New Beginnings

My landlord wants to move in with us, which is totally unacceptable. There’s just not enough space here. It doesn’t seem right that I suggest she find someplace else as the house belongs to her and all, so I’m taking 30 days to move my family out of the home we’ve occupied for five years. After checking out the rental $cene, my plan is to beg her to hold off on the contractor, renovations, and moving in for another nine months. She seemed fairly determined that the contractor come this week and so until I convince her that my bright ideas are always the best, I’m going to act as though she is serious about her move. At this point what that means is that my recycle bin is full to capacity.

In going through the ginormous piles of spelling worksheets, old correspondence, and outdated “to do” lists I discovered a box of letters I sent to my father-in-law. Rather than working on one of the eleventy seven brain blog posts floating in my head and in my drafts folder, I’m just going to reprint an update on my first pregnancy. I’m just lazy like that.

Subject: Asexual Alien Baby?

So, I gained a little extra weight. That’s is good. The baby is growing. But the growth came rapidly and my girlfriend and I decided to see if there was a miracle cream that prevented stretch marks — not that I have any. Palmer’s had been recommended, so off to Target we went. Looking at the ingredient list, we came across the substance urea. Sounds frightful, huh? We left the bottle on the shelf and went to consult our old pal, Webster. He told us that urea is mammalian urine. I’m as vain as the next woman, but I don’t know if I am that desperate yet. People keep telling me what is good and bad for me (my underwire bra will give me cancer; if I don’t have two eggs a day I will birth a hermaphrodite), and I wonder how good can rubbing a belly with urine be for a baby? Granted my sister-in-law tells me that it usually comes on powder form. I must agree that if you have to have hairy animal urine slathered on you, powder is probably the way to go. I have also heard of a convent in Italy where nuns donate their urine for such a product. Perhaps pristine powdered offerings of divine virgins warrants consideration. Nah, of all the things recommended to me, this is by far the scariest.

But this isn’t about lotions or potions, this is about my neuroses. I have plenty, you know. I went my entire life without a cavity and now I have one. This is definitely the baby’s fault. Doesn’t a mother suffer enough?

But this isn’t about my dentist visit, it’s about my OB Visit. Dr. Anderson says my uterus is looking good. Of course, she only looked at my stomach (thank God she isn’t into vaginal look-sees). She said that I could have a walking epidural during labor but wondered why I would want to walk around a hospital hall with my fanny hanging out. She has a point. She said that she doesn’t give episiotiomosectomies as a rule, unless they are necessary and not more than a centimeter of slicing. Mmmm, more fun. She promised that I will have to have an IV and that there are things more frightening than needles, but I don’t believe her. She supports the Bradly method of labor and delivery because they teach you about what is happening to your body, but at the same time she is a doctor and has her own way. Best of all, she blamed my weight gain on heavier clothes. You see why I think she is wonderful?

The kid is still kicking constantly. The other night the baby’s wiggle made me giggle. Mostly, the movement feels like involuntary muscle spasms but this movement was deliberate. I had Handsome Hubster do the laying on of hands thing and every time the baby kicked he said, “DAMN!” Being the generation that we are, we can’t help but think of the birth scene in Alien. This baby is strong I tell you. I imagine that soon he/she will pop out of my stomach via my belly button. Now that I think of it, I broke no ribbons at any of my bridal showers. I did snip one with scissors and my sister-in-law’s mother-in-law, you know how these extended families are, said that meant I would have a cesarean. Ah, one more thing to think about.

You may be able to tell that I am loving pregnancy. The weight gain, the back pain, the abdominal strain. For all this work, I expect some goods in return.

Oh and I did get some goods as evidenced here pictorially. I can only blame the pose on inexperience with mommy hormones. On closer inspection of my face it appears as though I just finished crying.

If you are good, I’ll post some other self-obsessed pregnancy rants. Maybe I’ll tell you about the time I was accused of smuggling a basket ball out of Wal Mart, which also happened to my cousin, so I guess it’s a family tradition and not so much a unique experience.

7 YO Tickles the Ivories

The Fungal Heart posted a lovely summary of the 7 YO girl’s recital. If I could comment on her blog, which I won’t because the user name “rebl” is already in use by a Live Journaler (really?), I would say that Fungal was generous to invite us and brave to shoulder the responsibility for such a large crowd in her space on such a sneaky Sunday. She gets a big ol’ sloppy wet THANK YOU!

Without futher ado, I present the musical stylings of the 7 YO as filmed by her father (I am NOT taking the fall for missing her introduction and filming the audience rather than taking a more elegant frame).

Hawt Mz, don’t you think that if you really loved kids, you would stay up past your bedtime to see something this amazing? I was going to finish the video earlier just for you, but I had to learn a whole new iMovie. Since I’m generally a moron, it took HOURS in between making yummy, yummy, yum-o (yes, I think your BFF, RR, would be horrified that you don’t eat bacon) bacon for dinner, tending to the chicken Nugget, and swimming with the bourgeoises. In any event, you’re welcome.

Production Note: The royalty free music used (and credited) in the exciting introduction and conclusion was taken from

Mushy Guy Stuff

For Mother’s Day, the 9 YO made a chameleon out of twirled paper for me. It took him hours and it’s absolutely lovely.

The chameleon was the first ever twirled paper project he attempted. He followed the directions in a book. For his second project, he went rogue. That’s right! He made a three-banded armadillo for his father using only the skills he had after one project plus his BRAIN! That’s right! He couldn’t wait for Father’s Day to give it to the Hubster.

My father-in-law was buried on Father’s Day (today is the calendar anniversary). His children put together a funeral that not only honored my father-in-law, but also one fitting his personality, lifestyle, and ideals. I feel like reposting the slide show his children made for him. So, here it is:

The Magic Car Port Carpet

Early in the evening Handsome Hubster rolled out a carpet in the car port. How plush is that? The idea was that he’d get it ready for storage with a quick clean, then wrap it up for safekeeping. I had been in the backyard wondering if my grapefruit tree could be brought back to life. I have hope. Many new leaf clusters are busting out of otherwise lifeless branches. I credit Handsome Hubster’s deft work creating a berm at the tree’s drip line. Just past the tree I could see Handsome Hubster at work creating magic. Hadn’t he just set the stage for a terribly special occasion? I thought so. Of course, there was food.

Then this one

and this one

asked me to read. After four chapters, we were reduced to lollygagging.

I love special occasions. Don’t you?

Dear Peggy,

OMG! I went to the racquet club today. They should really call it the “racket” club. HA HA! You wouldn’t believe what a low rent place that is! It’s barely on the cusp of privilege. I mean, I was the LEAST tat2ed person there (having no tat2s – I missed out on that rite too)! Half the cars had bumperstickers promoting Obama, all the rage, I’m sure you’ve heard. One truck spoiled the otherwise burgoise rows of Honda minivans. The bumpersticker on that rattle trap read, “The day they outlaw guns is the day I become an outlaw.” However clever the thought, the sticker had too many words. GLUG!

AND there were fifty bajillion parents from the kids’ schools there. Some of them were totally rad. They say, “Hi!” At least I think they would say that to you if you’d come. Dude! There was a parent there with her chair totally oriented toward the pool as though she was supervising her ankle biter, but PLEASE tell me how she coud do that with her nose in a book. It was a pretentious book at that. Seriously lady, IT’S FREAKIN’ SUMMER!

Also, someone should tell the old bat constantly bugging the lifeguard to COOL IT! I mean, c’mon, lifeguards aren’t there to tell you the time or direct you to the locker room. How can they guard lives if you are jabber jawing at them? All I can say is, YAY to the kids who cannonballed all over her ass! Awesome, they were mine.

The club is not the best place for mere mortals to go hang out. There’s a way ton lots of tan, fit women there in their fancy swimsuits who don’t need the control panel, modesty skirt, and push up bra. Seriously, I GET IT! I’m not as fit as you and even if I were I wouldn’t look like you in that suit. For one thing, I got a topo map on my belly and for another I’ve seen my grandmother in a swimsuit and, believe me, the future is now (& not in a Mirren kind of way).

One last thing, and this is top secret, I grew up in Midwest City with two kick ass bitches for friends. Outside of Purple Rain and John Stamos, there wasn’t much ado about anything. We made up half our abbreviations. I’ll decode a few for you:

LYLAS – love ya like a sis
WBS – write back soon
TTFN – ta ta for now

The thing is, we were light years ahead of our time. Note writing was just about the only literacy we got, & for one of us that is all too sadly the absolute truth. I needed Norman AND Tucson to get here, just as you needed college generated goth script. Say, if you get a handle on the make-up/hair thing, let me know. Your tips might help me infiltrate the burgoisese.

OH! And BTW, this season is all about accessorizing the bathing suit. So… can I borrow your big ass hammered metal necklace?

Ever your friend, R

My Baby Riffs!

My boy is riffin’ the blues. I’m not sure what that means, but it was aaaawesome! Per my usual e-clepto behavior, I sneaked some free intro applause and exit blues off the World Wide Web for this video. Me edit pretty one day. Unfortunately for you but better for the 9 YO boy, I was too lazy to add a running commentary. If I had, it would go like this:

  • I’m verging on nervous barfdom, so I steadied my shaky camera on the armrest. Now that I look on it, don’t you think I should get a real video camera already? This decade old still camera just doesn’t cut it for video.
  • The boy is pretty cute as he debates Jeff about his introduction. Jeff, the boy likes fanfare!
  • The House Band: Jeff, the electric guitarist, is the Co-Founder of Allegro. Even better, he’s a native Oklahoman. Tommy, the bass player, can quote Spaceballs,* which totally rocks. I haven’t yet met the drummer, but the student of his who played in the recital is ready for the pros. Allegro students can also receive instruction in piano and voice. If you mention the 9 YO, he’s sure to get some free guitar pics, pix, picks (whatever).
  • Can you dig the boy’s bobbing head? Makes me want to squeeze him.
  • I’m almost certain that Jeff’s twirly finger means “ONE MORE TIME!” and not, “This kid is nuts.”
  • Could the boy run off stage any faster? ENCORE!

Allegro did a great job on the recital. The whole thing was free, but they accepted donations for World Care at the door. That ends the do-gooder portion of this post. The point is that my kid is too freaking cool. Do you think paleomartiantologists gather around the impact crater after a hard day’s excavation to enjoy some guitar strumming as they gaze at Phobos and Deimos?

* Did I mention I am a sell-out, er, Amazon Associate?

Mother of the Year

In spite of what my children might like to tell you, I am a really good mom. I’m a really, really good mom. No. Really. My pal Martha sent me this link as evidence. Here’s additional goods to prove it.

My 6 YO (soon to be 7) girl left this on her doorstep. Let me walk you through it. At first, she simply refuses my access. Note that she can’t bring herself to call me “Mom” and uses my name instead. She then progresses to actively protest my existence. Finally, she recruits family members to “Join the anti-Rebecca club (unless you are Rebecca).” My kids had an awesome K-1 teacher, or so I thought until I realized she taught them to write. I would be remiss if I didn’t point out the Hello Kitty stationery labels this series, “Moments to remember.”

Just because I’m actively inspiring admiration in the girl, doesn’t mean I’m slacking off on my obligation to scar the 9 YO boy. Not long ago I bought him a book in the kids’ section of CostCo. The book, Indiana Jones and the Peril at Delphi*, was handed to me by the 9 YO with the direction to read the following excerpts:

“First, I should tell you a bit about my family,” she said, arching her back as she washed the base of her neck, and the rosy tips of her breasts pushed through the bubbles. – p. 81.

“Put the glasses down,” she said, and slipped her hand around his neck.
“What are you doing?”
She pulled him to her, and retsina spilled on the floor and in the tub. “I think you need a bath.” Her voice was husky, soft, laced with laughter. She wound her wet arms around his back and he toppled over the side, splashing into the warm bath as Dorian’s soft limbs wrapped around him. – pp. 83-84.

That same K-1 teacher who taught them to write taught them to read. It’s really all too bad because I was a much better mom before they learned stuff. Just to add insult to injury, Mz. K-1 had just warned me that kids with mad reading skillz, yo often run into inappropriate content. Just because they can read something doesn’t mean they should. Oopsalay.

The takeaway from these two instances of my children begging me to be a better mother is that I’m a really, really good mom. No. Really. Somebody alert The Mix.

* Did I mention I am a sell-out, er, Amazon Associate?

Mother Earth Day

About mid-way between Earth Day and Mother’s Day, Caddo Artist sent me this:

Caddo Care Carton Contents:

Sandy Springs Buffalo Meat Jerky, Hinton, OK
Pepper Creek Farms Dip Mix, Lawton, OK
EEMB Oatmeal Chocolate Chip Cookie Mix & Peanut Butter Brownie, Lexington, OK
Lasley Roasted Peanuts, Eakly, OK
Scott Farms Tortilla Soup Mix & Reds, Rice, & Spice, Altus, OK
Sooners Salsa, Amigo’s Salsa, Ardmore, OK
Native Roots Market Bumper Sticker, Norman, OK

That there first item was done et straight’way. The brownie soon follered and the salsa wern’t long for this world. I’m not saying that Caddo is fattening me up for reunion slaughter; I am saying I haven’t exhibited much self-control.

Caddo included a card with the quotation, “There is nothing more honorable than motherhood.” I have plans in the coming days to disprove this, but for now, I am embracing the honorific. A separate note read, in part, “I wanted to send the apple pie, it was a party in your mouth with every bite!” The tease! I guess there is honor in motherhood, but cruelty in friendship.

Okay, while she did everything as I have written, the expanded contents of the note were personal, touching, inspiring, and directed straight my way. Perhaps there is nothing more honorable than motherhood, but for sure there’s nothing more humbling than reflective generosity. This mother of three who takes care of her family and friends so well is certainly most honorable.