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…

Missing Items Returned

I was always amazed when I’d hear about those older couples who had been married for decades, and when one of them died (typically the man) the woman would find herself smack dab in the midst of the 21st century without knowing how to do something like write a check. How on earth could someone let that happen? Needless to say, I’m free and clear of such a fate, right?

Well, the sad reality is that there are some things Mark just does and I steer clear of, and they’ve started to accumulate in our years together. At first it was driving places. I’d just zone out on the way, and years into visiting a friend in another town I’d realize when I was heading there alone that I had no idea how to get there. And all the tech stuff–it goes without saying that Mark sets up every computer, wireless network, etc. in our world. (Etc. in this instance is a placeholder for all the other techie things that I don’t even know how to refer to by name). Mark also pays all our bills online and I have sadly never done this, nor even-sadlier do I know how to. (Let it be known that he’s willing to show me, but we’ve never gotten around to it.) Scary as it is, I fear the can’t-write-a-check syndrome is not out of the realm of possibility for me. Unless I do something about it.

So yesterday when I went out to buy Kate a new high chair, I decided to take things into my own hands. Well, I actually didn’t set out with that intention, it kind of buillt up slowly. First, I decided to carry the large and heavy box from the car into the house *myself.* (Mark, the family sherpa, was at work, and my excitement over the high chair couldn’t be contained until 6:30.) I left it in the front entryway and lamented how nice it would be if only it was assembled and ready to use. Then, like a lightening bolt, the wild idea came to me: I could assemble it myself.

The instruction manual had to be written for the lowest denomenator of American intelligence, right? And sure enough, by carefully plodding away step after step, with Kate rolling around on the floor below me, I did it! Steps 1-19 completed with nary a hitch. My only concern was that either a screw was missing, or I somehow dropped it. As I searched for it on the floor I envisioned it puncturing my sweet baby’s small intestine on it’s way through her system. I couldn’t see it anywhere, so I just decided Fisher-Price just sold me one screw short.

Late last night when I took off my favorite super-big Billabong khaki shorts, I emptied my pockets of various things, and there she be–the missing screw! Huzzah! No middle-of-the-night ER visits once it made it’s way to Miss Kate’s adorable duodenum.

Around 1:45AM (Who am I kidding? It was 1:43. New parents know these things.), Kate beckoned for her once-nightly snack. When I reached into her crib to lift her out, I felt a hard thing inside her PJs. It startled me a bit more awake and I felt it again. Ends up it was one of her plastic stacking cups, the smallest purple one. Seems I’d sealed it up in her PJs when I was getting her dressed for bed after her bath. I know I was kind of rushing, but sheesh. When I’d cleaned up the bathroom earlier that night I’d wondered where that one had gone. Mystery solved.

I Got You a Present

My neighbor Ruth Ann called tonight, and as we were chatting I was cleaning the house in an ADD fashion (start to take the garbage out, then look through the stack of magazines in the bathroom and consider recycling some of them, then rearrange the photos on the mantel).

In the midst of this, I stopped to straighten out the crap on my bureau and came across something Mark gave me a couple weeks ago when he returned from a work trip to Phoenix.

I’d razzed him in the past for not bringing anything back for me when he travelled, so I was thrilled at my success in training him when he announced he’d gotten me a present. He dug around in his bag and withdrew a little Arizona license plate that said KRISTEN. I thanked him (weakly), and couldn’t resist telling him that something like this wasn’t what you’d really market as a “present.”

Thankfully, Mark has managed to bust out some pretty spectacular gifts for me in our time together, so the license plate incident didn’t send me running to the bathroom crying to call an old boyfriend.

Last week Mark was in LA for E3. He got back on Friday, and did that thing where he unpacks his bags within 20 minutes of returning from a trip. (I hope this is not something that is passed on to Kate, as I find it freakish.) He came out to the living room to say he had a present for me. This time it was a small cannister filled with lime green goo. How it works is you stick your finger down in it then pull it out really fast and it makes a farting sound.

Now *that’s* a present.

First Annual Mother’s Day

My first Mother’s Day has come and gone, and I realized that an unexpected by-product this year was that I didn’t mope around looking at everyone taking their mothers out to brunch and feel sorry for myself. It could be intepretted as egocentric, but be that as it may, it seemed therapeutic indulging in happiness about being a mother, rather than spending the day regretting that mine isn’t alive any more.

Generally on weekend mornings Mark and I conduct a groggy early morning bargaining session to determine who will get up with Kate. (Today’s unlucky person gets to sleep in tomorrow.) It’s a time when Mark’s midwestern upbringing leaves him at a terrible disadvantage. The conversation often goes something like this:

Kate: Waa waaa

Mark: Uhhh… Do you want to get her, or should I?

Me: Uhhhh. Um, I’ll get up. I’ll get her. It’s my turn.

Kate: Waaa waaa.

Me: Ugh…. Okay, I’ll get up in a minute.

Mark: Okay. Did you want me to just get her?

Me: Oh would you? Thank you so much, honey.

Invariably, in his half-awake state, my otherwise sharp-as-a-tack hubby reverts to the Midwestern Polite/Indecisive Conversation Format (TM). He manages to back himself into the job, even when the conversation started with me staking claim to it. Poor lamb. I lie in wait, knowing he will offer again, and when he does, I relent. I’m really just being a good wife. I don’t want to argue with my husband.

Anyway, a conversation very much like the one above took place on Saturday morning. I believe Mark had even gotten out of bed and suited up to go fetch Kate, when I explained (since I do have a heart, and it does sadden me somewhat to see him fall into my trap) that he’d also be getting up with her the next day, it being Mother’s Day. Hell if I’m waking up early that day. With that 411, he stripped down and hopped back into bed faster than you can say “return to REM cycle.” It was the closest I’d come to dodging duty, and then having to step up.

So, Sunday, I slept in. Mark made a bacony breakfast. In order to make it a dream day I hit up a few local yard sales with Kate while Mark finished concocting a fancy chicken salad. Then we packed up the Subaru and all went to Lake Anza in Tilden Park for a picnic. It was in the 80s and people were swimming. I don’t know much about lakes, but it looked like good clean fun. There was a 1950′s patina on the whole scene.

Kate clearly doesn’t get the “it’s Mother’s Day so I must treat thee like Cleopatra” thing yet. In fact, instead of changing her own diapers, taking extended naps, and just smiling prettily whenever I looked her way, she was kinda cranky.

Post-picnic I jaunted off for a hot tub and massage with my mother’s group cohort Sacha. It was part of my gift, along with some excellent cherry-pattern PJs and a scrapbook album (more on that later). But when I got back from the spa, the best Mother’s Day gift came when I rejoined my little family. Mark and Kate were on the front porch escaping the heat of the house. Kate took a look and me and absolutely lit up. She had a huge smile and was kicking her legs like she was going to jump out of her pants.

Mark, on the other hand, looked glassy-eyed and exhausted–and chagrined to see Kate being so chipper. He’d spent the better part of the 3 hours I was gone trying to get her to stop crying. Even though Mark had wanted to do all the parenting chores all day, I told him he should take a nap while I fed her. Poor guy could barely keep his eyes open.

I sat on the floor and fed Kate some summer squash puree and she bit down on the spoon with every bite. This doesn’t make for easy-going, but that day I was just loving it. It’s what *my daughter* does when she eats. What a lucky person I was. My sweet husband sacked out in bed, exhausted from putting his all into making my first Mother’s Day perfect. And my little gnawing baby, rubbing squash into her hair and eyebrows and filling her mama with love and gratitude.

Long Live Longs

I can write about my divine daughter Kate, but I’m all a-tremble that nothing I say about Longs Drugs will do it the justice it deserves. It’s just that good.

Longs is this kind of mega drugstore emporium that’s in a low-budget strip mall near our house. It’s the best store, ever. You can go in there and ask if they carry the most random thing, and invariably they do. They not only sell your typical drug store fare, they have groceries, an extensive plant department, Christmas trees (when seasonal), picture frames, art supplies, outdoor furniture, clothing, cards, tools, sheets and curtains, pet supplies, books and magazines, toys. They even have an entire fabric department. When my father visited in October I thought we’d be able to drop him off there and return hours later to find him happily humming and picking through things.

My sister Judy told me her friend has two big topiaries that she wants to get rid of, and if I just show up with pots to lug them away, they’re mine. This is the kind of kind of opportunity that delights me not because “two new plants, free”–but because it’s a legitimate reason to go to Longs to shop for something.

I was considering going tonight, but think I’ll relish it more if I go by light of day. It’s Mother’s Day, so mark can watch Kate while I giddily wander the aisles. Oh! I need a graduation card for Mark’s cousin too. Yee hah!

The New Haircut: Chapter 2

Yesterday I used the new products I got and blew dry my hair all by myself like a big girl. I clearly have watched too much reality TV because I had this nagging feeling that a room full of gay men were watching me and commenting cattily on what a poor job I was doing.

Despite the imagined pressure from the non-existant flock o’ gays (unless there’s a hidden camera somewhere in our white bathroom), the hair ended up looking kinda cute. When I was done styling it, I didn’t cry. I took this to be a good sign. Sure, the texturizing makes the me look a bit like the poor man’s Meg Ryan. But better than then the Pat Benetar meets Mrs. Brady cut Jeneel gave me the last time I cheated on Frances with her.

Yes, I failed to mention that this is my second indiscretion with Jeneel. The first one went horribly wrong, leaving me chugging vitamins by the fistful in order to get my hair to grow back faster. (Never a good sign.) Again, it’s not like I was Jennifer Aniston with a world class hairstyle that was suddenly destroyed. The cut that I’d had before Jeneel’s first attempt at transforming me was the same droopy unstyled mop that I’ve had for years. But it was *my* droopy unstyled mop. I’ve never been one for change.

At any rate, never let it be said that I’m not willing to make the same mistake twice. Jeneel seems to have the ability to unleash dozens of friends’ latent fabulous hairdos. So, I thought I should give her one more crack at mine. Besides, ever since Mark and I have gone on our austerity plan, I’ve actually been successful at racheting back on my spending. I was overdue for throwing a wad of cash away on something unnecessary, and a $95 hair cut enabled that quite nicely. To ensure frivolous-spending success, I’m returning next week for a $70 dye job.

The Evil Eye

One thing Rose says to the other people at Chaparral House when they come up to visit with Kate and Rose wants her all to herself is something in Yiddish that translates to (as Rose puts it), “Not to give the evil eye.”

I’m not sure why Rose would think someone else who is clearly enjoying Kate’s company would wish ill will on her. I think it’s really just Rose projecting–giving the other person the evil eye so they go away and stop butting into her Kate time.

Next time she says it I need to write it down. I think it could be helpful barking that at people every once and a while. You never know what unsuspecting person could be lobbing the evil eye your way.

Short and Sassy

I actually did it. On the drive to SF I’d convinced myself that I could just get it trimmed and could back out of this whole I-think-I’ll-cut-my-hair-short thing, that I think I really maybe just made up as something to talk about and wasn’t ever really thinking I’d have the courage to do. Not that I thought my hair looked so great before. But better the evil you know, right?

Well, I walked into the fancy salon–blatantly cheating on Frances, my stylist of over a decade–and acted all cool like I’d be up for whatever Jeneel thought might look good. And then she started cutting it! Somewhere in between I stifled the urge to scream out that I was only kidding about wanting it short.

At any rate, after she cut it, her lackey came in to blow it dry. (Jeneel owns the place, and I guess when you’re that senior you get underlings to do not only the hair washing, but the blow drying too.) It ended up looking really cute. A sleek little bob. Fetching. Then Jeneel was going to do what I thought were a few long layers, but started hacking away at it–texturizing it. (Btw, I forgot that term and my metrosexual husband prompted me with it.)

So… we moved away from the short haircut that I would have been totally cool with, to the one I have now. Which is kinda messy/stylie and pretty short. Though I am trying to be the person who says, “It’s just hair” and/or the person who thinks the professional stylist knows better than me.

Mark is in LA, so doesn’t even get to see it professionally styled. When I go at it tomorrow I’ll probably weep and glue a hat to my head.

Cute thing–When I got home and nursed Kate, she still reached up and played with my hair!