Bitching With Bethany

Warrior Mom

2011-11-06T11:45:00.014-05:00

I've been thinking a lot about parenthood lately because my oldest friend (not chronologically oldest, just friendship-length oldest) recently had her first baby, a gorgeous almost 10 pound boy. When you watch other people have kids, especially after you've already gone through it, you get to really enjoy the process and bask in the magnitude of the experience. When I was pregnant with Henry, I was just scared I'd hate motherhood and worried that I'd screw it all up. But when you're watching your friend you get to relish the excitement of those last few days of pregnancy before you meet your new baby. You get to realize the magnitude of entering a hospital without a baby and leaving a few days later with your baby and with a new title for yourself: PARENT.
Thinking of Anna's precious baby makes me think of my own babes and where we are with them. Sammy, bless him, is an angel. Well, not entirely. He's a spitfire, and he's completely wild, and he wants at all times to be hugged, kissed, tickled, and interacted with. I love that about him. He reminds me of myself. Thus far, he seems to be doing well, and we're so happy he's ours.
And Henry is. . .Henry. He's a beautiful, funny, silly, curious three year-old; and, just like Sammy, we're so glad he's our son. I feel a little guilty because with all that's been going on with Henry, it sometimes feels like Sam is lost in the shuffle or along for the ride or some other metaphor for "not getting a lot of attention." But then I remind myself we've only been really dealing with this Henry stuff for about a year, and it (hopefully) won't be this intense forever. Hopefully.
Sometime in the past few months something just clicked over and I realized I'm fighting this label that's been attached to my son: Autism. I realized I've been trying so hard to find ways that he's not autistic, and I've just hoping so hard that he's fine and he'll be a normal, healthy, happy boy and grow out of his delayed speech, and his interest in automatic doors, and his lack of eye-contact. But I realized he's still not progressing in ways we hoped he would progress. He just keeps on being Henry. Sweet, funny, silly, affectionate, cute as can be Henry. But also autistic.
I hate Autism. I hate the word. I hate everything that I've ever associated with it. I hate that it's lifelong and incurable. I hate that it affects nearly every aspect of the lives of a person who's afflicted with it and his family. I hate the possibility, even the notion, that it could have my son, that people at the grocery store wonder what's wrong with him, that other kids might not want to play with him, that acquaintances, friends and family might pity Tripp and me, that we might never have relaxed, easy lives with little planning because Henry might not be able to tolerate that. I fucking HATE it.
But as much as it scares me, and saddens me, and freaks me the hell out, again I'm almost certain it's what Henry's got. Around the time I started accepting it and feeling nearly complete despair, Henry's speech therapist gave me the book, "Overcoming Autism" by Lynn Koegel, a psychologist and speech therapist, and Clarie Lazebenik, a mom of a boy with autism. Sometimes it's amazing to me how the universe works. I really don't know how I would have responded to this book if I'd received even a few weeks earlier. But I got it when I got it, and I started reading it immediately. In short, the book has been, no exaggeration, life changing. In ways that no one else has ever been able to, Dr. Koegel described Henry perfectly, giving examples that could easily have been Henry. But she didn't describe these kids like other books--as sad, hopeless cases who would never have friends, be in mainstream classrooms or get married. She used words like "adorable," "sweet," "friendly," and "easy going"--words that are used for normal (the P.C. term is "typically developing"--eh, whatever) kids. She also respectfully and thoughtfully acknowledged how unbelievably scary and depressing it can be to hear that diagnosis about your child. And Claire! Man, she articulated PERFECTLY everything I've been feeling--the absolute terror, the constant worry/panic, the self-consciousness regarding her kid's differences, the sadness.
Since starting the book, I'm seeing things differently. I think Henry is autistic, but I don't see that as the end of the world. I see that there is hope, and I feel incredibly determined to get him everything he needs so he can create whatever life he wants for himself. In some ways, it's been a relief just to accept it: To me at least, Henry seems like a pretty high-functioning "autist" (Tripp's term) rather than a really weird normal kid.
We finally got an appointment at Kennedy Kreiger, the highly-regarded institute in Baltimore that's supposed to be on the cutting edge of autism diagnostic work and research. I feel like a soldier preparing for battle and I just need to get orders from the colonel (the peeps at KK), and then I'm good to go.
Interestingly (at least to me) since my change in mindset, I've had the sobering realization that people who I assumed thought Henry wasn't autistic were actually just keeping their thoughts to themselves for fear that I would lose it. One friend said, "I didn't think you were ready before, but I'm glad you're going to get a second opinion now because I didn't want you to hear the "A" word and freak out."
So my kid is Autistic. I really hate that, and I would do almost anything to change it if I could. But I can't. So, I'm a soldier. Just like every other mom out there, I love my kids so intensely sometimes it physically hurts. I want every opportunity for them, and I will fight like hell to get them what they need to hopefully live happy, healthy lives. But, shit, it's going to be a lot of work.

I Love Fall So Much I'd Consider Naming a Daughter "Autumn" Just to Honor It

2011-09-17T19:06:00.004-04:00

A list of my favorite fall stuff:

1. WEATHER. Cool and clear (or rainy, I don't really care). Point is, I don't feel like I'm dying and my undead corpse is providing a feast for various insects everytime I get the mail.

2. CLOTHES. Love jeans, love jackets, love dresses and boots. Don't get me started on turtlenecks.

3. APPLES AND PUMPKINS. Oh, sweet Lord, how I love apples and pumpkins. Speaking of which. . .

4. PUMPKIN SPICE LATTES. If you haven't had one of these yet, just go ahead and kill yourself for being such an irresponsible idiot.

5. Sleeping with the windows open, and it's nice and cool, so you have to snuggle in under a bunch of blankets

6. Low humidity=good hair

7. Driving with the windows down on a cool day, singing (loudly and obnoxiously)

8. Driving with the windows down on a cool day, singing loudly and obnoxiously with a pumpkin spice latte. . .ah, heaven.

Updates (Old Ladies Continue to Suck)

2011-09-16T12:38:00.016-04:00

Oh, where to begin. . .
It's been a little under two months since Henry was diagnosed as having an Autism Spectrum Disorder, and since then lots has happened. If you haven't read the rest of this blog, I'll give you a short-ish synopsis: Henry was a train wreck for a while, his pediatrician recommended we see the local developmental pediatrician (aka the Autism diagnoser), he got tubes in his ears (based on urging from his speech therapist), he made some huge improvements, we were warned by the speech therapist that this particular developmental pediatrician (hereafter DP) tends to diagnose Autism A LOT, we went anyway, said DP diagnosed Autism. Not only diagnosed Autism, but said that despite the improvements we had seen and Henry being an absolute angel during the 2 hour appointment, "EVERYTHING I've seen today and everything you've reported is consistent with Autism." She gave us no hope and was very vague about what we could expect for Henry. And she gave us an application for a handicap parking decal. I hate her.
With the advice and support of family, friends and colleagues/professionals who have worked with (or at the very least met) Henry, we are now on a waiting list for a second opinion at a highly regarded institute in Baltimore. And now we're just sitting and waiting and watching and hoping that Henry continues to improve.
Henry started preschool a few weeks ago, and after an initial freakout the first time he got on the bus, he seems to like it. Everyday he wakes up saying, "School bus! School bus!" and is excited to put on his backpack and run to the bus stop. I'm relieved that he likes it, I really am, but I'd be dishonest if I didn't say I hoped for results that we're just not seeing. . .at least not yet. Although Henry has made significant improvements in practically every possible way since April (when he (coincidentally?) got ear tubes), it feels to me like he's plateaued. He's saying lots of words, but they're mostly unclear and he rarely says more than one word at a time. Not sure if it's out of laziness, eagerness to get the words out, regression or what but if we don't stay on him about saying every word of a sentence, he'll condense the sentence to the fewest possible words/sounds. For example, "I want more please" will become "more please" or "more" or (if we try to get him to say the whole thing) "want more". And not sure if it's out of frustration from us making him say it over and over again or if he never really knew what the words meant to begin with, but a lot of times he'll start adding other words, like "more yes" (instead of "more please"). It's incredibly frustrating and time-consuming for us (his parents) and him.
Eye contact and interest in others is sporadic. Henry's guaranteed to be interested in you if you're going to tickle or chase him or if you're going to snuggle with him at bedtime. Occasionally, he's interested in others at other times, but that's not a guarantee. It's often difficult to get his attention, he still sometimes screams in frustration, and lately out of nowhere he started lining up his trains (a symptom of Autism). What's very sad and scary is we're getting to a point where friends' children who are younger than Henry are surpassing him in speech, interest in others, etc. I feel so helpless, watching our kid stay stuck in whatever it is he's stuck in.
I've tried staying very involved with Henry's preschool teacher (she's actually a special ed teacher), but her feedback seems purposefully vague, which worries me. I want her to be saying, "Henry's doing great! He's making friends, having fun, doing well and is obviously very smart!" Instead her only real feedback has been, "Henry has transitioned smoothly." Oooookay.
So, here we are. Just waiting and hoping. And everyone is telling me, "You've got to love him no matter what" and of course that isn't even a question. I will love him more than anyone in the world forever, but that doesn't mean I'm not disappointed, and scared, and heartbroken at the prospect of my son being unhappy, relentlessly teased, unapproachable, unintelligent, unable to communicate or disengaged from and/or disinterested in others.
Henry's meltdowns are so draining (just like every other kid's meltdowns are draining to their parents); but the responses I get from others are especially upsetting. It doesn't help that Henry's the size of an average 5 year old; but he's getting to an age where a certain type of behavior is expected of him. Of course I'm used to it because I see it everyday, but I get that it's alarming to hear a kid who looks like he's 4 or 5 babble incoherently or scream in frustration. And boy oh boy do people LOVE to express themselves about it! Last week a kindly (truly no sarcasm intended; she's very sweet) WalMart greeter asked us Henry's age. When we said he'd be three at Halloween she replied, "Oh, that explains it. I thought he was about five and that he was Autistic or something." Sigh. This lady really seemed to mean well. What can you do but give a nod and a tight smile in that situation? The more upsetting situations are like today when I brought Henry to the doctor to check on his ear tubes. Henry, Sam and I were in the waiting room for about 20 minutes before Henry tried to push his stroller into a crowded area. I stopped him and told him he could push it in the empty area. Cue primal scream. Two older women (BWB fans, you know my record with them) who had been chatting nearby shot me a disgusted look and made a "tsk" sound. I calmly told Henry that was not acceptable. Cue second (albeit softer) primal scream. Now they were completely disgusted. I ignored them; but at that moment the nurse came to escort us to the doctor's office. Henry jumped onto a chair, hid his face, and started crying. I told him he could walk or get in the stroller, and he melted to the floor moaning. Exasperated, I apologized to the nurse, removed Sam from our Baby Bjorn knockoff and put Sam in the stroller (at which point, Sam started crying), picked up Henry and maneuvered them both into the office. During the entirety of this experience, the two old ladies were laughing (yes, LAUGHING!) at me. To my face. I gave them both the 20 second glare that's meant to imply "You want to say something to me, you ugly twat? 'Cause I'm ready" which obviously made them uncomfortable but did not stop their laughing. This is what I contend with. I hate this kind of situation so much. I do not want to be the person with the screaming, freaking out kid who everyone thinks is a brat. I don't want to be that person! Likewise, I do NOT want every nasty, nosy, self-righteous old hag on the east coast "giving me the business", as my Grandma would say. But it feels like that's what's happening, and it feels totally out of my control.
Meanwhile the confusion regarding Henry and what's going on with him continues. His ENT (who, upon entering the room, didn't know if Henry or Sam was the patient and BARELY speaks English despite getting his MD in 1978 from the University of Kentucky) couldn't find Henry's left ear tube, then could, then said, "It's probably there" regarding his right ear tube, although he couldn't see it. When I asked why he couldn't see it, he replied, "lot of wax". I asked if that could affect his hearing, and he said "no". (Um, I realize I'm not a doctor, but I'm pretty sure he's full of shit. Especially since NIH's website says, "Wax blockage is one of the most common causes of hearing loss.") I mentioned that when I was a kid, I often had to get wax removed from my ears, and he said, "Okay, byebye, see you at Christmastime!" Jesusfuckingchrist.
Again, so here we are. I don't know what to say about any of it. Sometimes just use this blog as a form of therapy and communication to whoever takes the time to read it. I just love my kids so damn much. I know it's totally a cliche and sappy, but I really did not know I could love anyone like this until I had them. And I don't mean that in an entirely positive way: It makes things complicated, it makes me feel incredibly vulnerable because here is this PERSON who I would in a second give my life for, and this person operates completely independently of me. If Henry has Autism, or gets cancer, or gets in a car wreck, there is nothing I can do about that fact. Of course, I can react to any of those situations, I can get him help. But I can't stop anything bad from ever happening to him or Sam. And that is so scary.

A la Carte Parenting Styles

2011-08-02T10:50:00.003-04:00

Reading (okay, scanning) every parenting book I can get my hands on (okay, every book someone I like recommends). I'm now on a "Love and Logic" kick, but there are a few things from other sources that really speak to me. The following is a list of what I'm liking now (all of these have been interpreted and restated by me, so don't blame the books if this stuff doesn't work):

From Love and Logic:
1. Don't constantly save your children. Allow them to make mistakes and to deal with the consequences/fix their mistakes.
2. When disciplining misbehavior, express empathy first, as in "Aw man, now you can't play with the bat anymore. Bummer."
3. As often as possible, give children choices that don't hurt anyone else in the universe, i.e. "Do you want to put on your socks or your pants first?"

From Supernanny:
1. Toddlers often simultaneously want conflicting things, i.e. I want my shoes off and on at the same time.
2. Reacting to inappropriate behavior by screaming, hitting, etc. just shows children their misbehavior is powerful and models that screaming is an appropriate way to react to disappointment.

From 1-2-3 Magic:
1. Children are not little adults. They are not born with empathy, compassion or the ability to consider consequences.

Interested in what works for your, Readers. Hook a Mom up!

An Attitude of Gratitude

2011-07-18T15:14:00.002-04:00

In no particular order, right now I'm so thankful for:

1. Pizza, particularly giant New York style, super thin slices with big puffy crusts,
2. Louie C.K.'s TV show,
3. Grapes,
4. "Baby Babble", a speech therapy DVD Henry is obsessed with,
5. Nighttime diapers,
6. A cool breeze on a blisteringly hot day,
7. Tripp's begun a ritual of making me some killer smoothies before bedtime (not a sexual euphemism),
8. Sam has the biggest, cutest, most awesomely sweet smile and he breaks into one often,
9. Henry and Sam both have incredibly hearty laughs,
10. Henry's bouncy blond hair,
11. Pretty much any type of frappucinno, as they are basically all that keeps me awake/sane anymore,
12. I've got some freaking badass friends and family,
13. Michelle, Henry's speech therapist,
14. Yoga. Ugh, that makes me cringe. Ah, so what, who cares, I'm gonna say it: I LOVE YOGA!

"A" is for Autism?

2011-07-18T11:32:00.011-04:00

Oh, where to begin?
If you read this blog (and you know you do) you're no doubt familiar with my darling Henry and his spitfire personality. You're also familiar with the highs and lows of that personality--the raucous laughter and the epic meltdowns. Complicating Henry's personality is his lack of speech. Henry is WAY behind in talking. It's like he got to around 9 months and sort of plateaued for a year or so. He's been in speech therapy since November, and he's definitely progressed but not at the rate we hoped.
A few months ago, Henry's new-ish pediatrician (we changed docs because the first one seemed unfazed by pretty much everything going on with Henry) recommended we visit the local developmental pediatrician, mentioning something about "the spectrum", as in the Autistic spectrum. My heart sank, as Autism has always been one of my big fears about having kids. I know a zillion things can go wrong with living organisms (it's incredible to me so many of us are mostly okay), but Autism has always been high on my list of fears. For anyone who doesn't know much about Autism, here's a general definition: A pervasive developmental disorder characterized by severe deficits in social interaction and communication, by an extremely limited range of activities and interests, and often by the presence of repetitive, stereotyped behaviors.
My experiences with Autistic kids and adults is very small. I've seen a few of each professionally, and found each of them very difficult to relate to. (I know, I know, everyone is different and we're all unique snowflakes, but I'm generalizing here.) Each of these particular clients seemed aloof, oblivious and out of touch to me. Basically, I just didn't like them. (Fortunately (most definitely for them), none of them remained my clients for long.) I'm also pretty sure an ex-boyfriend was an undiagnosed Aspergers case, and that dude was a huge pain in the ass.
(I'm sure you can see where this is going. Sorry, I'm going to write the whole damn story, since this has become my therapy.)
Well, since the new pediatrician made this recommendation, Henry has come a long way. . .sort of. He knows a bunch of words and uses them (for the most part) correctly. He knows all his ABC's and can count to 10 (although he says "W" for 7). He waves/says "bye bye" and "hi", often shows interest in other children, plays with others (even strangers) if they're willing to chase and tickle him, points out objects of interest ("car!" "tree!"), and can take turns. Then again, he often doesn't respond when we call his name, doesn't seem particularly interested in sharing experiences with us, and often doesn't connect with other children.
Whatever. We thought we were in good shape. We went to the appointment with the developmental pediatrician a few weeks ago, even though the speech therapist hinted that this particular agency had a tendency to overdiagnose Autism. That gave me pause, but the pediatrician insisted we go. I was sure that the doctor would say something like, "There are some symptoms here that concern me, but he's made so much progress over the past few months that I'd like to see where he is after he starts preschool."
So, we go to the appointment, everything seems to go well, Henry plays well for about 90 minutes with a speech therapist he never met, the doctor leaves for a few minutes, comes back in and says, "Yep, he's Autistic." Well, she doesn't actually say it like that, but that's what it felt like to me. There was no discussion of MAYBE. There was no mention of him doing well in the past few months or doing exceptionally well (in my opinion) during the doctor's hour and a half observation of Henry. It felt very much like she was saying, "Yeah, you know all that stuff about Henry improving and how he played nicely in this tiny room with a stranger? Doesn't matter. He's still Autistic." The doctor was pleasant and attempted to be empathic, but she also seemed confused and bewildered by my weeping, as she continued to say, "I'm sure this isn't a surprise to you?"
She wasn't able to tell us WHERE he is on the autistic spectrum, no mention of high functioning or low functioning. Basically it was like, "Your kid has this lifelong, incurable, potentially devastating condition. He could be the next Bill Gates or he could be dependent on you for the rest of your lives. Here's a brochure about a $30,000/year Autistic school and an application for a handicap parking decal. Have a great day!" I'm sure there was more to it than that, but that's what it felt like. I walked out of the appointment crushed, stunned, tearful, and lost; and I stayed that way for about 24 hours. Tripp, bless him, barely had time to respond himself and just tried to keep me from spiraling into despair. He is disappointed and scared, but seemed much more emotionally prepared to get this news than me.
The next week was a weepy blur. I constantly watched Henry for "signs." He just responded to me calling his name, of course he's not Autistic! He misused a word he's known for months; he's not progressing in his language like I thought--definitely a sign of Autism. At any moment, I could be 100% convinced he either was or wasn't Autistic. I felt high on life when I thought he wasn't and crushed when I thought he was.
The WORD "Autism", the label "Autistic" feels very final and scary to me. It feels like a restriction on what we can expect from Henry. Of course, all parents have hopes and aspirations for their kids. I think I want what every parents wants--first and foremost, kids who are healthy and happy. But I also hoped Henry would be friendly, and loving, and empathic, and gentle, and smart, and funny and a good friend and someone who will hire the best nurse's aide money can buy to change my diapers when I'm old but also someone who stands up for himself and doesn't take shit from anyone. The label "Autism" seems to stop short the possibility of all that. My kid won't be able to relate to others. He'll be the weird kid, won't look at us, will be stuck in his own world. Worse, he could be throwing crazy tantrums and not speaking when he's 10, 12, 15. . .
Friends and family have been very supportive and have lots of advice. Basically there are two camps: 1. Don't worry about it/ Get another opinion. Some have said there's NO WAY he's Autistic, doctors overdiagnose this disorder all the time and you were warned that this doctor in particular overdiagnoses. 2. Good, you got the diagnosis, now you can get the help Henry needs.
Meanwhile, we're home with the "After the Diagnosis" packet (and about a billion Autism websites), most of which say you've got to intervene EARLYEARLYEARLY and WITH INTENSITY. Age three is too late! If you wait till they're four, you're done for! They've got to have 20-25 hours of 1:1 treatment per week, especially when they're two to three years old!
HOLYFUCKINGSHIT!
Basically, it's just been a whirlwind. And my sweet, sassy, spitfire Henry is completely oblivious to it all. He plays with kids when he feels like it, he cuddles when he feels like it, he completely ignores us when he feels like it, he laughs and cries with intensity, he has meltdowns, and yet sometimes he shocks me with how easily he shakes off disappointment. Good days and not so good days. Actually, more like good moments and not so good moments.
And here's where I am with it: My aunt said something that just hit me the right way: "Henry's not Autistic, he's Henry." And that's the truth. He's Henry, and he'll always be my Henry, my son. No diagnosis or problem, however big or small, will change that. Whatever he faces, I will be right there by his side. I love him so much, and I want nothing but the best for him. But if he's got this, I'll be there with him. And even if he doesn't have this, he surely will have something else to battle.
So, Henry is Henry. And no matter what, I got your back, buddy.

Dadders

2011-06-29T10:12:00.018-04:00

Gee WHIZ a lot has happened since my last post. The three people who read this already know all this, but what the hell--might as well put it here for posterity.
FIRST (and, realistically, the only thing I'll write about today): My dad had a heart attack. That was a crazy time, people. I recognize there is a lot I don't know about a lot of things; but I was completely CLUELESS about heart attacks. It seemed to me that everyone knows someone who knows someone who has had a heart attack, survived and is pretty much fine, right? (Okay, I might have been the only one who felt this way.) I had no idea that it takes about 4 minutes for the brain to start dying (medical professionals, please correct all my bullshit science), and it was very, VERY likely that if my dad survived the heart attack he would have severe brain damage that would result in him spending the rest of his days in a nursing home. WHAT?! If you'd asked me 3 months ago about possible long-term effects of a heart attack, that wouldn't have crossed my mind. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
Before I knew my dad had a heart attack, I watched him collapse in the last 100 yards of a half marathon we were completing together. He was a couple hundred feet ahead of me, and I could barely see because of the monsoon-like conditions (seriously, streets flooded and officials shut down the race before some people could finish). I saw someone ahead of me collapse, and my thought process went like this: Oh no, someone fell. I bet they were dehydrated. . .Huh, they're not getting up. . .Um, I guess it COULD be Dad. . .Holyfuckingshit, is it Dad?!
By that point I had reached him, and the first thing I saw were his shorts and jacket. Somehow that was what shocked me most--more than seeing his ashen face and his lifeless body. How could this possibly be my Dad? My Dad who had trained so hard and who is so freakishly, annoyingly diligent about what he eats! He was seizing and his face was gray. Such a bizarre and surreal experience. People say to me, "You must have been so scared!" and I was. But really it was one of those experiences I've heard people in the therapy biz refer to as "schizing" or "splitting". It was like my mind split into several compartments. The first was very matter-of-fact: Very calmly I thought, "Dad is dying. I'm watching him die. I'm going to have to call Mom and tell her Dad is dead." I cried quietly as I watched the paramedics, but in an unexplainable way I felt very calm. Another part of my brain (which for some reason wasn't openly displaying itself) was incredibly sad, helpless and panicked.
Thank God (or the universe, or serendipity, or whatever it was) we were at a place in the race in which people were around us. Unbelievably, my dad was getting amazing care right there in the middle of the street. I later learned that a spectator (who happened to be a nurse practitioner) was just a feet from my dad when he fell and was the first to begin CPR. An ambulance was a dozen feet away. The EMT crew had an ER physician on board that day who was training them to begin hypothermia treatment during transport to the hospital.
Our luck (or, again, whatever it was) is simply unbelievable to me. It gives me chills. Literally five minutes earlier we were jogging in a neighborhood, and no one was around. We actually considered the possibility that we had gotten turned around and were no longer on course. But, no, the ridiculously awful weather kept potential participants and spectators indoors. We didn't have our cell phones (they would have weighed us down, people!), so I couldn't have called anyone. If his heart had stopped ten minutes later, we would have been driving home; and as you can tell by this post's first paragraph, I certainly wouldn't have known what to do.
A few excruciating days followed as we waited to see if my Dad would come out okay from his treatment-induced coma. Our family and friends were absolutely amazing during this time--right there by our sides (and on the phone, and over the Internet), helping out with everything. And then early the morning of April 18th, we got a call from his nurse that he was awake. We zoomed to the hospital and there he was--groggy and weak, but talking, and smiling and recognizing us. This was absolutely one of the happiest days of my life.
It's been just over two months, and my Dad is back home, working full time, just started jogging again as part of his cardiac rehab. Simply amazing. We are so, SO lucky.
But this blog is about bitching, people, not gratitude. So here comes the complaining. During this whole experience I developed a fantasy of how my dad would turn out: He would make a full physical and mental recovery (of course), but he would also awaken with a new philosophy on life. Dad would decide that since life is so unpredictable and precious he now wanted to spend as much time as possible with his friends and family, so he would retire and he and my mom would move closer to me. He would let go of all grudges and judgments and just love and accept everyone for who they are and what they can offer. He would be peaceful, and content, and happy, and joyous, and wise, but not dogmatic. Sort of like a living, breathing "Life is Good" shirt.
But that didn't happen. Instead my Dad is. . .well, my Dad. He's exactly the way he was 1 minute before his heart attack. Judgmental, rigid, stubborn, a touch homophobic and a bit self-centered. (He's also funny, kind, generous and hilariously absent-minded). But I'm starting to realize (slowly, begrudgingly and thanks entirely to Tripp) that this is okay. Not only IS it okay, but it needs to be okay because I don't have a choice in the matter. Such a cliche, but I can't control anyone else--a lesson I apparently need to learn over and over. My Dad is my Dad, and I am eternally, immeasurably, overwhelmingly thankful to everyone and everything that contributed to his recovery and to the fact that I can call him on the phone today and tell him what a turd he's being. And as for all that guru, mountain top, peace and love shit? Well, I guess that will have to be what I aspire to. I love you, Dad.

Raindrops on Roses and Whiskers on Kittens

2011-04-14T11:43:00.005-04:00

This site is mostly dedicated to kvetching; but it would be dishonest and depressing if it was completely filled with my (mostly pointless) rants and complaints. So, here is a list (in no particular order) of things I am soooo grateful for:
1. Sam thinks I'm hilarious and laughs at me all the time. He also loves to be kissed, tickled, hugged and all-around manhandled,
2. Today's weather is absolutely 100% perfect. Sixty-two degrees, sunny, no humidity. It's UNBELIEVABLY BEAUTIFUL,
3. Henry had an appointment with an ENT today, and they can do his ear surgery NEXT WEEK! (We were going to have to wait a month at the first place.) ALSO, Henry was an absolute angel at the appointment, despite the whole thing taking a lot longer than we had planned and a gazillion people putting all kinds of medical devices in his ears. I almost cried I was so proud of him,
4. Tripp. Just everything about him,
5. Grandma Margie. As is the case with most people, the things that drive me nuts about her are also the things I love most about her. Case in point, her obsession with my children: While that can have some annoying fallout, her interactions with Henry and Sam are some of the sweetest, cutest, loveliest, most beautiful treasures of my life,
6. It's spring and there are big, beautiful dogwoods in bloom all over the place,
7. All of our wonderful, amazing friends who offered so much support and love during my virtual freak-out last week,
8. Chocolate and good coffee,
9. My recumbent bike,
10. Everything else. We have a roof over our heads, access to good health care, food, clean water, and the people we love are healthy and happy most of the time.
I am truly, truly blessed.
I'm about to make myself vomit, so I'll be back to bitching soon.

The Will of a 2 Year-Old vs. The Determination of a Mommy

2011-04-11T13:52:00.006-04:00

Is it just me or are 2 year-olds unbelievably strong-willed? I know, I know, everyone says, oh yeah, that's a 2 year-old blahblahblah; but I can't believe their little brains are capable of the maniacal power games that Henry seems to play.
Picture it, nap time today: Henry spent two hours (this is not an exaggeration) jumping out of bed, running down the hall, and then standing in front of me jumping up and down, shrieking, grabbing toilet paper, flushing toilets, and doing anything else he could in what I can only assume were attempts to rile me up. In true "Supernanny" form (I'm a devotee), I did not engage. I ignored for a while (which usually, eventually, works--in that Henry gets tired/bored and eventually just goes to sleep). In the past week, my next step has been to lock him in his room--something I was initially against (what do I do when he can break out? And isn't the point to get him to learn the rules?). But several friends told me this worked for them, so I tried it. However, my little devil learned how to break the baby lock in less than a week. I locked him in today, hoping that he wouldn't bother fiddling with it; and by the time I was down the hall he was running after me, lock in hand. Finally, I began to silently escort him back to his bed. Again, I did not engage: After I put him back in bed the first time, I said "It's time for rest, honey." The next 247 times, I kept silent and made no eye contact. I even tried to make the walk back to his room as boring as possible--walking slowly and quietly so Henry couldn't run. But this went on for two hours, people. TWO HOURS. Henry never got upset, pitched a fit, or cried. He was completely content the entire time.
I find this kind of thing so difficult. As a parent, you start questioning yourself--at least I do. Am I doing the right thing? Is this ever going to work? Even if it works today, am I going to have to start all over with this tomorrow, and the next day, and the next day? It's especially hard when you're alone or (most difficult) when you're with someone who does not support you. My mother, God bless her, is thoroughly, completely, head over heels infatuated with my children; and as a result refuses to enforce anything resembling a rule. She also questions me (that's putting it mildly; it's really more like an active criticism at best and a complete tantrum at worst) when I'm attempting to set limits with Henry. So, when I'm with Grandma Margie, it usually goes something like this:

Me: Henry, it's time for bed.
Henry: Wah!
Grandma Margie (to me): Are you sure he has to go to bed now? He didn't eat enough dinner. He's been sick! This is a new environment! He's excited to see his grandma! Can I go in there and talk to him? The fan is running in his room, and it's keeping him awake! The room is too warm! The room is too cold! Do you think I should go in there and sing to him? He doesn't like the color of the room! Don't you think I should go sit with him? I'm going to go sit with him.

This continues until I either give in or tell her (usually loudly) to STOP, in which case the whole thing starts again within a minute if Henry is continuing to complain. The point is, when you're a new parent (again, at least for me) and you've never done this before, and you're trying to raise your kids right, it really sucks when other adults aren't supporting you.
Anyway, I'm proud of myself today because I stayed calm (deep breathing helps), did not engage, and kept repeating to myself, "I WILL out will this two-year old!" Eventually, Henry got tired and instead of popping up and running down the hall after I put him in bed, he got up at a regular human rate and walked down the hall. Silently celebrating a chink in his armor, I carried him back to bed; and he immediately started to get back up. I put my hand on his belly and quietly said, "We don't have to do this, honey. You can relax. It's okay. It's time to rest now, but we'll play later." He went to sleep.
I'm fucking exhausted but proud of myself.

Pity Party, Interrupted

2011-04-07T19:25:00.002-04:00

Just put Henry to bed. He snuggled up to me, put my hands on his cheeks and fell asleep while I quietly sobbed. Like I said to my friend who recently revealed she has a bun in the oven, motherhood is messy and complicated. But ultimately, you just love these damn kids so much it hurts.

Too Exhausted to Think of a Title

2011-04-07T11:08:00.007-04:00

It's been a shitty week. Four trips to the pediatrician's office, a visit to the ER, a hospital admission (complete with a blood draw that took a four-point restraint), three misdiagnoses, a horrendous rash, a five day fever, and all sorts of antibiotics and antihistamines later, Henry is finally back to baseline. He was supposed to have tubes put in his ears this week, but that was canceled because of all the other medical insanity happening with him. We're so bummed about the tubes because it could be the answer to all of Henry's problems (constant sickness, lack of language skills, incredibly low frustration tolerance-even for a two year old); and it took weeks to schedule the surgery the first time. Now, we're back to square one. On top of it all, at his post-hospitalization check up yesterday his pediatrician brought up in the gentlest way possible that she'd like to refer him to their developmental specialist because "even if he's on the spectrum. . ." Oh, Jesus. My mind went into overload and switched off. One of my biggest fears is that Henry will be "on the spectrum", as in the Autistic spectrum, as in he will have a life-long, incurable condition that will (among other things) cause him to have difficulty connecting with people. I've worked professionally with people on the spectrum, and I realize it's completely my hang-up, but I have had so much trouble with the people I've met who have had these diagnoses. Connecting with people, finding common ground, empathizing (and being empathized WITH) is so meaningful for me. It's meaningful for everyone, I realize; but this is my blog so I'm talking about me. From the time he was in utero I've been scared shitless that my kid will be autistic.
Anyway, for the past two days, I've been trying to over-compensate for the horrible week Henry has had by doing fun things with him. Yesterday, I took him to an indoor playground; today took him to get cupcakes with a mommy and me group. At both these child-friendly events, Henry had complete meltdowns. Yesterday, after the initial freak-out he sort of kept it in check and just sat on the floor moaning while we waited in line to pay. However, this did not keep a busybody old lady from making a snide comment about my parenting. This has happened probably a dozen times-strangers (almost always old ladies) forcing completely unsolicited parenting advice on me, expressing outrage, or making sarcastic, nasty comments about how I'm dealing with my kid. I hate old ladies and I hope they all die in fires. No, I don't; but it felt good to write that.
Today, mid-walk to the cupcake party Henry collapsed in the street and literally began kicking and screaming. As I was holding Sam (and Henry is 40 pounds) it was physically impossible for me to carry Henry, so I essentially dragged him to the curb like a giant bag filled with wiggling, screeching kittens. A mom from the group saw me and smiled breezily as she gently shepherded her children into the yard where everyone was meeting. "Do you need help?" she asked and didn't wait for my response, just happily slid on her sunglasses and followed her children. I continued to drag Henry closer to the yard, watching a half dozen other moms contentedly chat while their children happily played together, all of them completely oblivious to me and the human tornado at my feet. I got down to Henry's level (a Supernanny suggestion) and firmly said, "Henry, you need to calm down and walk with mommy to our friends, or we're going home." This appeared to make a 0% difference in his attitude, so I said, "Okay, we're going." Frustrated and determined, I struggled to pick him up (still holding Sam, mind you), and fortunately my dear friend Liz showed up and helped me carry a still kicking and screaming Henry to the car.
Basically what I'm saying is, I'm spent. I don't even know what this post is supposed to be about. It was going to be about how old, bitchy ladies who think they know what's best for me and my kids had better step off. But I'm too tired to even get into that. I'm just worn down. And I long for the support of people who understand me, and empathize with me, and get what I'm going through, and can/will say, "I've been there." As in, "I've been in plenty of social situations where I was the only mom with a lunatic toddler, and I've felt embarrassed, and sad, and exhausted, and worried, and fed the hell up."
Honestly, I'm probably going to have to find a support group for parents whose kids are " on the spectrum."

Holy F-ing S!

2011-02-21T13:31:00.002-05:00

I'm a parent of two kids. How was that allowed to happen? More later, but I think a description of my current appearance will suffice to describe how it's going: Currently in my underwear, with damp hair, teeth haven't been brushed in days, a fussy 12 pound baby strapped to my chest (his head precariously dangling over the edge of the inappropriately attached Maya wrap; so my left arm is constantly raised to hold said head), running around maniacally trying to find shoes, pack baby items, arouse 2 year old from nap, soothe 2 year old after waking from nap, put children in car relatively unscathed (me, not them--they fight it), and get out of the house so I can only arrive 15 minutes late to my doctor's appointment.
HELLO, motherhood!

Updates

2010-12-09T14:44:00.007-05:00

Sheesh, I last wrote in September? What a slacker I've been. Here's the quick and dirty: We haven't sold our house yet. After a brief burst of inspiration to sell it myself (and being tantalized and tormented for months by a seemingly kind and benign but truly deceptive and maniacal retired couple who only wore track suits in our presence), I completely lost steam and became dejected/certain this place was never going to sell; and while we're on the subject (here is where I snowball into my angst-cycle) we can't afford to buy a bigger house, we can't afford to move, we don't know where we want to live, what if Tripp gets a new job and we have to relocate two days after we move, we're going to be poor, and what's the point?
After weeks of this, I finally got fed up driving myself crazy. Call it Taoism, the Secret, or a reference to the old Alcoholics Anonymous saying, "Let go and let God", I'm giving it up to the universe. So, we hired a Realtor, she's going to try to sell it, and if it sells, great. If it doesn't, fine. In the meantime, I've decided I'm going to do the things I love: Namely, hang out with my family and friends and enjoy my life. Sometimes I need to get over myself and remember I'm, literally, the gabillionth person in the world to have more than one kid; and most people in the world are lucky to have a roof over their heads. . .let alone a relatively new, well-functioning roof attached to a lovely little home in an assisted living community.

Wait. . .Two Year Olds are Destructive?

2010-09-03T11:20:00.007-04:00

As noted in earlier posts, our ultimate goal for this year is to sell our current house for the smallest loss possible and move into a larger house so we have room for Baby 2 (from here on, referred to as SS for "Sammy Sweetheart") and the grandparents who will God-willing stay and help us as we make the adjustment from a 3 to a 4-person household (adjustment is scheduled to be complete when Henry turns thirty-nine or I'm dead, whichever comes last). Anyway, as you might imagine, BEFORE we can do any of this, we must make our current home presentable; and there begins the first problem. I always heard about two year-olds being mischievous and temperamental; and now that I own one I want to empathize with everyone who has had one and let everyone else know: IT'S SO TRUE. Henry is a personified hurricane, moving through our house in a path of destruction. Before 9 am today, Henry had: emptied the kitchen pantry, emptied the full kitchen garbage can and spread its contents across the floor, upended two hampers of dirty clothes, torn an entire new roll of toilet paper to shreds (Tripp and I foolishly thought we were past this phase and began storing the toilet paper rolls close to the toilets--MISTAKE), and repeatedly pulled clothing hanging in closets from hangers. All of this while I was in the room with him or in the next room. It feels hopeless to try to keep the house clean, and I'm struggling not to go down the rabbit hole of despair: Is this completely pointless? We're never going to be able to keep our home clean enough to show to company, let alone potential buyers.
Think it's time to take a lesson from Sesame Street's Mrs. Sparklenose: Do fairies say never? SOMETIMES!
But this isn't going to be one of them.

Newsflash: Having No Money Sucks

2010-07-23T10:58:00.006-04:00

Four months pregnant with Lil' Bean and having trouble getting a handle on this. On the one hand, I'm super excited for this newest addition to our family. I think of how Henry has changed our lives for the better, and it's awe-inspiring. Now there's another little person on the way to mix things up again. I'm so excited and feel so lucky. Okay, enough mush, onto the bitching.
I'm scared shitless, people. SCARED. Henry had a full on nuclear meltdown at Panera Bread earlier this week when I wouldn't let him run through the restaurant and open all the doors. I'm talking screaming, limbs-flailing, head-banging, full-body writhing, rolling on the floor the entire three minutes during which I ordered and waited while the staff triple-teamed filling it in order to get us the hell out of there asap. Fortunately, the place was mostly empty, but the few patrons (all adults with no children present) each gave me a tight smile/eyebrow raise as if to indicate, "Would you please DO SOMETHING about that?" All I could think was, "What am I going to do with two? I can barely physically contain the one I have (a 35 pound almost two year-old is surprisingly strong)."
We live in a two bedroom house which is already about to bust at the seams. Now Lil' BowWow is on his way (I'm certain it's a boy), and we're faced with the timeless question, "Where are we going to put him?" Clearly, the most logical answer is to move, but then the other big question, "Where?" There are several areas in Roanoke that I like; but frankly, we can't afford to live in any of them. And do we buy or rent? Can we even sell the house we're in? Then there's childcare. We have a sweet deal with an awesome sitter who Henry loves now; but I've avoided asking her how she feels about watching a newborn in addition to Henry because I'm pretty sure she's not crazy about the idea. Also, childcare (even the sweet deal we have now) is expensive! Can I afford to work part-time when I'm paying so much for childcare? I really want my mother to quit her job and come live with us a few days/week; but she works and needs the money, and we can't afford to pay her a comparable amount. In times when I feel a lack of control (such as now) I tend to want to focus on little things I can control. Decorating Henry and the baby's rooms when we finally do move is my immediate instinct. But I'm trying not to do that because we don't have any freaking money and we're looking for a house! (I'm sure the fact that in the last month we replaced a wonky washer/dryer and had to shell out several thousand dollars to resurface our driveway is playing into my desire NOT to spend money). So, basically, I'm reminded on many levels that having no money sucks. I'm sure no one can relate to this. Sarcasm, the lowest form of humor, is my defense mechanism. Share your stories of poverty and help me feel better, please.

Home Shopping

2010-07-09T12:47:00.003-04:00

I love real estate, people. Seriously. Growing up, on any given weekend my Mom and I would go to open houses and take note of what we liked and didn't. Instead of doodling, I often visit one of the big real estate web-sites: homes, realestate, zillow, trulia, etc. and window shop, see what's out there. No joke, I do that for fun. But now that we're gearing up for Baby 2 and we live in a rather small house that feels like it's shrinking, we're under the gun so to speak to find another dwelling. What was once fun has become incredibly stressful; and I want nothing more than to avoid the whole thing. Adding kids to the mix complicates it. And adding the whole, "we might be here a while" thing is something I'm totally unfamiliar with. Since age 21, I've never lived in a place longer than 2 years. Until now. Knowing that we'll probably be somewhere short-term allows a certain amount of freedom: Who really cares if the neighbors are cooking meth when we'll be gone in a few months? Now we're talking about potentially living in a place long-term and having two kids we're responsible for who we want to go to a good school and have safe places to play and people to play with. Being responsible is a buzz kill. I miss the meth heads.

Movie Review 8: Michael Cera Can Do No Wrong

2010-07-09T12:42:00.005-04:00

Listen here, Nick Twisp fans: The Youth in Revolt movie is surprisingly good and thoughtfully done. I had my doubts about Michael Cera playing what I considered to be the nerdy if slightly sociopathic lead; but he did a great job! The story isn't completely true to the book, but it captures the essence. And a great cast including Fred Willard, Jean Smart, and as noted earlier the eternally adorable Michael Cera. 26 Stars!

Apologies, Reader.

2010-06-28T17:50:00.002-04:00

I have been super-slack about updating my blog, which I find alternately completely unacceptable and completely understandable. Such is the mind-weather of a pregnant woman. That's right, PREGNANT. I'm sure whoever reads this already knows I'm with child, but just to log it, here are the facts. Due mid-January, so far little bitta nausea and extreme fatigue, but no puking so far (fingers crossed), craving canned ravioli, Indian food, and peaches. Feeling very excited and blessed, but also scared shitless. One baby I can handle. Sort of. With the exception of his nuclear meltdown moods, in a given day Henry and I can generally run a few errands, straighten up, play, visit friends, and have an all-around pleasant day. But two? I don't know about two. I think my fear partly stems from me being an only child. I really don't understand the dynamics of having more than one child. What do you do if they both need you? What do you do if they both need you and you're about to tear your own hair out because you haven't slept, bathed, changed clothes, brushed your hair, or had four consecutive minutes to yourself in three days? (I've already experienced this with one.) As I've mentioned, Henry has been a wonderful, awesome kid and I would never change anything about him. BUT, he was a couple dozen handfuls when he was an infant. Can I survive another intense newborn and a fairly intense toddler?
I realize all of these things are problems of a lucky person. I feel incredibly grateful that I had a healthy pregnancy with Henry and that now we have this awesome, spirited kid. And we absolutely, knowingly made the choice to have Henry and to have Lil' Tadpole. So, in conclusion, I'm feeling scared, excited, happy, exhausted, hungry, nauseated, worried, and mostly grateful.

Addictive Personality

2010-05-01T16:27:00.003-04:00

Why do I love buying new clothes so much? While we're on the subject, why do I feel giddy, longing and just a smidge guilty when I pass a Starbucks? People who crave/do in moderation, be thankful.

Spit in my Eye With Alpha Phi

2010-03-29T14:30:00.011-04:00

While waiting in a ridiculously long line at the Las Vegas Airport's Starbucks, I overheard the following conversation between two sorority sisters (I know they were sorority sisters because they looked like 13 year-old prostitutes; and the only pause in their discussion about which has more carbs-croissants or scones-was to swap rush stories. Look, it was a long line, okay!?):
A: (Taking her wallet out) I'm getting this!
B: NO! There's no way. I know you couldn't afford this trip, and I'm. . .
A: NO! You've paid for too much. . .
B: (Taking A by the shoulders, looking into her eyes, and exclaiming LOUDLY) Listen to me. It's my parents' money; IT DOESN'T MATTER.
Wow.
B loudly repeated that whole "it doesn't matter" line several times before A eventually shrugged, put her wallet away, and gathered extra snacks since she wasn't footing the bill after all.
Look, we all go through dumbass phases when we think our parents are retarded, have never felt the same feelings we're feeling, or owe us something. I can let that slide based on the age of these girls. But for Cripe's sake, have some degree of humility, of realization that you're surrounded by old people (old people who haven't had their coffee yet!) who certainly are NOT sympathetic to your fucktarded argument. (A bunch of us curmudgeons exchanged squinted "WTF?" looks.)
Reader, I'm begging you: If my kids ever remotely mirror these turdettes, please take me by the shoulders, look deep into my eyes, and spit right in my face. I'll get the message.

The Most Awesome Invention You've Never Heard Of

2010-03-16T08:07:00.001-04:00

The Egg Ring! Make your own Egg McMuffins!

Glamourous Motherhood

2010-03-15T09:18:00.013-04:00

Our house is in such a state of disaster I could laugh. . .if I lived next-door. Since it's mine to clean, I'm pretty dejected. Although I certainly can't blame Henry for the entire mess, I can explain away most of it with the trite observation that one year olds are remarkably destructive. I'm packing for an adults only vacation we've been planning for months. (Up until 6 am today, I have been excited about this vay-cay: fantasizing about sleeping late, taking naps, soaking up rays, getting tipsy on tropical drinks, reading Stephanie Meyer books without guilt; but when I woke up this morning I began to dread leaving our separation-anxiety ridden cutie, missing his drooly face, feeling guilty for leaving Tripp's mom alone for four nights with a teething one year old, and feeling overall kind of terrible. I can't win. ) Anyway, I started packing today. When I realized I hadn't heard the cacophony of xylophones and the slurred singing of various battery-depleted stuffed animals in a while, I decided a responsible mother would probably try to find her child. And since I'm TRYING to be a responsible mother, I picked myself up from the middle of a pile of bathing suits and mismatched socks to go find him. During the 300 square feet I walked until I found Henry splashing happily in toilet water, I discovered he had unrolled two toilet paper rolls (he creatively decided to tear one entire roll into tiny pieces and place them in the tub and traced the other roll through the house Hansel and Gretel style); he also emptied his sock drawer and melded it with the contents of his upended hamper, dumped Lucy's food bowls, transplanted the toilet plunger from the bathroom to the kitchen table, and knocked down the ironing board (we've learned enough to put the iron on a HIGH shelf). This is on top of the discovery that the lemon body spray I'd been looking forward to wearing on this trip had exploded (?!), several loads of brightly colored laundry appear to have been bleached (although we haven't used bleach in weeks--the latest in a string of washing machine-related conspiracies), and the discovery that my post-pregnancy feet no longer fit into the cute, impractical shoes I'd been planning to wear on our trip.
The never-ending, hamster-wheel feel of cleaning, feeding, and entertaining (repeat infinity times) that is mommy life sometimes leaves me feeling brain-dead and asking the existential question, "What is the point?" But as I was typing this Henry ran up to the computer, threw his hands in the air (in other words, "Pick me the hell up!"--on another note, Henry doesn't speak. At all. Not a word. A few weeks ago, I heard a kid his age say "teeth" and point to the appropriate body part on a giant plastic alligator. What's up with this?), jumped in my lap, bit my head (I'm convinced this is his attempt to kiss me) and squealed with delight. Sigh. This will be you soon, all my pregnant friends. It's not glamorous. But it's pretty awesome.

Thanks to Everyone!

2010-03-01T13:50:00.007-05:00

A BIG thank you to all the Bitching With Bethany podcast guests, who have made this past year so much fun! An especially BIG thanks to my most dependable regulars: Tripp and Weddle. You guys are the wind beneath my wings. Tripp has put in countless (well, probably around 20) hours to get this debauched freak-show off the ground and running smoothly. I can't thank you enough, Turd Ferguson.
Slightly smaller, but just as sincere, special thank you to others who have put so much effort towards making this podcast so disgusting and humiliating: Alan, Ben, Eli, Chuck, John, Danny and Keith. Also, of course, a hearty thank you to our loyal yet bored and morally devoid listeners.
We're closing in on 4,000 downloads in BWB's first 10 months. Can we beat this next year?! You bet your sweet ass we can.

Special Snowflake

2010-03-01T13:25:00.013-05:00

Each child is different. Everyone, from my grandmother (mother of 7; grandmother of 14) to the friendly Kroger bagger has told me so. You can't predict how your future children will look (or more importantly, ACT) based on the child who's wailing and banging his head on the floor because you won't let him watch more than 25 episodes of "Yo Gabba Gabba" without seeing the light of day for a few minutes. (On a side note, isn't that strange? Assuming a first child has the same parents as subsequent children, the second, etc. is being created by the same mishmash of genetic material. And (s)he's being raised by the same people at, approximately, the same time. Really, siblings SHOULD be more alike than they are, right?!) Anyway, Tripp and I have gone back and forth about whether or not we want more kids. Henry is wonderful--he has enriched our lives in ways I never could have imagined. I love him, and I would never change anything about him. That being said, I don't know if I could make it through another Henry. As a newborn/infant, Henry screamed A LOT. He also didn't sleep much. While the baby books say newborns generally sleep around 16-18 hours/day, Henry slept about 9, mostly in 10-20 minute intervals which were mere parentheses to his hours and hours of shrill, red-faced shrieking. Things have gotten much better, but the kid still tends to be very, shall we say, vocal. I love that about him. But I don't think I'm strong enough for another kid like him; and we can't guarantee that a future child won't be just as intense.
All of this flashed through my brain today during a playdate. A woman with two impossibly cute and well-tempered little girls (one around 3, the other around 18 months) described what she considered a rough day with her daughters: "[Three year old] didn't want to get dressed. She kept saying, 'Just a few more minutes, Mommy.' Finally, I got so frustrated that I screamed at her. Then she started crying and wanted a hug; but I was so upset that I couldn't hug her. We ended up not going out that day." Wow, I thought. Other than the speaking, that sounds like a fairly typical morning at our house. I started to feel annoyed and jealous (that's a BAD day?). But when I really considered it, I realized I wouldn't want it any other way. I love my high-maintenance baby. Along with the frustrated screams are the happy squeals of delight, belly laughs, and mischievous sense of humor. (I know he's only one, but I swear that kid already has a highly-developed, sophisticated sense of timing!) I know I'll love any other children we have just as much. Even if they're all throwing themselves on the floor because I won't let them watch another "Gabba" episode.

Jane RULZ!

2010-02-18T07:40:00.002-05:00

Thanks for reading and commenting, Jane!!!

Mommy Woes

2010-02-16T14:37:00.009-05:00

An issue that continually comes up on this motherhood journey is the "am I doing a good enough job?" question. It manifests in many ways. I belong to a Stay at home mom's (from here on out referred to as SAHM--yes, they actually use that acronym) group; and one of the other moms babysits Henry when I work. My work schedule is something I would in any other situation consider incredibly PART TIME. One full day/week and the odd day or two per month. Since I'm self-employed Henry also stays at the sitter's a few extra hours each week so I can catch up on paperwork, book-keeping, and the other odds and ends that keep me operating legally. Not that much, right? But inevitably, whenever I attend an outing with the SAH group, a bunch of moms will come up to me and say something along the lines of, "I don't know you, but I've met Henry! You must work a lot! Haha! I'm Marie, and unlike you, I love my child." Okay, no one's actually said that last sentence, but it feels implied. Once Henry's sitter had a friend over when I dropped him off with her. The friend (who I'd never met and didn't bother to introduce herself) exclaimed to the SITTER when we walked in, "Look how big Henry's gotten, Heather! He's so cute!" WTF? I stuck out my hand and said, "Hi, I'm the lady who watches Henry when Heather isn't able to." No, I didn't say that; but I wish I had. Partly because of my experiences with the SAHMs and for a variety of other reasons, I'm often wondering if I spend enough time with Henry and if the time we DO spend together is educational, stimulating, developmental-enhancing enough? In other words "quality".
Along these lines, a continuous battle in my head is "Should Henry watch TV?" And if so, how much TV? This issue first entered my radar before I even considered a child of my own, when I witnessed a friend shield her 6 month old daughter's eyes from a television. "What are you doing?" I asked. "She's not supposed to watch TV until she's at least two" friend replied. "Huh?" When I was a kid, I had literally NO restrictions on TV. I could watch what I wanted when I wanted, and at the time I thought that was F-ing awesome. I pitied my friends who could only watch certain shows for a maximum amount of time. I didn't have my own TV, and a lot of time I'd watch it WITH my parents; but I watched A LOT of it. I think I turned out fine, I never felt like I was missing out on something when I was growing up; but now I wonder: Was I missing out on something? Was there a better way for my parents and I to spend our time? (Please understand I hold no animosity towards my parents on this issue. Like most parents, they did the best they could with what they had. They both worked full-time (my dad often worked MORE than full-time) and had busy lives.) Besides relaxing with the boob tube, much of the time we spent together involved them multi-tasking. My mom grocery shopping with me in tow, my Dad doing errands with me in the car singing the "Annie" soundtrack. I never gave the situation much thought, although I always wanted my mom to be the field trip chaperone and the Brownie leader.
Despite a lack of what today might be considered "quality time" with my parents during my formative years, I have loads of great memories from childhood. Running errands with my Dad Saturday mornings was something I always looked forward to--still look forward to. To this day if I'm visiting my parents and my Dad says he's got to run to Costco on a Saturday morning, I beg to go with him. Also, I always felt very included in my parents lives: I went along with them on most trips and evenings out with friends. I always felt included, loved and important to them, even if they weren't spending hours a day playing with me.
Thoughts from others are very welcome. I'm looking at you, Anna (the only person I know for sure who reads this blog; yet she refuses to comment).

I'm With Jar-Jar?

2010-01-29T13:22:00.005-05:00

I'm sure this is terribly unfashionable, but the whole Conan/Jay Leno debacle has made me like Jay Leno MORE. This is coming from someone whose watched Leno maybe twice and prefers Conan and Letterman. . .but honestly doesn't stay up late enough to watch any of them. Seriously, who stays up this late? Anyway, I can understand why Conan got upset. . .sort of. They wanted to move his show back a half hour and still call it "The Tonight Show", but that was messing with some kind of "TS" tradition, right? Okay, I get that. But I thought the backlash against Jay was sort of ridiculous and out of control. Why is it his fault that NBC (his boss) wanted to change his job? It's like if I'm a salesman and my boss gives me Tripp's clients, and I do terrible at it (Sorry, Conan. For the record, I think he did a great job hosting the "TS", but the ratings weren't there and that's how TV measures success) and my boss gives Tripp back some of his clients. . .would it make sense for me to be mad at Tripp? I just don't get it.
All of this being said, I love Conan. I TiVo'd his "Tonight Show" finale and was near tears when he gave his farewell speech. I mean, that whole "don't be cynical" message to the kids? Don't even get me started. But I think Jay's getting a bad rap. Prove me wrong, reader(s)!

Fighting a Cold

2010-01-16T11:35:00.002-05:00

Does considering the Starbucks Doubleshot Energy + Coffee a health drink (it has B vitamins!) make me less of a health nut?

Movie Review 7: Could Have Been Pretentious, But Was Instead FANTASTIC.

2009-12-21T16:52:00.009-05:00

Tripp and I watched Humpday a few nights ago. We'd read a review describing it as a campy independent film about two straight male friends deciding to make a gay porn flick together. Interesting, slightly taboo, could be good. Then it arrived, I read the description on the back of the netflix envelope, and I instantly felt deflated: It's actually about two straight male friends who decide to make an art film in which they have sex with each other. Uh oh. In my experience, "art", "independent" and "film" are three words that when used in the same sentence actually spell "pretentious bullshit". (Hell, Waitress was an independent film about an annoying small-town pie creator, and THAT was pretentious bullshit so I could only imagine what this would hold for us.) So, we trudged along not expecting much and oh how we were delightfully surprised. Simply put, this movie rocks! The two friends are both realistically flawed and adorable, and they do a great job accurately portraying the evolution of a friendship from college buds to grown-ups who love and respect each other despite/because of their different paths. The movie also examines the impact this "art project" has on the responsible friend's wife and avoids making her a "Betty Crocker cardboard cutout" (her words). Most important, the movie is fun. It's funny, it's sometimes uncomfortable, and it's thought-provoking. Can't recommend it highly enough. 11ty stars.

Support Females Around the World

2009-12-20T07:29:00.002-05:00

Just read Mary Lou Hartman's article on the prevalence of rape and violence against women in the Republic of Congo. It's a compelling and disturbing reminder that a lot of shit in the world ain't right.

To read more about agencies that help, click here:

From the Mouths of Babes (Actually, Alicia Keys)

2009-12-16T09:05:00.011-05:00

As Tripp and several of my friends who've endured my (perhaps inappropriately) intimate queries about their personal beliefs regarding God's existence, the meaning of life, what happens after death, and various other heavies can testify (pun intended), I think about this kind of crap a lot.
This came out of the blue for me. For years, I quietly and without question attended Christmas and Easter Mass with my mother's Catholic family as well as my cousins' Bar and Bat Mitzvah and a handful of Seders. Then for a variety of reasons, many of which I'm sure I don't realize, I started thinking about the whole God thing more.
Is there a God? A lot of people seem to think so. I'd like there to be a God, at least the kind of God I imagine: a benevolent, wise, unconditionally loving and accepting grandfather-type who makes everything okay in the end (and who lets us reunite with our loved ones who died before us). But when I thought about it, I mean really thought about it, the idea didn't make sense. Where would God exist? Who or what created God? Isn't it more likely, doesn't it seem more reasonable, that there isn't a Heaven, that we don't have souls, that there is no purpose to life (beyond what we, ourselves, claim it to be), and that there is no loving, omniscient, bearded, bespeckled, and Birkenstocked grandfather in the sky (this is MY fantasy, dammit!)? And finally, don't we look back at the ancient Greeks and think, "Wow, that whole Zeus thing was kind of crazy"? Isn't it possible (probable?) that thousands of years from now our descendants will look back at us and think the same thing?
I struggle with this off and on. During the on's, I feel a deep sadness and fear. People (and animals, for that matter) die, or are tortured, hungry, sick, abused, trapped, and mistreated everyday. The idea that there is no purpose to suffering or that there is nothing better waiting on the other side haunts me. And I envy the faithful. Beneath all the dogma that some spout, those who truly believe have a sense of peace that I want.
Tripp, God love him (haha), is absolutely no help. He'll endure my repetitiveness as I ask the same questions and try to convince him of God's existence using the same arguments I've unsuccessfully used for years (if I convince Tripp, the biggest non-believer I know, then surely I'll believe). But it never works. And for that matter, Tripp seems completely unfazed by the idea of no higher power.
Then, something changed. A little DVD titled "Elmo's Christmas Countdown" came into my life. While trying to distract Henry from his favorite activity (removing all the knives from the dishwasher and licking them), I popped in this little treasure and found an unexpected sense of comfort from it. I only half paid attention to the story line: Something about an advent calendar being lost and resulting in the permanent cancellation of Christmas. But little Elmo and his celebrity friends have faith, which they simplistically explain as what you believe in even when it's hard to and even when it seems more likely that what you're believing isn't true. You hold onto it anyway, and who knows? Miracles can happen. I'm sure religious scholars throughout time have said the same thing in a more sophisticated way; but, as usual, I respond to the Sesame Street version of complicated topics. Faith. Belief that is not based on fact. What's wrong with having a little faith? Maybe there isn't a God or a heaven, but what's wrong with having faith that there is? In the end, Christmas wasn't cancelled forever even though Cookie Monster ate the advent calendar after the gang did all that hard work to find it. If that can happen, maybe there is a heaven and a grandfatherly God, too.

haha!

2009-11-30T17:21:00.000-05:00

Go ahead, gay guy!

Thanks, Folks!

2009-11-13T14:07:00.003-05:00

The BWB podcast has 40 shows and is closing in on 2,000 downloads! Thanks to all our listeners and guests!

Movie Review: Ain't Nothing Wrong With Esther

2009-10-28T10:55:00.003-04:00

Watched Orphan last night. I had a strange response to this movie's previews: I was totally into it. This is strange because usually I don't get worked up to see movies AND because no one else in the universe shared my excitement. (A friend who frequently and purposefully watches awful movies with us wouldn't come near this thing.) Anyway, I was pumped: Was Esther a ghost or just a crazy kid? What IS wrong with Esther??? But due to finances, poor reviews, passing time, and a wandering attention span I forgot about poor Esther and her psycho orphan-hood.
Last night we got it in on Netflix, and let's just skip all the rigamarole and get down to brass tacks: This movie F-ing RULES. All of the female parts are played exquisitely (especially the roles of Max (the most adorable child in the universe) and Kate (baby mama)). There is a twist ending I wouldn't have seen coming if someone hadn't told me about it ahead of time. And Esther is freaking creepy! She even has a Russian accent!!! I say an awesome scary movie, if that's your bag. 24 stars.

More Deliciously Dangerous Than the Frappuccino?

2009-10-20T07:01:00.001-04:00

The Starbucks Pumpkin Spice Latte. Holy GOD.

Amen, Sister! (re: Roman Polanski)

2009-09-29T13:43:00.021-04:00

Rather than write my own tirade about Roman Polanski and his rapiness, I'd rather reference salon.com's Kate Harding, whose opinions on this matter completely match mine and who is a much better writer than me.
Ah, screw it, I'm going to go on my own (much less distinguished) tirade about it, too. My freak out regarding this situation isn't even directed at Polanski or our ridiculous legal system which has allowed this jackass to party through Europe the past thirty years. It's at ANYONE who stands up for this guy; which has been, shockingly, a LOT of people. Is anyone else amazed that people are in this sociopath's corner? He's a out-of-the-closet convicted child rapist who didn't serve his prison sentence. How is this not frowned upon?! If there was EVER a reason for someone to wear a scarlet letter, this would be it. But somehow this douche has been embraced by his community. On yesterday's Good Morning, America it was reported that Polanski supporters claim, unironically, that the California legal system should maybe, probably let this one go because of all of Polanski's "achievements". Wha? Do we really want to set THAT precedent? "Look, we would rather you didn't fuck kids; but seeing that you're accomplished and all, could you just stop now and we'll call it even?"
Where do we draw the line with this? If Roman F-ing Polanski is so accomplished that he can get away with drugging and raping a child, certainly, say, the president could away with something really heinous and illegal. And what about a great cardiologist who saves lots of lives but also kinda likes to club old people over the head and steal their wallets? Or a brilliant astronomer who discovers Pluto really IS a planet after all; but he sorta helped Michael V. set up that dog-fighting operation? I never met the guy, but I hate Roman Polanski. And as far as I'm concerned his pretentious, egotistical supporters who think he's too brilliant to serve jail time can suck a donkey dong. I told you I was less distinguished than Kate.

Thanks, Chuckles.

2009-09-23T14:34:00.002-04:00

Uncle Chuck sent me this follow-up to September 3rd's podcast, Facebook Status. Thanks, Chuck and Guidespot!

Parenting PSA

2009-09-22T16:10:00.005-04:00

You can watch Sesame Street's 2005 production, Happy Healthy Monsters, eight times in a 24-hour period before losing your mind. I'm on nine.

Good on you, Kanye.

2009-09-15T07:23:00.001-04:00

How many times can Kanye West make me cry?

Kanye West Likes Fish Sticks.

2009-09-14T07:26:00.001-04:00

These guys sum it up.

Stop Hatin'. . .

2009-09-09T10:41:00.002-04:00

On the Breaking Dawn book. I admire this chick's passion.

Talented Friends

2009-09-02T17:44:00.003-04:00

Check out Kate Rasnick's Voice Actor Reels: Talking super-fast in a commercial and Different Characters.

Chasing The Starbucks Mocha Frappuccino Dragon

2009-08-24T08:51:00.006-04:00

It started innocently enough: Grabbing a bottle of Starbucks Mocha Frappuccino out of a convenience store cold-chest before embarking on a long day exploring NYC. It hit the spot: Cold and refreshing; and the caffeine/sugar combo gave me just the energy jolt I needed to walk 43 blocks to the meatpacking district so we could explore block after block of 10'x10' boutiques peddling $300 vintage jeans (On another topic. . .wha? How do these places stay in business?) Then I did the same thing the next day. . .sip, sip, gulp, gulp. . ..ahh. Then again the next day. You get the picture. Before long, I was jonesing and desperately searching every grocery store, gas station, and 7 Eleven in the area for more. I was waking up in the morning thinking of them. At 3 each afternoon, as I was hitting my "I could use a nappy" daily slump, I was craving them. And then it hit me: I'm F-ing addicted to these GD Frappuccinos! It happened so quickly (less than a week, in my case). It was a startling (and less destructive, at least so far) glimpse into the world of addiction--how fast something recreational and fun can become debilitating and all-consuming. Tripp has only made the situation worse. God love him, his desire for me to enjoy myself causes him to encourage my dependence on these enslaving bottles of good/evil. "You're a new mom! You need this now!" He's so enabling! Fortunately, I've discovered Starbucks makes a Mocha Lite Frappuccino (all of the caffeine with less of the sugar). They don't give me nearly the jolt of crazed pep as the full-sugar variety, but I've come to see that as a good thing.

They DO Exist.

2009-08-13T17:33:00.014-04:00

Tripp and I spent a great weekend in NYC. I could go on and on about how I love NY and all the fun stuff we did, but that wouldn't be bitching; and this is after all Bitching With Bethany. So instead I'm going to go on and on about some skank we were exposed to at a comedy club. We went to several late-night comedy shows, which were wonderful and amazing. During one show we sat front and center, making us prime targets for mocking by comedians. I felt dread and excitement as I imagined being referred to as "Velma" from "Scooby Doo". But that was not to be because we were seated next to the most insufferable couple (in particular, the most insufferable woman) in the universe. When asked by the opening act about their first date, the BF (a prematurely balding trust fund baby who, I can only assume, purposefully paired a white vest with his jeans and sports coat) answered, "We went to Blah [some random restaurant]"; but GF (an attractive blonde wearing a patent leather belt directly under her boobs) interrupted, "No! We were at a party in the Hamptons, and I got a sunburn, and he took me to the store to get aloe in his Ferrari." Haha! Seriously? I found it hilarious that GF felt the need to say this, and I immediately liked her for being such an insecure freak. But then the rest of the night happened. During the remainder of the 2 hour show GF monopolized audience participation by her frequent public pronouncements. We learned, among other things, she fancies herself a master fly-fisherman, raced Ferraris in Spain as a teenager, and wouldn't date another audience member one comedian labeled, "Indian Harry Potter." The best part of the evening came when she told one comedian, "you don't want to know" her thoughts on God's existence. The guy paused for a beat, smirked, then looked straight at her and said, "Oh yeah? You gonna blow my mind?"
Sometimes it's hard for me to believe that people like this really exist. How do you go around day after day shamelessly bragging and forcing attention onto yourself without the slightest realization that you're being a complete douche? What if two such people found themselves in a social situation in which they had to interact? What would happen? And how could each of them not walk away without some degree of self-awareness/hatred and resolve to stop being such an asshole? So odd.
Oh God. Just had an awful thought. If these people have no self-awareness I could be one of them. Someone please tell me if I'm ever remotely like this.

Movie Review 5: Can You Dig It?!

2009-08-04T09:45:00.013-04:00

I can't believe I hadn't seen The Warriors before now. Maybe God or the universe knew I wasn't ready for it until this past weekend. But, oh, what a ride! Have you ever experienced something so surreal you couldn't believe it actually happened? That sums up this movie. The plot is simple and easy to follow: A rag-tag gang of skinny, dancing sociopaths whose sole membership requirement seems to be "refusal to remove maroon leather vest under any circumstance" (The Warriors) entrechat their way out of Coney Island and into our hearts when they are falsely accused of killing a Polynesian gang-banger whose wholesome aim was to unite all gangs, take over NYC and, we are left to assume, cause mayhem. I know what you're thinking: Not fair! The Warriors didn't do it! But it gets worse. All the other area gangs (who are, let's say, themed (one gang's silent members all don Yankee baseball uniforms and wear makeup a la Marilyn Manson)) are after The Warriors because that Samoan was going to bring unity to the community, dammit! What? All of this is made more surreal by an R & B DJ played by a pair of lips who fuels the opposing gangs' fires, an Oscar-worthy performance by a circa-Fast Times at Ridgemont High Sean Penn lookalike who plays what I (thankfully) can only assume is a realistic bat-shit crazy anarchist, and an un-ironic director's commentary in which Walter Hill continually refers to The Warriors as heroes. Again. . .what?
All in all, a great movie. 10 Stars.

It Takes All Kinds

2009-08-04T09:40:00.002-04:00

I love that there's a market for this.

Awesome

2009-08-04T09:36:00.001-04:00

I'm a sucker for kids playing rock and roll. Check out Connor and Emma.

Your Dad Got Kneed in the Balls

2009-07-23T07:30:00.009-04:00

Check out this ridiculous ad:

Came across this a few weeks ago on the back of a magazine. I expect a certain degree of sexism and misogyny in advertising, but this crosses a line. The magazine has been sitting in our bathroom; so every time I pee this revolting ad stares back at me and I get mad.
So today I wrote them the following letter:

Dear Canadian Club,
Your "Your Dad" ads [there are several] are ridiculous and sexist.
P.S. Your dad got ass you losers never will.

Check out Jim Washburn's article on these dumbasses.

My Newest (TV) Obsession

2009-07-19T07:00:00.004-04:00

Breaking Bad and anything involving Chris Lilley.

Movie Review 4: Party and Bullshit

2009-06-26T13:46:00.011-04:00

Watched the first half of Notorious yesterday. Yeah, not good. But I liked learning a bit more about Biggie's life; and I discovered I enjoy his music more than I originally assumed when the only song I had heard by him was the radio-friendly version of "Hypnotize". I thought the guy who played Biggie was adorable, and he did a good job making him complicated. (Don't get me started on the kid who played Baby Biggie--cutest thing I've ever seen!) The ladies who played Lil' Kim and Faith Evans scared the crap out of me to a degree I feel would be authentic were I ever to cross the real-life LK and FE. Also, the guy who plays Puffy (and his jackets) is hilarious. Almost as hilarious as the real Puffy and his real jackets.
Still, this movie sucked. I give it my worst review ever: Seven Thumbs Up.

Support Lt. Dan

2009-06-26T13:43:00.002-04:00

Click here to tell a panel of Colonels not to fire Lt. Dan Choi from the military just because he's gay.

Movie Review 3: Spring Breakdown

2009-06-19T08:26:00.001-04:00

This movie rules.

Movie Review 2: Hating the Protagonist

2009-06-17T18:48:00.011-04:00

Saw Lakeview Terrace last week with some friends. Not my idea. I wanted to watch Daddy's Hands (gotta love this trailer); but someone thought it would be creepy. What?!
Anyway, my opinion about LVT is that it's crappy and not worth the time it spent to order it on Amazon's Video on Demand service. I think it had some promise: Cop (played by a Kobe Bryant hating Sam Jackson) gets all uppity because an interracial couple moves in next door. I think that's a pretty good premise; I'm kind of intrigued by the idea of what happens when those who are supposed to protect become the ones you need protection from. Who watches the watchers and all that.
But the writers, director, producers, or God knows who else took that interesting premise and allowed a camel to shit on it six times. First, the interracial couple is so unlikable as sickingly cute yuppie boneheads that I was kind of rooting for Sam the whole time. Now, that could have been an interesting plot point: Rooting for the bad guy because the good guys are nauseating. But, no, that was not what the movie wanted for us. (I know; I asked the movie). Instead, they made Sam's character go from a controlling dad who takes his responsibilities a little too seriously to a lunatic who creates his own demise after the white neighbor tricks him in, essentially, a "Your Momma" call-out. Ridiculous.
This movie exemplifies something I'm noticing in movies, TV shows and literature lately: What's up with protagonists being total abhorrent slags? But there's no wink-wink, nudge-nudge from the creator to indicate to the audience that (s)he thinks the protagonist is an asshole, too, so the whole time you're consuming this media you're thinking, "F! Does whoever created this think this person is cool? UGH!" Maybe (very likely, in fact) there is a wink-wink that I'm too slow to pick up on. Anyone with me on this? C'mon people, write back! Contribute!

WATCH THIS SHOW.

2009-06-03T20:33:00.000-04:00

Glee is AWESOME.

Movie Review: Tripp, Why Didn't We Make our Friends Perform a Talent Show in our Honor Before our Wedding?

2009-06-01T18:49:00.007-04:00

I love movies! Love 'em! We haven't watched many lately, what with a baby up at all hours; so I'm psyched we've been able to watch a few recently.
We recently saw Rachel Getting Married, a flick about recovering addict, Kym, coming home for her sister, Rachel's, wedding. Really good movie, highly recommend it. I had my doubts about her ahead of time, but Anne Hathaway doesn't suffer from Kerri Russell syndrome (pretty yet terrible actress): She's very convincing as a self-loathing/centered addict. Great story, absolutely LOVED the Dad despite (or, maybe, because of) his enabling of Kym, and thought casting a militant African overlord lookalike as the husband-to-be was an interesting and unconventional choice.
HOWEVER. Now we enter what I call the "What the Hell. . .?" Segment:
+What the hell was up with the the dozens of circus folk friends moving into Kym and Rachels' parent’s house a month before the wedding to prepare the house for the festivities?
+What the hell was up with the talent show friends and family put on the night before the wedding (one "act" involved a guy standing on stage directing half the audience to repeat, "Rachel, Rachel, Rachel. . ." while the other half repeated, "Sydney, Sydney, Sydney. . ." in a trance-like monotone)?
+What the HELL was up with the, literally (well, maybe not, but close to literally) hour of footage of people dancing, singing, rocking out, etc. with NO dialogue?
+And, finally, this one's for Tripp, who was thoroughly bothered by this: What the hell is up with white people pretending to be Indian? (Rachel and her bridesmaids wore saris to the wedding.)
Thoughts, people?

Girls Rock!

2009-05-30T06:53:00.004-04:00

Last year I went to Rock and Roll Camp and learned to play the drums. Well, not really; but the wonderful, talented, supportive staff tried their best. It was F-ing amazing--one of the best things I've ever done. The ladies' rock camp helps fund the Rock and Roll Camp for Girls, a program that provides girls of all income levels a chance to rock out and be their awesome selves. Last night, we watched the documentary about R&RC4G called Girls Rock! The movie is so great--I can't recommend it enough. Check out this trailer featuring Palace, one of the most adorable rock and roll pixies you'll ever meet.
Full trailer here!

Jane Delivers. . .

2009-05-26T20:35:00.001-04:00

Babies! Congratulations, Jane and Todd!

Tooth!

2009-05-21T15:02:00.003-04:00

When's my kid gonna get some teeth? The poor thing's been in pain and has been biting everything from the cat to the coasters for weeks.
In marginally related news, THIS MOVIE LOOKS CRAZY!

Lost in Emotion

2009-05-11T16:31:00.002-04:00

As Lisa Lisa said, "Kaysara, Kaysara" (which Tripp recently informed me translates to "Que sera, Que sera"). Whatever it means, Lisa Lisa, I FEEL lost in emotion. Having a kid has made me VERY sensitive to media that involves anything remotely bad happening to a kid. Just got "Doubt" in from Netflix, totally wanted to see it when it came to theaters. . .now absolutely cannot, WILL NOT watch it because of the subject matter. We started watching "Rachel Getting Married" (don't miss my upcoming review, tentatively titled "Tripp, Why Didn't We Force Our Loved Ones to Have a Talent Show in Our Honor Before Our Wedding?") last night. Freaking heck, people! Did anyone know Anne Hathaway's character accidentally killed her brother when he was a kid?! Where was THAT in the preview? Threw me into a quiet crying jag, and then I couldn't watch "Family Guy" because they did a play on "Stand By Me," and THAT reminded me of the real "Stand By Me" and how the main character's brother had died and how sad the family felt. WHAT THE HELL?
I get it. I have a kid, I'm in love with my kid and anything that starts to touch the part of my brain in which I even consider my kid feeling pain or my life without my kid is just too much for me to handle right now. Has anyone else felt this way about anyone? Or anything? (I'm sure Tripp has nightmares about his PlayStation being console-napped.)

Throwing Up Sucks!

2009-05-09T08:49:00.001-04:00

That's all.

Brandon, You So Crazy

2009-05-06T15:09:00.011-04:00

Brandon, from "True Life: I'm Addicted to Porn". Jezebel.com summarizes his life as follows: "He's 26, unemployed, and lives with his grandma. He watches porn 5 - 10 hours a day, visits an adult video shop called Spanky's on a "daily basis," and admits that porn keeps him detached from women, because it allows him to enjoy women without having to deal with their real-life drama." Amen, brother.

Don't worry. He turns it around by the end of the episode. If you come across this, give it a look. If only for one of Brandon's opening lines: "I love watching porn while smoking cigars. It's so luxurious."

Yuck

2009-05-06T12:46:00.003-04:00

Despite his seemingly normal taste buds, Henry can't get enough of Beech Nut's Apples 'N Chicken. The ingredient list: Apples, ground chicken, water. Ugh.
Trying to imagine his reaction when he tries some of the world's best foods. The first thing that comes to mind is Cinnamon Toast Crunch. How classy.

Swine Flu

2009-04-29T19:06:00.002-04:00

This is an alarming issue, and I don't want to make light of it; but seriously. . .is there a more gross sounding word than "swine"?

Baby Food Observation

2009-04-28T17:34:00.005-04:00

What are the chances that Gerber's pureed carrots is really just Chef Boyardee ravioli sauce? Try it and see if you agree.

Happy Birthday, Bitch!

2009-04-27T19:39:00.000-04:00

It's my B-day! I'm a Taurus! Hooray!

What's a Bloog?

2009-04-24T15:34:00.000-04:00

Testing. . .