Little Miss Perfect

OK, before I start this one, I must clarify that I am completely qualified to distribute disdain and judgement on pageants, because I used to do them.  I never did the little girl ones, but I do have some experience in this realm.

Today, while perusing Craigslist, Monster, and CareerBuilder for jobs, I put some trashy daytime on TV for background noise.  As I begrudgingly scrolled through dismal job after dismal job, I happened to notice a program called Little Miss Perfect.  Have you heard of this one?  It's one of these reality shows that trails the comings and goings of the teensy little divas that participate in kiddie pageants.  Well, that's sort of misleading.  The little girls are more of an afterthought, as center stage is typically stolen by the enormous fustercluck that is a Pageant Mom.

Now, for a moment, let's discuss the disturbing amount of money that is spent to make these kids look like a Marie Osmond procelain doll on crack.  Fake hair.  Fake tans.  Fake eyelashes.  Fake teeth.  Dresses.  Costumes.  Shoes.  And, of course, props.  Oh, how these girls love their props.  On today's show, I witnessed a six year old little girl who dressed as a Marine, and danced about with a giant cardboard tank, built around her brother's dirtbike.  Don't you know he just loved that?  At the end of the day, these moms are spending $3,000 per pageant, at a minimum.  Minimum!  And for what?  College scholarships?  A new car?  A shot at curing cancer, maybe?  NO!  At the most, these teeny tots get a check for a grand, a basket of puppies, and a pat on the back.  If they even win!  I don't know about you, but that's a little something I like to call jacked up.

You may be thinking that these moms are indulging their sweet little girls who dream of being a princess for a day, all in the name of love.  You would be wrong.  The common denominator in these women, aside from an extra 75 pounds around the midsection, is this primal need to win something.  Near as I can tell, these are women who were never exceptionally successful at anything competitive in their own lives and are therefore pimping their babies for a tiara and a sash.  And the hilarious thing is that only a quarter of these little girls actually want to do the damn pageants in the first place; most of the time, moms are bribing their little ones to practice interview questions and "walk pretty" with Pixi Stix and Fun Dip.  And you wonder why they need fake teeth...

And God bless the ugly siblings of these poor little girls.  Most families have one talented little girl and one Eeyore.  Droopy eyed and perpetually sighing, the "other sister" just lacks the pizazz that Mommy Dearest sees in the shining star child, and suffers relentlessly for it.  This is the kid that hold her sister's papier mache pirate ship in place on stage while the Amazing one twirls about in her pretty dress.  The kid who spends her birthday at the dance studio watching her sister rehearse her dance for the talent competition.  The kid who gets a pet parakeet to her sister's pet pony.

I suppose what has made me so critically aware of the dysfunction in these tulle parades is the adorable-ness that is my sweet child.  Cricket is just one of those babies who will giggle raucously because I put the groceries away.  She smiles from ear to ear when she toots in the bathtub.  Basically, everything she does is hopelessly cute, and she wakes up every day blissfully pleased with herself for no apparent reason.  I know that every mother must feel this way.  I mean, honestly, what parent doesn't believe their offspring is the greatest thing since sliced bread?  The disconnect comes, however, when the parent makes the most hidious of judgement errors, and assumes that everyone else in the world agrees.  So, what is the next logical step?  A pageant, of course!  Oh God, I can hear the conversation around the Taco Bell table now... "Just think, Bobby.  If McKayla Louise is pretty in a Carter's onesie, she'll be twice as pretty in a $2,000 pink taffeta dress, with three punds of fake curly hair pasted on her head and a spray-on tan!  Surely, she's cute enough to beat out those other hobo-children and win the grand prize: a basket of semi-purebred Yorkie puppies and a $200 Chick Fil A gift certificate... We won't have to cook for weeks!"

Get real, Rhonda Jo!  Sure, your kid is cute.  Maybe even exceptionally cute, cuter than the average little rag-a-muffin.  But brace yourself, because I've got news for you: no amount of cute is reason to dress your child like something old diabetic women buy on QVC at 2:30 a.m. instead of their insulin.  None.  And do you know why?  Because eventually, she'll grow up.  You think a woman with daddy issues is bad?  You ain't seen nothin' til you've met a former kiddie pageant survivor.  Can you imagine support group meetings for these poor girls?  The multi-purpose room at the community center would be draped in chiffon and transformed into a makeshift stage, while they all compete for a busted tennis racket as a trophy....

My point, mothers and fathers, is that your child is precious enough with all the frills and the rhinestones.  Nothing in the world can compare to a simple toothless grin from a drooling baby.  Because at the end of the day, it's far better to win her love than it is is watch her win someone else's approval.

Letter to my Cricket girl

You're everything I've ever wanted, and more.  More than I expected was possible.  More than I believed I deserved.

When you cry real tears, it takes all my strength not to cry too.  And not because I can't fix it, but because I know your little world is so small right now, and whatever is making you cry feels huge to you.  That something so simple like hunger can move you to tears moves me to tears.

When I rock you to sleep, I marvel at your lovely long eyelashes.  I think about how, when you're a teenager, you'll start wearing mascara on those very lashes.  I hope that you always believe you're beautiful, even when cruel children try to convince you you're not. 

When you stretch out, long and leisurely, I think about how your body already carries what will someday make your children.  I hope that you have them in your own time, on your terms.  When you're really 100% ready, and with someone who will be your rock.  Someone who can be for you what your father is for me.

I run my fingers through your hair, and it feels like down beneath my skin.  In a few years, we'll pull it into pigtails for you so you can see while you play.  You'll chase and play, tummy sticking out beneath your t-shirt.  With skinned knees and a bright smile, you'll run free and we'll watch, amazed at how big you've become.

A few years later, you'll curl that hair and pin it up for a dance.  A night that holds the promise and potential of a first kiss, or a real slow dance.  The first time you'll hold a boy in your arms and feel your heart beat a little faster, wondering how you lived this long without something so sweet.

And a few years after that, you'll feel the comb of a veil within it, and steady your nerves as you prepare to promise your heart to someone.  You'll wonder what he's thinking, and hope that the day doesn't fly by too fast.  You'll see your face in the mirror and feel, for the first time, like everything is as it should be.

Someday, you may realize that you do not owe a single person on this Earth a relationship with you.  Even me.  You may begin to understand that motherhood, fatherhood, friendship, every relationship in your life is a priviledge to be earned, not a right to be taken for granted.  That you are unique and beautiful, and you deserve respect and caring from the people in your life.  I pray that you do not realize this because of my personal failings.

I implore God daily to give me the qualities that will make me a good mother.  To help me do everything it takes to earn my relationship with you every day.  Know that I know how special your love is.  That I know how much honor and respect you deserve.  That I know there's only one you, one me, and one chance to get it right, and getting it right is what I want more than anything.

I love you, my sweet Cricket girl.

Bus stop lady

I see her at least once a week.

She's usually sitting on a bench.  He face is ruddy, like a character in a James Herriott story that takes place in the English countryside.  Like a woman who uses her hands to care for her family.  The redness in her cheeks seems like windburn, but somehow I know it's just life.  She is in a perpetual state of just finished crying.

She always carries a suitcase.  Blue, on rollers.  It sits next to her left leg.  She's waiting.  For what?  A bus?  A ride?  A place to live?

Her hair is supposed to be a dishwater brownish blonde, but she has attempted to keep it young with blonde streaks.  It's a litle matted, short and wavy.  A soccer mom's short bob that was just never maintained.

She is overweight.  She dresses in long, 90's-patterned floral skirts in colors like navy, mint green, and taupe.  She wears short-sleeve, loose cotton knit blouses.  To stay cool?  Is it all she could hold on to from her wardrobe before she left?

Her eyes look into the disance, remembering.  Asking why.  Her face is pained, and she's unabashed in her honesty about it.  As though she deserves to be exposed.  As though she believes she deserves this.

I wonder if she was a mother.  If she mourns she mourns the children she's glad can't see her like this.

Was it something she did?  Was it something she ran away from?  Is she crazy or just down on her luck?

Every time I see her, it makes me think of someone I know, and I wonder how long it will be until my someone is on a bench of her own.

Where the blogs went

First, I'd like to apologize to those of you who have been following my blog regularly; although I am usually quite driven to write, I have recently had some unfortunate circumstances put the kibosch all over it.

On Friday morning, I was informed that I no longer have a job, as our small company is closing its doors.

So, to answer the first question: did I see this coming?  Eh, kind of.  I mean, I knew on some level that something was "up," but not necessarily anything of this magnitude.  Up until Friday morning, I had no reason to believe it was even a possibility, though; we had been operating "business as usual," so there were no real warnings or red flags.  My boss was definitely acting weird all week, spending an uncharactaristic amount of time locked in his car, talking on the phone.  But I guess I just figured that there were some confidential things going on that weren't for my ears, so although it concerned me, I never considred that it could signal serious trouble.

Next, the second question: what am I going to do?  I'm going to get a new job!  Pickins are a bit slim, but I am fortunate to live in an area that has not been as heavily mired by the dismal economy.  So, I'm going to enjoy some time with Cricket as I search for a new path, and just take it a day at a time.

I think my main goal, at this point, is to just find something stable that offers growth potential.  I have an interview tomorrow for a position that's amost entirely phone sales, and although it's not a position I could really see myself in, it'll be a good opportunity to refresh my interviewing skills.

So, I will keep you posted.  Thanks for your support; I'll keep 'em coming!

The Coffee Chronicles, Part One

I was, at one time, a dutiful employee of a major coffee chain.  And although every day had it's moments, it was, for the most part, a pretty fun job.  Every day brought in new customers, new situations.  The variety made it an interesting place to make a paycheck, and the ability to fill my hours with tasks that I could put my hands on made it a pretty sweet gig.

Working in a coffee house is similar to waiting tables, with one big exception: everyone who walks through your doors in the morning hasn't had their coffee yet.  This means that, through the course of one shift, the average barista encounters several hundred crabby, hungover, tired, pissed off people who want their drink yesterday, and will jump down some serious throat if it's not perfect.  As you can probably imagine, this gets old.  And although I myself was pretty laid back in terms of dealing with customer attitdue, I know that there are many baristas out there who were...nonplussed... by customer behavior.  So, on behalf of all of past, present, and future coffee cronies, I'd like to share with you some things you never knew, and give voice to the nameless, faceless heroes in aprons across the United States.


1.  Sometimes, if you're acting like a snot, they will write "F*CK YOU" in caramel sauce on top of your drink.  This is not done in hopes that you'll find it; rather, it's their own passive aggressive little way to tell you what they really want to say without getting fired.  It's a win/win, really; they get the benefit of speaking their minds via dessert topping, and you get to act like a brat without obvious consequence.  Simply remember that if your barista asks if you'd like a little free caramel sauce on your drink through clenched teeth, you may not want to take off your lid.  Ignorance is bliss, right?

2.  If you order a French Vanilla Cappuccino, you are correct in assuming that everyone behind the counter is laughing in you.  And why, you ask?  Because what you believe you're ordering is the powdered drink mix concoction commonly dispensed at your local 7-Eleven, rife with sugar and artificial coffee flavoring.  What you're actually ordering is a dry, lightweight drink made almost entirely of foam and espresso, with vanilla and hazlenut flavored syrup.  Simply put, if they make you what you've ordered, you won't like it.  You'll probably send it back and say it tastes gross.  So, what you'll probably receive when you order that drink is a vanilla latte, and you'll probably be none the wiser.  They would tell you that this is the drink you want to order in the future, but you probably won't pay attention, and the FVC/Vanilla Latte switch just goes without saying among coffeeshop staff.

3.  They can tell when you are watching them make your drink to be sure they're "doing it right," and it pisses them off.  You think you're being sneaky, and surreptitious.  You're really just being an idiot.  It does not go unnoticed, and it makes them feel like a fish in a bowl.  And let me just clarify something for you, to prevent you from receiving the classic "go to hell" look the next time you bar stalk: JUST BECAUSE THE BARISTA IS MAKING A DRINK DOES NOT MEAN IT'S YOURS.  You asked for no whipped cream on a medium drink, and it was written on your cup.  You, the sneaky bar snoop, spy the barista putting whipped cream in a small drink and disdainfully shout, "Excuse me, but I asked for a medium, NO WHIP."  Has it ever occurred to you that there are 30 other people who haved ordered drinks besides you in the cafe?  Is it POSSIBLE, in some small way, that the offending beverage may be someone else's?  OH!  A light bulb! 

4.  When you abbreviate the names of drinks (cap, frap) to sound hip, you sound like a dipshit.  This one requires little else in terms of explanation.  The coffee shop staff do not refer to drinks this way, and neither should you.  You are not cool just because you like coffee.  Even McDonald's is serving cappuccinos now, so the whole originality thing about being a coffee nerd is pretty much shot to shit.  Say the drinks right, and move along.

5.  If you act like a tool, they will put decaf shots in your drink.  As if you didn't know this already.  They are the almighty dispensers of caffeine, so if you cannot keep your act together, you will be punished.  This includes, but is not limited to: talking on your cell phone while you order, getting an attitude with any member of the staff, waiting in line for 20 minutes and arriving at the counter with no clue what you want to order, using the phrase "the usual" instead of ordering an actual beverage, touching the pastry case with your greasy fingers to point to the exact piece of banana loaf you want, coming in groggy and announcing you need caffeine to function, and/or handing a barista trash from your car to dispose of, because your ass was too lazy to throw it in the garbage can when you walked in.

Now, I do not write this as an attempt to educate or train people in the proper behaviors that are expected of coffee shop customers.  Stay blissfully unaware, my friends.  It is your unabashed idiotness that makes their daily jobs interesting, and provides the fodder for hours of mischievous giggles in the back room.  No, I write this for all those baristas who are too polite to go down in a blaze of glory and say out loud what they REALLY think.  For all those who remain standing after a hellacious day of standing, serving and smiling, all the while taking every ounce of attitude that's tossed their way.  For those whose aprons are drenched in spilled beverages, faithfully abstaining from vocalizing their sarcastic internal monologues, day after day.

Rachael, this one's for you.

Magical Milk

*The inspiration for today's blog came from the joyful news that my gandfather's once-aggressive cancer is officially in remission.  Grandpa, I love you.*

I can rest my chin on the yellow counter top.  The linoleum tile under my feet is warm and a little clammy; the air conditioning has only recently been turned on for the summer.  The air smells like a mixture between chlorine bleach and meatloaf.  I brush my hair out of my eyes with one hand.  I am waiting for Him.

He is tall, and His deep voice booms throughout the condominium when He can't find my grandmother.  The top of my head seems level with His belt, and I secretly fear that He will trample me beneath His feet.  When I am read Jack and the Beanstalk, I picture Him.  Fee Fi Fo Fum.When he sneezes, I check to make sure my shoes haven't blown away. 

He shuffles about the house in the morning wearing a blue and white cotton bathrobe, hair erect and coffee cup in hand.  His morning routine is divided between both bathrooms; one for shaving, one for showering, back to the first for skin care, back to the second for hair.  Grandma waits patiently in her floral nightgown until mid-morning, sipping coffee as He prepares for the day.  When He emerges, He is a fine-looking man.

It is almost time for supper.  The table is set, Wheel of Fortune is playing on the tiny TV in the kitchen.  Grandma calls for Him.  He enters the kitchen without making a sound, but somehow I can hear Him.  He looks at me, then approaches the glass of milk sitting on the counter in front of me.  I wait. 

He extends a hand up into the cabinet I cannot reach.  Tucked in the back, behind the plates, to His secret hiding place.  He pulls out the little tan and red box: McCormick's Food Coloring.  Four little bottles, red, blue, green, and yellow.  They are squat, sassy elves with pointy hats.  He looks down at me. 

"What color?"

I think, long and hard.  It's a difficult decision, one not to be taken lightly.  I consider the merits of an earth tone, like green or yellow, but decide against both; I'm feeling girly.  After much deliberation, I make my decision.

"Purple."

I watch.  He takes out the blue bottle, removes the lid, and gently squeezes.  Drop...Drop...Drop.  Next, the red bottle.  Drop... Drop.  With a teaspoon, He swirls the milk.  I like the noise the utensils makes as it gently whacks the slides of the glass. 

My milk is purple.  He glances at me and, with no more than a look, asks me if the color is right.  I nod.  The violet concoction is the perfect shade, magical behind the yellow and red tulips on the cup.

He is tall, loud and silent.  He is magical milk, and the clack of a spoon against a little girl's glass.  At least four of the seven dwarves throughout the course of one day.  This is Him.  My grandfather.

The Adventures of Self and Poof, Part One

Me and Cheesy Poof go waaay back.  Well, let me rephrase.  We've known each other for six years, but our shockingly similar misfortunes with our mothers started at birth, so there are many times when I feel like we're seperated Siamese twins.  We have that kind of friendship where when something horrifyingly embarassing happens to one of us, the only person in the world we call is each other.  I'm talking catastrophic, epic faux pas of the fourth kind, here, and zero judgement from either party.  Think Charlotte "drinking the shower water" in Sex and The City," and you'll begin to have a grasp of the kind of things we can talk to each other about.  Can and/or have.   

Poof and I met at a most opportune juncture in my life.  I had recently moved to a little-ish town in Southeast Missouri after spending my entire life living in Wisconsin.  Slightly stir-crazy and completely unmotivated to pick a direction for my life, the most viable solution at the time seemed to wait tables until I figured it out.  Poof, at the time, was a sweet, innocent little 18-year-old hostess.  After discovering we shared a serendipitous love for Will and Grace, cheese, and big hair, we instantly became BFF's, and the shenanigans began. 

Our love affair has grown, over time.  A large of this is due to the fact that me and Cheesy Poof have the exact same sense of humor.  Take, for example, the first time we saw a movie together. 

Me and Poof took a wild hair across our rear ends one night to go see Anchorman in the theaters.  Now, living in the semi-rural heart of the Midwest, you can imagine that any movie featuring Will Ferrell will either a) REALLY piss off a whole mess of people or b) go SWISH right over their heads, like a whipping wind.  To say that we were slap in the middle of East Jesus is a gross understatement, so I fully expected that Poof would spend most of the film slumped down in her chair, arms crossed and eyebrows furrowed, alternating between saying "I don't get why this is funny," and "That's just gross."

Well, you can imagine my surprise when Poof and I spent the next two hours guffawing and snorting like a couple of drunken frat boys at literally all the same places in the movie.  The culmination came towards the end of the movie, during this scene that mocks the gang-fight elements of classic dramas like West Side Story and the Outsiders; various news teams assemble one at a time in preparation for an all-out anchorman brawl.  When Ben Stiller jumped on screen with a Jew Fro and a face full of whiskers and shouted, "Como Esta, Beetches," me and Cheesy Poof lost our collective you-know-what and practically piddled our pants.  From that point forward, we've been joined at the hip.  (It should also be noted that, also from that point forward, the phrase "Como Esta, Beetches" has been added to our lexicon of Friendspeak.)

Poof is currently one of the wisest people I know, and I trust her opinion implicitly on everything from dealing with tender work situations to what color red lipstick is "in" right now.  With that being said, I blame myself for Cheesy Poof's initiation into the seedy night life of the town we lived in.  Many was the night that I snuck her in, under my wing, only to find her an hour later, falling off a barstool and stealing sips from strangers' drinks.  She, of course, thought this was large fun; I, on the other hand, felt like the babysitter who accidentally lets the baby roll of the changing table.  Indeed, so innocent was she at the beginning of our friendship that she did not understand how "that's what she said" worked.  In fact, many times, she would attempt proper useage of the aforementioned phrase with a fair amount of doubt, resulting in a misplaced and timidly asked, "that's...what she said...?,"

Yep, me and Poof were peas in a pod.  Bu then, after six months of single girl fun in the sticks, the chance came for me to travel home to Wisconsin to visit my family.  As fate would have it, Otter and I would meet that very weekend, and thus would begin the end of mine and Poof's adventures in Bar-ville.  Within six weeks of meeting Otter, I decided that no other creature on Earth would steal my heart like he had, and I hightailed it to Texas.  I have been here ever since.

The funny thing is, although Poof and I have spent most of our friendship states away from each other, she has still remained the best friend I have ever had.  Many is the afternoon that we can be found on our respective telephones, chattering away like two little spider monkeys for hours on end.This is the kind of friendship I hope Cricket can find in her life, because there is nothing in the world like having a friend that knows you, gets you, and loves you anyway.  Loves you because of all your weirdness.

Take, for example, our typical stay-in ritual.  First, we clothe ourselves in our layabout attire: stretchy pants (which is pronounced "strotchy ponts," ala Jack Black in Nacho Libre), slippers and/or thick socks and cozy sweatshirts.  Then, we cover ourselves in blankets, find the perfect position on the couch, and assmeble our collection of furry four-legged friends to keep us warm; typically, Sugar and Short Bus are the two most eager to participate, for they know that snacks will undoubtedly fall into their mouths on "accident."  After we are appropriately snuggled in and reclined, we commence the enjoyment of the world's perfect meal.  When I say perfect, I mean PERFECT.  As in, no combination of food and drink has ever proved so delicious and convenient.  And when you hear what it is, you will, undoubtly, slap yourself in the forehead for not thinking of this sooner.  Are you ready?  This may change your life...

Red wine and Cheez Its.  I'll wait for you to collect yourself, as I'm sure you have most likely fainted from the shear genius that is this snack.  Are you back yet?  OK.

It's PERFECT, right?  Here's why-  It's wine.  And it's Cheez Its.  The wine sort of speaks for itself, you know.  A long-sipped, leisurely glass of wine enjoyed over the course of several hours is pretty dang hard to beat, in my opinion.  One glass is enough, mind you.  It's not like we're swimming away on a river of Merlot, here.  Just one nice, slow glass.  And then comes the fun part: Cheez Its.  The Cheez Its play an integral role in our process, because they possess an incredible quality: they are delicious.  What's not to love about a little cheesy crunch?  The shape is perfect, like a tiny cheddar roofing shingle.  And the little hole in the middle?  What a great place to put the tip of your tongue and attempt to balance said Cheez It!  Yes sirreee, the Cheez It is a most effective snack.

And because Cheesy Poof and I share this fondness, nay, obsession with our wine and Cheez Its ritual, we have been able to build upon our friendship.  The time we've spent enjoying our tasty snack has made possible the endless minutia of details we've learned about each other, and has strengthened our bond in ways I cannot possibly describe in words.  Milk and cookies got nothin' on this.

So as I look to the future and begin to think of what I want for Cricket, my sincere hope is that she can have a friend in her life as wonderful as her Auntie Poof.  Because when you get right down to it, there's not much in life that can make you feel as good as a friend.

The Prize in the Cracker Jack Box

Having Cricket was like pulling an SUV out of a Cracker Jack Box, both literally and figuratively.  From the literal standpoint, well, that's just one of those "goes without saying" scenarios.  Let's just leave it at that.

And then there's the figurative side.  Every person in the world has had trouble, drama, and/or pain in their past.  For some, it's far worse than others; maybe a tormented childhood, a horrible health issue or a history of substance abuse.  Maybe by the time you have a child, you're over it all.  And maybe you're not. Whatever the case may be, having a child can put your mind in a place you never knew was there before.  A place of vulnerability, of re-opening old wounds, of anxiety, fear, or uncertainty.  But if you're lucky, sometimes it can move past all of that and take you somewhere good.  A place, in my case, of redemption. 

Shit happens.  All the time.  That's how the saying goes, right?  And you can't move through life assuming that it's only happening to you, or that it's only going to happen once.  When you have a child, it's scary.  You go from being so excited about all the matching, neatly-folded receiving blankets just waiting to be used to wondering why it ever even mattered what the crib bedding looked like, because she only sleeps 15 minutes at a time in her bouncy chair.  You bolt upright in bed at 1:45 a.m., convinced that she has somehow tumbled out of her crib, crawled down the hallway and jumped into bed with you and that you are, in fact, laying on top of her.  You are convinced that her middle-of-the-night fussiness and refusal to eat mean something's horribly wrong and you need to call 911 immediately because her skin tone is getting splotchy.  Essentially, you lose your mind a little.

That part of it happens to everyone, I'm convinced.  Even those of us who like to call ourselves "laid back" have those ridiculous freak-outs about the tiniest of issues.  But how each new mother deals with it is where we all go our seperate ways.

Some new moms are in Terror Level Red, high-alert panic mode from day one.  Every diaper change is documented, notarized, and recorded in tripliquette.  These mommies call the doctor so often that the pediatrician has changed his outgoing message to, "Thank you for calling Smith Pediatrics.  To have the doctor on call paged, press one.  Unless this is Mrs. Stevens; Julie, if this is you calling, I am on vacation.  And I no longer speak English."  The cozy king-sized bed with beige Egyptian cotton sheets is no longer where this mommy sleeps; nope, a pallet on the floor of baby's room is where she spends every night for the first 6 months of life, convinced that at any given moment, her baby will simply vanish into thin air. 

Then there are the mommies who throw their hands in the air at least four times a day and sigh, "I give up.  Let's just call my mom."  Concvinced that their maternal instinct was somehow lost in the mail, some new mothers seem to deal with the stress of new parenting by letting someone else take charge.  Be it a mother, mother in law, or a nurse, these mamas prefer to let someone else show them how to take care of their new baby, because they doubt their own ability to figure it out.  While baby is getting his first sponge bath from Grandma, mommy is hovering over, hands clasped and breath held.  Try as they might to remain calm, these mommies are simply terrified at the prospect of screwing up their kid for life, so they sit back and let someone with more experience do it for them.

Some mothers see the new baby as an end the the life they once knew.  Motherhood sounded great on paper, but in reality, it's just not their cup of tea.  Baby is handed off to Daddy or Grandma, as mommy sips a mimosa and indulges in a mani/pedi.  At the earliest opportunity, these mommies go out for Girl's Night and dance on top of a bar, to prove that they've still "got it." And although they like the idea of having a cute little person the dress in adorable outfits whenever the mood strikes, the nitty gritty parts of mommyhood are usually a source of irritation, stress, and frustration.  For these women, "mommy" is synonymous with an exasperated "ughhh."

And then, there are a select few of us who see it completely differently than all of these women.  Motherhood is our reward.  Whether we come from alcoholic mothers, abusive fathers, or childhood struggles that are too terrible to mention, we've known all of our lives that parenthood is our chance to make it right.  The anxiety of a new baby is a welcome change, because it's the good kind of anxiety.  It's different than the kinds of stress that cause us pain, and we breathe a sigh of relief when we realize that keeping baby safe is all we have to worry about anymore.  We aren't the mommies who "need a break" from baby; we're the mommies who are happiest to be with husband and child on a meandering Sunday, wandering down the aisles of a Super Walmart.

We don't want help from others; we want to be there and figure it out ourselves because every little moment, even the unpleasant ones, is like opening a birthday present.  We don't want to be told how to raise our kids because we have thought about this moment in our lives for a long, long, time and we relish the opportunity to make our own decisions.  So much of our pasts was out of our control, so being a good mother is our chance to be at the helm of a happy, healthy future.

Motherhood is what we've waited for for our entire lives, and it's not just about being in control, or having it our way.  It's about finally taking a deep breath and realizing that everything is where it should be, and we don't need to wait anymore for the other shoe to drop.  It's about being the mother to our children that our own mothers were not, and having the marriages that we never saw first hand.

It's like reaching into a Cracker Jack box, thinking you'll pull out a tiny plastic unicorn, and pulling out a brand new SUV.  With built-in TVs in the headrests and Bose speakers.  It's bigger and more profound than you could've imagined, and you can't believe how lucky you are.  Not a day goes by that you don't ask yourself what you did to deserve something so great.  And as much as everyone tries to tell you to take some time for yourself, you know in your heart that the real you is in the eyes of your child.  And no one will ever be able to take it away.

The five people you meet in a coffeehouse

Otter, Cricket and I have a Saturday (and usually Sunday) morning ritual.  We wake up, we snuggle, we get dressed, and we travel to our local coffee shop.  Once there, Otter takes Cricket out of her kennel (which is actually just her carseat, but with four dogs, it's difficult to keep our terminology straight), and holds her in a position that will encourage onlookers to comment on her cuteness.  I go to the counter and order our usual drinks: a four-shot extra large nonfat peppermint white mocha for him, and a large coffee for me (interesting that Otter orders the fruity drink, isn't it?)  While I wait for our drinks, a small crowd surrounds Otter and ooohs and ahhhs over Cricket, all the while commenting on how great it is to see a father so engaged with his child.  Otter shrugs it off, but if you look closely enough, you'll see that cocky little twinkle in his eyes that he gets when he's trying to act like he doesn't secretly love the attention.  I roll my eyes at least seven times and mutter under my breath.

Our drinks slide down the counter, and I carry them to our seats.  The crowd parts, and the divorced, middle-aged Jazzercise ladies realize that Otter is not, in fact, single.  They scurry away, cellulite rumbling beneath their be-spandexed thighs.

Otter and I then spend the next 30 minutes chatting and cooing over our sweet baby girl.  We people-watch.  We invent little stories and internal monologues for the people around us.  Usually, we reserve our observations for the patrons of the coffee shop, but today, my attention was drawn to the people who work behind the counter. 

It occurred to me, as I was sucking down the last of my drink, that at any given coffee shop, there are always the same five people behind the counter.  There always seem to be these same five character types working at every cofee place in every city across the country, and it doesn't matter if it's a huge chain or a hole-in-the-wall.  As a former management-type person in the coffee-shop business, I can speak with authority on this topic. 

First and foremost, there is always a Pat.  Pat is the store manager-slash-den mother of the group who is neither entirely male nor entirely female.  Pat spend most of his/her time trying desperately to be cool enough that the staff thinks he/she is funny, and strict enough that they don't slack off.  In short, Pat is a loser.  Pat is typically found in shapeless khaki trousers, a nondescript white polo, and some form of orthopedic footwear.  He/she always invokes images of a Lifetime Original Movie character who finds him/her self in the throes of middle-age, despite the fact that Pat is probably only in his/her late-twenties.  Whether or not you ever hear Pat speak, you somehow know that his/her voice will most likely come out in a nasally whine.  When you ask yourself what Pat's life is like outside of work, you are instantly aware that this is a trick question; Pat has no life outside of work.  No, he/she prefers to spend any and all free time perusing the retails racks at the store and wondering how to better arrange all 147 coffee cups.  If Pat was a meal, he/she would be a Lean Cuisine: nothing exciting, and a little depressing.

Next, we have Heidi, the Keyholder.  Heidi, a kickboxing germaphobe, was born with a scowl on her face.  While all the other coffeeshop staff are bouncing about gaily to the politically-correct Reggae playing in the background, Heidi's well-tended brow is furrowed and she's standing with her bony hand on her sharp-cornered hip.  Weighing in at a paltry 87 pounds, Heidi carries her keys on a plastic spiral cord, placed very deliberately on her elbow.  Heidi wants everyone to be damn sure that although she is not Pat, she is the next in charge, thank you.  On her breaks, Heidi chain smokes, eats half a grape, throws it back up in the bushes, and bitches to her regulars that she'd be in charge if her distric manager wasn't such an asshole.  Should you make the most fatal error in coffeehouse judgement (not knowing what you want to order when you reach the counter) Heidi will roll her eyes, jerk her chin to the next person in line, and snappily ask them what drink she can get started.  Your butt puckers a little when Heidi looks at you, because you're afraid you'll order your drink wrong and then she'll yell at you.  And although Heidi's dialogue with customers is technically polite, her disdain for the idiots who frequent her counter is obvious.  Heidi is, basically, a bitch.

Then, we move on to Taylor, the Latte Boy.  He is beautiful.  And probably a little stoned.  A career hippie, he almost always shows up fifteen minutes late in a dirty, crumpled apron.  He is he personification of bedhead, only prettier.  And much as Pat would like to be mad when Taylor screws up, Taylor is just so stinkin' cute that Pat just shakes his/her head and wags a metaphorical finger.  Taylor is the guy who doesn't really know how to make all the drinks on the menu, and doesn't really care.  If you order a large vanilla latte, you know that you will probably receive a small peppermint mocha.  And when he slides you the incorrect beverage, his soulful eyes bid you from across the bar, and you instantly forget both what you ordered and how to spell your own name.  Taylor is a vegan.  He thinks you should be, too.  You imagine Taylor smells like a cross between dirt and cupcakes.  Should you actually muster up the nerve to chat with this adorbale creature, he will most likely tell you to stop by his next "gig," located in the moldy basement of some other coffee shop; one that is far less "corporate and bureaucratic."  Yep, Taylor plays the guitar, too.  And although he would probably have to do little more than burp into the microphone to gather a crowd, you can tell just by looking at him that he's a brilliant musician.  And so can every other girl in the shop.


And then, of course, there's Becky, the Pastry Caser.  She never shuts up.  Becky's cheerful smile and wide-eyed innocence about the world make you want to throw up a little.  This girl doesn't make lemonade out of lemons; she makes whole damn lemon chiffon cake by hand and serves it to the homeless.  On Christmas.  Always behind the case, shuffling pastries, Becky is a half-donut away from a coronary.  You want to tell her to drop the tongs and back away from the baked goods, slowly.  And as much as you want to like her chipper personality and friendly banter, you also kind of want to cover her mouth with duct tape.  If Becky hears someone exclaim, "Good Lord!," she exuberantly replies, "Yes, He is!"  This makes you think Becky needs to get a life.  Becky almost always wears a ribbon in her hair, and an ill-fitting belt.  Then again, when you're Becky's size, all belts are ill-fitting.  You're not sure whether to envy Becky's positive outlook on life, or feel sorry for her.  So, instead, you pretend to be talking on your cell phone when you walk up to the counter, so you don't have to make polite conversation with this habitual chatterbox.

And, last but not least, there is always a Tina Teenager.  She is cute as a bug's ear, and about as smart as a Bartlett pear.  She blinks a lot.  Tina always manages to make her uniform look like a cheerleading costume.  She works at the coffee house as a severely part time job, which explains why she always seems a little confused.  When she talks to you, her head is cocked at a 45-degree angle, and you feel the need to speak very slowly.  You order your drink, and it's not until you've already repeated it twice that she realizes she needs to write it down.  Tina is the girl who spends ten minutes looking for a pen... and there's always one stuck in her perfectly-highlighted ponytail.  She thinks Taylor is adorable, and Taylor thinks she's an idiot.  Tina, on any given shift, will almost always have a new boyfriend or have just dumped the last one; whichever the case, this poor schmuck will show up and hang out by the counter, hoping to catch her attention.  And Tina usually pretends not to notice, which drives him crazy.  Tina will someday be crowned Miss Teen Michigan, but will blow her chance at Nationals because of a conspicuously-placed tramp stamp.

Next time you frequent your local caffine-delivery station, take a step back for a minute and watch.  I guarantee you that you will find all five of these characters behind the bar.  And if you only find four, remember that Heidi's on her break, bitching at a regular.

Suck It Up, Cry It Out

After I have spent the first seven weeks of Cricket's life being a full-time, stay at home, snuggle-hungry mommy, it is, unfortunately, time to return to work.  Although I do NOT want to leave her in the slightest, I also know that there are certain things we can't afford if I didn't return to work: food, health insurance, a truck.  You, know those little extras.  So, much to my chagrin, I decide that I need to suck it up, slap on some heels, and bring home some bacon.  (On that note, doesn't bacon sound reallly good right now?)

Now, at this point, my sweet little Cricket is still not a big fan of sleeping anywhere but her swing.  On the average night, she can be found blissfully snoozing away in her swing while I attempt to negotiate sleeping around 15 different throw pillows on my couch and the resonating snore of my Jack Russell terrier.  When Otter gingerly suggests that my return to work may be the appropriate time to consider transitioning her to her crib, I politely (okay, more like through clenched teeth) inform him that if she's put down in her crib, she'll scream bloody murder.  So, the swing stays.

The Big Day rolls around, and I am surprisingly OK with it.  We drop her off at daycare, tear free (on my part anyway, Otter was a whole 'nother story), and call to check on her an appropriate amount of times (less than ten is good, right?).  Work is great, and I start to slightly enjoy the temporary reprieve from diaper duty.  Yes sirreee, by the end of the day I am walking tall and proud to be a working mommy.  4:00 rolls around and I traipse my way out to the truck with a smile, thinking this working thing isn't half bad.

Then, I arrive at daycare to pick up Cricket.  Meemaw, her babysitter (whose house always smells like something delicious is cooking in her crockpot), asks me what her sleeping schedule is at night, because apparently she has spent the better part of the day napping.  After a brief discussion of the swing situation and how Cricket seems to have her days and nights mixed up, Meemaw recommends we attempt the one thing I have been hoping to avoid since Cricket's arrival:  the dreaded Cry It Out.  No more swing, she says.  It's time to put her in her crib, and let her cry until she understands that this is bedtime.  I immediately want to cry even thinking about it, but I simply nod in agreement, stifle the tears in an attempt to seem like a mature, reasonable adult and bid Meemaw adieu for the day.  Then I get into the truck. 

A wave of emotion comes crashing down as I realize that as much as I hate to admit it, she's probably right.  But I just can't wrap my head around it; I'm angry, I'm scared, I'm tired, I'm anxious.  All I can think is that Cricket will grow up to hate me, blogging her nights away at 37 years old about how her inability to find a man or a job is directly related to how unloved I made her feel as an infant when I made her cry it out.  I picture her in a Cry It Out support group, clutching a cup of lukewarm coffee with tears rolling down her chubby cheeks.  She seeks solace in the arms of a butch lady friend, who croaks out an, "It'll be OK, Toots," and Cricket sobs forlornly as she polishes off donut number 7 for the evening.  Suffice it to say, by the time I get home, I am seriously considering placing her back in my uterus for another year so I don't have to deal with this.

For the remainder of the evening, until Cricket's bedtime, I pore over every child-rearing reference book I can find in my house and scour the internet for advice on the effects of the Cry It Out (CIO) technique.  I secretly hope I can link CIO to something awful, like adult onset acne, so I can convince Otter that this is a horrible idea.  Unfortunately, most of my research confirms what I am afraid of: it is not, in fact, torture or abuse to allow your baby to cry for as long as ten minutes, and developing good sleep habits now will contribute to her overall health and well-being for the rest of her life.  Damn it.

I poke Otter indignantly and inform him that if we're going to do this, he had better be ready to see me lose my junk in a hot tranny mess.  He had better not tell me I'm overreacting; it's in his best interest to secure me in a big bear hug, and provide ample Kleenex, as I'm sure I will suffer a nervous breakdown before the night is over.  Otter rolls his eyes, and sullenly agrees to support my drama-queenliness without disdain or sarcastic commentary.

The bedtime routine commences.  A little boob, a little bath, and into the swaddle she goes.  I rock her for a good ten minutes, hoping I have lured her into a deep enough sleep, and kiss her at least seventeen times on the forehead.  I whisper to her that I love her, and that she can have a brand new puppy every day of the rest of her life if she'll just fall asleep in her crib tonight.  I tell her I love her so very much, and that if she wakes up crying and I don't come get her, it's all Daddy's fault.  This was his idea, in fact, I tell her.  I rise gently from the rocking chair, and slowly, softly lower her into her crib.  I graze her temple with the tips of my finger and whisper, "I love you," one last time.  Then, I walk out.

I prepare myself mentally as I exit her room, and tell myself that as long as she doesn't cry for ten consecutive minutes, she needs to be left alone.  It's the right thing to do.  I round the corner, pick up my phone to use as a timer, and pause to listen for her.  And it begins.

She cries.  And not the wimpy, whiny little fuss that most babies make.  No, my child hollers like she's wedged in a vice, and gasps for air as though she's choking.  She wails.  She screams.  I sit on the floor outside her room, hold my head in my hands, and sob.  My yellow dog, Short Bus, passes by and sticks his cold, wet nose in my ear, assuming this will, of course, make everything alright.  When both Cricket's and my sobbing continues, Short Bus returns and places his favorite toy, Ribbit, on the ground next to my feet.  I glance at my phone, sure she's been crying for at least half an hour... Damn it, only three minutes.  The sobs continue.

I get up and trudge down the hall to our room, where Otter is watching TV.  I curl up in a ball on the bed and listen to Cricket cry as I sniffle and weep.  I snuggle into Otter's arms and try to fight back the tears as her sobs get louder.  I'm a horrible human being, I think.  There has never been a mother who has abused her child like this, and she will never fully recover.  Who needs a healthy, well-adjested sleeper?  She can sleep in her swing until she's at least 3, right?  I look at the clock again as her screams rise in intensity: six minutes.  I squeeze Otter as he buries his face in my hair and whisers, "I hate this."  I look up and realize that he, too is fighting back the tears.  We hold each other and try not to cry as her wailing goes on.

She cries.  As I watch the seconds tick by on the clock, I realize she's getting closer and closer to ten minutes.  I hope, selfishly, that she'll cross the ten minute line so I can run in and rescue her, and hold her to my chest.  Nine minutes.

Then, suddenly, she's silent.  We pick our heads up off our pillows and listen intently: still nothing.  I get up and quietly pad down the hall to her room to peek in her crib; she's asleep!

I run back to our room and jump on the bed, grinning from ear to ear.  She did it!  She put herself to sleep!  In her crib!  I don't know whether to laugh, cry, jump for joy, or pee a little.  I decide to wrap up my housework for the evening, pour myself a glass of wine, and relax for a few minutes.

Then, 20 minutes later, she's awake again.  She cries.  It's a little easier to hear, because I know she's fed, and I know she's safe, but it's still difficult not to cry.  This time, she puts herself back to sleep in four minutes.  Ten minutes later, she awakens again, and cries herself to sleep in two mintues.  I don't know if I should be happy or sad, so I just sit, wait, and listen.

The sleep/wake pattern continues haphazardly for the next three hours.  I alternate between telling myself she's fine and convincing myself she's having seizures.  I attempt to remain calm, and am comforted by my white dog, Sugar.  As I am no longer significantly pregnant, she can finally get on my lap again, so she makes it her mission for the night to be my four-legged blanket.  I don't object.

By eleven p.m., she has been asleep for half an hour; she wakes up again.  I realize she's probably ready to eat again, so I enter Cricket's room, de-swaddle her, and enfold her in my arms.  I cover her in kisses before changing her and re-swaddling.  We move to the rocking chair, where I hold her close, and feed her.  I feel at ease, and relieved that I can feel her skin on my skin again. 

As she nods off in my arms, I steady my nerves and rise out of the chair.  Time to try again.  I place her softly in her crib, and whisper that I love her.  I leave the room, stand outside her door, and wait.

And I wait.  And wait some more.  I glance at my clock and realize she's been down for fifteen minutes without making a peep.  Is this it?  Has she done it? 

I tiptoe to my bedroom and slide in between my sheets.  I listen, but hear no sound.  At some point, I drift off to sleep.

I hear her fuss.  I pull back the sheets and look at the clock, sure she's only been asleep for twenty minutes or so.  Wait, that can't be right.  3:11 a.m.?  Has she really been down for 3 and a half hours?  I rub my eyes and nudge Otter in the ribs.  "She's been asleep in her crib for 3 and a half hours!"  He grunts something inaudible and rolls over.  That's my Otter, always the life of the party.

We complete her feeding, and put her back in her crib, where she remains peacefully for the rest of the night.  Not a peep, not a fuss. 

I awaken the next morning thinking to myself that I hope this keeps working.  I go to Cricket's room and peek in her crib, the sunlight just beginning to brighten the nursery.  She's peering curiously about the walls of her crib, wide-eyed and quiet.  She turns her head towards me, looks up and see my face.  She smiles.

I pick her up and hold her close, realizing that she did, in fact survive.  My heart feels full as we dance around her room singing a rousing rendition of "Build Me Up Buttercup."  Her hair smells delicious and her sweet little cheeks feel like silk beneath my kisses.  All is right in the world.

A little more junk in the trunk

Last night, Otter and Cricket accompanied me on my first postbaby run.  I should preface this by noting that running comes as easily to me as swimming comes to cats.  I sweat, I heave, I pant, I spit... Between my big ol' knockers and a mild case of exercise-induced asthma, running makes for an extremely challenging experience.  In short, it's not pretty.

I've always envied those cute little bouncy runner girls with no boobs and a perfectly-swinging ponytail.  You know the ones I mean, don't you?  The kind who know just where to put their hands so they look neither ducklike nor Neanderthal-esque while they jog.  The kind that can breathe quite fine, thank you, as they round out their fifth mile.  The kind whose sports bra matches her shorts matches her shoes matches her socks matches her iPod.  The kind that the average new mommy wants to slap a little.

I realized yesterday afternoon, after browsing at some old pictures of myself, that the time had come to shed the last of this baby weight, or as I've come to think of it, the Pudgebubble.  Although I have never been one who enjoys exercies (except maybe the after-dark kind), I definitely saw the merit in returning to my spandex.  As visions of being the "hot mom" quickly clouded my brain, and I almost became moderately excited about starting to run again.  I may have even considered purchasing new running shoes. 

After much thought about the appropriate motivation for shedding a few El-Bees, I decided that my goal should be to Look Halfway Decent At The Family Reunion.  This event, held anually for God knows how many years, is always held in Indianapolis, always the first weekend after Fourth of July, and always at someone's house who has a swimming pool.  I have not attended in at least 10 years, and the last time I can clearly recall being there, I was in the prime of my youth (read: legs for days, flat stomach, and no ass).  To say my appearance has changed since then is a gross understatement.  Although I know my family will love me regardless of how I look, I also cannot help but want to show up to a chorus of "Ooooh," "Aaaaah," and an incredulous "You just had a baby?!"

So, I hollered at Otter on my way home from work and informed him that we, yes both of us, were going to strap Cricket into the new Jeep jogging stroller, slap some shoes on, and go for a jog after work.  After sputtering in shock for a few seconds (as our normal nighttime routine typically involves a slow stroll, dinner, and some quality couch time), he agreed it was a great idea, and informed me he'd be home shortly.

Upon arriving at home, I dressed for my run as quickly as possible so I would not have the ability to lose my motivation.  Spandex shorts?  Check.  Ankle socks and running shoes?  Check.  Two sports bras to hold back the funbags?  Check.  I was ready to go.  Except now I tooootally didn't want to.  Nope, now I wanted to lay on the couch, eat Chinese food, and watch my DVR'd reruns of Will and Grace.  Then Otter came home, and I realized there was no way out.  After copious stretching and checking myself out in the mirror, I resigned myself to the fact that I was acutally going to attempt to do this, and walked outside.

As I trudged wearily to the edge of the yard, I ran through a million "how can I get out of this" scenarios in my mind: maybe I'll get lucky and my shoelace will break; maybe Otter will twist his ankle; maybe Cricket will start to fuss and we'll have to come home.  And then Otter said, "OK, your pace, your distance.  Let's do it," and my first postbaby run commenced.

And it wasn't half bad.

I made it for a consecutive 7 minutes, walked for about 7, then ran for another 7.  All in all, I would say the total distance was about a mile and a half.  Now, for most of you naturally gifted athletes out there, this seems like a joke.  For us big-boobed, out of shape new mommies, this is like completing a triathalon.  In a dress.  Backwards.

I was really proud of myself at the end of it, because I didn't wuss out.  I did something I didn't want to do, and I stuck with it.  I knew that if I kept up with this that I'd gradually begin to see some weight loss results, and I'd start feeling better too.  Because, when you think about it, being in a good mood is great, but if you have a nice ass to go with it, all is right in the world.

The Candyman, the Cribbage Board, and the Cricket

December 27th, 2009. I have spent the better part of the day trying to keep my mind off of the fact that I will be admitting myself to Baylor Grapevine that evening to begin the process of extracting a human being from my body. It begins to occur to me that this whole pregnancy thing can only end one way. Although I try with all of my might to sweep, dust, and scrub my anxiety away, I finally give in and admit to myself that I'm basically scared out of my mind. I haven't even had a stitch in my life. Ever. The closest I have ever come to a serious injury is a three-pronged fish hook lodged in my ass, and that just ended with some local anesthetic and a good-natured chuckle from an urgent-care physician. So, to say I'm nervous about staying in a hospital is a gross understatement. My solution? Shrimp cocktail and a nap.

I finish packing my bag. I think to myself how critically important it is that I be equipped with the proper makeup, accessories, and outfits for my hospital stay, as I am still, at this point, convinced that I actually have some hope of looking attractive after the birth of my child (insert dubious snort here). The time rolls around for our drive to the hospital, and it suddenly becomes urgent that we buy baked goods for the nursing staff. In my mind, this is a fool-proof way to ensure that a) my epidural bag never runs dry and b) I somehow will be regarded as the "nurse's pet" and given special treatment. I am not above kissing some serious ass with cookies.

We arrive at the hospital and the "ripening process" begins. As the second person before 9:00 p.m. acquaints herself with my various lady bits, it begins to dawn on me that my hopes for dignity in this situation may be fading.

I attempt to get some sleep, but instead opt for alternating periods of whale-like lolling about in my hospital bed, and hobbling to and fro from the bathroom all night. I am both mortified and secretly pleased that my darling husband, henceforth referred to as, "Otter," is forced to assist in the copious trips to the loo. You know you're in love when a man will hold your IV lines while you pee.

At some point, it becomes Monday, December 28th 2009.

I awake to find a nurse, be-gloved and ready for action. I am not enthused. She seems to believe a "quick exam" is just the trick to wake me up, and she is, unfortunately, correct. She informs me that the "ripening" did not take, and I am still closed up tighter than drum. Awesome.

By 7:30 a.m., the Good Doctor has broken my water, started a hefty drip of pitocin, and violated my "no touch" policy quite effectively. Labor has now begun. The contractions are, in a word, bearable. In a few words, they are increasingly sucky and moderately painful, but not necessarily anything I can't live with. I do my best to "breathe through them" and remain relaxed and calm, but by 10 a.m. I begin to think this is not such a good idea. An exam confirms what I have suspected all along: the pitocin isn't doing very much, and I'm only 1 cm dilated.

Although I want to seem stoic and brave, willing to undergo as much pain as I can to avoid looking like a wuss, I crumble like the Berlin Wall when the nurse mentions that as the contractions progress, the exams will get more "uncomfortable." When she gingerly suggests that we summon the anesthesiologist, I all but kiss her on the mouth. It is at this point that my body decides to get serious about removing my baby, so the next 30 minutes are, needless to say, less than pleasant. I recall Otter attempting to make jokes and lighten the mood, but I believe a few four-letter expletives ended that quickly. I swore throughout the process that I would never utter the phrases, "How could you do this to me," or "This is all your fault," and although I have made it this far, my resolve is wavering.

Then, at 11:00, he arrives. That beautiful man with the shiny tray all lined with needles and tubes. The Candyman. He is a beacon of hope and joy, and I can't help but think that he reminds me of Mario Lopez. It is when I feel that delicious needle prick the middle of my spine that he instantly moves from Mario Lopez status to Busload of Gerard Butlers status, and I consider naming my baby girl after him. It is only when I realize that his name sounds like something from the Happy Szechuan Dragon menu that I reconsider.

The next four hours are somewhat of a blur. As the gloriously fast-acting epidural dissolves all sensation in the lower half of my body, I allow myself to drift into my last uninterrupted nap for the next 18 years. It is glorious. At some point or another, I am examined a few times. I am told that I have moved to 3 cm dilated, and a few hours later that I am 7 cm dilated. By 3:30, I awaken quite refreshed, and believe that this whole labor and delivery thing may not be so bad after all. For lack of anything better to do, Otter and I decide to play a game of cribbage and attempt to pass the time.

At 4:00 p.m., a few holes away from Otter beating me at cribbage for the first time in months, the Good Doctor arrives for a quick check of my progress. After a quick poke, he slaps me on the knee and says it's time to push. I seriously consider throwing up.

The Good Doctor leaves to tie up a few loose ends at his practice before the birth, and Otter and I are left with about 15 minutes to get our collective shit wired. We are both, for lack of a better word, befuddled. We cannot grasp the entirety of what's about to happen, and both make some futile last-minute attempts to reconsider. It is when the Good Doctor returns that we both realize that this is IT. The Moment. No turning back. We're about to become parents.

The hanging light from the ceiling turns on, and it feels like I'm on the set of a movie. I keep waiting for a boom mike to drop into the scene. Otter and the Doc are chatting about their respective tacky cigarette lighter collections, and I inform the nurse that I am, indeed, going to barf immediately. I am thinking this will somehow delay the beginning of my daughter's delivery, but I am jolted into reality when she hands me a barf bag and continues prepping my... area. It is at this point that I realize I have no choice but to get over myself, because this baby is coming in a matter of minutes, and my life is not about me anymore. I am told to push.

I push as hard as I can. I look at Otter, waiting for him to pass out or crack a joke, but he just holds my hand and my leg and tells me I'm doing a great job. He's trying not to look down, and I'm grateful for it, because I feel like if he does, he will vomit. And then, mid-push, when I cannot speak to object, the Good Doctor tells Otter to "Look at this." Otter's face lights up and I hear the most beautiful three words I can ever describe: "She's got hair." I smile through my tears, and keep pushing.

Otter stares, wide-eyed and grinning as I continue to attempt delivery our little girl. The Good Doctor decides to use the vaccuum extractor to help her out, and I implore God to allow my child a cone-free head upon her arrival. I am 10 minutes into pushing, and at my last break. The Doc tells me it's time to get her out, and I agree. He tells me, for the last time: "Let's push."

I push with all of my might, and feel a slight shift in the distribution of my body.

And then, just like that, she's here.

I see her face, and I recognize both myself and Otter. She is both huge and microscopic. She is my heart and soul.

He places this purple, slippery, squirming child on my belly, and I run my fingers through her thick hair. She makes little peeping noises, like a cricket. She is, without question, the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.

She begins to fuss, but quickly quiets when I place my pinkie in her mouth. The nurses dry her and take her to the bassinet to clean her. I wait for her to cry, and the nurses tell us she's probably got a little fluid in her lungs. Although she's not crying and Otter is nervous, I know somewhere in my heart that she'll be OK. I know she's strong, and I know she is going to do it in her own time. After twelve minutes, they decide she just isn't a crier, so they wrap her up and hand her to Otter. In that instant, I see that I have finally been given everything I could possibly want in my life.

I am whole.

I am complete.

And why, exactly?

The recent birth of my daughter, whom I affectionately refer to as "Cricket," has opened an entirely new assorment of doors in my life. I have been exposed to the most happy, anxious, frightened, excited, and diverse verions of myself, and it has occurred to me that the best way to work through it is to write through it. I've laughed, I've cried, I've squirted breastmilk on practically every surface of my house, and I've come to realize that even if one person reads this and gets something out of it, I will have served the greater good of womanity.



Most things in my life are easily solved through the power of the written word, regardless of the presence or absence of an audience. So, it's with this in mind that I seek to further, encourage, humble and better myself as a person, a wife, and a mother. The solution to world peace should also be achieved by the end of the week....