It Isn't Christmas Without Cowboys and Barbeque

The two-year-old: Airpane.

Me: That's right! We're going on an airplane today. Do you remember who we're going to go see?

The two-year-old: Pop and Nana!

Me: Yep. And where are we going to see them?

The two-year-old: Texas!

Me: And what do we say when we go to Texas?

The two-year-old: YE-HAW!

Merry Christmas, everyone!

Drink Your Gin-and-Tonukkah

Last night, as you may well know, was the first night of Chanukkah. My husband is mostly Jewish. I, on the other hand, do not even know how to spell Hanukah. (In my defense, it’s never spelled the same way twice. Can’t they standardize that sucker?)

For whatever reason, my husband celebrated secular Christmas growing up as well as Chanukah, and here in Seattle where there isn’t a super active Jewish culture, he downplays his Judaism. I’m the one out buying apples and honey on Rosh Hashanah, the one securing us a Seder invite on Passover, the one making sure the turkey is kosher and the candles have been purchased for the menorah.

Not Quite What I Expected From Target

I was standing in line at customer service at a certain big-box store yesterday returning the 17th maternity coat I've ordered online that hasn't even come close to fitting, when I caught this adorable preschool-age girl staring knowingly at my (uncovered-by-anything-so-bulky-as-a-coat) belly.

"You know what's in there, don't you?" I smiled.

She nodded and pointed at the infant in the shopping cart next to her and said, "We have a baby, too! Her name is Brooklyn."

Having named my favorite childhood doll Baby Chicago, I was instantly enchanted. "What a pretty name! What's yours?"

"Kennedy."

I told her that's one of my very favorite names (which Dr. Husband would be hard pressed to use for our child and therefore I can share with you here), and she turned to her mom and said, "She is SO sweet."

It was like one of my great-aunts had come back to life in the form of a chatty three-year-old.

It made my day, and then the day got made again when I heard her mom saying to her as I left, "But remember, we don't ASK people if they have babies growing inside them, right?"

And Kennedy was all, "But why?"

But why, indeed. It beats telling someone they look like a "regular American."


photo courtesy imelenchon, morgueFile

My Child's Future Career in Advertising

When asked if she needs a clean diaper, the two-year-old says one of two things: "Noooooooooo." Or: "Clean AND fresh AND new."

When I asked her today if something was yummy, she said, "AND fresh and new."

I'm pretty sure she's working on an accompanying jingle, too.

Twenty-Two Weeks

My Highly Specialized Self-Given Assignment for the Day:

Locate and download every "Chrismukkah" episode of the O.C. and binge like mad. Who needs Zoloft when you've got a really bright lamp and a four hours of Rachel Bilson singing the dreidel song with reindeer antlers on her head?*

*This is a metaphor. Or maybe just a figure of speech. Or a creative use of language. In any case, not literal—lest you download them yourself and get disappointed. 

photo courtesy kakisky, morgueFile

How to Apply Eyeliner (But Not Really)

I know, Santa, it’s not the time of year to be bad-mouthing other writers (an activity best saved for late January), but this particular issue has been dogging me for a while. (Long before Babble unveiled its list of top 100 Mom Bloggers and none of the people I like to read the most are on it. (I learned of said list after writing the bulk of this post, in fact, so you cannot accuse me of sour grapes—at least not with any accuracy—though I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to be NUMBER ONE in all aspects of life. Especially the ones I’ve never even tried—like professional golf.)) This isn’t a specific dig on any one writer. It’s just that so few so-called Mommy Bloggers seem to be truly honest about the gritty, messy parts of parenting and even more so the messy parts of marriage (perhaps because our spouses and their co-workers are more likely to read our posts than our children and their peers?).

Twenty-One Weeks

SO not in the mood. Sorry! Check back next week.

The War on Drugs

Not me...Yet...

I was at a certain home furnishings/picture frame/giant candle store the other day and saw a slender, well-coiffed woman who was looking decidedly pregnant and the teensiest bit nervous. I showed her my belly (clothing on), and we did the "simultaneously pregnant" chatting thing for a bit—When are you due? Is this your first? Boy or girl?—when I decided to drop the bomb:

"The whole childbirth thing isn't actually that bad."

"Oh, thank god!" she said, visibly relieved. "That's so great to hear. I'm doing natural childbirth, so that's really great to know!"

I wanted to say, "No, I meant the epidural makes it not that bad," but I decided to let her believe what she wants. Who knows. Maybe unmedicated childbirth isn't that bad, either. I kind of hope to never have to know.

photo courtesy grietgriet, morgueFile

Not Quite What I Expected From an Obstetrician

I love my OB. LOVE HER. I loved her even before she donned her hazmat suit and full-on plexiglass face shield (Things They Don’t Tell You About Pregnancy #157, 983) and delivered my first baby and then sewed me up as good as new—so good, in fact, that the nurse practitioner who removed my IUD declared that it looked like I’d never had a baby—which is, of course, the nicest compliment you can give a post-partum vagina.

Twenty Weeks: Half Full, Half Empty

The Circle of Life

I had my third—and if all keeps going well—final ultrasound yesterday, and I managed not to peek and find out the sex of the baby. Even more so than last time, I've really been enjoying not knowing—though both times I've had a moment or two of wanting to cave. It's not that hard not finding out—except when a total stranger in-the-form-of-an-ultrasound-technician is sitting in the room with you looking at images of your baby's crotch and knowing.

Bingle Balls and Whofoo Fluff

It appears to be December here in Seattle, and I know this not because my calendar (and computer and phone and child's preschool) tell me it is but because the sun is now rising at approximately 8:45am* and setting around noon**.

Never have I wanted quite so badly to string holiday lights ALL OVER THE HOUSE AND YARD, creating a spectacle rivaling those of the '80s West Texas yards of my grandparents' friends and neighbors—giant plastic illuminated reindeer and snowmen and Nativity scenes featuring the three Wise Men and Santa peering at the baby Jesus. Awesome stuff that was. Sheer ridiculous gaudy splendor. Seattle tends to be a bit more... understated. And energy conscious. And did I mention DARK?!

*Technically 7:37am.
** Technically 4:20pm.

photo courtesy paulabflat, morgueFile