A Few More Thoughts On Motherhood

In an online post I was reading recently, a mom of two was talking about how much she loved the fontanelle on her baby. She said as her baby reached a year old, she kept running her hands over the open spot in her baby's skull to remind her of his infant-ness. While she was talking about it, she mentioned something that definitely struck home with me. Paraphrased, she said, All moms experience an irrational fear that a sharp pencil might fly across the room and strike them, pointy-end first, in this most sensitive area. Mostly, I am afraid that she will bang it against a sharp corner on the entertainment center, but anyone walking around with anything stick-like (remote controls, nasal decongestants) have all startled me into a graphic mental picture of them tripping on their own feet or a spot of lint on the floor and stabbing her in the head with the object - right in the fontanelle. Then I tell myself that I'm being silly and go back to trying to dig boogers out of her nose, or picking at her cradle cap. (I know you're not supposed to - I can't help it.)

I also worry, sometimes, that she will grow up to look like Brain. You know, from Pinky and the Brain? Viewed from behind, waving her giant melon-head around like a sunflower on a spindly stalk in the wind, the bulge of her brain under her skull is quite apparent.

We can try and take over the world every day as long as her eyebrows don't hang that low over her eyes.


She is breastfed, and it doesn't matter how many times I look it up on KellyMom, I still have to reassure myself that a glass of wine now doesn't mean a drunk baby later. My brain tells me that whatever I have comes out directly, like she's getting Nacho Cheese flavored breastmilk, or Chardonnay for dinner. Maybe it's the worry of her looking like this:

 

 

Tabernacle Night

From the year 2001 to the year 2004 it was a pretty good bet that I was grounded. I remember my ceiling being littered with pieces of paper with numbers and x-marks on it counting down the days to freedom that, like a lot of ex-cons, I found short-lived. I suppose I found my room, with its books, lack of bed (by my own choice) and perennial smell of cheese as comforting as an inmate finds prison bars. When friends invited me to a birthday they would inevitably say, "It's this Saturday, so don't get grounded!"

The one social event I was not grounded for (unless I had been really awful) was Youth Group. I started going because my best friend Andrea went. Plus there was food and I never said no to free food. Excuse me, let me rephrase that. I never say no to free food. So send any you like.

I was saved the year I started going to Youth Group. Technically, I was saved when I was eight, by this guy:

 The year I turned fourteen though was the year it became personal. My acceptance of a personal savior was followed by something called "Tabernacle Night."

They set up the Kid's Church room like an Old Testament tabernacle, which meant they pulled two big sheets out to divide the room into thirds and we lit a bunch of candles in the third room where the Holy Spirit was supposed to dwell. When we walked in, they gave us white tablecloths - sorry, I meant robes - to drape over our shoulders. Then they blessed us with holy water on our foreheads and big toes. Barefoot, we entered the second room, prayed and then entered the Holy of Holies, a.k.a., the stage where they kept all the props for Sunday School.

That night, in the dark sanctuary, wrapped in a church function tablecloth, I felt the presence of God for the first time. He told me everything would be okay, which I took to mean people would stop calling Andrea and I lesbians. God did not deliver on that one, but I felt confident as the years went on a miracle would happen. (It didn't. To this day people seem uncomfortable with our friendship. What can I say? We've been friends since we were ten, we've lived together, had a gay dog together...we even fight like a couple.)

The experience was so amazing and transformational for me that I invited my other best friend, Heather, the next time they had a Tabernacle Night. I had not realized until I got her there that it's a very different experience for someone who was not brought up in church and had not been attending Youth Group for the past year.

In the dark, surrounded by candles and expecting to look to my right to see a rapturous expression on her face, I saw terror. I suppose a bunch of fourteen-year-olds led by a couple of forty year old men in a chant that went, "The Blood of the Lamb, we accept the Blood of the Lamb. The Blood of the Lamb. The Blood of the Lamb. Wash us in the Blood. Wash us in the Blood of the Lamb. The Blood of the Lamb," is a religious experience best saved for those who have grown up singing songs with those same words. 

A word of advice to all of you hoping to evangelize your friends: Make sure you don't take them to Tabernacle Night. They might think you took them to be the ultimate sacrifice.

I continued going to Youth Group and even continued to invite Heather, who politely declined. If politely means that she laughed and said, "No way, that place is freaky."

A few years later, I gathered my courage and invited Heather to Youth Group again. It was led by a young married couple and everyone had a lot of fun there, even people who didn't go to church every Sunday. Guess what they were showing that night? 

Oops.

 http://www.onepennysheet.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/05/080513-hagee-vmed-11a.widec.jpgonepennysheet.com. "John Hagee." Photo. onepennysheet.com 07 Jul. 2010. 18 Jun. 2013.
<onepennysheet.com>.http://cdn3.whatculture.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/10/the-passion-of-the-christ-image.jpgwhatculture.com. "Passion of the Christ." Photo. whatculture.com 03 Mar. 2013. 18 Jun. 2013.
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An Appropriate Blog

I think that it's really only fitting to write a blog about having a baby because recently I had a baby. Right now she is cuddling with her binky - a tool I am now convinced must be done away with but I am too scared too take it away yet.

I kind of need to make this blog fast, so I'll break it down for everyone in the Five Worst Things about having a baby and the Five Best Things. Those of you who have also had babies may feel free to disagree with me or agree vehemently.

SIDE NOTE: Once my brothers were at a friend's house playing video games and my youngest brother said that someone was staring at him "vigorously." I thought that story was pretty funny and so did my brothers and we all use the word vigorously in an inappropriate context like it's normal. Now whenever I use the word "vehemently" I have to do a mental check on whether I should be feeling vehement or vigorous.

OTHER SIDE NOTE: There is a chip crumb under my space bar and it's making it very difficult to pressspacesoifwordsarestucktogetherjustgowithit.

 Anyway. This is not writing a blog fast, I am getting very side-tracked. Allons-y!

ONE MORE SIDE NOTE: Yes, there will be poop stories.

Five Worst Things:

1. The NUMBER ONE WORST THING about having a baby is not crowning. I thought that was what it was when crowning was happening but it turns out the number one worst thing is actually liquid poop. At first her poop was dark green/brown and absolutely disgusting. The first time Danny ever changed her diaper while she was poopy he took the diaper off and had wiped everything clean when her butt started to blow a bubble. It was a perfect sphere of poop coming right out of her, threatening to burst at any second. Danny panicked and looked at me with an expression reminiscent of one seeing a hand grow out of someone's nose. He had absolutely no idea what was happening or what to do.

2. The second worst thing after poop bubbles is what happens when a baby starts pooping real poo. The dark stuff is the poop that builds up when they're in the womb from all the chocolate and ice cream you eat and lie to the doctor about. After the meconium (fancy word for uterus-build-up-poop) is gone the poop is liquid as one would expect from an all-liquid diet. What one does not expect is the mileage this poop can get when a diaper is taken off prematurely. This happened to me at least three times before I finally understood the cues of when my little angel was actually done. If the meconium-bubble picture is too graphic for you I seriously suggest you do not look at this one.

There were S-shaped patterns in our carpet for a week.

3. Forgetting you even have a baby is my third worst thing. There were many times in the first month she was born I would think, "I'm going to go see a movie today!" Um, no, Megan. You will change thirty diapers and check that she's still breathing twenty times in as many minutes today.

4. LAUNDRY! My mother and my boyfriend will be very quick to tell you that I cannot fold. It's just something that is missing in my genetic make-up. I really thought that becoming a mother would just make me a better fold-er but it hasn't. I am still awful at it and as you might have guessed, liquid poop isn't great at staying in a diaper so I'm doing laundry every day and that means folding every day.

5. The advice. I call my mom all the time to ask for advice. I also have Danny's sister who has had three kids and I ask her a lot of stuff too. And so, old woman at the grocery store, I do not need your advice. My baby loves her front-carrier thank you very much. She falls asleep as soon as I start walking. Also, lady in the waiting room, I know how to get rid of cradle cap. Compliments, however, are always appreciated. I know she's beautiful and charming and I love hearing it, which brings us to:

The Five Best Things

1. Baby smiles. Oh my god. Seriously. Magic.

That's right. I get to hang out with that awesome blondie all day.

2. Funny faces! She is finally master of her face, but I got a few good pictures before that happened.

To be fair she was pooping here. You thought the poop references were done when you left the five worst things, didn't you? Well, let me tell you, when you have a baby you pretty much sign a contract saying your life will revolve around poop for the next three years and you have to inform your friends and family of poop-related incidents.

3. Achieving milestones is one of the greatest things to watch. She's grabbing stuff, holding her head up ninety degrees off the floor, rolling over and sleeping through the night! Going to bed at eleven,waking up at two and then five in the morning is not very fun. Going to bed at ten and waking up at six-thirty is so humanizing. Taking a shower is also great. Those are the mom-milestones.

4. The compliments. I already referenced it but I just love it when people tell me how pretty she is or ask how old she is. Yes, her hair is blond and mine is brown! It's amazing! Tell me more! Her eyes are very blue, yes? Smell her head! I know, it's amazing!

5. WARNING - SAPPINESS AHEAD!: Love love love. Love love love. All you need is love! Dun duh duh duh duh All you need is love! Fo shizzle there is no other love like this. I can and do stare at her like a creeper all day because I'm so in love I can't take my eyes off her. Wowzers it's so cool. I don't even care when I'm being spit-up on or when I have to get out of the shower five minutes into it because she's crying. I don't even care! She's so great! One day she will grow up and totally lose it over being told to get off the phone or stop watching TV but for right now she is totally adorable.

Maddie-kins & Zoe-Meister

When I came home last year, my parents had a new dog. They had bought a dog in Tennessee the year before, a small maltese-bichon mix. If you're not familiar with that type of dog, and you say, "Megan, I don't think that's a real dog," that's because they're not really real dogs. They are too small and cute. Not in the least bit terrifying. When people come over for the first time and see Zoey, they are more apt to squeal in delight at the stuffed animal come to life than back away in fear of our ferocious guard dog. To compound the cuteness of Zoey, my parents had bought a small terrier-bichon mix. Where Zoey is feisty, smart and crafty, Maddie is slow, scared and simple. When my parents first got her to Alaska, she almost died from confusion. She didn't know where she was and the change was simply too great. For the first month I was home I didn't even know what she looked like because whenever I'd come in the room she'd dart under a couch or a low-hanging shelf and peer out at the occupants of the room, tail thumping uncertainly.

After a few weeks of outright terror at the sound of my approaching footsteps, Maddie started slowly warming up to me. She would crawl out from under the sofa on her belly, tail whipping in a propellor-like motion, and look at me from Mom's lap, doing what we call the Maddie-eye. She would wag her tail worriedly, crane her head back and stare at me with one eye.

At first I was excited that she finally wanted to be around me, and whenever I'd come home, I'd pick up Zoey first and she would excitedly lick and bite my face, and then I'd pick up Maddie and exclaim in disgust. She would be so excited and so confused by the massive array of emotions evoked by a returning loved one that she would pee on anyone and anything that came near. I tried not picking her up for a time, and just scratched her behind the ears as her tail went in a strange propellor like motion I've never seen a dog do before. She'd squat low to the ground, tail whirling furiously and pee on the floor instead.

All animals love my boyfriend. I don't know what it is, they just go crazy over him, and Maddie was no exception, although her version of crazy was already exacerbated by a slight inclination toward retarded. She would run up to him, tail wagging, a stream of pee marking her path but as soon as he'd reach down to pet her, she'd back up, butt low to the ground, one-eying him. Her uncertainty and love battled each other out until she finally compromised by allowing herself to be picked up and peeing on him instead of the floor.

Zoey and Maddie do not get along, which might confuse Maddie even more. They fight constantly, biting each other's necks with adorable ferocity. If you've ever imagined two pillow pets fighting, that's pretty much what it looks like.

At first, it's easy to think that Zoey is the bully, because at 4 1/2 pounds, she's a 1/2 pound bigger. She also growls at anyone who gets near her when she has an empty Pringles can nearby, or her bear keychain, which is the only stuffed animal she owns that is smaller than herself, and she is convinced is her baby.

(If you would like me to do a portrait of your animal with the same attention to detail as this one, feel free to send me a picture along with a brief description.)

I have come to suspect, however, that Maddie is the real bully. She is often the instigator, either stealing Zoey's empty food containers, or peeing directly over Zoey's pee. Maddie will jump onto one of our laps, even though Zoey is already there, and edge Zoey out.

They are both sweet, and super weird while being smart in their own way. Zoey was my favorite for a long time, but once I got to know how tricky and manipulative Maddie was, I started to respect her too.

I love them both, and even though I have a hard time thinking of them as dogs, they don't have the same problem. If there is another dog outside, or a fox, they go crazy, barking out the windows, Maddie peeing and Zoey growling. They think they are big, tough animals, and I love them for it. Actually, I'm not sure what Maddie thinks she is, but I'm pretty sure Zoey thinks of herself as a dog, since her farts are stinky enough.

I apologize for the sort of rambling nature of this post. It's been a while since I've written anything. More to come soon.

Shame

My friend Andrea and I have recently moved to Austin. It has been a very exciting and a very frustrating time. The friends that we have here have been extremely helpful in giving us ideas for finding jobs, and referring us to their apartment realtors, but sometimes even the best and most well-intended advice might go awry.

One of our friends, Jamie Amber to be precise, has been very excited about Andrea and I going to a job fair he had heard of. For the past month we have been running around to every available resource and handing in applications. We've handed out about 100 plus resumes and applications and had about five interviews between us. It has been exhausting. When Jamie mentioned this career fair, we asked him a few times if it was the kind that two twenty-somethings with very little work experience would be expected to go to. Jamie assured us that yes it was.

So we put on our best interview outfits and a Jamie's wife, Elizabeth, gave us a ride to the career fair. I took a minute on the sidewalk to change out of my bright red converse shoes and put on my sensible black pumps and then we proceeded into the building. I don't really know what I was expecting. It was only noon, so my head was still in its morning fog (which doesn't lift until about three, if you were wondering), so I probably wasn't expecting much. Just a few places like Taco Bell, or department stores from malls to be sitting behind booths handing out applications.

Confident in our abilities, we walked into the conference center holding the folder with our resumes, our sensible shoes clacking in foyer.  There was a booth with a woman behind it who asked us to fill out a form. I could definitely do that! We were on the right track.

We were then directed into a room full of booths, and I was immediatley filled with dread. Everyone was in suits. No one there was wearing clothes their friend had given them, or make-up from that was on-sale at Target. We found ourselves in a frightening world, but we had walked into the room and we had to look more professional than we were. We couldn't just walk in and walk out. Although that may have been a better option.

We walked up to the nearest booth, which looked very professional with a big poster next to it that said, "New York Life" and listed exciting adjectives like, Travel!, Careers!, Communication!. There were two people behind the booth, a man and a woman, both in very expensive suits. They obviously had gym memberships because they were both very fit, and they obviously did not get their hair done at SuperCuts, or whichever one strikes your fancy when you're at Wal-Mart shopping for underwear and socks so you can put off laundry for another week.

We did not feel super prof. We were not 30. We were probably very cute, and I was definitely wishing my mother were right outside.

We walked around with giant deer eyes, shuffled our feet toward the table the farthest away from the New York Life table (I don't even know what that is) and then practically ran out.

Upon walking out, heads down, the shame palpable, we realized we were hungry. So where did we go? The refuge of all grown-ups. Sonic. Because there was one close by. We sat at our booth of humiliation and shame and ate the most horrible food ever to come out of a machine.

It felt like I had been caught playing dress-up. Or like when you look back on a child-hood memory and realize you were being a total dumb-dumb and all the grown-ups were laughing at you. I wanted to go back and explain to the power-ties that we were misinformed. We knew we didn't belong there. But it was too late. So I just ate my cheeseburger and tater tots and Andrea drank her hot chocolate.

The Ring

About once a year (sometimes more if there's not much going on) I suddenly believe I can watch scary movies. I wake up in the morning and say to myself, "I can watch a scary movie!" From this realization, I go about my day wanting more and more to watch a scary movie. I'll remember what happened last time I watched a scary movie (Jennifer was in my bathroom/hallway/living room/closet, Jigsaw was in my bathroom/hallway/living room/closet, the weird non-renewable resource monster from Fern Gully was in my bathroom/hallway/living room/closet) and shrug it off. I'll say to myself, "Megan, you are 20 years old. You can watch a scary movie. Right now, you know without even checking, there is nothing in your bathroom, closet, hallway, or living room." I go to the store.

I'm filled with glee at the prospect of being a fully grown, actualized human, who can make some Jiffy Pop, sit on the couch, and watch a scary movie. And then go to bed without peeing my pants every time there's a small noise. I rent the movie and return home, excited to tell people about the time that I watched a scary movie by myself and not have to mention in the next sentence that I've finally bought plastic sheets.

I then watch the movie. I'm scared, but I'm proud of myself for watching it. I may be curled up into a ball sobbing with terror half-way through, but I am watching that movie. Nothing can stop my fully actualized self from watching The Ring and thinking I can actually get through it. I will get through it. And I will go to bed with the lights off when I'm done.

Before the climax I'll usually jump up and turn the lights on, spilling what's left of my Jiffy Pop all over the floor. When the movie is over I have an hour of pure, unadulterated terror sitting on my chest, giving my heart attacks and embolisms. I try to watch something else to take my mind off of what I've just seen, but as soon as Sex and the City or Friends or Everybody Loves Raymond has a commercial break, I'm back in my terror spree, noticing things I've never noticed before. Like the gurgling in my drains when the neighbor uses their sink, or the popping sounds bugs make when they fly against my window.

I'll take a shower, and go to bed with the lamp on, but for the next two weeks all my daily activities are disproportionately scary.

Lactose Allergies

When you are young and you have an allergy, you will usually outgrow it when you hit puberty. One example is my friend Heather, who was severely allergic to peanutbutter. And then when we were twelve she only broke out in hives. She can now eat peanutbutter any time she wants. Another example is one of my elementary school classmates Brian M. who couldn't eat anything, had to take pills all the time, and wear gloves or else he would scratch all of his skin off. As far as I know, he is no longer wearing gloves and he can eat now.

I wish very much that I had been allergic to something when I was little, because now I am allergic to cats and lactose. I'm not lactose intolerant, I am actually allergic to lactose. And as anyone that has known me for more than five minutes understands, I like cheese. So this is a problem.

The first time I realized I had allergies was when I was at my friend Andrea's house. She had a cat named Tom, and he was super cute, and liked to sleep on my head. I didn't really appreciate the sleeping on my head part because he really liked my head and would knead it with his paws and claws. So not only did I have cat scratches all over my head, I was allergic to the scratches and his dander and his saliva. It was not fun waking up to a fat cat on your head scratching the bejesus out of your forehead and ears. It's even less fun to wake up feeling like death the next day.

However, cats are not the be all end all pet for me, so I just figured when I had a place of my own, I wouldn't own cats and I would just steal my little brother's allergy medicine (because he is one of the lucky ones with allergies as a child) whenever I went to Andrea's house.

It was much, much more disappointing to find out I was allergic to dairy. I had always heard stories about lactose intolerance where the kid finds out by pooping his pants when he's ten. I didn't poop my pants, I just became progressively sicker and sicker. Even when I knew in my heart of hearts that I could no longer eat dairy or I would face dire consequences, I still drank milk, and ate ice cream and cheese. It seemed like the worse my allergies became, the more dairy I would eat, just to prove to myself that nothing was wrong, and I just had a cold and the flu and ebola.

I just had a cup of coffee with milk in it and my throat is scratchy and my nose is runny and I'm not 100% on whether or not I'll throw up. The cat doesn't seem to be bothering me, but I have as yet to touch it. Hopefully it does not enjoy sleeping on people's heads.