Pumpelstiltskin

This is a picture of my Halloween pumpkin, purchased in October of last year and photographed this past weekend.

I left it on the porch throughout November because it was still appropriate as harvest decor. I left it out in December, because I didn't have anything Christmasy to put in the corner there and I didn't feel like moving it. In January, I checked to see if it was rotting or anything and left it out, assuming it would soon mold over, forcing me to stop being lazy and walk it to the trash. February came and it was still solid and golden orange and I thought it'd be funny to leave it till Jon got home from deployment at the end of the month. Folks, this bad boy is still there. It's the end of April.

My laziness always has an expiration date. Usually weeks, but with pumpkins, it's apparently a little longer. This is not about me or my lack of moral fiber anymore. This gourd looked at me and announced that it will not be rotting. In deference to it, I am leaving it be. I want to see how long this stand-off lasts. The only change I've seen is a slight lightening of the stem  I think it used to have a little more green/brown to it. I've checked underneath and it is as solid and dry as the day I bought it. San Diego, apparently, has the perfect conditions for pumpkin longevity.

I will keep you updated on The Pumpkin Phenomenon as (if) things develop. My new goal is for Pumpelstiltskin for him to make it to meet his replacement this coming October. A one-year-old pumpkin is something to be proud of, so I'm playing coach and taking all credit if it works and not sharing any, because in addition to being lazy, I'm selfish.

Whenever you feel like you've really accomplished something, I want you to think of this blog post and say to yourself, "Self, I may have accomplished something, but I sure as heck have never kept a harvest pumpkin alive and kicking for as long as Bek has. I should try harder." Then contain your disappointment and eat a brownie, because that's the best way to cure disappointment in one's accomplishments. Believe me. I sure haven't been comforting myself with pumpkin pie all this time.

An Open Letter to My Son

Nathan Scott,

You are a tornado of mischief and happiness. Many mothers write to their children as babies and say sweet, emotional things, but I know you, my Boy. You are not one to revel in emotionality. You are action and touching and moving and figuring out. The two emotions you partake in are as follows:
ANGER: When hungry, tired, hurt or mad at Momma. Manifestation: whining and screaming and smacking.
CONTENTMENT: Every situation other than anger. Manifestation: grinning as you systematically destroy my house as efficiently as you destroyed my navel while you gestated.



You know that I love you. You are quite fully confident in it, which is something I envy in you. I strive to take for granted how loved I am, as sky-is-blue fact and, like you, live a joyful existence in that confidence. And you love me, too. And you love your Daddy. You hug us around the legs and knock incessantly on the door when we're trying to use the bathroom and yell, "DA-DDEE!" and "MO-MEE" at the top of your lungs, just because you can.

Your current favorite toy is the squirt bottle Dad uses to wet your hair down before he cuts it. You grab it when you think I'm not looking, send a Dennis-the-Menace look my way and haul diaper to the other end of the house, where you proceed to moisten the couch, the floor, yourself and Henry with a malicious grin. Henry is not on the best terms with you right now, Nate. I hope this changes, but you don't tone down your tornado for anyone or anything and Henry is a peace-loving sort, easily overwhelmed by your intensity. I don't think he appreciates being squirted in the face, either. Something to consider.

By the way, I sat down to eat dinner tonight and got a wet rear. I know it was you and the squirt bottle.

Being your mother is a chronically tired thing. But it is also laughter. Lots of laughter. And joy. Your grin is fabulous. It makes me happy in a sunshine-and-chocolate-cake-in-my-soul kind of way. When I put you down to nap and instead you lay there saying, "tick, tock, tick, tock..." to yourself, I want to be frustrated with you, but I laugh instead. You are contagious, my Boy, but I've never enjoyed catching something quite this much.

I love you, you little Monster.

Mommy

Drool Frog

Jon had a late night flight tonight, so he got to hang out with us all day. We took full advantage, trying a new Thai place and alternately chasing Nate and pretending we didn't know him as he threw Bizzy Bear books on the floor at Barnes and Noble. It's ironic that, in order to fully concentrate on checking out books I might want to buy to read to my son (a sweet, albeit naive daydream), I had to completely ignore the fact that that same personage was climbing on the displays (which is not sweet... only obnoxious).

So we got fed up and went to World Market to strap him into a cart. Naturally, the browsing-while-confined thing doesn't suit the third member of the family, so we picked up a cheap frog bathtub toy - the kind that squirts water out of its mouth - and handed it over to buy us some time. Within feet of the frog display, he had chewed off the price tag, so we grabbed another and threw it in the cart, so that there would be something to ring up. When I got to the register, I pulled them both out with a, "So we don't want this one, but figured you needed a tag to scan, since he chewed the price tag off of this...one..." and as I said the second "this one", I squeezed it and a long, steady stream of drool shot out of the plastic frog at the cashier woman, splattering across the counter.

"Oh. Uh. Sorry... you don't have to touch that one... I'll just put it back in the cart..."

It's okay, she reassured me, with an "I hate kids" grimace... she had worked at Disneyland once. She then, painstakingly, wiped up the drool with a paper bag, holding it away from her with the very tips of her fingers.

Disney can't be a very clean place to work, but I bet no one water-gunned her with drool during her time there. Leave it to us to turn a dry bathtub toy into a working drool frog... no bath needed.

Not Cool

Jon is home, so I have ignored you all.

I knew having a kid would ransack my cool points, but there's something sweet and young and starry eyed about being pregnant with your first baby, so I held onto this idea that even after the ransacking, I would still maintain a degree of the joie de vivre that causes people to say, "You have kids? I never would have guessed!" That was dumb of me.

I haven't gotten a mom haircut, I wear skinny jeans and I listen to Adele. But the inevitability of my loss of coolness keeps proving itself. Strollers are great cup holders, but walk into Anthropologie with a kid in a stroller and you have to be wearing a dress or harem pants in order to make up for it. Walk into a store with a kid and no stroller and there's nothing you can do to make up for it, because you're guaranteed to be grim-faced and wild-eyed from fighting the wildebeest in your arms, whose purpose in life is to rearrange the jewelry display and throw chic pottery at the sales associate.

Target is the new Anthropologie. They get me there. They have big red wildebeest holders with wheels.

Jon and I ran away as soon as his parents came into town. They watched Nate and we tried to ski. I'll elaborate on my first-timer skiing prowess another time, for your reading pleasure, but know that my parents have been charged with neglect, having never taught me to ski, so that now, at 26, I fall down the intermediate slope like a stretch armstrong doll, picking up snide comments from the people on the lift overhead when I ski horizontally up snowbanks and land on my head and my feet at the same time. I wish I was kidding.

Yesterday when the in-laws were in town and we decided to go to Torrey Pines to hike along the beach-front cliffs, I surveyed my outfit. I had on designer jeans - my only redeeming outfit choice - that are high heel-length. I can't wear them with flats. I wasn't about to wear wedges on a hike (although in retrospect, I should have) and I was comfortable. So I put on tennis shoes. With jeans. In public. Which would have been fine had we only gone hiking. But we got hungry. Hiking does that. So we went to PF Changs. With my mom outfit. Let it be understood that my mother-in-law, who is also a mom, had on a cute outfit with chic flats.

I already felt my momishness when we walked into the restaurant. My hair in a messy bun, my zipped up hoodie, my mom shoes, my toddler running and shrieking and raising... heck. Everyone else in heels and tiny skirts and liquid eyeliner. Had I remembered make up that morning? I couldn't remember. I escaped to the bathroom, where three tiny, wobbly-in-high-heels lipstick princesses preened in the mirror. I had, indeed, remembered make up that morning, as was evidenced by the mascara, raccooning under my eyes. I walked into the stall and realized my fly was already down. Had been down the whole afternoon. Because, you know, it matched my outfit.

Moral of the story: never leave your house.

Or take a cue from your mother-in-law and care enough before you leave the house looking like Wal-Mart, so that you don't conclude at the end of the evening that you should never leave your house. And then, make rice-krispies treats. They fix most mom-things. But don't share with your kid. He doesn't need the sugar. You, on the other hand, most definitely do. Sugar and one of those people that tell you what to wear and make sure you don't leave the house looking like what you are.

Postpartum Regression

This might only be funny to parents. But since I'm a parent and I think it's funny, this is what you're getting from me today.

After Nate was born, every time I went to the doctor's office for him or for myself, I had to fill out a survey for postpartum depression. I always thought it was stupid, because I wasn't depressed. But now, looking back, I think I totally had a mild case of the post-baby blues. It's hard to differentiate exhaustion from depression... or hunger or frustration or happiness or any emotion other than exhaustion. But when I started to feel normal, I remember thinking, "Oh... this feels good. I like this better."

My friend was over last night and we were talking about what a joke these surveys are for someone who doesn't already know they're depressed or is about to go on a rampage. This is how I would mentally respond to the questions asked in the survey and this is why I didn't think I was depressed:

Do you still enjoy the things you used to enjoy?
I used to enjoy things like going to the movies with my husband and having a flat stomach and sleeping in till 9am and reading a book for hours and drinking alcohol or caffeine and taking a shower when I wanted to and skydiving and having a clean house. Do I not enjoy these things because I'm depressed? NO... I have a BABY! What new mom gets to enjoy things she used to enjoy? What new mom gets to DO things she used to enjoy? I actually never went skydiving. But I WOULD have enjoyed it and I can't now.

Do you find yourself unable to sleep at night?
This is a joke, right? Unable to sleep? HECK, YES I find myself unable to sleep! I have a newborn! Did you not consider that every single mom who takes this survey will be unable to sleep at night... due to the fact that it is a POSTPARTUM survey? What does this have to do with depression? This sounds more like a survey to ensure you have a baby in your house.

Do you find yourself feeling down for no apparent reason?
Nope. My child won't nurse, my boobs hurt, my stomach looks like a deflated, stretched out balloon and I haven't slept in weeks. No apparent reason? I have excellent reasons for feeling down. Must not be depressed if I have reasons for feeling like I do.

Do you get tired for no reason?
Dear survey writers, this is getting repetitive. Have you ever had children? I have one very small, loud and hungry reason for being tired.

Are you more irritable than you used to be?
Go flush your head in a toilet.


I guess that's a yes.

God Doesn't Babysit

Two days ago, while I wondered if the entire community could hear my painful, rhythmic breathing and if I would ever not sound like a dying rhinoceros when I run, my neighbor passed in her car and said, "Looking good, girl". I said, "I HATE RUNNING!"

This is true most of the time. I advertise the fact that I am not enjoying myself, because I am not, in fact, enjoying myself. But I've discovered that even when I don't like it, running is like a cleanse for me. I am not one for the green liquid stuff that you're supposed to drink for a week at the expense of all other food in order to purge your body of toxins, or whatever other nonsense people use as an excuse to lose weight and enjoy exploding diarrhea. If you want more toxin removal, get an additional liver implanted. Or run.

I know you all think I'm perfect. I have that effect on people - making them think I'm flawless and stuff. But sometimes I experience symptoms of being a normal person. I get depressed that I haven't seen my husband in over six months. I get bitter that the Navy is taking him away again three months after he will finally get home and I despair of ever feeling like our little family is where they should be (which is with me, rubbing my aching back and telling me how flawless I am). When I start to blame Henry for all my problems, it's probably time to go running. It works the poison out of my attitude and, in their mutual disapproval of me forcing them to waste their energy trotting through the neighborhood for the sole purpose of sweating, my brain and my emotions team up. If I'm angry, I can usually overcome it by introducing something that, at least for the duration of my run, I am angrier about: exercise. Works every time.

And you know, there's science stuff about endorphins and there's the fact that I'm so stinkin' proud of myself for being 'A Runner' that I slyly slip it into every other conversation I have with everyone I encounter.

The conversations that don't include running usually feature the fact that my husband is deployed and that's why my child is ransacking the books in Barnes and Noble. This is supposed to illicit pity, but I think they see right through me when my response to, "Can I help you, ma'am?" is, "My husband is deployed!"

Anyway. A run is like deployment. It's not fun and you go through cycles of, "I'm doing great! What a great runner/military wife I am!" and, "This sucks. This will never be over and if someone doesn't notice that I'm doing a good job and wearing my big girl panties, I'm going to eat Trader Joe's Tahitian Vanilla Caramels for breakfastlunchanddinner."

When I'm running, as with deployment, there are times when I don't think I'm going to have the endurance to not sit down and yell at passers by that everything is their fault, and so I pray, "please make me finish!" and God basically says, "You can do it" without saying anything, but every time I pray that, I know that my whines will get me nowhere because, I am, in fact, physically capable of finishing. I'm not really as strong or confident as I pretend to be, but I'm stubborn, which looks pretty similar.

Which brings me to my point. Sometimes I pray, "Please give me the strength to finish well" and He always does, but what I really want to pray is, "Please come babysit Nathan for me, so I can take a nap and then you can teach him all kinds of educational things because you're God and you know that stuff and maybe you can teach him to say, 'I appreciate you, Mommy. You're the best.'" But He never does that. My insight for the day is this: God doesn't endow us with so much strength that exercise or deployments are no sweat. He gives us just enough to finish. And that's good, because I'm so much more grateful for the gift, having experienced the struggle.

And also, He gives Trader Joe's Tahitian Vanilla Caramels. Because He saw Nathan climb onto the dresser yesterday and He knows I need them.

The Virus of Death

I'm sick. Sick sick sick. You know how newly-discovered diseases are often named after the person they find the disease in before the person croaks? I am that person. I found a new virus. It's The Virus of Death.

A week and a half ago my throat hurt. Five days after that my dad came into town and I told him that my throat was more sore every time I woke up. We decided it was post nasal drip from allergies. The day after he left, I woke up in a lot of pain. It didn't go away and I was having trouble swallowing things. I barely slept Saturday night because of the pain, so I went to the ER on Sunday morning and got poo-pooed out with "It's not strep, so it must be viral pharyngitis". Which means that the cold virus got stuck all up in my tonsils, which were swollen and angry. As was my throat. And lymph nodes. I endured and felt stupid for going to the ER. It has gotten worse every single day since then. Yesterday it had been a week and a half and I wasn't eating or drinking much and I was taking (no joke) 1600 mg of ibuprofen a day. I went to the doctor and got poo-pooed away again. No fever. Not strep, so it must be a virus. Well DUH, I don't have a fever... I'm eating ibuprofen for breakfast, lunch and dinner! (breakfastlunchanddinner! SNL? No? Nevermind)

So today I didn't take the medicine and guess what? CHILLS! FEVER! THE PLAGUE! Oh, and the same painful throat that has been making me cry since Sunday. I did 15 hours of labor with no epidural and after 21 hours, I had a c-section. I know my pain scale. When I say my throat hurts like a llama who fell down some steep Peruvian mountainside with a Sherpa on his back, I mean it was a 7, folks. I didn't know throats could hurt so much. In fact, I've deduced that at night, little elves are crawling in through my nasal cavities to my throat and scrubbing it with sandpaper and gravel. Then they pour lemon juice on for good measure. Then I wake up and wonder if I'll ever eat again without feeling like I'm swallowing razor blades.

The Virus of Death.

So that was all background. Don't you love when people use social media to manipulate pity? I hate it when people do that.

Today I was g-chatting with Jon (yay!) and he told me not to leave the house before noon. I figured he was going to send flowers. Instead, a couple minutes to noon, my doorbell rings and TA DAA! Chinese food. Wonton soup, dumplings (!) and fried rice. From my favorite person in the universe. Who figured out how to order my sick soup of choice from a billion miles away in the middle of the ocean without a phone.

Best Husband Ever vs. Virus of Death.

The virus loses. Hands down. I am a happy woman.