Yoda Was Here

JESUS CHRIST! Who knew? Who knew Halloween was such a big deal? If you don't have your shit locked in by September, your kid's going to be the little dork dressed in the Spiderman costume from Target, without the mask because some asshole stole it. Dally could have been that little dork.

Back in September, I saw a Yoda costume that I thought would be killer. We had originally planned for the dude to be Vader but the Vader for toddlers costume was stupid-looking. A couple of weeks ago, I headed out to Target to pick up his costume and lo and behold, it's sold out - which sucks because that means there are going to be a bunch of other little Yodas out there AND because Dally's got no costume. We could have gone to Old Navy - they always have costumes but while it worked last year for Dally to be a HalloWeenie (a hot dog), their costumes now seem too babyish for the sophisticate that he has grown into.

We tracked a single remaining Yoda costume at the ghetto Target on the other side of town. My mom picked it up, and when I picked her up to go shopping later that day, she said, "I got the costume, but, here's the thing. They gave me ten percent off because the ears are missing." Ten percent off? Target, you cocksucker chain. Half the costume, the half that makes it a Yoda costume and not just a bathrobe, is missing and we get a whopping $1.99 off. My mother, convinced of my craftiness, said I could make the ears. Fine, easy enough. I still think my mom got ripped off but she refused to return the costume.

In typical me fashion, I wait til October 30 to make the costume. I've had the material for a couple of weeks, but I needed those weeks to work up the motivation. Plus, in my mind, it would be a super easy job, because I'm crafty, right? Well, first I had to make my mom a Little Red Riding Hood cape. This is when I was re-introduced to the idea that Leatherface is probably a better seamstress than me. I got the stupid cape done. I think she's only wearing it for a parade early in the morning, so hopefully people will have crust in their eyes and won't look too closely at the seams. Oh, hopefully it doesn't fall apart. I told her it would probably make it through the parade. "But you sewed it together, right?" she asked.

Oh mother, yes, it was sewn, but it wasn't sewn well. And that can make all the difference.

When I started the stupid Yoda ears in the late afternoon, I decided to hand sew - maybe I'd have better results. A professor of mine once said, "Use the right tool for the job." Using a quilting needle was probably not the right tool - but it was all I could find. That sucked. It took me forever to pierce through the fleece. I got lazy and I didn't finish. So no ears for Yoda, right?

Not so fast. Guilt struck at 1am this morning. Back to work I went. I continued the tedious hand sewing but you tend to have less patience at 1am. I convinced myself, "Just try using the sewing machine." Alas, I went back upstairs and went for it. It was disasterous and loud. I suspected Dally would wake up any minute now, telling me how much he hated me for ruining his sleep. But no. I sewed and sewed and I finished the goddamn ears. They're not too pretty. They look like donkey ears or Shrek. But whatever.

You'd think the lesson here is when you see a seasonal item at Target, you should buy it - don't expect it'll be there later. But that's not what I took away from this. My lesson is - GO BIG. Next year, I'm going to make Dally's whole costume! Cross your fingers, for his sake, that I get better at sewing.

So THAT'S the Scam

The key to super stardom in Korea and a segment on The Today Show is having 17 kids, and counting (and counting because there's a bun in the oven). So at least 18 little buttholes. And, for effect, you should name some of them Jebediah, Jedediah, and Jim Bob. Well, Jim Bob is the baby daddy but I think it would be a reasonable name for the spawn. What the hell am I talking about, you ask. 17 Kids and Counting.

They are a household of 19. They have absolutely no debt. They also sing Jesus songs in the family car - a bus. Because they are a freak occurence, they get to do cool things on Mother's Day - like go on The Today Show in New York City. Do I sound jealous? Eh, I'd really be jealous if it was Good Morning America. I heart Chris Cuomo.

Breastmilk Scores D Minus!

So I'm practically jumping on tables over this one. The AAP just came out with new guidelines because bone-deteriorating diseases are making a comeback. Children are in danger! Apparently, the pint-sized set isn't getting enough vitamin D to combat rickets - whatever that is.

Check this out. Breastmilk does not have sufficient vitamin D. Breastmilk-fed babies need vitamin D supplements or they will crumble to sawdust. HOWEVER, formula-fed babies are fine. They will not crumble to pieces because they get enough vitamin D from their formula.

So there you have it, Breastmilk. Not so perfect, are you?

HELL YEAH IT IS

Part of the reason why I didn't write much here was because I didn't have much to bitch about. Yeah, it sucked that three months into parenthood, I started getting these fucked up bald spots (absolutely no exaggeration here). It also sucked that my days of taking super long naps on Sunday afternoons between watching Lifetime movies and Lock Up was a distant memory. I also really hated washing bottles. Not just any bottles. Dr. Brown bottles. John counted. There are five pieces to wash for each bottle. Times that by eight feedings (initially) and the feat became a part-time job. (This is where breastfeeding mothers have the last laugh - until, six months later, they look down at their boobs in shock and say, "What have I done?!?!?!?")

But then I took a hit last week and even though it sucked, the outpouring of support from my homies is yet another reminder of how good I have it. My moping around officially came to an end last night when I got the best birthday present ever. Anne took me to see Neil Motherfucking Diamond. HELL YEAH.

To say that the man is a showman is an understatement. He is the epitomy of everything that is good about music. Friendly, charismatic, sequined, and soulful. He informed us, "The only rule is there are no rules." But he said it in that voice. He rocked all the hits. He even sang You Don't Bring Me Flowers. He destroyed (with love, because that's all that really matters) with Hell Yeah. And just when we thought we'd just seen a great show, it got even better when he closed the night with my favorite ND song - Brother Love's Traveling Salvation Show. Are you kidding me?!?!?!

Anne and I got matching pink concert t-shirts.

We finished the night off with Slurpees. It was pretty much a perfect night. Thanks, Anne. I love you.

P.S. No more Dr. Brown bottles! The dude's on a sippy cup now - only three pieces.

Blogs Are Low Class

So sayeth my mother.

Swimming Sucks

So my friend Anne is notorious for making slit-your-wrists music mixes and she's done it again. Jesus-Mary-Joseph, Anne, I'm already feeling low. Your Silent Face? Oy.

I'm just trying to stay afloat - that's what it feels like - but only for fleeting moments. Most of the time I'm fine. When Dally's awake, I'm fine. But it's night time right now and he's sound asleep. I was pretty OK today and then I went up to my office. I hadn't been up there since Tuesday. When I sat on my bed (yes, I have a bed in my office and no it's not a guest bed - it's my desk) I saw all the paperwork for the pregnancy. When it's confirmed that you're knocked up, you get this nice juicy packet from Kaiser containing info about how to manage morning sickness, how to eat well, how to sign up for Lamaze classes, etc. Apparently, Kaiser is all about the packets because with the miscarriage, I got some tasty material on dealing with grief, what a D&C is, and a slew of other things that I didn't bother to look at. I probably should. The dealing with grief one suggested doing volunteer work or making a career change - neither of which I have the energy for.

I said I was going do a triathlon after the next baby. Once upon a time, a marathon was the impossible. Now, the triathlon is. I've never been a good swimmer. I never made it beyond the beginning swimmer classes. I just wasn't good at it. Right now, it's a constant effort to stay afloat, to keep my breath, to keep moving forward. I hate that life was easy last week, and this week it feels like swimming.

P.S. Don't think the irony of the title of this blog has escaped me. What an asshole I am. I did fail at human reproduction. This time anyway.

P.P.S. Dally's been doing really funny things like grabbing my absolutely-off-limits phone and doing victory laps around his play yard like he's just scored the last Golden Ticket. Keep shit in perspective, M.

Follow up: I just received threatening words from Anne who probably will bow out of our Neil Diamond concert date tonight if I don't articulate what a FAAAAAAAAAAAAbulous mix she made me. And it really is. Just don't listen to it if you feel like walking in front of a bus. KIDDING. There's even a song on there called "You Are the Best Thing." Yes I am, and yes you are, Anne.

My Saving Grace

The other night, John hung out with me while I was in pre-op waiting to get cleaned out. It was a slow night so the nurse on the floor, Grace, kicked it with us. We showed her pictures of Dally. And Albert. And Scott. And pretty much all our posse. She said we were cool. She said we should spawn a baseball team. And even though it so wasn't her job, she wheeled me out of the hospital. She kept saying, "You guys better have a baseball team."

I thought it was a funny thing to say and this afternoon, it dawned on me, I bet she was saying that to make me feel better. It was her way of saying, "You're not a one hit wonder." I started crying.

We have her card. We told her we'd put her in our movie. She said she's single. I'm going to find her a husband.

Bye Bye Baby?

I think I'm having a miscarriage. It started around 10pm. I was in bed reading a parenting magazine. Suddenly, I felt like I wet my pants. I went to the bathroom and saw weird shit on my underwear - which was inconclusive because I was wearing red underwear. But then I happened to look down and I saw a redish mass in the toilet bowl - it was the size of a piece of penne pasta. I threw a bunch of toilet paper over it and I flushed it. I screamed to John that I thought I was having a miscarriage. When I got out of the bathroom, I grabbed my phone and called the one person who would tell me what to do. I have a friend that has been through this a couple of times. She half-joked about writing a how-to manual about going through the miscarriage process. I needed that manual RIGHT NOW.

She talked me through it and told me to go to the hospital or at the very least call the advice nurse.

I opted for calling the advice nurse who asked me a bunch of questions, put me on hold for awhile, and then told me to call the appointment line at 7am tomorrow morning and schedule a same-day appointment. She also wished me good luck.


I can't sleep. It's past midnight now and I will probably stay up until the appointment center is open for business. I did some research on the Internet and shit doesn't look promising. The fact that stuff came out, not just blood but tissue, and that more tissue just came out right now when I went to the bathroom again suggests my baby is gone.

The advice nurse told me to save the tissue. I flushed it. I might have flushed my baby, my little penne pasta, away. I don't know what's a better fate - a Kaiser petrie dish or the sewer.

As with Dally, I planned to keep this pregnancy under wraps until the first trimester was up. But because of big mouths and badly kept secrets, everybody knows. This fucking sucks. So I'm writing this in the event that this turns out badly. I'll point everyone to this graphic truthful statement about that one time I lost a baby.

Follow up: It's a done deal. There was no heartbeat. The D&C was performed Wednesday night. I'm OK. John's OK. We'll try again later.