Fresh Mommy

Enough about Me, Let's Talk about ME!

2007-02-13T07:43:00.000-05:00

Hello. I'm still here, dear readers. Sorry for the long break. I've been, you know, busy. But I'm back now.

Hello? Hello?! Is there anyone there?

It's been so long since I've blogged that I nearly forgot my password. My fingers typed the letters with a question mark at the end. Is this it? Maybe. Let's give it a whirl and see.

Well, I'm not even sure what I was going to say here.

Let's see. It's fucking cold outside. How's that for starters? I just looked at the thermometer outside the kitchen window and it's zero right now. Which probably means a "real feel" temperature of, what, negative something or other, right? I don't know. I'm not a weather woman. I'm not a, a, -- what the hell are they called? A forecaster? A -- Jesus, my mind is gone. I can't remember the word.

I should mention that I've recently switched to decaf.

Anyway, they say we're getting a foot of snow tomorrow. And even though I'm not a winter person, I have to say this: Bring It! I live in a ski region, and we've had about two inches of snow this entire winter. It's a little freaky. Al Gore and I are concerned.

Otherwise things are peachy. I don't know what the hell we've been doing lately, but somehow we've kept busy. I had all these great plans for V Day -- I baked cookies that I was going to decorate and deliver to all of the Fresh Girl's friends in the neighborhood (because I like to be Martha Stewart sometimes) but then I lost my momentum and just decided to eat them all instead.

I did manage to buy some Valentine treats for my darling daughter. A pair of dress up shoes and a tiara from the Dollar Spot at Target, because, even though it's unpopular to dress your child like a princess, I think she looks damn cute strutting around the house in heels and jewels, and better that they're her own and not mine. She maneuvers my shoes well on the carpet but kitchen tile + stiletto size 7 boots = a swift fall to the floor.

Plus, I need something to distract her from Play Doh, which I excitedly introduced her to at Christmas thinking it was going to be SO GREAT! but the obsession is wearing me down. Everyday: "Mommy, play Play Doh? Mommy? Please? Play Play Doh. MOMMY????" And those little pieces of Doh all over the place? For the love of God, I find them EVERYWHERE.

Better yet, I discovered our town has this cute little Art Lab. Monday mornings at the firehouse! Somebody puts out finger paints and clay and all kinds of artsy fartsy crafty things and then later somebody puts it all away again! All I have to do is keep my kid from eating the supplies but even if she does, it's non-toxic! And it's FREE! And there's no Play Doh on my floor afterwards! It's genius, I tell you.

Yeah, so we did that yesterday for the first time, and we will be back, yessiree.

So that's what we've been doing. How about you?

Hello? Is there anyone there?

Merry Christmas Part 2: The Ambulance Arrives

2007-01-11T16:30:00.000-05:00

I know, I know. Christmas was a million years ago. We're on to Martin Luther King Day, Valentine's Day (is it me or is there once again chocolate at every turn?). But for some reason (cough! laziness!) I was unable to finish the Christmas Story in one post and I actually thought I could get it done in a reasonable amount of time. Well, it's still January at least.

When last saw our heroine, she was knee-deep in in-laws and wrapping paper...

Presents were opened, lasagne and hand-tossed salad were eaten. Dessert came out and we all made gluttons of ourselves. It was everything Christmas should be.

FIL left around 6:30 (With vigor: So long! Farewell! Auf Weidersehn! Good night!). MIL always has a burning desire escape any of our homes as soon as possible so rather than stay over and get a ride home from G. and T. the following morning, she begged a ride over to the train station on the other side of the Hudson River from J. and L., forcing them to leave early.

So now we're left with Fresh Daddy's older brother, G., his wife, T., and their two year old, T-bone. Let me start by saying that if you've ever seen The King of Queens, you pretty much know G. and T. And they even live in Queens! On the show, Carrie's father lives downstairs, in real life, T.'s mom lives downstairs. I love T. and I also consider her to be crazy. Not certifiable, just wacky. And she's a tough Queens girl. Don't mess with her. She'll kick your ass, Sea Bass.

During the week before our holiday celebration, T. and I were on the phone dishing on the in-laws and discussing logistics for the weekend. Apropos of nothing she says, "Dude, I have a doctor's appointment on January 8th." (Between T. and my FIL, the "dudes" are flying all over the place.) Which doctor? "Gynecologist. Dude, I think I'm pregnant." She tells me that her period is three weeks late. I ask if she's taken a pregnancy test. She says no. "Dude, I can tell. My boobs are sore, I'm tired..." Well, why don't you take a pregnancy test? "Well, that's why I made the appointment. I'll take one in the doctor's office." Did you tell them that you think you're pregnant? "No, I just made it for a check up but when I get there I'll tell them my period is late." Um, why don't you just go out and buy a pregnancy test? "I'd rather save the 20 bucks and just take it at the doctor's office."

Is it me or that totally absurd? Who waits to see the doctor to take a pregnancy test? See what I mean? Wacky.

So when she arrived at my house that Saturday, the first thing she did was pull me aside and say, "Oh my God, can you tell? I'm totally showing." If her calculations were correct, she was 5 weeks pregnant. The little bugger was what, the size of a grain of rice? A raisin, maybe? I tell her she's crazy. (By the way, when I forget to suck in my gut I can pass for a good 5-6 months along myself). So all day long she's very dramatic. Lots of sighing and making a big production out of sitting and needing to put her feet up (mind you, at this point, the in-laws aren't supposed to know).

Now the evening comes and everyone else is gone. The brothers all drink WAY TOO MUCH when they're together and my BIL is stumbling and drunk and passes out by 9:30. Fresh Daddy, T. and I are sitting around talking. T. is getting worked up about having another baby -- there's not enough space in their apartment, what are they going to do about day care, how much maternity leave can she take, etc. And then she says her heart is racing. And she's drenched in sweat. She's not feeling well. I wet down a towel with cold water and hold it on the back of her neck. I'm rubbing her back. Fresh Daddy is drunk but conscious and won't shut up. "It's okay, T. It's okay. Just relax."

Take deep breaths, I say.

She's better. We back off. She drinks some water.

And then she passes out.

Her head just drops into her chest. I'm back at her side and holding her up in her seat. I'm smacking her face. "T. Wake up, T." smack. smack. smack. "Wake up, T.!" Now her arms do a funny little convulsion and she makes some weird gurgly noises. Her eyes are rolled back into her head. I tell Fresh Daddy to call 911 and the idiot goes and wakes up his brother. Not the worst idea but let's call 911 fiiiiiiiiiiiiirst!!! So I'm yelling at him to call 911. ("Just fucking call 911!!!!"). Now he's on the phone with 911. And he can't even tell the story right. Oh, just give me the phone already. I'm on with the operator. I tell the guys to get her on the floor. Then to put her on her left side (of course Fresh Daddy thinks her left is her right and there's a lot of shoving her around on the floor). Put her feet up. Put a blanket on her. We check her breathing. The ambulance is coming. Now Fresh Daddy is like a maniac, throwing furniture this way and that (his defense was that he was trying to clear a path for the stretcher). Seriously throwing chairs aside. Hi, we have an unconscious woman on our hands, can we please not wake the children, because that's the last thing we need.

My brother in law is strangely calm the whole time and just keeps repeating some form of this over and over again: "Whatsamatter T? You don't feel well? Wake up, T. C'mon. What happened? You didn't feel so good? Wake up. C'mon, wake up." She comes to before the ambulance arrives which is a relief. The ambulance arrives (it took a little under 10 minutes which is not the greatest but unfortunately we're a few miles from town). The EMT guys are great. I was very impressed. They run a whole bunch of tests. They ask T. a lot of questions, how are you feeling now? do you remember what happened? Fresh Daddy keeps interjecting and adding comments (slurred comments, I might add) and I have to tell him to shut the fuck up. I'm trying to help, he says. I pull him aside and tell him he sucks under pressure. He is thoroughly insulted and acts all sensitive. Oh, for crissakes, take it like a man.

T. is fine. It could have been a panic attack. Maybe dehydration. Or some weird side effect of her possible pregnancy. The EMT workers tell her it is up to her if she wants to go to the hospital but if she doesn't go tonight, she should see a doctor very soon. She declines and says she will go after the weekend.

The ambulance leaves and we all go to bed having had enough excitement for one day.

The next morning she takes a pregnancy test of mine that I have in the closet and it's confirmed -- she's in a family way. We clap, hooray, we hug.

A few hours later they pack it all up and head back to Queens. We wave goodbye from the doorway. So long! Farewell! Auf weidersehn! Good night!

And that was the Fresh Family Christmas, the Saturday before Christmas. On Christmas day we stay home, the three us of, and have a nice quiet day. No shitshoes. No ambulance. No drama.

You've Got a Thread Hanging Off There...

2007-01-02T13:04:00.000-05:00

Well, it had to happen I guess. After all the running around, visiting people here and there, cooking, cleaning, wrapping, unwrapping, planning, shopping, prepping, etc. etc. etc., I am falling apart at the seams.

Nasty throat infection. Thought it was strep. I've never had strep but I thought this was it. Horrible, horrible throat pain. Every swallow felt like daggers were ripping apart my throat. You have no idea how much saliva you produce until you become aware of how often you swallow it. I'm here to tell you that it's a lot. A lot of saliva. Buckets. Gallons. I'm not sure exactly how much, but it's a lot. Trust me. I tried spitting most of it out, but it doesn't work. You still have to swallow. I actually could not sleep for two nights because of the pain from swallowing. (Getting sick over a holiday weekend totally SUCKS, by the way.)

Then yesterday morning I woke up with both eyes crusted shut. Happy New Year! Why, that's a lovely shade of pink, Christine!

So now I'm on antibiotics and a regular schedule of prayer that my daughter does not come down with either affliction.

Hope yours was happy and healthy (oh, to be healthy! health is wealth!).

Next week (I think): Merry Christmas Part 2 (why did I even think I could do a 2 part series? Oh, the pressure of it all!)

Merry Christmas! Quick! Someone call 911!!!

2006-12-24T12:34:00.000-05:00

I started this off thinking I could get this all down in one post but as I started telling the story I realized this could be a 2, 3, maybe even 4 part series. So here's the beginning.

Part One: in which you meet my crazy father-in-law

Yesterday we had the Fresh Family Christmas (the Fresh Family being my husband's side) right here in our house. It was a mostly happy gathering of my divorced in-laws (each utterly insane in their own way), my two brothers-in-law and their wives, and my nephew).

Fresh Daddy was in the city earlier this week and made a pilgrimage to DiPalo's on Mott and Grand for some of the finest cheesiest this side of Italy. It was a mob scene but worth the wait, and, as everyone filtered in, we all enjoyed some delightful parmesan and pecorino cheeses. I had also made a couple trays of lasagne and Fresh Daddy made his meat sauce, and I had made a couple of pear pies and a chocolate mousse pie for dessert. And everyone else was bringing a little something to nosh on too.

I asked my father-in-law to bring a salad because he became anorexic about two years ago and (supposedly) ended his life-long love of bread and pasta. Okay, he's not really anorexic. But he's become obsessed with Bikram Yoga and now claims to only eat fish and vegetables and soup and subsequently lost a lot of weight, probably more than he should have (I'll probably weigh more than him after the holidays). He made a big stink a few months back to both Fresh Daddy and J., his younger brother, about how we always serve pasta when he comes to visit. "Dude, man, what's with the all the pasta? You guys are giving me, like, pasta poisoning." Yes, he says, "Dude, man." All the time in fact. He has called me "dude" and "man" on more occasions than I care to remember. Imagine Christopher Walken if he played a stoner or a surfer or, better yet, a stoned surfer. That's his voice. Now imagine him looking like Larry David, but a little shorter and thinner. There. You got it. That's him -- my FIL.

FIL considers himself a real gourmand and loves to cook and feed people, all the while playing International Man of Kitchen Mystery.

FIL: "Would you like some dessert? Have some dessert."
Me: "Well, what is it?"
FIL: "Oh, don't worry. You're gonna like it. You're really gonna like it."

Can you just tell me what the fuck it is? Why do I have to be surprised? He does that for everything. One year he made fish for Thanksgiving. Surprise! We're having fish! It was the most disappointing meal in the history of the world.

Also, his handling and preparation of food would get a big fat "F" from the Department of Health. They'd close his kitchen down faster than you can say "health hazard" if they got a look at it. I once saw him wipe the butter off a knife onto his shirt and then use it for something else. He keeps his cutting boards on the floor which are covered in dog hair. And he has to touch everything with his greasy hands which he doesn't wash as often as he should. His friend once said that he doesn't see dirt and truer words were never spoken. The lightswitch plates in his house are filthy, cabinets and knobs are literally stained with grease and chocolate and dirt.

But he was fishing around for something to bring and I knew he was going to have a fit over the lasagne dinner so I asked him to bring a salad. What can I tell you -- it's Christmas. I was trying to be generous.

My sister-in-law L. offered to make a warm spinach and artichoke dip which sounded heavenly to me so I put the kibosh on the spinach dip I was going to make (you know, the one in the bread bowl?).

Now, FIL lives in the Hamptons and we and J. and L. live upstate (G., the oldest brother, and his wife T. live in Queens). FIL decided to make an unexpected stop at J. and L.'s house for breakfast and to try to get L. to wrap his gifts for the kids. So here he comes at 8:30 in the morning, barreling through the house, dog in tow, in dog-shit laden shoes across several rooms of carpet. By the time anyone realizes, there's mounds of dog shit smashed into the beige carpet. J. is running around opening windows saying, "Dad, you've got to take your shoes off." FIL has some weird ankle thing and claims to need to wear his shoes at all times. So he takes them off and starts washing the dog shit off his shoes in the kitchen sink. Where L. has been draining spinach for the spinach and artichoke dip. Merry Christmas! Have some e.coli! Spinach goes into the garbage. Say good-bye to the spinach and artichoke dip.

He then proceeds to drive my SIL crazy by demanding wrapping paper and asking her to wrap gifts and demanding cards and insisting she had to have more cards, even though she said she didn't and wanting golden raisins for his oatmeal, not the other kind (apparently oatmeal is an acceptable carbohydrate). He's also one of those people that is just incredibly in the way all the time, and probably no more so than in the kitchen. He's always looking for something and needing something and asking you for a million different things and getting in the way and turning on appliances.

And he's a real klutz. For someone who considers himself Mr. Yoga, he needs to work on his balance. Or better yet, stop working on it. You could be standing around talking politics and he'll strike a pose. He's constantly stretching, leaning, standing on one foot, balancing on his heels, you name it. So yesterday in the midst of opening gifts he completely toppled over -- crash, bang, boom -- feet in the air, I don't even know what happened. I can't even tell you how many times he practically tripped over the kids. But thankfully nothing was broken and the gift opening continued.

As expected, he tossed his salad with his hands. He made a big show of washing his hands first (thank God) and declined the tongs I tried to offer him.

We all somehow managed to squeeze around my dining room table and I even ate some salad, trying not to think about the dog shit shoes and the hand tossing. FIL actually ate the lasagne and about 12 slices of bread. He's probably cursing me right now for ruining his pasta-free streak.

Next up: The Ambulance Arrives

Home Sweet Home

2006-11-27T08:20:00.000-05:00

Belated Thanksgiving Greetings!

Just back after a week in Florida with my parents. Boy, it's good to be home. Before we left I was really looking forward to our "vacation" but let's face it -- a week at your retired Floridian parents' home is not exactly vacation. It's a week with your parents. If you're me and your parents spend all their waking hours bickering (that's one way to put it) then it's a week spent referee'ing the arguments while also rolling your eyes and wondering how you could have ever imagined that this might be relaxing.

The flight was okay. Southwest just started flying direct from Albany to Tampa so it saved us the two plus hour drive to LaGuardia or JFK, and Albany is a nice quiet airport so we were spared the crazy holiday airport scene. But it's really a no-frills airline and when the FreshGirl decided to take a nice messy crap right after takeoff (cabin pressure changes, maybe?) we had to change her diaper on the floor (!) in the back galley. Flight attendants had to stop pouring drinks and stand aside while I wiped her ass. Good times, people.

But other than that, she was surprisingly good on the plane. And really the whole trip. She was a little frightened of my father whom she's only seen three times in her life, the last time being six months ago. "She's afraid of me," my father would mock cry to her. Uh, yeah, you talk nice to her for a minute then turn around and yell at Mom. It's not like she doesn't have eyes and ears. Scary old man yelling at the old lady -- who are these people?

Also, my parents' computer died the day before I got there, and I had to spend three hours (!) on the phone with Hewlett Packard as they talked me through various exercises over and over again ("just keep tapping the escape key") which eventually led to me taking the computer apart and pulling out various pieces from inside the machine (I could not tell you what) and putting them back again. All the while my father is looking over my shoulder and talking over the IT guy. And my mother would pop in every five minutes for good measure and talk over my father to argue about how he doesn't know anything about computers and he broke it. They're like children. FreshDaddy and I have been debating about #2 and now I have to wonder, is that what it will be like? The constant arguing? Having to separate them so they'll just shut up?

Sigh...

On a more positive note (oh finally, Christine, enough of your complaining already!), FreshDaddy and I snuck out during the girl's nap one afternoon to catch a matinee of "Borat." It was so outrageous, so ridiculous, so utterly obscene at times, I think I hurt myself laughing so hard. Okay, I felt a little bad for some of the people who were not in on the joke (but not the rodeo president guy -- screw him -- and not the wacky Christians because seriously, what was up with that?), but when Borat and Azamat were wrestling in the nude, I never laughed so hard in my entire life. Some of those images are burned into my mind. They're disturbing, and yet I enjoy replaying them in my mind. Over and over again.

And that was Thanksgiving.

Hope yours was delightful!

I Can't Even Come Up with a Title

2006-09-28T13:50:00.000-04:00

I've got Blogger's Block.

Can't think of a thing to say. Actually, that's not true. I can think of about 10 different things to write about but can't get past sentence number two on any of them.

Tried writing about my crazy family that recently came and went and came and went and came and went through my house. Here's the synopsis: Crazy sister-in-law #1 has me frying bacon at 6:30 am for my nephew. Frozen! From the freezer! If I had planned on cooking it, I'd have taken it out of the freezer. "Oh, bacon! Aunt Christine will make you some!" Really? I will? Can't he eat a waffle and just be done with it? Oh, that's petty, I know, he's my nephew for crissakes. But then she gave him a potato from a bowl of chowder (gave him as in, put in his hand) and watched while he rubbed chowder all over my freshly painted walls. Crazy sister-in-law #2 is just dark and angry, and we tiptoe around her lest she start yelling at us, too. And my father-in-law has forgotten that my daughter has a nut allergy and decided to bring us homemade banana nut bread and oatmeal raisin cookies (hockey pucks, if you ask me) with walnuts. They went right into the garbage (and weighed it down considerably I might add).

But I can't write a thing. The words don't come and, quite frankly, I'm not finding the time. A friend gave me a little side work. A one time deal that I'm thrilled about, because, hey, I can use the money, but I need to do it during FreshGirl's naptime, and so I'm behind on blogging and reading, and commenting. I have to say I'm really impressed with the all you Bloggeristas out there who have kids (more than one!) and jobs and households to run and who manage to blog on a regular basis. Sigh. Time management is not my forte.

So one of these days, I'll have something to say. Coherently, I hope.

But for now, it's naptime, and I better get to work.

Loser

2006-09-20T20:25:00.000-04:00

During a commercial break for "The Biggest Loser" I got up and made myself a Pop Tart (frosted cherry).

I totally suck at dieting.

Is it Safe?

2006-08-29T14:59:00.000-04:00

This is me, at least once a week:

Me: sniff
sniff
sniff
sniff
sniff
sniff

My nose is this close to the raw, defrosted, lump of pork that was taken from the freezer this morning and left out to thaw. Sniff.
Is it still good? Sniff.
Is it safe to eat? Sniff.
Has it gone bad? Sniff.
What does "good" raw pork smell like anyway? Sniff.
Its odor is not entirely offensive -- does that mean it's still good? Sniff.

Is it okay to make this? Because that's all I've got. Shit. What if we all get sick and spend the night barfing? Sniff. What if we all end up with trichonosis or whatever it's called. Sniff. I think it's okay. If it was bad, I'd know it, right? It would be obvious, wouldn't it? Sniff.

Fuck it. It's all we've got. Now where's the Shake n Bake?

Please tell me I'm not the only one out there doing the questionable meat dance.

Solid as a Rock

2006-08-23T17:11:00.000-04:00

I've never been very weepy.

To this day, Fresh Daddy is disturbed that I did not shed a tear when he proposed to me in an Irish Castle over 8 years ago. For years after, whenever he would hear the tale of another friend who became engaged he would ask, "Did she cry?" and you know, the answer is almost always yes, and then I would get the look -- she cried. He was really hoping for waterworks; I disappointed. When we were married, I did not cry. He thinks I'm cold as ice. He has been known to call me Stone Face. He says he should have known back when we first started dating and went to see Slingblade, and I didn't shed a tear at the end. (He, on the other hand, got a little teary and claimed to have something in his eye. Jeez, pull yourself together, man.)

My best friend also accuses me of being hard-hearted. She was appalled to hear that I wasn't bawling at the end of Brokeback Mountain. Yes, it was good. They loved each other. Very nice. I'm sorry Jake Gyllenhaal had to die, and they couldn't live out their lives together, and all Heath Ledger had to remember him by was a postcard and an old shirt. Sad, sad, sad. But I didn't cry. She, apparently, was sobbing. Me? Not a tear.

So that's me -- a rock, a stone, something you can count on to be strong and solid (okay, some might say stoic) at all times.

Last week I'm driving down the road, iPod hooked into the car stereo. Over the speakers comes Van Morrison's Tupelo Honey. A fabulous song. Perfect for a summer drive.

You can take all the tea in China
Put it in a big brown bag for me
Sail it right round all the seven oceans
Drop it into the deep blue sea
She's as sweet as tupelo honey
She's an angel of the first degree
She's as sweet, she's as sweet as tupelo honey
Just like honey, baby, from the bee

And I am weeping because, apropos of nothing, I've decided that it's the perfect song for Fresh Girl to dance to with Fresh Daddy at her wedding. She's not even two and I'm planning her wedding (uh, mom, it's my wedding, back off). In my mind she's the most beautiful bride, and it's the happiest day of her life, and it's the perfect wedding, and we're all so happy. Then I'm sad because I want to be the one to dance with her at her wedding, but it's the father/daughter dance, and so I imagine myself on the edge of the dance floor, watching and crying. You know, tears of joy and all that stuff, but crying nonetheless. And I'm crying and crying and crying. Literally. In the car. Crying. Get a hold of yourself, woman. You've got a toddler in the back seat. One minute I'm driving up Blue Mountain Road, admiring the blue mountain, the next I'm imagining Fresh Girl's wedding, and there are tears streaming down my face, and I can hardly see the road in front of me. It's dangerous this crying bit. It's not safe, I tell you.

And I've made a decision -- I'm dancing with her anyway. At her wedding. I'm starting a new tradition: the mother/daughter wedding dance. I haven't picked the exact song yet, but I'm working on it. In the meantime, Fresh Girl and I dance around the kitchen to Paul Simon's "Loves Me Like a Rock." I pick her up and swing her around and she laughs and laughs and laughs. Oh my mama loves me, she loves me, she get down on her knees and hug me. She loves me like a rock, she rocks me like the rock of ages. She loves me. She loves me, loves me, loves me, loves me...

Back in the Saddle

2006-08-15T14:42:00.000-04:00

Fresh Daddy and I had a slip up in the bedroom recently and through a miscalculation of dates had unprotected sex at a fertile time in my cycle. So when my period was four days late I thought, well, that resolves that whole discussion. That discussion being, are we ready for Fresh Baby Number Two?

We've been having this discussion a lot lately with me close to 37 and Fresh Girl close to 2. The answer was pretty cut and dry for me -- time was ticking away and we should jump on that horse and start galloping toward Number Two. But when my brother and his wife had their second child recently, we watched as they grew more and more exhausted, more and more short-tempered, and more and more exasperated.

"Maybe one is the magic number," Fresh Daddy said as we were driving away from the chaos one day.

"Don't be ridiculous," was my reply and then I demanded that of course we needed to have another child and how could he say such a thing?

In the past few weeks and months he has gone on to make the following additional (and annoying) comments:

"I don't know. Fresh Girl is really good. What if the next one isn't so good?"

"I'm saying this for your sake. I think it's going to be too hard on you."

"Can we really handle two?"

or when I start to lose it a little bit at the end of a long day, "Can you really handle another one?"

and every time we see my brother and his family: "See????"

In some ways, I'm not even ready for Number Two. I know I want another baby, God willing, I absolutely do. But I feel selfish about my time with Fresh Girl; I'm not ready to share my attention with another child (and I think of that poor second child who would never really have my full attention, not the way Fresh Girl has. Maybe it's because I'm a first child that I feel this way.). I don't have a longing for another child. Not right here and now anyway and not the way I longed for Number One. Fresh Girl keeps me busy, and entertained, and satisfies all my needs to mother. Getting pregnant for me the first time wasn't easy (although in hindsight it wasn't too bad; I know a lot of people go through a lot more). But at the time, I wanted a child so badly I ached for it. I felt like my world wouldn't be right until I had one. And then she came along and she was everything I wanted and everything I needed. To paraphrase Jerry Maguire (and I apologize for bringing the image of Tom Cruise into this blog), she completes me.

And I'll be honest, it's not just the longing for a second child that has me not ready. The thought of being up all night again frightens me just a little (I remember sleep deprivation as something akin to madness). And am I ready for a newborn again? Breastfeeding! Bottles! and Burping! Oh my! Spitting up? Crying? My adorable little niece -- so cute, so small -- damn, she cries a lot.

But it has never occurred to me to have just one child. I'm the product of a two child family and I've always wanted at least that (although anything more than three definitely seems like too much for me. There Fresh Daddy might be right.). I dream of Fresh Girl and Number Two as best friends, always there for one another. Sure, my own brother and I had our fair share of fights growing up, but we laugh now at all the memories, the good and the bad. I think not only of the joy I get from having a brother, but also of the joy that I get from his family. I love it that Fresh Girl has cousins that she will grow up with and play with and share memories with when she is older. When the time comes, I want her to have the same for her own children.

So as my period was a day late, and then two days late, and then three, four, and five days late, I started to get used to the idea of having Number Two, unplanned as it may be, and so did Fresh Daddy. It was time, it was a sign. It was meant to be. I thought about how nice it would be that Fresh Girl and Number Two would be close in age, they would make good playmates that way. Fresh Daddy and I talked about how she would be a good older sister and recounted all the times she kissed her baby cousin's toes and her fascination with babies in general.

So I peed on a stick and waited for the lines to appear, thinking, "Here we go." But only one line showed up, the one that says the test is working but you're not pregnant. And I was okay with it. Really. I'm a planner so now I know: it's time to start planning again. I do want another one, one of these days soon. Time's a ticking, and it's almost time to get on that horse and kick. Giddyup.

My Bush Agenda, or, Ode to the Bikini Waxer

2006-08-01T12:32:00.000-04:00

I'm going to be perfectly frank here. My pubic hair is out of control.

Sorry. Hope you're not eating.

Yes, it's the middle of summer, and my bikini line is unkempt. How many times have I realized just as I'm pulling my super-elasticized bathing suit up over my thighs that things are not kosher in Beaverland? (More than I care to count.) I seem to always forget to shave my nether regions, despite Fresh Daddy's frequent observation of, "Wow. Bushy." (Well, maybe it's not that frequent; we're tired, people.) I always find myself scrambling with the razor and a little water splashed on for good measure just as I'm running out the door (and, I don't think I have to tell you what comes next. Hello, Rash.) Or worse yet, I think I've covered all my bases (meaning I actually took the time to shave in the shower) only to discover in the bright sunlight that I've missed a few strays (and I've got dark hair -- yikes!). Nothing makes you feel more self-conscious about your body (like I'm not already self-conscious) than pubes peeking out from your bathing suit.

All in all, it's not pretty. I'm in dire need of some personal grooming. The razor is not cutting it. Well, it cuts it but then comes the aforementioned rash and then two days later it's a disaster again. Depilatory? Yeah, not doing a damn thing for me except stinking up the place (can't they do something about that smell?) So that leaves waxing. Bubbling hot wax and a curious toddler do not mix well, so I think it's a job better left to a professional.

If you think about it too much, the concept of having someone spread hot wax on your crotch just to yank it off is a little peculiar. Still, I'm glad there's someone out there to do it and do it right. I've made some tragic mistakes trying to wax my own peach: waxed myself to the carpet, spilled wax everywhere, pulled off some skin in an exceptionally delicate area (really) -- don't try this at home, kids! It's a job for someone skilled in the ancient art of hairus removus. I'm a big fan of the professional bikini wax and the professional bikini waxer (you'd think I'd actually take the time -- time being the operative word here -- to have it done more often).

I will admit to being a little old school about my bikini line though. I don't like to go bald or Brazillian -- I did get a Brazillian once by accident (the pain! the pain! how does anyone do it on a regular basis?) and will admit I went right home and sat in front of the mirror for a while in wonder -- but I don't want it bushy either. Like an army recruit, I like it high and tight. Take it up high on the sides and don't forget my inner inner thighs (or is that my outer labia? I don't know). Wax my butt crack? Fantastic -- just stay away from the eye of the storm, if you know what I mean (do you know that people are actually bleaching that area now? Seriously. But that's a discussion for another day). Take it off! Just leave enough so that I don't have to worry that I look like a 10 year old girl. I'm a mother, after all.

So after sharing all this, I have to admit that it's been about 2 years since my last wax. And now I'm getting ready to go swimming in a friend's pool. And guess what? I forgot to shave this morning. @#$%&*!!!

Oh, My Aching Toe

2006-07-26T12:54:00.000-04:00

I was thinking of calling this post, "A Pity Party for Me" because I'm feeling sorry for myself right now. You see, I broke my toe last week. Not my big toe. No, not my little toe. My ring finger toe. You know, the toe I would wear my wedding ring on if I wore my wedding ring on my foot. My right foot, not my left foot. The fourth toe. On my right foot. It's broken, people. The fourth toe on my right foot is broken.

I blame the whole thing on my cats because I was rushing around, trying to get to the grocery store because, somehow, we were out of milk. And vegetables. And fruit. And eggs. (Actually I bought two dozen eggs at the store only to come home and find another dozen hiding in the fridge. Egg salad, anyone? My husband says it smells like a big fart, but I enjoy a good egg salad sandwich.) Anyway, I was rushing around, and there they were: yammering for food and water and God knows what else. So I have to run down to the laundry room because that's where we banished their food to (because a certain adorable baby girl was eating the cat food) and that's when I walked (ran?) into the loveseat that is crammed into one side of the downstairs along with a gazillion boxes and books and everything else that's there (don't judge me -- we haven't quite gotten around to organizing down there yet).

So it's broken. I know this for a fact because I researched the symptoms and treatment of a broken toe online (because I don't have a doctor up here yet and it didn't seem like good enough reason to go to the emergency room. Can you imagine? People with gunshot wounds and me going, here, look at my toe. No, not that one, the ring finger toe.) Symptoms: The toe hurts -- check. The toe is swollen -- check. The toe is black and blue -- check. Treatment: oh, there is no treatment. You just have to suffer people, just suffer. That's what they should say on webmd and ehealth and all those other sites. You have to live with it. Oh, and they also say something about icing and elevating. Sure, when K-Baby stops running around the house like a banshee (what's a banshee exactly?), I'll do just that.

But I did do this -- when K-Baby napped, I let myself sit on the sofa (maybe recline is a more accurate word) with my feet up and an ice pack wrapped around the aforementioned toe. And since I was already there, I flipped on the TV. And watched "Law & Order" reruns on TNT in the middle of the day (I prefer Carey Lowell to Angie Harmon). One day, she took a three hour nap. Man, it was great!

And then -- oh wait. I gotta go. K-Baby's napping and "Law & Order" just came on.

Scene 1 -- We're Not in Manhattan Anymore

2006-07-21T09:11:00.000-04:00

The Time: Last night, 2 A.M.

The Place: A darkened bedroom, somewhere in the Sticks of Upstate, New York

Our lead characters are sleeping soundly after (finally) getting their (adorable) 19 month old daughter to sleep.

A sound from outside permeates the room -- Thud.

Fresh Mommy: "What the--?"

Husband: "The motion lights are on outside." He pops out of bed and disappears.

Fresh Mommy: "We're being robbed!"

Fresh Mommy stares out the window -- will she catch this bold invader in the act?

And then a bear (note to casting director -- get the biggest bear you can get!) shuffles across the yard.

Husband returns, looking strangely...excited by all the excitement: "The bear was here! Did you see it? It knocked over the garbage can. Holy shit! Did you see it? It was huge. I should have studied it more. I should have taken a picture of it. Holy shit!"

Fresh Mommy (as she pulls the covers over her head): "Toto, I have a feeling we're not in Manhattan anymore."

End of Scene 1.

How (and where?) to Begin?

2006-07-20T13:09:00.000-04:00

So here I am. Blogging. Chose a name. Picked a template. Now what? How do I begin?

My good friend and blogger extraordinaire Staci Schoff suggested I blog. "You convey everyday events in a funny way," she said. By "everyday events" she means taking a crap at Target (which I do frequently). But, I don't know, is it okay to just start off with potty humor (which, by the way, if you don't like, this might not be the page for you)?

My in-laws supply a seemingly endless stream of material. There's the time my father-in-law asked my husband to clean the skidmarks off the bottom of the toilet bowl with just some toilet paper and his hand, for instance. (Oh, there I go with the bathroom talk again. I'm sorry.) Or my mother-in-law and how everything's "fine." My daughter could be choking on a chicken bone (God forbid) and her response would be, "She's FINE!"

Not that my parents are perfect either. My mother is the opposite of my mother-in-law -- nothing's fine and, in fact, she might be having a stroke at this very moment. If it's not a stroke, it could be cancer. Or maybe a heart attack. We're not sure yet. We'll get back to you on that one. And my father just likes to watch Jerry Springer and Judge Judy all day, but he'll never admit to it.

And my husband -- wow, forgot about him for a moment. Maybe I should mention to him that I'm doing this. But then he'll just try to put the kibosh on stories about his family, and believe me, that's where a lot of the material is. A lot.

Of course, I called this blog "Fresh Mommy," so maybe I should start by talking about being a mommy. Maybe I should talk about my baby girl, so sweet and so cute, and not really a baby anymore. How when I say, "Can I have a kiss?" she replies, "NO!!" Fresh girl.

So, I don't know, how should I start this thing? Decisions, decisions. I'm going to eat on it and get back to you.