Sunday, July 24, 2011


I just saw a post from someone I "know" on fb....well, actually, let me show you:
"____ is completely consumed with the thought of you this week...our Angel would be celebrating birthday #10 on July 27th! I think of you everyday, but especially this week as we were never given the opportunity to hold you in our arms. Nonetheless, I fell in love with you the moment I found out about you! Happy birthday, baby! With all my love, Mommy."
I was both surprised and deeply moved by seeing something like this posted publicly. It gives me a lot to think about in terms of keeping infertility on the down low. 

Friday, July 22, 2011

Baby You Can Drive My Car

Man, is this kid getting big. He might still be a baby, but he sure is inching closer to Toddlerville, population: Jackson. Today he waved bye-bye while saying "baa-baa" for the first time. It makes me wistful, people. I miss my teeny little baaaaaybeeeeeee. *sniffle* But this guy's pretty fun.

I can't seem to muster up the time or energy for a Big Post about Big Things, but I can parcel some out here. Freelancing as a writer is going very well, and it seems to not be that hard after all to work a few days a week and stay sane and spend time with my kinder. So far, so good. The part I'm not looking forward to is marketing myself to new clients. Maybe the same old clients will keep coming back to the Jen B Freelance Buffet so I won't have to look too hard elsewhere. Incidentally, I was offered a staff writing job by one of my clients this week, which is tempting (they would let me work from home part-time, 4 or possibly even 3 days per week). The big trade-off is that, in exchange for a biweekly guaranteed paycheck, I lose a substantial amount of income potential. I can make more as a freelancer working three days a week than I could at this company full-time. And I feel like I have a pipeline of contract work. So. I am planning to turn it down. I may be crazy, y'all. Crazy like a fox.

My mother-in-law continues to drop not-so-subtle hints about wanting to babysit, although we've mastered the art of selective hearing or of saying, "We already hired a babysitter" and then immediately changing the subject. (Random safety issue-as-evidence: Jackson crawls to her fireplace, opens glass door, and she says "Oh, that's okay" while I run after him to scoop him up. Okay with whom?) But NOW she wants us to come visit her in Florida in the winter. And presumably stay in her condo. And spend all our time with her cuckoo friends getting smothered by their overbearing Italian-ness. What a vacation, where do I sign up?!? This came up after we told her we're going to a friend's wedding out-of-state in September -- actually, we are IN the wedding -- and taking Jackson with us. She has volunteered several times, more like strongly suggested, that we leave Jackson with her. For a week. I've used the "he's still nursing" excuse to avoid eye contact on that one, because the real reason is JUST NO. Anyway, once it sunk in that Jackson is going with us (my sister is actually flying out for two days to watch him during the rehearsal and the wedding, which makes her tremendously awesome), my mother-in-law made the connection that Jackson will have already had flying experience...hence, there is no reason at all why we can't fly with him to Florida. Except to avoid a nightmarescape of a trip. It could work, in theory, if we A) get a hotel, as I'm not staying in her 1000-degree cramped condo where we are surrounded by her assvice-wielding old-lady friends; B) rent a car, as I want the freedom to retreat to the hotel when Jackson needs a nap or WE need some peace and quiet as well as not having to gate check a carseat; and C) make it clear that a substantial portion of our trip will be devoted to family time, just the three of us, maybe spent down in Miami. I know we'd get endless shit for that, but whatever, it would be necessary to salvage this trip as somehow fun. Otherwise, it would be nonstop show-and-tell-and-overstimulate-and-dole-out-assvice-apalooza. I also know as soon as we showed up (during this still-hypothetical trip) she'd try to rip Jackson out of our hands and tell us to go out so she can babysit, which 'tis not going to happen. Not here, not there. The drag in this is that we can't say "no" to Florida and then hop on a plane to go anywhere else, as that will be tantamount to firing a shot across her bow. I would love to just book a trip to Napa, or Cabo, or where-the-fuck-ever and when she sulks just say NOTHING at all about it. It's our family vacation plan, and we want to do what WE want to do. (My sister-in-law didn't make the Florida trip with my niece until she was about 5 years old. Every day I better understand why.)

I dunno what else. I'm still working out and losing weight, kind of slowly. My fucking period is back with weird 40-ish day cycles, and that jacks everything up. Like milk production -- it seems to drop off sharply for a few days right before my period starts, and then catches up a few days later. And boy, did I not miss the Period Bloat. Fuck. Nothing makes a dieting girl feel worse than the return of the bloat. My trainer asked me this week if I want to kick it up a notch and start shedding pounds a little faster, to which I said yeah, motherfucker, let's get skinny. I don't know what "kicking it up a notch" will amount to, but I can only envision getting pummeled to a pulp with blunt objects and beaten senseless with sharp things. I might not be able to hold up a fork to feed myself. Maybe THAT'S the secret.

Saturday, July 16, 2011

Ol' Blue Eyes

So we had a professional photo shoot at our house a few weeks ago, and here are a couple of the photos that went up on the photographer's blog:
There are a bunch of great shots, even a few with me looking not entirely like a beached seacow.

I'll think of something interesting (to me, at least) to post about soon. Pinky swear. Working, in-laws, thinking about more behbehs. Until then, eat up pictures of this Barbizon behbeh. Nom.

Monday, July 11, 2011

Nom Nom

Or, Hide Yo Rice Puffs, Hide Yo Yogurt Melts, Hide Yo Snacks

Saturday, July 9, 2011

Shoo Fly Shoo


So, tonight I finished pumping (which I do every night before bed) and left my Precious sitting on the living room table while we finished watching Louie (which YOU, TOO, SHOULD BE WATCHING. It's so good it makes me all shouty. Also, give Wilfred a try. It's nuts, but in the good way. There's a talking dog. I mean, a guy in a dog suit who talks. To that hobbit. You know, Elijah Wood. Man, it's hard to believe I give out these recommendations for free. You're welcome). So I got up to put away my Liquid Gold and discovered that a fly -- a beady-eyed fucking fly -- had landed inside the neck of the apparatus (the little doohicky that connects the flange to the bottle with the filter on the inside). Which means I just dumped 4.5 ounces of milk, that took an hour to pump on the left side, down the drain. GODDAMNIT.

I am not a violent person, but I made sure that Jeff Goldblum took a tour of the In-sink-erator.

Le sigh.

Good night.

Ask And Ye Shall Receive (Muchly)

If you ask your loving spouse to pick up baby snacks at the grocery store, this is what may await you:
Every snack ever made, ever. In large quantities. That's a lot of yogurt melts and rice puffs, people.

Monday, July 4, 2011

In No Particular Order

Death trap! Oh, wait. Higher! Higher!

Cheerios are the shit.

It's cool. I'll clean up my own turdles and change my dipe.

I would LOVE to take a nap. Let me in, please.

One-handed! How you like me now?

Babies love to exercise. FACT.