Head-Banging, Baby J, and Gratitude

When Mark got home from work tonight and was playing with Young Kate she leaned forward, biffed her cheek against the coffee table, and started bawling. After comforting her he started to berate himself (aloud) for being a negligent parent. Yeah, yeah, I thought, and casually interrupted him to say she’d managed to somehow bang her head about six other times today, so he shouldn’t beat himself up over it.

I realize that if I only had an hour a day with her, as Mark sadly does on weekdays, I’d probably be right there where Mark was, tossing on a hair shirt and cursing that I’d ruined a few precious minutes of quality Kate time. But one of the glorious things about being home with Kate is that I have a front-row seat to all the dramatic, tedious, and mundane events of her life. I have behind-the-scenes access to the super-stinky diapers, thrilled-to-see-you post-nap smiles, car-seat babble, food fights, whining, puking, drooling, farting, and everything in between. So to me, a small contusion to the head–even one that’s due to not diligently guarding her noggin–doesn’t really rate. I need to be sure to remind myself regularly how fortunate I am for that.

Earlier today, Kate and I had some fun in the sun with Lisa and beautiful bedroom-eyed baby Jackson. Lisa is one of my favorite humans and friends. She was one of the brave gals willing to wear a flamingo pink dress at my wedding, to grapple with fastening the 2,137-odd buttons on my gown, and to have known throughout our friendship when I’ve needed a sympathetic ear versus a slap upside the head. And yet today, here we were with our 8- and 9-month-old babies who have probably been in the same room a total of four measly times.

Part of the reason is general life busy-ness. Part is geography. When she and Alex left SF they settled to the south of the city, and despite their fervent lobbying, when Mark and I left years later we went east. But the most significant reason why we haven’t spent more mom-’n'-babe time together is that Lisa took the swan dive back into the work world after having Jack.

Unlike me, Lisa found one of those Holy-Grail-like “Jobs You Like to Go To.” Granted, it came after years of crying in the parking lots of jobs she hated. So, when young Jack came on the scene, there was a reason that exceeded sheer finances that bolstered her return to work. As much as she wanted more time at home, Lisa feared that if she didn’t reinstate herself at her job, she’d never find a plumb workplace like it again. I hope for once that her usually stellar intuition was off there.

How does the story end? Well, after 5 months of giving the mother-and-commuting-professional balance an impressive fair shake, Lisa traded in the office job to report to lil’ Jack. She told me today how she realized that at times she was just going through the motions with the baby since she had so many things to do to get through each day. She didn’t have enough time to just hang out and enjoy him. You know, watch him hit his head a couple dozen times in the course of the day and think nothing of it.

Hooray! I’m teary-eyed with the thought that Lisa and Jackson will be able to enjoy life as best chums and partners in crime. It’s such a treat for me, that I can’t help but wish that all my mama friends have as much fun in this job as I do.

Granted, the weeks when you’re housebound from rain, and the days when the half-pint wails incessently for no good reason, can make the thought of a 3-hour conference call or developing a spreadsheet with pivot tables seem like a party. But those times are few and far between. And even with them in the mix, I need to remember to remind myself (a meta-memory task) how lucky lucky lucky I am to have all this time with my little love-bug. And remember to thank Mark for bringing home the bacon (and thereby marginalizing his own Kate-time), so I can be with her.

I’m also happy to report that Lisa, Jackson, Kate and I now have a regular date. We’ll be seeing each other every other Monday (alternating visits between Burlingame and Oakland). And hopefully those dates will breed more gatherings—maybe even an occaisional grown-ups-only night on the town.

Yippy doodle. Life is good.

My Longs Hat

In one of my recent forays to Longs Drugs I stumbled upon a rack of sun hats that were 25% off. I’d been thinking I needed something to protect me from the sun since I’m out walking with Katie-Pie a lot, and by the end of the day all the sun had been giving me headaches. I was also fearful that by August I’d have the leathery skin of a sunbathing octogenarian from Miami.

Anyway, I first picked out a bright orange hat thinking maybe it was secretly the most fashionable one there. I wasn’t sure that I liked it, but for all I knew it was a look that was all over the runways in Milan. (I’m fairly certain that much Italian couture ends up in the Longs sale aisle.) Then I considered the chocolate brown one. Mark’s fashionable Aunt Terry told me once brown is a good color for me, and I took it as gospel. Then I saw a plain old tan one–a color both non-descript and unassuming. After much hand wringing, I decided to make the $11 plunge on the tan one. (In my working days I would have spent 10 times that on something I liked half as much without a second thought. And yes, that is a math word problem.)

This hat has changed my life. Okay, so not really, but I love it. And I’ve somehow convinced myself that it’s kinda hip too! It’s just a floppy canvas hat with a big brim. I wear it with the goggly sunglasses I bought years back when I was in some short-lived Sophia Loren mode. Every morning when we go for walks I toss it on, and Kate wears her hot pink sun hat with the Lilies of the Valley pattern. Together we are a knockout pair.

It may not even take years for me to look back on this hat and determine how absolutely absurd it is. That day may be right around the corner. But I figure that wearing a silly hat will facilitate Kate looking at photos of us from this summer some day, and saying, “My God, Mom! What were you thinking with that hat?”

I’ll just lie and tell her that hats like mine were very chic at the time.

Greetings Summer

It’s extraordinarily boring to complain about the high cost of Bay Area real estate. Yet, at times you’re compelled to nonetheless.

To combat the urge, I generally say “Insert real estate rant here,” when I’m talking to someone and I feel the need to kvetch come over me. It’s not that I’m avoiding being labeled a complainer. I have no issue with that. It’s just that everything that has ever been said about it all has already been said. It’s like you’ve been married to the person you’re talking to for 50 years and can finish their sentences, but in this case it’s about finishing the whole conversation in your mind before you even have it. So why waste the breath.

Well, we’re just back from a simply glorious weekend in Santa Cruz with Sacha of mother’s group fame, and her hub Joel and baby Owen. It was a great Memorial Day weekend kick-off to summer. Aside from the fact that both babies reverted for three nights to newborn sleep patterns, and managed to at times wake each other up to double the fun, Santa Cruz cast its spell on us. There is something about the place that’s relaxing in a very unpretentious way–little houses, beautiful beaches, surf shops, and restaurants with ocean view decks serving drinks and overpriced, mediocre seafood. You get the feeling of “real summer” there that you just don’t get in the Bay Area.

Within a few hours of our arrival we’d all started fantasizing about having a vacation home there. Joel said maybe they should get a place for a month. I was determined to own the very house that we were renting. It was architecturally head and shoulders above most of the other places, the gardens had intimate sitting areas that felt very European, and the oversized mismatched wicker chairs had a shabby chic, relaxed elegance. Perhaps Stan, the owner, would take a liking to the little McClusky family, determine we needed the house more than he did, and in a great act of charity… Well, I can dream.

On Saturday while Mark was riding his bike and the Grippando clan was napping, Kate and I took a stroll through the ‘hood. There were 2 open houses that we wandered into. The first was a spectacular 3-bedroom 2-bathroom house with an amazing gourmet kitchen, large sunny rooms, an immense hot tub, and a small artist studio in back. It was $2 million. Okay–getting an idea for the market here, I thought. But what floored me was the 600-square-foot bungalow–and I mean bungalow–further down the street. The place had one tiny bedroom and a kitchen so minute that the stove wasn’t even a standard size. It was one of those dinky ones with 4 mini burner coils on top, about half the width of a normal stove. There was nothing special or interesting about the place, and it wasn’t even *on* the water. It was selling for $945,000. Staggering! Well, I guess in the future we’ll be enjoying Santa Cruz from the comfort of a vacation rental.

Of course, vacationing with two wee ones is a new adventure in and of itself. We were tied to the house at nap times, ventured out for happy hour drinks at 4:00 before the babies’ bath times (and melt downs), ate all our dinners in, and our “night life” consisted of heading to bed at 10:00 and tending to crying babies at 3-4 hour intervals. This morning, Mark and Kate started their day in the living room (while I endeavored to finally sleep) at the painful hour of 5:15. Joel and Owen joined them soon after. A year ago 5AM would have marked the mid-point of a 10-hour night’s sleep.

Despite the sleep deprivation, we did have fun. Mark commandeered the kitchen and grill and turned out some fabulous meaty meals. Cousin John McClusky and wife Jenn came down last night and brought some great wine and Fred Steak along with their fine company.

And if you forget that it’s 7AM and that you’ve barely slept the night before, a walk on the beach at that hour is nothing short of glorious–clear blue skies, the smell and sound of the ocean, and friendly locals taking their dogs for their morning walks. It’s also a quiet time to hug your baby, tell her all about the ocean you grew up near, and marvel at how grateful you are to have her in your life.

A Luxury I Can’t Afford

What do you do when your baby is crying unless you’ll hold her, your stomach is growling for a long-overdue breakfast, and you have to pack for a long weekend–including gathering BBQ food, wine, baby food, and clothes for you and the wee one, and somehow get it all into the car so you can pick up your husband from work in two hours? Write in your blog, that’s what! I don’t have the disposable income I once had, nor do I have the unfettered time to check email or get into more than 3 pages of a book at a time, so writing has become my Calgon-take-me-away bath. Even when I should be doing a million other things. (Mark, assume I’ll be late to pick you up.)

I’ve been thinking a bit about communities lately. For many many years one of the most dominant ones in my life was the office. The people I worked for and with, and who–big-girl as it seemed–worked for me. By virtue of simply spending so much time in that world, and being so tired after departing it each day, it was my default community (family, Mark, and friends aside of course). And sadly those folks often did become parenthetical when work demands occupied my psyche.

Like a dinner party where you invite people who don’t know each other and everyone hits it off, it’s nice when someone from one realm of your life makes the move into another. Work is becoming a distanter and distanter memory (a grammatical joke the likes of which my father and I make), but yesterday I had the pleasure of having lunch with someone from that world.

John can not only order sushi in a really good Japanese accent (though, what do I know), he’s a kick-ass creative director and all-around good guy. We didn’t work together for all that long, but did get thrown into one of those understaffed, impossible-deadline plumbs of an account together. And amidst the mayhem, John was always a joy to work with. This is a guy who has not only redesigned and revitalized websites for dozens of Fortune 500 corporations, he’s also a Buddhist monk who has fasted for weeks at a time, and, more incredibly, not *spoken* for several-month stints while meditating. It’s not often that you’ll find these qualities housed in the same human. So, John is also no longer working at The Former Agency, so we were able to talk about Life After as though we both swam across a river full of leeches and got to the other side without a single one sticking to us. Our lunch was essentially us double high-fiving each other on the banks of the new shore, and thumping each other on the backs. Hooray! I am happy that John is now on this side with me. The Former Agency had a lot of issues, stresses and politics, but it also had some extremely talented, smart and funny folks. I’d hate to lose them just because my new job doesn’t require me to have a building security badge.

In my moving-to-Oakland-after-13-years-in-SF, leaving work, and having a baby time (when I go for change, I go all out), my need for new communities was nothing short of desperate. The one that has saved my emotional hide, welcomed me with bleary eyes, and been a haven of humor (and food) is hands-down my Oakland mother’s group. (Hello mamas! I salute you!) This is one extremely fab group of women who Kate and I have spent at least one afternoon a week with since Kate was 3-weeks old. It’s made up of 11 baby-mama couples, and there’s not one rotten egg in the bunch! And I realized a while back that we’re comprised quite amazingly of all straight women, who are even married to the men we had kids with. Did I mention we are in the SF Bay Area? This is astounding. Not that it’s better or worse for us to be this way, just *weird* in these parts. Hell, we could all pick up and move to San Diego or something and no one would bat an eyelash at us. Well, maybe some Republicans would. At any rate, it’s wonderfully affirming to have a group of people you feel comfortable enough around to talk about cracked bleeding nipples (not mine, thank God), the challenges of career and parenting, and the wonders of so-and-so’s head circumference being in the 95th percentile. Whatever your concern, quandary or need for celebration, these women have your back. THANK GOD I found them.

The other community I’m proud and happy to say I found is at Chaparral House–the nursing home Kate and I hang out in on Wednesday afternoons. It’s home to Kate’s wonderful adoptive Grandma Rose, Gladys, and Dorothy, the other volunteers, like Janet, who have so much respect and interest in the residents there, and a caring nursing staff–especially the Tibetan nurse who whisks Kate out of my hands the second she sees her and says, “Tell Mama bye-bye. You come with me now!” This week as we were walking out, I peered into the activities room to see that Sandi was custom-making sundaes for everyone. “Come on in! What topping would you like?” Why, don’t mind if I do, I thought. The grocery store and Kate’s overdue nap could wait 10 minutes. As I ate my sundae with Kate grabbing for the spoon, I looked around at some women in wheelchairs and a volunteer setting up a large-print Scrabble board (who knew?) and realized how at home Kate and I were there. Four months in, Chaparral House has become a super-cool new place that Kate and I are lucky to be part of. Thank you volunteermatch.com!

So here I stand on the far banks of the river barely able to see The Former Agency any more. And the bonfires on this side are blazing. I’m holding on my hip the most important young member of my new life, sweet Kate. At one fire the super-cool mamas and the babies from my mother’s group are gathered. At another the gang from Chaparral House are hanging out in their wheelchairs, with Rose admonishing them to not give Kate the evil eye. And by my side is the love-of-my-life, the one I’ve been luckiest to manage get on my team, Mark.

I’ve made it to the other side, and it rocks here.

8 Months Old and a Slap Upside the Head

Today our wonderful gift of a sweet angel baby is 8 months old, or two-thirds, as Mark has enjoyed saying. It’s so terribly boring to drone on about how deeply and absolutely we love and adore her. We can say it to each other of course, and tell her all the time, but I still feel the need to shout it from the proverbial rooftop.

Again, it’s a time when it rots that my mother isn’t at the other end of 401-253-8370 any more. Dialing that number is ingrained in me, and I think she was home and answered the phone 99.5% of the time I called. (One of the perks of having a hermit mom. That is something Kate will never benefit from, unless I am suddenly overcome with agoraphobia.) So yeah. I want to call my mother and tell her ad nauseum how beautiful and sweet Kate is. And not being able to makes me feel like I’m having to contain my excitement. I’m not so good at that.

So today she is 8 months old. And I think Mark and I have done a pretty good job with her thus far. From what we can tell she isn’t on drugs, and I haven’t heard a single swear come out of her mouth. And aside from occaisionally turning her nose up at her dinner, and not yet knowing how to change her own diapers, I think our challenges with her are reasonable. Someone asked me at the nursing home today how old she is and when I told him I said, “It seems like it went by fast, but also like I can’t remember the time before her.” Of course, that was just me trying to say something profound. I do remember napping whenever I wanted to and having the freedom to go out at night on a lark.

So far Kate has eaten sweet potatoes, summer squash, carrots, apples, pears, peas, avocado, bananas–and rice cereal and oatmeal. But I feel like I need to introduce some of the less-sweet and enticing foods so she doesn’t grow up only willing to eat candied yams with mini-marshmallows for every meal. So on our way home from visting Rose at Chaparral House, we stopped at Berkeley Bowl.

If you have never been to Berkeley Bowl and get aroused by produce, this place is for you. It’s like a fruit and vegetable stand on steriods with a fancy gourmet grocery store attached to it. And the variety. Oy! In the realm of eggplant alone, you could probably find 8 types. Sure, we’ve all heard of Japanese eggplant, and think that we’re pretty food-savvy because of it. But Berkeley Bowl will bust out something like Orange Siberian Eggplant, and show you who’s boss. It’s humbling.

The down side of Berkeley Bowl is that everyone else in Berkeley knows how great it is and at any given time, one-half of the city’s population is there playing bumper-cars with their shopping carts. Those erstwhile hippies get all agro over the veggies too. I’ve seen turf wars there more nasty than one I saw in NYC when two women were fighting over a pair of pants at a Donna Karan sample sale. (Maggie: I’m thinking I just may need a riot shield after all.)

So the most divine and excellent of all small people, Miss Kate, and I were wandering the aisles looking for some food to cook, puree, and freeze in ice cube trays. I was carrying her in the Ergo, which is a kind of front-pack thingy that is more fun than having the kid in a far-away stroller (i.e. I can get to her easier to smother with love in the Ergo). Here we are, two innocent produce-gawkers trying to determine what’s what, when a guy who is speed-walking frantically and weilding a yellow plastic shopping basket decides he’s in the wrong aisle, spins around, and smacks my precious sweet Katie in the forehead with his basket.

She was so shocked it took a second for her to do anything. I mean, it seemed so long that I wondered if it even really hit her, or if she was just going to shrug it off. Oh no. She let out a volume-11 wail that had Mr. I’m-in-a-Hurry practically wetting his pants. Good. Serves him right.

I was hugging the poor girl and hoping it was one of those things we could push past pretty quickly, since The Aggressor was clearly feeling terrible and I immediately went to my typical trying-to-make-him-feel-better place. Silly person that I am. When she wasn’t settling down quickly, the guy came to his senses and returned to his impatient mode. “Can’t you bounce her up and down some?” Why oh why didn’t I have the presence of mind to say, “So you’re going to clock my baby in the head with your hard shopping basket, and then tell me how to soothe her?!”

Thankfully, she doesn’t seem to have a goose egg or bruise on her forehead. The long-term psychological fall-out is, of course, TBD. Despite that, I think she’ll be wearing a helmet on all future Berkeley Bowl outings.

Christmas in May

I ventured down to the basement today in search of my bag o’ bathing suits. Our basement is pretty big for a California basement–or at least everyone who sees it seems all surprised by it. And of course, when there is space to fill with crap, one tends to find crap to fill it with. Mark and I excel in pack-rattery anyway. So there are about 25 boxes of books we have no room for upstairs, bulky kitchen appliances we don’t often use, furniture from my mother’s house, boxes of out-of-season clothes that we never unpacked when we moved but are maybe now in season again (hard to tell), and a new layer of baby-related gear and clothing.

So, I was spelunking through it all. Within 4 seconds I’d forgotten why I was down there and just started checking stuff out, and trying to cull through and organize it a bit.

I’ve always liked to store things properly, but with my mother gone, I feel especially protective of the things that were hers. A) It’s old and/or valuable, or just something I really like, and B) it was hers and even if it was an old sock I’m sentimental about it. (I truly have held onto pairs of socks that were hers. Wait for me to show up on Oprah with some psychiatrist who is guiding me through throwing out theadbare tennis peds while I’m cry convulsively.)

After focusing on the clothing situation (piles to bring upstairs, piles to donate, oops–this goes in the maternity box), I A.D.D.ed my way over to the holiday section. With all my Christmas stuff plus my obsession with Halloween costumes, it’s practically a holiday “department.” I realized that some Christmas boxes could clearly be condensed. One just had bubble wrap in it that had once protected ornaments, and two long cotton tubular sacks with pink closure ribbons at the ends. I had no idea what the hell they were for and was going to (uncharacteristically) throw them away, when I noticed a paper note pinned to one that had “12 days of Christmas” written on it.

Oh my God. How cool. They were the custom-made storage bags for the Christmas wall-hanging and Christmas tree skirt Mark’s great grandmother, Grandma Kohl, had made. For some reason, standing there in the basement, I wanted to almost cry. Thank God I didn’t throw them out.

Mark’s great grandmother is long gone. I’m pretty sure she’s Mark’s mom’s mom’s mom. And as far as we can tell she’s the red-head who is genetically responsible for Kate’s strawberry blonde locks. The women on Mark’s mom’s side of the family LIVE FOREVER. I mean, these women have amazing staying power–into their 90s most of them. And I think they have tended to be pretty on top of their games into their dotage.

So, somewhere in her 90s, Grandma Kohl, crafty woman that she was, made Mark and his sister Lori (and likely all her other great-grandchilden) these amazing Christmas tree skirts, and wall-hangings that depict each of the 12 days of Christmas. They are tacky and flashy felt-and-sequin things that are truly exquisite. I have loved them dearly since Mark’s mom sent them to us this fall. (In his bachelorhood Mark never had need–and likely desire–for them.)

Both pieces have incredible detail–depicting everything from lords a’ leapin’, to Santa and a chimney, to partridges in trees with little porcelain pears hanging from them. They were assembled not only with flamboyant artistry, but with incredible care and attention to detail. The Christmas tree skirt even had a line marked with loosely-sewn white thread indicating where to cut so the circle could be wrapped around the tree. They stir up something in my inner Martha-Stewart soul. I guess it’s respect for such quality work, together with a love of family, traditions, Christmas. You don’t spend so much time on these things unless you love Christmas, and the people that you are making them for. And to think that the woman was in her 90s!

When Peggy sent them to us, it was oddly like getting a gift from the grave for Grandma Kohl. Here we were, still newlyweds and with a young baby, setting up house. It was clearly time for us to have and love these pieces. They are now part of our family’s Christmas tradition. Something Kate’s red-headed great great great grandmother made for us without even knowing Kate or I would be there to enjoy them.

I managed to easily find the tree skirt and the wall-hanging and to carefully move them from the box and garbage bag they were in to the cotton storage bags. Thank you, thank you, Grandma Kohl. I promise to always use the proper storage bags to keep your hard work safe, and when she is old enough, I will tell Kate about how special these decorations are that you made for us long ago. I’m also saving your hand-written tag–it’s something that seems to connect you to these things, and to us, even closer.

Fallen Acorn, Distance from Tree, etc.

Last night our new friends Melissa and Adam (hi y’all!) came over for dinner. They made themselves a small human, the wickedly cute Raulie, a month before we finished making Kate. And with them we’ve developed a new way of entertaining which involves an early start date so the babies can roll around together, feeding and bathing the babes, then putting them to sleep (Raulie in the porta-crib in our office) to allow the grown-ups to eat, drink and be merry. (Amazingly I consumed more wine last night. Hello, Betty Ford Clinic?) It’s actually a very nice way to spend an afternoon/evening and makes me feel all 1950s. Really not sure why, other than I guess it feels like good wholesome fun, and that’s what they had back then.

Over dinner I asked Melissa what take she has on Raulie’s personality. She said, “Well, he’s nothing like us.” Raulie is a high-stim kid whose nanny takes him for walks on busy streets so he can check out the traffic. The quiet tree-lined Berkeley streets are a bore to him. And he’s a huge smiler, who turns it on the moment he sees someone (friend or stranger).

No, Melissa and Adam are not dour non-smilers, and I imagine they occaisionally enjoy watching cars go by (who doesn’t, really?)–but in general, this little man seems to be carving out his own personality path at the tender age of 8 months. This struck me, because it ends up Kate is not much for the smiling herself.

Kate’s cousin Gavin will be in politics some day. At age one he’s practically shaking hands and kissing babies at grocery stores. And with the name Gavin Stone, a senatorial career is undoubedtly in his future. And the kid smiles! He’s got a grin on his mug even when he’s reached the end of the table that’s been supporting him and crashes to the floor. A big dog runs up to him, knocks him down and licks the length of his face. Gavin: Still smiling!

Now Kate, God love her, does and will smile, but she’s parsimonious about it. She doesn’t just give them up for anyone. And at times this is a bummer. Those old ladies at the grocery store, for instance, are quite tenacious. They move in on Kate to admire her big rosy cheeks, then utter a stream of baby talk aimed at eliciting a smile. In response, Kate gives them her classic what-up-with-you? look, her huge unblinking eyes taking them in indifferently. Tenacious Old Lady only takes this as a challenge, telling me she’s a grandma herself, you know. Kate, Winner of All Staring Contests, is stone-faced. It can go on like this for what seem like days, so I often jump in with a little white lie–”Oh she just got up from a nap!” I say. “I think she’s still a little groggy.” Then we make a run for it.

Since having a child is the purest form of narcissism, this smile thing gets me. Anyone who has known me for more than 30 seconds knows I’m out in the world to get to know as many of the other humans as possible. I’m hard-wired this way, as if in my final resting place they will be handing out awards to those who have met (or spoken to) the most people. (Oh, and everyone I meet needs to love me too.) So what gets me with this Kate thing is she clearly doesn’t care. She has an idly-bored way of reacting to people who are scratching under their arms, jumping up and down, and making monkey noises for her. Which isn’t to say she’ll never smile. She just won’t when someone really wants her too.

I guess I’m just getting used to the fact that you go through all the months of weight gain, baked-bean cravings, and having to sleep with 8 pillows tucked along your body, only to get to the oddly-surprising realization that this baby is its own person. Be that as it may, I’m still looking forward to getting to know her.

Morning-After Babysitting

The thing with getting a sitter is it thrusts you temporarily into pre-baby mode.

You find yourself out at a lively restaurant amazed that other people apparently have maintained the social life that you abandoned postpartum. You’re ordering fabulous food with menu-item names you don’t thoroughly understand (Ligurian ravioli), but you’re throwing culinary caution to the wind! And of course, you’re having a glass of wine–or two or three. Baby? What baby? We are young(ish) and social and fabulous! Watch us eat and drink! Watch us make witty banter.

Last night we went out to our favorite neighborhood restaurant, A Cote, with Mark’s cousin Maggie, her charming BF Josh, and Maggie’s friend from home (Lexington, KY) who is in the Bay Area being trained for her odd sales job–selling high-end surgical tables. (As Kevin would say, “My career counselor sucked. Who knew these jobs existed?!”) We had a grand evening, and even felt compelled to cap it off with a drink at the local tiki bar.

At this point your baby is a hazy memory. The closest you come to thinking of her is when, in a moment of tiki-bar abandon, you consider showing off your c-section scar. (Don’t worry, I somehow resisted the urge.)

This is all going some place very obvious, right? When Kate woke up at 3AM and again at 6, the crushing reality that you *do indeed* have a baby bore down on you. Trust me, it’s no fun shuffling to get your baby out of bed while you try to recount just what you drank the night before. I guess this is why people like Britney Spears have nannies.

For us non-millionaires, I’ve come up with a sure-fire solution: a morning-after babysitter. (If you read on, consider that you have in essence signed an NDA and will not make off with this brilliant get-rich-quick scheme. And I didn’t even go to business school!) How it would work is you’d call Bruno’s Morning-After Babysitting Service (or some such) and could either pre-schedule having a sitter come to your house in the early morning hours after a night out, or–for quite a premium–you could call and request a sitter right when you need one–in the very painful early morning hours.

Think of what an exhausted, dehydrated, barely functional parent would pay for this! The upside is staggering.

Short and Sassy The Sequel: The Dye Job

Yesterday I got my hair colored. I didn’t have time to get it done last week when I got it cut, so my dramatic transformation came in two stages. I got all-over color instead of the highlights I’ve been getting since age 16. I’m one of those women who doesn’t remember what her natural color looks like, and this color is allegedly one shade light than my God-given brown. It turns out my hair is really dark. I actualy like it(!), and it makes the new haircut look better too. But this morning I woke up and my cute bob was all fallen foward into a fluffly bowl cut and I realized I looked like Ginny Sacrimoni.

Consuming Kate

The other day Mark got out of the shower and walked into our room to catch me saying to Kate, “I could just fry that cheek up in butter and eat it up!” Instead of grabbing the baby and running off to call Child Protective Services, Mark said, “What is that? Sometimes I want to eat her too!”

I guess our crazy baby love sometimes just can’t be contained by mere hugs and kisses (and believe me, we blast her with them regularly). I wouldn’t be surprised if other parents would also confess to wanting to eat their babies–you know, taking a bite out of one of those fat-rolly thighs, or nibbling off a sweet little toe or two. Mark and I tell Kate how much we love her ad naseum, but we also need to chomp on her fingertips, and squeeze our faces under her ears to nibble on that really soft neck skin. And when she laughs in response to it all, it just makes us want more.

I’m like an addict. Whitney Houston, I feel your pain.

I’m not sure which animals eat there young, but I know I’ve seen some Mutual of Omaha special or other about it. It seems like something some birds maybe do, but I was an English major, so please don’t take my word on it. At any rate, since giving birth to Kate I can empathize with those poor animals. I wonder if for them it starts innocently enough with a couple bird parents hanging out in their nest and marveling at how damn cute their bird baby is…