing my roots done, to boot. What can I say? There's no Rachel Zoe in Tulsa, Oklahoma.

But the kiddies sure had fun, as you can see.

Tuesday, April 3, 2012

A Brush with Fame. Or Infamy.

This morning I let my kids play hooky because another mommy blogger and I had a little news interview to talk about the "Listen to Your Mother" show this month, and the interviewer wanted my kids running around - authenticity, you know.  I say this nonchalantly, but really I'm not that cool - appearing on the local news in Tulsa is as close as I'll get to living the Angelina life. 

But before the interview we had to stop by my OB for my 30 week appointment.  Packing all the accouterments to entertain five waiting kids in a tiny doctor's office is such a brain bender (electronics for the boys?  Fruit snacks?  Lollipops?  Diapers, bottles, Capri Suns, iPhone?) that I actually forgot to WORRY about the appointment - you know, worry that the baby had suddenly sprouted a third hand, or lost a chamber of her heart, or some other prenatal equivalent of the Titanic.  In fact, it didn't occur to me to worry until I was laying there with the cold jelly all over my mountainous stomach:  how terrible that would be to find something tragic out with all my children there!  Luckily my doctor knows me and my neuroses well, and reassured me quickly all looked fine.  Then a brief - and rare - moment of mommy bliss:  watching five faces scrunched up at the ultrasound screen, trying to discern exactly what part of the gray shadows and mini-Megamind head was their little sister. 

Oh, and I lost a pound this time!  Take that, fatty police!

And then we were off to the park to meet the news guys - I wasn't convinced they would actually show - surely something more pressing had come up in the news day, perhaps a story on a rescue Dachshund who saved a baby from a black widow? - but show up they did!  The valiant camera guy tried to get footage of my children frolicking on the playground, but my unsophisticated brood found great delight in running AWAY from him.  What terrible Kardashians they would make!  Don't they know questionable celebrity is a great way to make a buck in this country?

So the other mom, Heather, spoke intelligently to Rick about blogging and motherhood and the upcoming show and its charitable cause, while I yelled at my children to please stay within eyesight and PLEASE WATCH THE BABY so she doesn't run into the parking lot!  If you are lucky enough to be a local, you can watch all of this drama on the News on 6 tonight at 6pm. 

Unless, of course, that Dachshund did actually save a baby.   Then maybe it will air at 3am in Spanish.

***

Update:  our segment will air tomorrow evening, apparently, because of the WEATHER.  Try to contain your excitement until then!

Monday, April 2, 2012

Deja Vu

My dear daughter lasted 10 days without a cast.  Now it seems we can't get enough of them! 

Yes, after a swing ride gone awry (she let go just at the cusp of Dada's push; why?  I don't know!), Colette flew through the air with the greatest of ease and landed like a pancake on our patio.  My brave maternal reaction?  To cover my face and scream.

Luckily PVT had the presence of mind to go to her and examine her; she kept pointing to a spot on her wrist between her heaves and cries, so he decided not to chance it and brought her to urgent care.  The good doctors there weren't sure if it was a break; but after a two hour visit to the orthopedist today (try that with a feisty eighteen month old), they confirmed she had a "wrinkle" in her bone.

Uh huh.  A wrinkle.  At least it's shorter than the last cast, right?