A celebration of ten months (today)!

Oh, motherhood! I sang this refrain the other night as my son vomited prolifically and repeatedly all over himself, me, and our bedding – not spit up, mind, but hot, stinky, stomach-acid puke, the kind that only babes and drunks can produce in such volume with so little remorse.  Sure, parenting is…you know, rewarding and all that shit but it also just sucks sometimes. (Wah, wah, wah… Look at me, being the Queen of the Obvious here!)

I love my son, desperately and fiercely, and he makes me laugh gleefully hundreds of times each day. I stare at him in wonder as he (FINALLY!) sleeps, trying to pick out my features in his tiny, amazing little face – I made that?!? – and marvel that he can be so peaceful while he slumbers.

But sometimes, man, I just want to scream “PAUSE” and make everything stop for just a minute, and not so I can freeze that moment in time and cherish the memory, but so that I can, oh, take a goddamn shit in peace. These moments of sheer desperation climax when the dog and the baby join forces.

A moment to reintroduce Oly:

Dan has a theory – it’s absolutely scientifically unsound, so don’t get too excited about trying to tear it apart – that everybody (dogs included, I guess) has a super power. Oly, despite his feeble mental acumen, can out-guilt even the most austere Catholic or Jewish mom; his super power – hands down – is guilt tripping. The dog lays it on heavy and follows me around our tiny condo, staring at me reproachfully as if I killed his favorite puppy. He’ll sometimes drop his soggy tennis ball on the floor so it makes this hollow thunk-thunk-thunk sound – the saddest sound in the whole universe, the sound of neglect and boredom.

The dog and the baby have formed quite an alliance. It worries me at times – I fear they conspire new ways to aggravate me – but mostly, I’m grateful for the small measure of relief that Declan’s administrations to Oly bring me from the crushing guilt I suffer over the dog’s Fall from Grace.

However! The other day, both of them were in a state, trying to outdo each other as to who could be the whiniest, neediest creature in the house. It was a dead heat. At one point, though, they were both quietly hanging out in the living room, and I seized the opportunity to rush to the bathroom. I had barely gotten my pants around my ankles when they realize I’d escaped. I hear Declan start wailing and then the clumsy sound of his crawling and the click-click-click of Oly’s nails on the hardwood floor as they come to rescue me from my reprieve.  Within seconds, both of them smash their heads into the (mostly) closed door, and all hell breaks loose.

Declan, whimpering frantically, starts trying to climb up my legs. Oly, sensing that the baby will quickly have the bulk of my attention if he doesn’t do something to stop this, proceeds to interject himself between the baby and my legs, knocking Declan flat on his back. Declan begins squalling in earnest now and abandons me to knock over the trash can and try to eat the bathroom garbage. Oly, meanwhile, has taken up residence at my knees, with his mouth level with my face. Let’s talk about what Oly does all day when he’s not guilt-tripping me or being molested by the baby: he gives himself vigorous and lengthy rim jobs, so his breath perpetually reeks of hot canine asshole.  He is busy scenting the air around my face with this stench when I realize this is the least relaxing attempt at a poop ever, and I give up altogether.

Constipated, exhausted, and overwhelmed, I imagined myself in a year’s time with two babies, both mobile and both under two years of age, plus Oly, and I think I might have whimpered a little myself.

Oh, motherhood!

*Declan is ten-months-old today, and despite the “moments,” it’s been the most incredible, peaceful, happy ten months of my life (so far). Looking forward to so many more with my little family.

A “few” more photos of the boy and his dog here.

On the move…

I'm busy, mommy!

Oh, my piss, it’s really only Tuesday?!?  I am SO. UNINSPIRED. This blank page has been plaguing me for months.  It’s not that I don’t have anything to say about Squawk, life as a mother/wife/human being; I do, I just can’t seem to muster the energy to focus long enough to describe it.  Ugh. That last sentence sounds so whiny, I want to kick myself in the shins.

But here’s the deal: with the advent of The Second Coming (aka #2), I have had no energy. Zero. Zilch. Nada.  This is a state of being that I am entirely unaccustomed to, and sadly, it has also coincided with a sharp upswing in Squawk’s activity levels.  I don’t for a second delude myself into thinking that my baby’s non-stop campaign of chaos and destruction is in any way unique to parenthood but I have moments when I’m trying to wrestle his surprisingly strong little hands away from his shit-covered testicles or when I’m rescuing him as he clings desperately to the third shelf of the bookshelf that I seriously wonder how I’m going to survive his infancy.

A rare (and short-lived) moment of quiet contemplation

Alright, I’m not so self-involved that I can’t recognize the hyperbole inherent in describing life as a new(ish) mother; really, life with Squawk is pretty damn good.  He’s a creature given to emotional indulgences, so when he’s pissed off, he’s really pissed off but luckily, his predominant mien is one of industrious optimism. He’s a happy kid. He squeals and giggles a lot. He tortures the dog (who is frequently nonplussed by the all the, uh, attention; Oly now spends a good deal of his time looking at me worriedly and trying to hide behind me as Declan hangs on his ears/tail/paw by this mouth); he scales furniture; he empties bookshelves, drawers, and cabinets of their contents; he attempts frequent fast breaks into the bathroom, where he delights in gumming the toilet seat and inventorying the trash. In short, he’s a healthy, normal baby making the most of his days. It’s awesome (and you should detect no sarcasm in that statement).

I’d write more but it’s time to go home and start the marathon all over again!

Giving kisses to The Second Coming

Happy Holidays and such**

**This needs updating. Maybe I’ll get to it in the next month or two but for now, bear with the odd timing and the fact that I’ve mentioned nothing of recent events… 

At least it's not an electrical chord...

Look at me! I’ve managed to miss documenting in excruciating detail Squawk’s six- and seven- and now eight-month birthdays, the advent of both crawling and eating “table” foods, first stinky shits, et cetera, et cetera. I blame sleep deprivation, my innate skill at procrastination, and…something else for my apparent inability to write 500 semi-coherent words per month.

But really, being a mom, for me, means a profoundly different set of things on my radar.  I only peripherally keep track of the new small-batch IPAs being poured around town but I can tell you that I know that the beloved U-Village Santa of yore had a “falling out” and is no longer providing the backdrop for vaguely creepy Christmas photo shoots. Instead, there’s some skinny twerp standing in for him who just “isn’t very realistic.”  Uh…  First, Santa had a falling out! How awesome and un-Christian is that?!? Second, “unrealistic?” NO. SHIT. It’s Santa. He’s not real.   My mind is crammed full of useless crap like this.

No, Declan, you can't blame the dog...

Blah.  While keeping track of the Seattlemom scene rots my brain and erodes what shard of common sense I have left, Declan has been keeping himself busy concocting new panic-inducing transgressions. He is an industrious little dude, and crawling has opened up a whole new world to him. He can now get to the dog’s water bowl! Ahoy! Computer cables that mommy and daddy leave dangling around? Perfect teething toys.  He’s particularly fond of dragging electrical chords over into the giant puddle of water he creates by spilling the dog bowl and sitting in the middle of the puddle, chewing nonchalantly on a power cord. I almost want to call CPS on myself.

He’s SO MUCH FUN, though, so those moments when I find myself dashing across the room, naked and soaking wet, to rescue my son from his latest deadly endeavor, or those long early-morning hours when he simply will not stop screaming unless my nipple is firmly suctioned in his mouth are off-set by the insane amount of giggles and smiles and hugs.

FISH!!!

Aside from crawling as quickly as possible to exactly the last place he should be (i.e., behind the toilet to play with the plunger – ICK! – or to the “pantry” [misnomer] to pull all the heavy glass growlers off the shelf), Squawk has discovered climbing. Why I’m acting surprised about this is ridiculous even to me but it’s an engagement that has, so far, not worked out to his advantage. He’s good at getting up but not so much at maintaining his superior altitude.  He’s fairly stoic about the inevitable face plants, yet I can’t help but wonder if maybe a better parent would gently suggest that scaling bookshelves and drum sets is probably not the wisest pursuit. Meh…

Anyway, the holidays are upon us and I’ve been channeling some insane, cracked-out ghetto version of Martha Stewart and have been crafting up a shit storm, which is a whole new experience in terror and frustration when you add an inquisitive and mostly fearless eight-month old to the mix.  Did you know that sewing machine pedals are especially exciting to babies?!? As most of you know, I’m not the most, uh, careful of people.  Learning to TURN OFF THE MACHINE was a valuable lesson learned.

Oly is swell!

I also managed to get out some holiday cards (but not as many as I’d hoped – if I neglected your mailbox this holiday season, it’s because I’m three hours of sleep shy of clinically insane, so I’m unaccountable to my actions).  I drafted up a brief holiday letter – because, clearly, I’m into brevity – but again, that didn’t make it into everyone’s card because I forgot to insert them into half of them, and for others, I opted to omit them in favor of propriety.  Although…propriety? Yes, even I understand vaginas have no place in Christmas cards — unless you want to get really technical and argue that it’s all about celebrating the birth of Christ, and in that day and age, vaginas were completely critical to birth, and so, ipso facto, Christmas really is about celebrating the holiest of vaginas (ha! Holy, holey, vagina! Get it?).

So, for those of you who care, this about sums up our year at Chez Baird-Simon:

Letter option 1:

Friends! It’s the Holiday Letter!

It’s been an eventful year for us! Shelagh survived two days of labor and a mountain of hemorrhoids, Dan survived living with a cyclone of hormones, and Declan was born (he wins the prize for most monumental milestone).  Oh, can’t forget Oly. Oly’s year was slightly less festive. His fall from the pedestal when we brought home the baby was profound.  To add injury to insult, he was diagnosed with cancer and intestinal worms, got fleas (gross!), and had his balls cut off. He also got to wear a cone around his head for weeks. It was funny and pathetic.

We’re still in Seattlefor the time being. When Declan is not chewing on expensive electronic items, he’s busy cultivating fancy fromages in his myriad fat rolls. Dan is busy herding cats at NOAA, and Shelagh juggles baby and an obscenely early part-time work schedule.  Oly is working on honing his guilt trip and has given us new names: The Bad Man, The Crazy Lady, and The Devil Creature.

Here’s to an exciting year ahead!

Letter option 2:

Friends! It’s the holiday letter!

Shelagh pushed out a baby.

Dan will never forget the image of a head looking at him out of his wife’s vagina.

Oly got his balls cut off. But the cancer’s gone.

Declan got born.  He may have picked the long straw this year.

We’re all very happy, healthy, and enjoying watching Declan become a little person, a maker of funny faces and stinky neck-fat fromages.

Here’s to an exciting year ahead!

*I have grandiose plans to upload the recent spate of Declan photos soon. I’ll provide a link on Facebook in the near(ish) future.

Abandon All Dignity Ye Who Enter Here

YOUR indignity, mama?!? Let's talk about sharing all my cellulite wads with everyone. And you wonder why I pee on you...

I’m not someone who necessarily misses her dignity but fuck-a-duck, I didn’t realize quite how much dignity would go by the wayside when I became a mom. Pregnancy was one thing; I waddled, I snored, I broke our coffee table with my ass. But it was almost an improvement, dignity-wise; I wasn’t falling out of trees, sexting to the wrong person (STILL sorry about that, A!), or shamelessly taking down a bag full of Dicks* at 2 am.  

the Kavanagh/Baird blood runs deep: already loving the books!

Motherhood, though, man…  ”They” oughta name a drink after it.  Or at least hang a sign above the Labor & Delivery wing that reads, “Abandon All Dignity Ye Who Enter Here.” The whole birthing experience…well, let’s just say that I was slinging some serious bodily fluids during that whole process. In front of a room full of people. And I couldn’t have cared less (although I remain deeply apologetic that my one friend had to witness the postpartum pelvic exam, including a fairly graphic and in-depth discussion about my hemorrhoids).  But that was…whatever, that was giving birth. It’s a disgusting endeavor, and yes, there’s a lovely prize at the end but it’s undeniably gross and undignified. Check your dignity at the door, ma’am.

Determination!

And it only gets worse.  In the course of an average day, I will be shit on, pissed on, and vomited on, sometimes simultaneously (and sometimes by Declan, Oly, and some random homeless man).  I walk around with suspicious stains on my clothes, vomit (et cetera) in my hair, and toys sticking out of weird places (not orifices, people!) Par for the course, occupational hazard, et cetera, et cetera.

Chillaxin' at Gasworks!

Declan’s expulsions are really only a minor part of the whole demise of my dignity, and in fact, my own leakiness seems to be fodder for more embarrassment and disgust than anything Declan can do (at this point — I’ll revisit that statement after we introduce solids to his diet).  Really, if you’ve never milked yourself in front of a trucker at a crowded rest area, your life is empty…

What the hell...?!?

Yes, you read that correctly (and I promise that when I say “milked,” I mean milked in the way you might milk a cow or a goat, and not a euphemism for the kind of milking that, uh, that trucker may have done after I left).  I had made the piss-poor decision to forego pumping at work the morning that we were embarking on a small road trip to Newport, OR because I decided that Declan would be hungry in the car and I could just nurse him along the way. Declan, however, did not come to the same conclusion, and in spite of hovering my exposed boob over his car seat as we drove, my body awkwardly jammed between the door and the thoroughly unimpressed dog, Declan wouldn’t bite, so to speak.

Party time, mama!

Supply and demand is a funny thing; Declan typically demands a LOT of milk, so I supply a LOT—have you seen those cheeks?!? They need a bra.  But occasionally when he doesn’t demand a lot of milk, I still supply a lot. This leads to the uncomfortable issue of engorgement. Hot boobs!

Hot boob? Yay! I'm hungry!

In desperation, I made Dan stop at the closest rest area, where I manually expressed a LOT of milk. I tried to be somewhat discreet but discretion is in short supply when you’re leaning over at a picnic table, squeezing your boobs with your hands, and spraying milk everywhere. (I had puddles of milk in my shoes — don’t ask — on the ground, in my hair, and on my pants. Not one of my finer moments, and I wasn’t even drunk…)  The trucker sitting smoking at the adjacent picnic table apparently found the whole debacle mildly engaging.

Oooh, something to chew on!

A few hours later into Declan’s hunger strike, I reenacted the whole shit show but in the front seat of the car into Dan’s water bottle (sorry, honey!) while stuck in horrendous traffic. It’s probably a good thing we just sold that car…

Whoa! That thing licks me!

I’m not one to scoff at breastfeeding; I love the bonding moments with my son, I love that I am able to provide the healthiest sustenance available for him, I love that it’s easy (now, after a shaky start) and natural and far superior to the alternative.  Obviously, some women can’t breastfeed, and some babies just can’t be breastfed but if I’m completely honest, I do judge—just a teensy bit—women who choose not to breastfeed, to not even try. Sue me; it’s my blog and I can be judgmental if I want.

Look at me plank, mama!

But sometimes, when I’m stripped down naked in the Rabbi’s office at our temple trying to calm a squalling baby (lesson: dresses are bad choices for nursing moms), or when I’m sporting wet boobs in public, or when I’m at pumping at work wearing that ridiculous “pumping bra” and praying no one decides to walk in on me, I feel a small twinge of nostalgia for the days of yore when I managed to cling to a shred of dignity.

I don't look this modest in my get-up...

But then again… when I tried to explain this whole phenomenon of dignity crashing and burning to a friend, he snorted and said, “Dignity?!? What dignity? You never had any to begin with,” leaving me to contemplate the levels of depravity I reached in my pre-baby life. Screw it, I’m going to go spray someone with breast milk!

Passport, you say? Let's go!

*Dick’s: NOT what you’re thinking, people! It’s a Seattle establishment. Best cheeseburgers in town. If you don’t believe me, ask Oly, our resident Cheeseburger Walrus.

Halloween

It's kind of like a hipster pope hat.... hmmm. Interesting costume idea.

I had fully intended to finish a lengthy dissection of the myriad indignities of motherhood but I’m in a funk, and I’ve found that the diatribes of new moms, while usually justified and certainly cathartic, can just be…tiresome and clichéd.

Sure, I don’t get a lot of sleep. What the fuck did I expect, though? And, yes, at times it can feel pretty thankless (but holy crap, when Squawk giggles and smiles at me, I don’t care how many hours he’s screamed in my ear or how many times I’ve had to wash everything in the house — twice — because he’s shit all over it).

Sleep, mommy? Don't be foolish!

And yes, sometimes, when I’m feeling especially insecure and I  feel like my husband is flippantly dismissing my tribulations in the way that only someone can who doesn’t spend every day, day in and day out, catering to the sometimes absurd whims of a two-foot-tall tyrant, I want to strangle him. But most of the time, I stare at the guy with a sense of awe, gratitude, and love — he is impossibly patient (seriously…it’s almost disturbing), thoughtful, resilient, helpful, compassionate, and best of all, a bucket-load of fun. Win all around for me and the kid!

dance party fun!

So, instead, I’ve turned my attention to an endeavor that can weather frequent and sundry interruptions, something that really matters: planning for Halloween.  As a rule, I don’t plan. I find it boresome. And I never get it quite right.  I make a solid exception for Halloween.  And now I have someone else upon whom I can inflict my bad ideas!

Someday I will write a book entitled "Raising Up Genghis Khan."

I’ve got big ideas for the little dude! My godmother gave me these wholly unpractical but beautiful embroidered boots — perfect for dressing up the progeny as a savage conqueror!

Trying to make this would make *me* homicidal...

Or, if I’d to stretch the taut bands of my patience even further, I could embark on an idiotic campaign to create something cute and age-appropriate and…you know, hip and creative, just like all new moms are supposed to be. Shoot me now. The only hip and creative thing I can do these days is figure out how to put booze into my chocolate.

Bullwinkle.

Rather than transform my son into a disgustingly cute octopus — and me into a psychopathic she-devil in the process — we’ve decided to incorporate Declan into our Halloween costume. He’s going to be an accessory (that’s so yuppie of us)!  A little history: a few years ago, I embarked on an ultimately failed crusade to get Dan to dress as Rod Stewart at his finest.  I did succeed in convincing him to squeeze into a pair of tight sparkly white women’s disco pants and wear a Rod Stewart wig but believe me when I say it fell short of the speedo-and-scarf ensemble.

On second thought, maybe I don't want to be inspiring Tommy Lee aspirations...

Anyway! In keeping with the aging rocker theme, I bought him a copy of “Mötley Crüe: The Dirt” to keep him company at night while he was sailing around the Caribbean.  He was so, uh, “impressed” with the tomfoolery of those miscreants that he launched his own campaign to get us and a couple of our friends to dress up as them for Halloween. Obviously, Declan kind of complicates that unless Dan and I wanted to go as Tommy and Pamela, pre-Hep C days. But even breastfeeding, I don’t have that kind of rack, and as sad as it is to admit, I think I’d be a more convincing Vince Neil than a Pamela Anderson.

If this doesn't have "Halloween costume" written all over it, I don't know what does...

In any case, we’ve decided, in the wise ways of responsible parents, to dress our will-be six-month-old son as the one thing they were never without: (no, not a guitar. And not a heroine needle, either) a bottle of Jack Daniels.  So, people, I’m on the look-out for a little black fez for Declan. I think that would make a good bottle cap…

Irresponsible parental aspirations**

Yay!!! This is way more fun than sleeping! Sleeping is for...the birds

One of my dearest friends just left me a phone message in which she was giggling so hard that at first I wasn’t sure what she was talking about but the gist of it was that she had just passed a woman walking down the street dressed in a leotard and tutu, carrying a SHOVEL (!!!) in one hand and a six-pack of beer in the other. “It was a beautiful sight, and I immediately thought of you,” she told me. (Let’s not delve too deeply into why, precisely, such an image would immediately bring me to mind…)

But how cool is that? It’s a good life when you have good friends who are wise and compassionate enough to find humor and strength in the absurd and bizarre — and to frequently be the absurd and bizarre, even as half the rest of the world, the prudish and the uptight and the judgmental, are faulting them for their freedom and their spirit and their joie de vivre.

Practicing for skydiving!

I’m at contemplating moxie and sass a great bit these days since becoming a mom to a little dude who still farts with abandon, cackles in glee as I throw him in the air, and squeals with love when he sees his daddy coming in the door from work.  I have these massive hopes and fears about my son’s future: I hope he will grow to be a healthy, happy, thoughtful, compassionate, passionate man, in touch with both himself and the world around him. Nothing unusual there — in fact, if I didn’t want those things for him, I’d probably just be a negligent asshole.

I hope he won’t be a self-absorbed prick, a window-licker, a chauvinist, a passive-aggressive shit-wad, a drug addict, a murderer, or a Republican. I hope he learns to drive responsibly and use his g.d. blinker (AHEM, SEATTLITES). I hope he won’t pick on people because he can and I hope he will have the courage and conviction to stand up for himself and his principles. I hope he loves dogs and treats people with kindness and dignity.

Be a good mate and pass me that rum, er, boob-milk.

And most of all, gawd-almighty, please don’t let him be boring! Let him wear tutus if he wants! Let him be driven by an insatiable curiosity. Let him push boundaries and sometimes even be a teeny bit unsafe so he can know what it’s like to have adrenaline coursing through his body and let him be flushed with excitement over the amazing possibilities of life. Let him love to converse and to dance and to break bread.  Let him be an explorer, an artist, a musician. Let him be sassy and hilarious and exasperating.  (Let me regret these words as I struggle through the so-called Terrible Twos, the awkward pre-angst Tween years, and the good-god-kid-where-the-fuck-is-your-head Teen era.)

Hmmm… I wonder if it makes me a bad mom that I’d rather my kid be interesting and engaging than get into Harvard or some other silly marker of “success.” Eh, probably.

No, no, not that crazy lady, Declan. That one, with the camera and the leaky boobs!

**And some annoying parental pride in the form of too many pictures of Declan being adorable (unbiased fact) and growing too quickly (he still holds down the 50th percentile in all growth indicators):

Week 16  (Unedited)

Week 17  (Unedited — sorry for the obnoxious number of photos in this album!)

Week 18

Week 19

Unfit for duty

This crazy lady might be a lot of fun but she doesn't know what the hell she's doing!

This is a rant.

I haven’t done any rigorous scientific studies to prove this theory, but it seems like the second you announce you’re pregnant, it’s open season on unsolicited advice, judgment, and prophesies.  “Just you wait,” “You need this,” “you’ll be sorry,” “it’s payback,” “You can’t do that,” et cetera, et cetera, ad nauseam.  It sometimes feels like all these (maybe?) well-meaning people either want you to be miserable as a parent, to fail as a parent, or they already think you’re a failure as a parent. And, for the most part, I dismiss most of this shit as a load of self-absorbed crap based on a totally statistically-insignificant N of one. Like that old Far Side cartoon of the dog looking quizzically at its owner who is spewing “Blah blah blah blah. Rex! Blah blah blah,” I hear “Blah-dee-blah-dee-blah I’m a moron blah-dee-blah-dee-blah I’m an asshole.” And then I offer up a big false smile, sometimes make an effort to be somewhat polite, and try to extricate myself from the conversation stat.

It's a bib!

But sometimes… ergh, one or two of those probably-innocuous comments can cut to the core, and if coming from the right person, can bring me to my proverbial knees. When my ability as a parent gets called into question and I start burrowing down that rabbit hole, I go to dark, dark places. I think why some of these comments can so profoundly affect me is because my entire identity right now is tied up in being a mother. I sacrificed my “career” (quotation marks intended to indicate what a farce that notion is for me) to be a mother. My whole personality has changed – yes, probably for the better – as I embraced this new role. And so, when I doubt myself as a mother, I don’t really know what I’m left with. And when I start really analyzing the notion that I don’t have much of an identity anymore outside of motherhood, I feel pathetic, empty, and useless.

Yep, I am in the throes of what I like to fondly call an existential crisis. It’s a joy ride.  So, thanks for that “friendly suggestion.”

Sleepin' with a toy on his face?!? Call CPS! (And, yes, that is a parenting book in the background; clearly, it's only for show.)

 

**My overarching point here is that no one –myself certainly included — really knows what they’re doing as they muddle through parenthood but it’s one of those things that everyone just kind of figures out on their own. Some people are really, really awesome parents, some really suck, and most of us do the best we can, and that turns out to be pretty good. It’s just frustrating to be judged — in anything — but particularly something so incredibly all-consuming, mentally and emotionally.

Four months (and a day)

This game again, eh, mommy?

Little dude hit the mythical four-month mark yesterday, and I had hoped, planned, and, for fuck’s sake, actually felt like praying that I would have some time to sit down and hammer out some pithy observations about motherhood and babyhood and development and all that shit but instead, I was busy playing Jack-in-the-Box to all Declan’s (and Oly’s!) whims.

Amongst the coffee-stained (yep, I like to caffeinate my breast milk!) detritus on my desk at work is a wee sticky note with what probably appears to be an exceedingly bizarre list:

• Halloween
• Fromage
• Devil Creature
• Ragnar

These are all posts in the “incubator” (AKA the great darkness of my imagination). I may someday ruminate at length on these themes. Rest assured that if I do so, I will somehow tie them into some discussion about Declan.

I guess this gives you a concise update on how things are going ’round these parts: busy. Stay posted.

Pants negotiable (apparently)

You wouldn't want to be looking at this photo if either of us were wearing a banana-smuggler.

I have this pretty impressive — impressive in the way Dan’s painting is impressive; that is, unattractive and unavoidable (but charmingly ”original”) – stretch mark down the length of my stomach, creating little puckers in the jiggly post-pregnancy stomach fat. Occasionally, when I am feeling insecure about one thing or another, this reminder that I packed on 31 pounds creating Declan leaves me disconsolate (more frequently, though, I poke at my fat with the same kind of horrified fascination that I usually reserve for ’80s-style waterbeds and other such travesties of good taste and logic).

A while ago – pre-Declan days – Dan and I rented a beach house in Folly Beach, SC with some friends for a weekend of, um, let’s be honest here, complete debauchery.  The next morning was one of those mornings that had we still been in college (rather than merely acting like we were), we’d have all brought an open beer into the shower with us.  We (collectively?) didn’t because all of us were/are (at times) responsible adults but there was a lot of groaning and stumbling around blindly for the bottle of Advil that someone should have brought.  Exploiting our collective inability to function, our friend, BM (unfortunate initials there, sailor), decided to wander around in a stupor in his tighty whities until someone finally barked at him to put his pants on.  He did, and proceeded to proudly declare, “I’ve decided that it’s a pants day. You’re welcome.”  It’s a wise philosophy, and while I would be the first one to agree that wearing pants is frequently a drag, as Mark Twain so sagely noted, “Clothes make the man. Naked people have little or no influence on society.”

Lest you think I’m a prude, let me assure you that I am the first person to shuck my clothes if it’s remotely appropriate – and, given the right amount of booze and/or exuberance and/or a hint of a dare, occasionally when wildly inappropriate.  But of late, I’ve been loathe to bare it all and not because the weather here sucks my a-hole but because pregnancy and childbirth did some awkward things to my trunk. Yep, I’m vain (and neurotic – it’s the curse of the Kavanagh women).

It needs addressing.

Enter bikram yoga, the kind where you need a canoe to get you off your matt afterward. 

These are my fishing clothes. Happy sailor!

I’m a yoga opportunist – I only go if it’s cheap as hell or free – not a disciple, so I have little patience for the fruity, nonsensical side of it. (No, lady, I cannot see the “purple inner landscape of my breath” and I think you’re a fucking wingnut for even asking me about it.) I think, for the most part, that yoga clothes, particularly the ones that cost more than my weekly grocery bill, are pretentious and absurd. BUT! BUT!:

But 1: Yoga feels awesome, mentally and physically. And it’s nominally less boring than running—unless you’re making crazy and running obscenely long relays (more on this soon)—which is currently my other go-to for getting back in shape.

But 2: Yoga clothes are waaaaay better than the alternative, which is (finally) the point of all this nattering.

In short, a plea to the men in my bikram yoga class: Let’s make it a Pants Day.  You, wearing the thin and grotesquely wee running shorts, how did you avoid learning that cavalierly displaying your very noticeable boner is a big social no-no?!? Fair enough, it was an impressive tent pole but the arms crossed behind your head and the smug look on your face as you lay there in a sea of sweaty women with way more clothing on than yourself was inexcusable. I wanted to stomp on your erection. Instead, I moved my mat and averted my eyes…

Which leads to me to the next YogaMan train wreck: Dude-who-looks-like-Kevin-Klein-with-no-body-hair, the little black thong banana smuggler was nothing short of horrifying. I repeat myself: HORRIFYING.  And you didn’t have to put your mat directly in front of mine so I could watch beads of sweat drip off your hairless taint (Brazilian? I wouldn’t put it past you.). There was plenty of room for you over by Boner Man.

Is that a budgie in your panties?

Finally, to top off the most wildly uncomfortable yoga class I’ve ever been to, I started lactating mid tree pose. Exactly 30 seconds after I tore off my sodden tank top in a desperate attempt to cool off. And, yes, I was wearing a white sports bra. Let’s just say…well, I don’t even know what to say. But I do know that my leaky nipples were visible in the mirror from 15 feet.

Maybe I’m just better off feeding my fat to Declan.**

**No pictures of Declan in this post. Too inappropriate, and although I generally blithely ignore such conventions, it would just be grody to associate my chunk-o-lunk with Boner Man and King Thong.

Quarter-year birthday!

That's some funny shit, mama!

Big stuff… Declan has been squawking for THREE MONTHS now. All the usual hyperbolic proclamations apply: we can’t imagine life without him; everyday is a little miracle of human evolution and development; he’s amazing and the coolest thing we’ve ever done, ad nauseam.  It’s been pretty fun to watch his personality unfold, and it’s quite the personality (as if that surprises anyone…).  I suppose everyone says that about their babies (“he’s so advanced,” “he’s 100-percentile,” blah blah blah…) but I’m pleased as piss about what we’ve made so far: a perfectly normal, mostly happy, stout and healthy human. He laughs, he coos, he makes human cheese in his fat rolls, he recognizes his favorite people (me, daddy, Grandma, Grandpa…).

Mommy? It was THIS big!

(An aside: my husband just popped his head out the bathroom door to inform me that he had just produced a “turd longer than his foot” — the copycat is stealing my lines! Apparently, after witnessing hemorrhoids ripping out of my ass with the malevolence of that repulsive creature in the infamous “chestburster” scene in Alien, Dan feels that there is no detail too private, disgusting, or disturbing. We’re intimate like that.)

Mommy, I'm so happy it's 5 am!

The first few weeks (months, who am I kidding?!?) were consumed with learning how to be parents, how to be responsible for something with two legs — and you thought you couldn’t even leave me alone with your beer.  And we’re okay at it! (So far, and with all the usual caveats.) But sometimes my innate ability to be a decent mother (again, so far) surprises the living shit out of me and I have these flash backs of, oh, you know, MACING AN ENTIRE BUS (that one was for you, Fraser) or, um, falling out of a tree and landing on my head on a rock wall — in a wedding dress — or being (temporarily!) banned from flippin’ DUTCH HARBOR but then I think maybe all those experiences were just training for understanding my future teenage son. (But Declan, I swear on all that is unholy I will kick your ass three ways to Sunday if you ever pull any of that shit and I find out about it before the statute of limitations lapses.)

Are you fucking kidding me?

ANYWAY.

Recently, the big struggle ’round these parts is trying to regain some semblance of our pre-baby routine (minus…some things).  A couple weeks ago, I made my not-so-triumphant return to the venerable Socca Khan. While I was out on the soccer field, getting my ass handed to me (and my first head injury in almost a year), Dan was home with the baby, flooding our house with three-plus gallons of beer (lesson learned: the drum sticks should be used for the drum set, not for propping the tap open on the kegerator).  It was fun, though, and I enjoyed the “adult time” with my teammates, discussing rim jobs and bears and “adult” things like that.

Grandma, will you teach me how to do Irish yoga?

This week marked my triumphant (could it be anything less?!?) return to work. It was actually fairly anticlimactic. Even my mama-anxiety was kind of lackluster. My mom came up to help with Declan during the transition and he showed her a good time — my mom discovered that his fountain-like emissions weren’t actually colossal exaggerations.  Now that she’s gone (boo, come back!), we’re attempting some insanity with work schedules — I get some insight into what the graveyard shift bus drivers have to endure and it ain’t purty…the stench of stale booze at 5 am is nothing short of vomitous, and people who reek of booze and vomit and whateverthefuckelse that early in the morning are just not nice people.

But more on the working-mom conundrum very soon (because I can’t resist a good dissection of the challenges of being naked at work).

Who the hell is that?

Being back at work has helped pull me out of the post-birthing what-the-fuck-just-happened haze, and though I still forget simple things, like leaving my dog at coffee shops and my husband’s name, I’m getting back in the saddle, so to speak. That saddle doesn’t have a mouth tube attached to a saddle bag full of whiskey anymore (so I’m not totally back to normal…) but I’m back at whining impressively about running, washing my butt, and sometimes even daintily sipping a pint. (I’m setting this up for these future discussions: yoga [or, boners and thongs]; Declan’s first camping trip [or, how baby shit repels mosquitos]; and Dan’s and my first anniversary [or, how I think a blow job is the perfect present for every occasion]).

And for those of you who haven’t wearied of my incessant photo-documenting of every second of Declan’s first months, check out Week 10 mugs here, Week 11 shots here, and Week 12 pictures here.