because mommy was poking him in the eye with a sharp stick

... or at least that's what my husband is telling people.

reeking of beer at 10:00 am

Let me give you all some advice: when you load your groceries into the back of your SUV, please take a lesson from me and DO NOT put your two six-packs of Dos Equis in last. If you do, you will likely open the back of your SUV to unload your groceries, and instead of feeling calm and peaceful and good about yourself because you have completed the odious task of grocery shopping, you will be met with a shopping bag full of beer crashing down onto the driveway beneath you, making an infernal mess complete with broken glass and foaming beer EVERYWHERE.

But as an added bonus, this will leave you smelling like a brewery, which can be fun gossip fodder for your neighbors.

Good times!

supersonic

Is it just me, or is the Sonicare toothbrush the greatest invention ever? I may be going bald with postpartum hair loss but BY GOD am I going to have an impressive set of shiny, white, periodontal disease-free chompers.

mother nature, she is a vengeful beeotch

It's not enough that my stomach is permanently saggy, that I won't see the benefit of a full night's sleep for the next 18 years, and that seeing movies has become a distant memory...

Now my hair is falling out by the handful.

Motherhood rocks!

move over, darvocet

I have a new drug of choice: swaddling. Yep, when our baby is swaddled, he easily sleeps eight hours at night and takes two-hour naps. When he's not swaddled, he wakes himself up screaming after 45 minutes. In fact, I just tried putting him down for a nap unswaddled to see what would happen. Predictably, he woke up flailing and wailing. He still seemed tired, so I swaddled him and he went instantly back to sleep. The minute I put his arms in the blanket, his eyes just melted closed and he relaxed immediately.

So what's the problem? I'm terrified to stop swaddling him. I'm also terrified to continue, because what if he needs to be swaddled forever? I keep picturing him on his first night away at college, asking his freshman roommate to wrap him up in blankets.

I'm sure I'm worrying about nothing -- I mean, he's only three months old -- but that's what new moms do. I guess at this point, he needs his sleep. I know I do.

My name is Rebecca, and I'm a swaddle-aholic.

sharp dresser

Isn't it hilarious when babies wear adult-ish clothes? Here, my son Evan shows his preppy side in a snappy white polo shirt for his Aunt Babby's wedding. He's clearly pleased with the look.

making up is hard to do

Hypothetically speaking: if you were in your sister's wedding recently, had spent 15 minutes putting on makeup for the occasion, and then were asked by the makeup artist "Are you done with your makeup?" Then, when you answered "Um, I guess," the makeup artist replied with "Would you mind if I highlighted you a little?"

... then you might come to the conclusion that wow, after 20 or so years of wearing makeup, that you don't really know what you're doing. Okay, I confess, this happened to me. To make things worse, the "highlighting" session of which she spoke took longer than my original attempt at applying it myself. After she was done, I didn't feel like myself. Well, I felt like myself, but with a face full of spackle. Shimmery spackle at that.

Ah well. I suppose I've never claimed that I was good at putting on makeup in the first place. (Unlike a good friend of mine, who believes that putting lip liner on without a mirror is her spiritual gift.) I'm good at other important things, like watching reality television and buying shoes.

maternity leave smells like peaches.

I will confess: I have become bored with my so-called project plan of blogging topics. Maybe I have ADD, I'm really not sure. So, I'm just going to talk about something else. Deal with it.

You know how you can smell something familiar and instantly and nostalgically be reminded of a place, time, person or event in your life? Well, as I'm starting to see my maternity leave draw to a close, I am realizing that anytime I smell peaches I will remember my eighteen weeks sans work fondly. Yes, I realize this sounds kinda weird. Allow me to explain.

A few days after the baby was born I was shopping at Trader Joe's. I ended up buying this peach-scented lotion (specifically, Kiss My Face Peaches & Cream Moisturizer) and have been slathering it all over myself on a daily basis ever since. I'm not usually a big fruit-scented lotion kind of gal, but this is good stuff. It smells yummy without being overly sweet. So anyway, after many weeks of peachy lotion use, I have already come to associate the scent with leisurely walks, daily viewing of Ellen, frequent cinnamon toast consumption and many hours spent grinning at the baby and speaking to him in a ridiculously high-pitched voice in an attempt to make him smile.

I know I have to go back to work soon. I'm not totally dreading it, although I know it will be really hard at first. Somehow, though, it's comforting that one whiff of the delicious lotion will transport me back to the summer of 2005 -- the summer my life changed forever.

It was a peach.

sleep when the baby sleeps? what a freakin' crock.

Motherhood, although generally fantastic, involves a level of sleep deprivation that would be difficult for most mortals to stomach. But when you are someone like me who absolutely NEEDS and MUST HAVE her 8-9 hours of sleep per night, motherhood can be a beeotch with a capital B.

People always tell you "Sleep when the baby sleeps." With few exceptions, I haven't been able to do this successfully. And trust me, I've tried. But the minute I lie down and try to catch some shut-eye, I begin thinking about one or more of the following items:

1) The baby will wake up any minute.
2) The gigantic pileup of dirty dishes in the sink.
3) The equally gigantic pileup of dirty laundry.
4) The numerous phone calls I need to make and/or return.
5) I wonder what's on Ellen this afternoon?
6) Did Katie Holmes really convert to Scientology?

... and so on. However, amazingly, I have learned to function on a serious sleep deficit (in no small part due to the two nectars of the gods, coffee and Diet Coke). As I've said before, it's all about lowering your standards.

So now, I've pretty much given up on napping. I spend my napless days reading Us Weekly magazine, filing my nails, bidding on random eBay auctions, perusing sale items at the Gap online and watching Ellen -- not doing the dishes or the laundry.

And you know, it's almost as fun as sleep.

Almost.

we interrupt our regularly scheduled program: an interview with undercover celebrity

Allow me to deviate from the project plan I laid out two posts ago so I can join the interview game and answer the questions posed to me by Undercover Celebrity.

Question 1: What’s the worst/most humiliating job you’ve ever had?
This is easily answered by simply stating the name of the store in which I worked in high school: H&H Tack and Feed. I was a cashier at said establishment, and spent my time a) selling alfalfa to all the rich people who owned horses, and b) trying on various pairs of Wranglers and cowboy boots with my co-workers. (For fun. Not to actually purchase. When you work at a store like H&H Tack and Feed, you must maintain a sense of humor at all times).

Now although I would give H&H the title of worst job, I have to add an honorable mention. My first job out of college was as a technical writer at a medical device company. And when I say "medical device," I really mean breast implants. At this job, I wrote manufacturing procedures and marketing materials for all our various implants. The pro of this job is that I am now quite adept at recognizing implants when I see them. The con was that I was forced to spend a lot of time cashing my paychecks at the bank they were drawn on, then going to my own bank to deposit the cash in my account. This company was notorious for giving employees bad checks, in turn causing them to bounce any checks they wrote.

Question 2: Would you rather be 4-feet tall or 8-feet tall? Why?
Definitely 4 feet tall. Why, you ask? Because "little people" totally have their own culture and I could go to conventions with them and meet other people my size. Frankly, I'm not sure what support system exists for 8-foot-tall people. It's got to be sketchy at best.

Question 3: Shove. Marry. Push-off a cliff. (please place the following men into a category) Balky Bartokamus. Mork. Kramer.
Do you mean Shag/Marry/Push off a cliff? If so, here's my order:
Shag - Kramer. (Just get it over with and forget it ever happened.)
Marry - Balky Bartokamus. (Somewhat clueless, but so good-hearted. You just know he'd bend over backwards to treat you right.)
Push off a cliff - Mork. (Too zany, and we don't have enough in common with him being from Ork.)
I'm sure these answers will cause some sort of controversy. My answers to this game are usually fodder for mockery. For example, when given the chance to marry Yoda or E.T., I chose Yoda. Hello, he's like the wisest being on earth! Although I was roundly criticized for this choice, I stand by it to this day.

Question 4: What did you want to be when you grew up?
Definitely a veterinarian. And somehow, I ended up in marketing. I guess they have more in common than meets the eye, since some of the people I work with remind me of animals.

Question 5: What was the meanest thing you did to your sister whilst still a child?
Ooh, good one! I'm sure there were many, but the first one that jumps to mind is that I told her that if she cut the tail off her My Little Pony, it would grow back. She cut it. It didn't grow back. And I'm still not sure she's forgiven me.

------------------------------------------------

Want to play?
The Official Interview Game Rules:
1. If you want to participate, leave a comment below saying "interview me."
2. I will respond by asking you five questions - each person's will be different.
3. You will update your journal/blog with the answers to the questions.
4. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview others in the same post.
5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.

Evan 

MBF = BFF

As promised, here is the first installment in my project plan of blogging topics, namely "How I actually came to own a pillow called 'My Brest Friend,' and how said pillow has made my life immeasurably easier."

The first thing I need to get off my chest (ironic, no?) is that I am simply not the sort of person who would purchase a product with the ridiculous and humiliating name of "My Brest Friend." Perhaps it's the marketing professional in me, or perhaps it's just that I don't like to reward the person or company who came up with such a name by giving them my hard-earned cash.

But as I've learned after having a child, you must lower your standards. For example: Four hours of continuous sleep? Heaven! Taking a shower every day? The ultimate indulgence. Remembering to eat lunch? A bonus.

So once Evan was born, I wondered how exactly the human race had sustained itself for centuries when breastfeeding is so damn hard. Really. Here's an illustration to give you an idea of the agony I endured. I honestly would go through childbirth ten more times (with an epidural, of course) before experiencing the pain of the first five weeks of nursing my son. I am talking extreme pain, and this from a person who I SWEAR is not a wimp. In fact, I've always prided myself on my high pain tolerance. However, I was popping the Darvocet they gave me in the hospital two at a time. When I went to refill my prescription, a note that said "High Dose Alert" popped up on the pharmacist's screen -- meaning they could tell that I had been taking the maximum dose because of how quickly I had returned for the refill! I'm pretty sure that was the low point.

So after a couple of weeks of cracking, bleeding, crying and picturing myself hooked on painkillers like Jack Osbourne and Rush Limbaugh, I finally consulted a lactation consultant. She took one look at me and pronounced my condition "severe nipple damage." That was another low point, yes. But this was the beautiful day that I met my new Brest Friend.

Yes, it's true. The MBF pillow, however silly the name, became my knight in shining armor. Just to give you an idea of the mechanics, you fasten the pillow around you, and it positions the baby perfectly and helps you avoid a "bad latch-on," as they say. One use and I was hooked. You strap it on and feel a little bit like a blackjack dealer. Actually, you could cover it with green felt and use it as a blackjack table for a Halloween costume. (So Martha Stewart of me.) Future Halloween costume or no, the MBF was worth every penny, and I will shout its praises from the rooftops forever and ever, amen.

So, what did I learn from my experience? First of all, the first few weeks of motherhood are simply about survival, because you have to throw quality of life out the window temporarily. (At least until the baby starts smiling at you and/or sleeping more than five hours at night.) It just goes to show you that it's never wise to say "I'll never..." when it comes to having children. You never know when you're gonna have to swallow your pride, suck it up and gird yourself, literally, with your Brest Friend.

blagger

I am so sorry to you, my 3-4 loyal readers, for my total lack of blogging in the past two months. My list of excuses is long and includes such doozies as "I just had a baby," "I'm exhausted because I always have to get up at night to feed the baby," and so on and so forth. However, the REAL reason I'm such a blogging lagger (see title of this post for my fun new term) is that the happenings in my life over the past two months are quite difficult to quantify in mere words. There are many suitable topics I could cover, however. Maybe I could start just by listing them here, and then covering them one by one in future posts. Okay, I feel better already. I will create a nice little outline-slash-project-plan and then attack them one by one. Wow. That is so satisfying! Like an electronic version of a to-do list.

Topics to cover in future blogs:
1) How I actually came to own a pillow called "My Brest Friend," and how said pillow has made my life immeasurably easier.

2) How annoyed I am that I can't follow that sage advice, "Sleep when the baby sleeps."

3) How bizarre it is that when you go into the hospital to HAVE a baby, they actually let you LEAVE with the baby. And how the baby not only goes home with you that day, but continues to LIVE with you, FOREVER.

4) The Culture of Daytime People. By this I mean the extremely large number of people who don't work during the day, and who are out and about in various places at 10:30 a.m. such as the dry cleaners, the drugstore and the mall. Ranked in order of probability, my guess is that these people are stay-at-home moms, waiters, bartenders and possibly drug dealers.

5) How I continue to torture myself by trying on my old jeans a couple of times a week, and what odd masochistic impulse compels me to do so.

Well, that'll be a start. Look forward to me covering each of these in detail soon, and forgive my absence. I've missed you, really I have.

verbal diarrhea

Although this is another post along the "pregnancy hazard" lines, I wanted to call it something different — something gross — in order to illustrate the entire point of what I have come here to tell you today. That point is that at this stage in my pregnancy (e.g., The End), I have lost all compunction about using certain words and phrases, which prior to this fascinating journey I would have avoided like the proverbial plague.

Here are a few examples of specific words and phrases with which I am now completely comfortable:

Mucus Plug (my new personal favorite)
Cervix
Effacement
Discharge
Episiotomy

Of course, there are others, but because of my pregnancy-induced forgetfulness I cannot think of them right now. The funny part here is that I am typically quite a tactful and private sort. I hate when people ask me extremely personal questions that are none of their business and I am simply not given to routinely discuss bodily functions. All that has changed. Now I delight in informing others of the status of my cervix on a weekly basis. And the mucus plug? I see pieces of it almost every day now.

Seriously! I know how horrifying this is, but I cannot stop myself from sharing it.

Perhaps it all stems from the time when the ultrasound technician told me I have a beautiful cervix. I must say, I took this as a compliment of the highest order and decided that others should know about it. If you've got a great cervix, you might as well shout it from the rooftops.

I should also confess that my V.D. (verbal diarrhea, for those of you thinking otherwise) has also taken on a darker tone. Like the time when a friend of mine showed me pictures from her cousin's 3-D ultrasound and I immediately said out loud without thinking about it "Oh my gosh, he looks like the Elephant Man!" So much for my self-proclaimed tact. (But really, sometimes those 3-D photos aren't all they are cracked up to be. You can really see some scary angles on those puppies.)

The filter between my brain and my mouth seems to have malfunctioned. Hopefully it will improve after the baby comes, but I'm not holding my breath.

pregnancy hazard #1,763,098

Forgetting things. For example, the other day at work, I forgot how to use the "Track Changes" feature in Microsoft Word. Now, for someone who has been working in a corporate environment since 1995 -- many of those years as a marketing writer and editor -- this may sound wacky. But I assure you, it happened last Thursday. I needed to edit a document and I spent several minutes searching for how to track my changes. Logically, you would think that it would be under the Edit menu. Alas, it is not. After looking at every single menu available in Microsoft Word, I finally found the elusive Track Changes feature under the Tools menu. Where, of course, it's been all along. After I did finally discover it (and realize that I have become certifiably insane), I got really pissed off that it WASN'T under the Edit menu. I mean, wouldn't you go to the edit menu when you want to edit something?

Call me crazy, because I am.

sleep now or forever hold your peace

I've realized a few things about myself. I dislike being the center of attention (most of the time). Also, I'm exceedingly impatient (virtually all the time). Well, actually I've known about both those traits for a while, but as a pregnant woman those two things together create a volatile mix of emotions that are especially noticeable when a person virtually unknown to me asks one of the following questions:

"When are you due?"
"How far along are you?"
"Is it a boy or a girl?"
"What are you going to name the baby?"
"Are you going to go back to work?"
"How much weight have you gained?"
"Are you going to have an epidural?"
"Are you going to breastfeed?"

Some of these questions are reasonable, of course; some are downright rude; and most are none of their business. However, I try to be patient (really, I do), but have recently realized that I've had it up to here with one particular comment that a huge majority of people make. Especially other parents, who I know are trying to be helpful and pass on the benefit of their experience. While I appreciate the sentiment, I can't promise to react favorably the next time I hear it.

Wondering what that comment is? It's "sleep now."

Or "get all the sleep you can," or "I hope you're taking advantage of the fact that you can sleep uninterrupted now," or any number of variations on the sleep theme.

Here is the flaw in the "sleep now" logic: it ain't bankable. Trust me, if there was a way to hoard sleep, I would have mastered it for my personal use and then sold it to the highest bidder. Seriously. I'm as close as you can come to a sleepaholic. I truly love to sleep and if I haven't had my eight (nine) hours, I pity the people who have to be near me the next day. (Side note: I know I'm going to have to get over that. You people have been telling me about it for months.)

Here's the other part I dislike. At 33 weeks, I can't sleep very well as it is. I wake up two or three times a night to go to the bathroom, and by the time I return, get back in bed, comfortably arrange my complex pillow system and ensure that I'm not cutting off the blood supply to one of my arms by resting my considerable bulk on top of it, the baby has usually begun his nightly kickboxing ritual, which can last up to a couple of hours. A two-minute bathroom trip often results in a two-hour sleep deficit.

I know what you parents out there are thinking. The sleep deprivation scenario I've just described is a piffling inconvenience compared to what I'm about to endure. And that's OK. Just let me drown in that pool like the rest of you did! In the meantime, I'll keep on answering all your questions... just as long as you don't tell me to get some sleep.

eureka

I have finally found it: the perfect pink lip gloss. Sheer and subtle, suitable for layering or wearing alone.

Happiness... thy name is L'Oreal Passion Fruit Squeeze.

adulthood

Let's review a few things, shall we:

I am over 30 years old. (31, to be exact.)

I have been gainfully employed in a full-time capacity for the better part of 10 years.

I have been married for more than five years.

I own a home.

Inside said home, I have a fire safe. (About which, incidentally, I have a pretty funny story that I will summarize briefly: We accidentally locked our passports inside the safe 24 hours before leaving for Puerto Rico. Panic ensued. A locksmith was called. Passports were recovered. A sum totaling more than $100 was paid to the locksmith. All this, and we discovered that we didn't actually NEED the passports to go to Puerto Rico in the first place. Oh well.)

I now very rarely eat Top Ramen.

And today, I officially selected a pediatrician for my as-yet-unborn son.

Yep, all evidence points to the scary fact that I am technically and in all other ways an ADULT.

Which is weird, because I feel pretty much the same as I did when I was in college.

The responsibility is a bit staggering to contemplate. So I suppose I won't contemplate it any more tonight. I think I'll wrap this up and go downstairs for some Ovaltine.

pregnancy hazard #290

Almost biting my tongue every time someone I don't know feels free to call me "mama" or "mommy."

Eeeewwww!!!!! Can I just tell you how much I hate that?

It's happening almost daily now. From the guy at work (whose name I don't even know) who says "Hey mama" every time he sees me to the lady at the nail salon who says "Just a few more minutes, mommy" to Lord knows who all else.

I'd just like to state for the record that I am fully accepting of my impending motherhood. However, that being said, last I checked I was neither his mama nor her mommy. (Thank God, because of course my perfect child will know better.) It's the weirdest phenomenon. It's as if appearing pregnant makes you public property. People think it's totally acceptable to grab your belly, ask how much weight you've gained (no, really, I am not kidding about this one) and offer advice as if you either wanted it or asked for it.

I'm still waiting for the sudden epiphany that will bring me the perfect comeback. Until it arrives, I will continue to employ the fake half-smile that masquerades as maternal peacefulness, but in reality is merely forced restraint with a chaser of painful tongue-biting.

a blogging rite of passage

At this point in my blogging career, I felt it appropriate to compile the obligatory list of random facts and personal insights to share with you, my 1-2 faithful readers. Enjoy.

I fell in love with (twice), and married my high school sweetheart. Sickening, isn't it.

I am obsessed with Ovaltine, chocolate malt flavor.

I love black, but hate navy. In fact, I'd go so far as to say that I stand against all that navy represents. It's so classic, so Talbots, so inextricably linked with sensible flat shoes and blazers with gold buttons.

My hatred of clutter borders on the compulsive. (I believe I inherited this trait from my mother, although oddly it was latent until just a couple of years ago.)

I am probably one of the least germaphobic people you'll ever meet. God gave us immune systems for a reason, people. (side note: it's bothering me that I don't know how to spell "germaphobic.")

On a related topic, I've always prided myself on my excellent spelling.

I tend to overuse parentheses. (But you already knew that.)

I will go to extreme lengths to avoid vomiting.

I have an overactive conscience.

I am an equal opportunity reader. I will happily go from reading One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich to A is for Alibi to the nutritional facts on the back of my cereal boxes, and love every word.

I really enjoy a good casserole.

One of my shallower life goals is to identify and capture the perfect pink lip gloss - the Yeti of the cosmetics world. At this point, the closest I have found would have to be a combination of Almay Raisin Glow and Clinique New Rain, but I will not give up until I find this elusive creature in a single tube.

I always pay my bills on time.

For some reason I've never really mastered the proper use of chopsticks.

On that note, I'm also not very good at shuffling cards.

Oh well. I'm sure I could think of some others, but frankly you probably have more important things to do right now. And so do I, since it's dinnertime and I am planning to hunt through my fridge for some leftover casserole.