47 Weeks

Dear Parker,

You are 47 weeks old.  And you are my sweet baby angel.  Now, don't get me wrong, your brother Jackson is pretty cool, too.  But I am writing this letter to you.  Because as a little baby girl who will grow into a woman, this is an incredibly important time in history.  Hopefully, you are too young to  understand (or repeat) the vile words that often come tumbling out of my mouth when I'm watching the news these days. But I do want you to know, one day, what I was thinking and feeling and hoping.

Usually, I use this space to write about you and Jax and share my thoughts on thought-provoking topics such as toenails, my spirit-crushing experience in exercise class and the latest wacky alternative treatment your grandmother is trying.  Or making me try, such as the 'laser' she routinely fires up and places next to my broken left foot.  (And no, I don't really know what it is.  It's a battery-operated machine that looks like a large remote control with flashing lights and she claims it has magical healing powers.  One day you'll learn sometimes it's just easier to go with it, just sigh, let her place the crazy thing next to your foot, turn on the tv and just go with it.)

But I digress.

As I was saying, this is not a place where I would normally write about anything too serious.  (Although, truly, what's NOT serious about the The Awning, I mean RUHLLY.)  But this is an incredible time in our history and you are witness to it, even if you don't know it yet.

When we held the Baby Blessing for you and your brother, part of the ceremony was a poem I read on Zee's fabulous blog and a portion of it is here:

 

May God bless you with
anger at injustice, oppression, and

exploitation of
people, so that you may wish for justice, freedom and peace.

May God bless you with
enough foolishness

to believe that you
can make a difference in this world,

so that you can do
what others claim cannot be done.

 

Your father and I took these words very seriously.  I want you and Jackson to notice injustice and oppression and bigotry and not only wish for equality and justice but work for it too.  And I want you to believe that you can make a difference, even in a tiny little way. To make the world a better place.

We are in the middle of a crazy time, with many different things happening all at once.  There's an economic crisis the likes of which none of us have ever seen and we're less than two weeks away from a truly historic election.

But there are a couple of really crazy things happening now, things that are propelling Mommy into the kitchen night after night, to scour the cupboards for remnants of  crackers or Toll House chocolate chips that might have fallen out of the package and then to crack open all those bottles of Chardonnay as she watches countless hours of CNN.

One of these things is that there is a woman, her name is Sarah Palin, and she's the candidate for the Vice President of the United States on the Republican ticket.  (And no, if they are elected, she will NOT be in charge of the U.S. Senate, she will not really "get in there with the senators and make a lot of good policy changes." Because, and hopefully you will learn this in a Civics class one day, the only power a vice president has, according to a little document known as the Constitution, is to preside over the U.S. Senate. And maybe cast a vote here and there, in case of a
tie.) 

But anyhoo, having her run as the VP candidate on the ticket is very confusing for Mommy.  On the one hand, Hurray! A woman ran a fantastic campaign during the primaries and was almost the Democratic party presidential nominee.  And then Hurray! The Republican nominee went and chose a woman.  What strides we're making!  What a different world you'll grow up in! 

But then it was like, Hurray!  Hur–what?  Wait, what did she say?  Hold on.  What's wrong with this picture? 

WHAT THE FUCKING FUCK?

She sneers at her opponent's community organizing work during her first big speech on a national stage?  That's mean.  And for those of us who have worked in the not for profit sector, downright insulting.  And she likes to hunt and kill animals?  FROM A HELICOPTER?  And she wants to drastically curb your reproductive rights (Greetings! I'm your Understatement Of The Day!) as well as your access to open and honest sex education.  And she wants to amend the Constitution of the United States to ban marriage between two women or two men?  And when serving as Mayor, inquired about the possibility of removing certain "objectionable books" from the library?

And she openly calls her opponent
anti-American and accuses him, at campaign rallies in front of
thousands of people, of "palling around with terrorists"? And seems to think certain parts of this country are more American than others.

And she calls herself an Every Woman Hockey Mom You Betcha but then spends an assload of money on expensive designer clothing and hair and make-up. She claims to be able to do it all, to put down the Blackberry and pick up the breast pump. As if the rest of us working moms should be doing the same.  Except she actually makes a good enough living,  good enough that her husband doesn't have to work full time outside the home, and when she travels for business her kids get to tag along. And she has tons of family members who pitch in to help, and she could bring her tiny baby to work with her and stash her under the desk while she conducted business. She didn't seem to need paid time off after the babies were born, daycare, or a nanny. Or Lexapro.

She hasn't spoken much about family leave or the need to have high quality, affordable childcare options for working mothers, because I guess she really COULD do it all. 

 IT'S ALL JUST TOO MUCH FOR MOMMY.

What is a Mom with a baby girl to do?

Is she a role model to young girls? Despite the fact that I am diametrically opposed to every single thing she stands for and to be honest, those frame-less glasses just don't really do it for me either, should I respect the fact that she's clearly motivated and has made great strides in the political realm?

Do I consider her a feminist because she calls herself one, even though in the same sentence she mentions how she fished and hunted with her brothers as a young girl and THAT'S what makes her one?

Is she causing more cracks in the glass ceiling or actually putting duct tape over the cracks that other women have made?

Is she saying that a woman really can bring home the bacon and fry it up in a pan? While totally pulling off the Sexy Librarian look? Or is she saying that a woman should kill the pig herself (from a helicopter, to make it more fun), bring it home to a large family, fry it up in a pan while Blackberrying co-workers and breastfeeding a newborn? 

IT'S ALL JUST TOO MUCH FOR MOMMY.

I want you to grow up believing you can do great things, and I want you to find amazing role models who can serve as examples for you. I want strong, powerful women to help light your path through the world. But suddenly the definition of 'role model' isn't so clear.

I want you to see things in the world that you want to change, and I want you to have the power to change them. I don't want you to have such convoluted, confusing images of what a strong, feminist woman looks like. 

But how we're going to get there is anybody's guess. 

I'm off to crack open another bottle of wine, hunt for a stale cracker or two and hope for the best.

With all my love,

Mommy

Trouble Afoot Chez Watson

"Tiny Tim is coming!" BeBop yells, quite inappropriately, each morning as I crutch my way down the hallway toward the babies.  CLUNK CLUNK CLUNK is the sound you can hear about three minutes before I actually enter a room.

So here's the dealio:  the first doctor who stated that I would be off the crutches within a week, that I would then use a walking boot alone, and that the total recovery time was 4-5 weeks was either 1) a sick, twisted individual who thrives on giving patients false expectations; 2) an escaped metal patient from the psych ward who tackled a real doctor, knocked him out with a blow to the head or the liberal application of chloroform to a white handkerchief, stole his white coat and shoved him in a nearby supply closet and spent the day impersonating a doctor; or 3) JUST WRONG.

WRONG WRONG WRONG

When I saw a specialist the week after breaking my foot, he said that I would get the walking boot, but have to be on crutches for AT LEAST another 3-4 weeks AND the total recovery time was more like 8-12 weeks. WTF?? And let me tell you, this 'walking boot' looks like something Darth Vader's bride would wear. It's just huge and cumbersome and hideous and doesn't match with ANYTHING. And? I have to pretty much wear some kind of running shoe type deal on the other foot, because I'm such a freakin' klutz I'm afraid without the proper support on my right foot I'm asking for trouble.

And as if getting that news wasn't bad enough, the doctor had a wall-mounted Shop Vac in the exam room. "What's that for?" I asked.  "To get rid of the evidence," he said.  "Hahaha. No really. What's it for?" I persisted.  DUMBASS that I am.  "For the callouses and toe nails." 

Me = sorry I asked.

So I'm hobbling around and will be until Christmas, for crissakes, and can't even really be alone with the babies because they're crawling all over the place and I can't keep up with them, but worse, I can't pick them up and carry them. For some reason they're just not up to speed on the whole 'get your asses in here and get in your highchairs and make yourself some dinner and while you're at it get Mommy a big glass of wine' routine I've tried to implement.  DAMN you 10 and 1/2 month old ingrates!

But here's the good news, the Baby Blessing was just fantastic.  Even though I was hobbling around, and I couldn't get my roots done (so my hair looked like ASS), and I didn't have a kicky new outfit that would hide my flabbiness (so I looked, well, huger than I would have liked) and I couldn't get a mani or a pedi (so my feet and hands were a hot mess) and the house was far from perfect (so I looked totally disorganized) and from this angle it was a perfect storm of unhappiness, even though all of this was in the background, it was still a beautiful, meaningful, once-in-a-lifetime day.

I tried to plan a 'green' party, which turned out great. I sent on-line invites using pingg.com, I ordered biodegradable plates, cups and plasticware from here, and I hired a caterer who served* local, organic food. There were cloth napkins leftover from my sister's wedding and I had water in glass pitchers instead of plastic bottles.  (I was hoping to use small, potted plants as centerpieces but that plan was a casualty of my foot so I did have cut flowers on the tables.) BeBop designed programs that we printed on paper made from the bark of a renewable tree, that we found here and the coolest part is that the paper contains wildflower seeds, so if you plant it, it will bloom! For thank you letters, I sent these adorable, on-line notes from iomoi.

I won't bore you with details of the actual ceremony, but if you're interested please e-mail me.  The short version is, we started with a welcome and then oaths that the grandparents and the Godparents took.  Then I read a letter that I'd written to the babies the night before they were born. (Thank you scheduled c-section!).  We said a blessing to the babies and made a promise of how we wanted to raise them.  And then my sister and a close friend each read a poem, followed by a closing prayer.

I think it was a very different experience for our guests.  But people just went with it and afterward, said it was a wonderful ceremony.

And then because we don't want to throw another party at the end of November, we cheated a bit and celebrated the babies' birthday a tad early.  At the end of the party, we all gathered around Jax and Parker and let them each dig into a cupcake.  This was the first time they have ever had sugar (other than fruit and some Cheerios) and can I just say that if Parker could talk, she would have said, "Mommy  YOU SUCK for keeping such deliciousness away from me.  I'd yell 'I hate you' and run to my room but first I have to devour this yummy mess of chocolate and frosting and NOM NOM NOM NOM!!"

And Jackson would have said, "Ummmm…this thing you gave me is okaaaaayyyyy….BUT WHY ARE ALL THESE PEOPLE STARING AT ME??  I AM NOT a circus freak FOR THE LOVE OF GOD MAKE THEM STOP LOOKING AT MEEEEEEE!!"

Some fairly poor-quality shots to show you:

Parker b-day

Jax b-day

So there you have it!  That's what's new around here. I haven't been able to post sooner because seriously, after crutching around all day MY ARMS HURT.

*When I first posted this, I wrote "served used local, organic food…" With my stellar editing SKLS I forgot to take one of the words out, and DaisyCake commented that that really would be a new way to go green. And possibly moldy. And we did not do that. But slow food? HA. I'm thinking USED food might be a new movement that we've stumbled upon. 

“Is There Any Chance You Could Be Pregnant?”

he asked.  And then?  I died laughing.  I laughed so hard my head exploded off the top of my neck and then rolled around on the floor awhile.  While the rest of me kept laughing. And then?

I managed to bring myself back to life and answer the x-ray technician, "No, there is NO way I could be pregnant!"  

And then he took x-rays of my broken left foot. Remember when I made that crack about My Left Foot? Well, now I have a CRACK in MY LEFT FOOT.  Weird, huh?

And a total pain in the ass.

I wish I could tell you I broke it doing something totally awesome, like running with the Blond Mom Gang who finally let me in to their inner boot camp circle.  Or scaling a high fence chasing a prowler out of my neighbor's yard.  Or practicing my sweet jump roping skills. But alas, I broke it…walking.  Yes, walking. 

I was walking in a parking lot that had been blocked off for a flea market, so I was walking and looking and obviously, I am not capable of doing both activities simultaneously, and one second I was just walking and admiring some horrible, awful thing someone cheap ass was trying to unload on another cheap ass and BLAM!  Down I went.  In front of, oh I don't know, THREE HUNDRED PEOPLE.  I just didn't see the speed bump (I mean, who expects to see a speed bump in the middle of a flea market? There are cracked mirrors and moldy quilts to look at for crissakes!) and my foot landed on the very end of it and then WHAM, my foot turned a crazy angle to the left and there you go. Broken foot.

And it's not like I have two crawling babies at home. That like to escape the baby pen/petting zoo we've set and become Free Range Babies and wreak havoc all over the house.  And suck on Bosco's chew toys.  And lick the bottom of BeBop's flip flops that he leaves around.  OH WAIT. I do have two crawling babies at home that like to cause all sorts of mayhem.

But it's not like I have oh, 40 people coming over on Saturday for a Baby Blessing/early birthday party or anything.  OH WAIT. I do have 40 people coming over on Saturday for just such an event. 

I am super, super screwed.

But what are you going to do, really?  My sister is coming to help, and my outlaws are also coming, so I'm hoping that I can just sit on a chair and drink heavily and order people around and honestly, that sounds like a pretty good weekend to me.

We are having this Baby Blessing thing and apparently, people get very freaked out when you do something…slightly different.  What is it?  What do we wear?  What do we do?!?  Do we bring gifts?? GOD HELP US WHAT IS THIS EVENT YOU'RE CALLING A BABY BLESSING?!?  This is what I've heard from friends and family the last couple of weeks.

I'll post the ceremony next week, but the deal is we wanted to host a gathering of our family and friends (a ritual, if you will) to welcome Jax and Parker into our lives. I stole most of it from the Internet wrote it, and we both have parts to read, as do our parents and both Godparents.  I think I'm also reading a letter I wrote to the babies the night before they were born, but we'll see how weepy I am that day. (Perhaps the Vicodan will help.) Then we'll have food and drink and yummy cupcakes to celebrate the babies' birthday, even though it's early.

We did have them baptized in our church the weekend before last, "Just in case" as one of my friends said. But really, because I knew it was important to my parents. We outfitted them in the traditional garb, a long white dress for Parkie, complete with bonnet, and a little white suit for Jackson. They looked adorable, I must say. 

And it gave BeBop the perfect opportunity to make all kinds of Godfather references that to be perfectly honest, I didn't really get.

IMG_1544

IMG_1539


IMG_1534

Mommy = Lamest Lame Ass Around

Starting to talk & write in Twitter shorthand all the time now.  Concerned that every conversation has only 140 character limit.  Cannot have normal discussion.  Most likely music to BeBop's ears b/c I can't ramble on like usual.

I mean, how many times can we have the same fight about when he watches the twins he has to WATCH THEM.  WITH HIS EYES.  His x-ray vision is not so hot these days and so 'watching them' from the office while catching up on the score of the Eagles game doesn't really work.  And how many times can we argue about the size of the pieces of food we're feeding them now?

Me: "They'll choke to death! Pea-sized. PEA-SIZED!!" 

Dorkus: [Returning from freezer with mysterious, small green object in hand] "This is a pea!  This is pea-sized!" 

Me: "NO. Petite pea-sized don'tyouknowanythingyoumoron?"

Apparently, you can have the same fight about all of that stuff approximately 100,977,883,332,778,800,000 times.

Work is so, so busy.  And I have to say, I'm even less competent than I normally am on the home front (WHA? We're out of baby food? Who the fricking frick is supposed to buy those kids some food? OH YEAH. ME. Because apparently husband is totally unable to drag his ass to the store to buy various jars of mashed and pureed items. RIGHT.)

And I'm still descending to Dante's Ninth Circle of Hell (is that right? Seventh? Ninth? At any rate ONE OF THE BAD ONES) going to boot camp, but now only three days a week because, seriously?  I need a day to recover.  I get to work and hobble around all day, incessantly complaining, saying things like, "Oh my aching back" and "GAWD, my feet are killing me" and "I think my hip is out."  Really.  I say stuff like that all the time.  I'm old, people, really, really old.

I was going to sit here at my desk, take a short break and compose a beautiful and heartfelt letter to the twins. I skipped month eight and since we're rapidly approaching ten months (!!) I was hoping to have the chance to transcribe my thoughts on everything that's been happening to them over the last couple of months. All of the fantastic strides they're making, each and every day, on their way to growing up and becoming Citizens of the World. To preserve these memories forever.  To detail my motherly love and tell them how it grows and blossoms each and every day like a lovely lily…but truly? Fuck that. I just don't have the time.

Maybe I'll Twitter them:  @Jax&Parkie Love you, mean it. You 2 r the bomb. Eating like champs, now crawling.  Mama's so proud.  Smell ya later.  Really, I will smell you later.

Or?  I'll just include some photos and put that letter back in the To-Do file.

Jax pumpkin patch 

Parkie pumpkin patch

We love Fall, even in California where you barely notice it. But what a great photo opp, huh? And Parkie adds, thank God my freakin' hair is finally coming in, it's about DAMN time.

Obama 1

A change is coming and I'm not talkin' about my diaper!

Obama 2

People, I am truly concerned about this election. And truthfully, I'm concerned that a certain Vice Presidential candidate got her first passport in 2006 and has visited just four countries. I just cannot see how this might bode well for a more positive image for the United States in the eyes of the international community.                                                                                                                                                                                                                    

Zoolander

Parks Zoolander 

Dudes!  That just got, like, sooooo heavy! We're just going to practice our Zoolander moves and try to ignore the crumbling US economy.

So Bootcamp Had Its Way With Me…

…And I came back for more.

Yup. For some inexplicable reason* I decided to sign up for another month.

*I am a goddamn LAZY ASS. And left to my own devices I wouldn't do anything AT ALL.  Seriously, exercise for me is strolling slowly through the gym, lounging on a treadmill for about 10 minutes, getting super bored of VH1 and then deciding to head out to the nearest bagel shop.

And that's a good workout for me.

So even though I spent all those days thoroughly humiliating myself and hoping against hope that

1) I would miraculously learn how to jump rope from one day to the next and 2) the Blond Mom Gang would ask me to join their perfectly-coiffed cabal (and they would give me a free pass on the customary beat-down most new members get!), neither happened.

And yet, I knew if I wanted to get this baby weight off, and tackle The Awning Problem, I would have to do something that made me work hard.  Because really?  It's  not pretty, folks.

In other news, Baby Cate has arrived, what wonderful news!

And in other other news, the twins are almost nine and a half  months old. I have totally skipped Month Eight's letter, and now am well on my way to missing this month so I must get my ass in gear.

But in case you're curious, the headline is: 

BABIES TEETHING = SUCKTASTIC TIME FOR MOMMY AND NEIGHBORS ON BOTH SIDES

Yes, both neighbors casually mentioned, "Oh!  Are the twins teething?  This is the first time we could hear them." 

I try to shut the window when diaper changes sound like cats being attacked by rusty cheese graters and I try to remember to close the sliding door to the backyard when dinnertime sounds like wild parrots being plucked bald one feather at a time.

I hope that the neighbors can't hear me saying things like, "YOU ARE DRIVING MOMMY TO DRINK" and "Where the fuck is your father?" and "Get me the Baby Motrin STAT" but of course if they hear the babies they probably can hear me, but I choose not to dwell on that.

I just tell myself that teething is a stage, that we will all somehow get through this, and that within a few hours I can wake up to a new morning, which brings with it a new hope, a slowing rising sun, a comforting breeze cooled by the fog over San Francisco Bay, the beautiful soft light breaking through the tree tops and the chance to shove a Lexapro down my gullet faster than you can say

ARRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG


 

This Just In: I Am Boot Camp’s Bitch

Cost of two kneecap brace-like things that cut off all circulation to my lower extremities:  $29.74

Cost of custom made orthotics for running shoes:  $210.00

Cost of new running shoes:  $119.25

Cost of chiropractor co-pay:  $10.00

Cost of ice packs for injuries to back, knees, foot and for treating shin splints:  $10.99

Cost of odd-looking device called a Strassburg Sock* used  for treating plantar fasciitis:  $24.99

Cost of being the oldest, most decrepit, lamest-ass LAME ASS boot camp has ever seen:  PRICELESS

Cost to my ego of daily humiliating situations from which I will never fully recover:  INCALCULABLE

Good Grief Charlie Brown, this sucks.  Big time.

I asked BeBop the other day, "is there a limit to how much humiliation I can withstand?"  "No," he answered somewhat gravely, "there does not seem to be a limit."

I don't know if that exchange makes any sense at all, but the point is each day is just a series of horribly embarrassing things I am made to do.  Made to do in front of the Blond Mom Gang Leader whose perfect, blond short hair and super sassy work out outfits have cast a kind of spell upon me, and I find myself strangely attracted to her. Like an old, busted-ass  moth drawn to a beautiful, skinny and tanned flame who has just returned from yet another weekend in Lake Tahoe.

I'm not making much sense am I? What else is new.

Moving on.

Both of my knees are KILLING me, I'm guessing from all the running and the side-to-side lateral things we have to do across the entire basketball court and back again about a frillion and 47 times every morning.  And I got shin splints from the uphill (BOTH WAYS!  How do they do that?!?) jogging we did on Monday.  And my hip is out. (I learned that phrase, 'my hip is out' from my Grandmother when she was like 93 years old, if you must know.)  And my foot is killing me, thanks to a recurrence of the delightful affliction plantar faciitis. Which is Latin for IT FUCKING HURTS.

And so I limp off to boot camp each morning at 5:45 AM, hoping against hope there has been some rip in the fabric of time and that by the time I arrive at the park my class will be over and it's time for me to go home and shower.  And ice various appendages. But for some odd reason that never seems to happen. 

The jump rope is still the bane of my existence. Honestly? I feel like I'm missing something.  I fear that all those I have my period AGAIN excuses in junior high caused me to miss the Jump Rope 101 class that all the other girls seem to have taken. 

(Incidentally, I also somehow managed to miss the How To Style Your Hair class, the How To Apply Make Up class, the How To Wear Candies Wedge Sandals With Lace-Up Chemin De Fer Jeans Without Looking Like a Total Slut class as well as the How To Grow Breasts class.  Not that I'm keeping  track or anything.)

I tried the one foot and then the other method, but I was a total spaz and kept tripping myself.  Then I tried the jump with two feet at the same time plan, but that is also a hot mess.

I am quite clearly the most pathetically uncoordinated person on the face of the earth.

When we have to jump rope, here the sound coming from everyone else in class:

WHOOSH WHOOSH WHOOSH

or

WOOSHWOOSHWOOSHWOOSHWOOSHWOOSHWOOSH

like a goddamn Rocky movie or something.

But here is the sound you hear from me:

WOO – FRICK STOMPSTOMP (as I'm readjusting the rope behind my feet to start over) WHOOSH WHOOSH (YEAH!  I'm in a rhythm no-) FRICK!  STOMPSTOMP  WHOOSH WOO CLANG (rope gets caught on ponytail)  FUCK  STOMPSTOMP WHOOSH WHOOSH WHOOSH (Okay, now I've got it, let's just try to keep it goin') OOOF! [sound of stumbling as I've managed to somehow get the rope tangled around both ankles] [sigh] (Is Blond Gang Leader Mom watching?  DREAD DREAD DREAD)  STOMP STOMP WOO-FRICKING FRICK TO THE MOTHER FUCKING FRICK

I mean really, just imagine me in my black work out pants and an Adidas sweat-wicking tee cursing and stumbling with the rope either around my ankles again or stuck in my hair or wrapped tightly around my neck, trying to hop up and down and cursing loudly and sneaking looks to see how many people have stopped what they're doing just to stare at me.  How's that for a visual?

Because that image is so horrifying, here's something else to look at:

We're Here All Week, Please Try The Veal & Tip Your Wait Staff!

(HOLD IT RIGHT THERE! ! Up there, look! Link to a new YouTube video of the Watson Twins.)

*Speaking of this crazy contraption called the Strassburg Sock, it is basically a huge white, well, sock, with some strappy things that you put on, like a miniature straight jacket. You put the sock on and pull it all the way up to your knee, then lift your foot up and secure your toes using the strappy things to your leg, essentially keeping your foot at a permanent 90 degree angle.  And you're supposed to sleep with this thing on.  With your foot sticking out to the side or straight up in the air, depending on how you sleep!

BeBop has taken to calling it the Lee Strasburg Sock and of course each time he does I have grandiose fantasies about starring in a new feature film called My Left Foot, The Sequel:  My Right Foot.

I know, I know.  Enough said.

Golden Girls Attack Of The Droopy Flesh Monster, Part Deux

This post is a mish-mash if there ever was one.

First, I got to see Erin and W and meet the adorable babies!  They were simply scrumptious!  (The twins, that is.  Although Erin and her hubby aren't chopped liver either!).  But it was a great visit and I'm happy they're all doing so well.

Second, your answers to my last post were HI-larious.  And by 'Hi-larious' I mean completely depressing and discouraging.  WHA?  The Awning is here to stay unless I somehow convince BeBop to spend the babies' future college fund money on a tummy tuck??  Well, if that's the way it's gotta be.

Mama can't be expected to drag the Awning around forever, can she?  I mean, it practically needs its own seat on an airplane and that just wouldn't make any financial sense, right?

Sort of related to the Awning is the fact that I (ME!  WATSON!!) signed up — willingly! — for an exercise boot camp that meets every morning at 6:00 AM.  Can you imagine?  I don't know what possessed me, honestly.  This really is the last thing I would ever do.

I hate getting up early, I hate jamming all my thanks-for-nothing-twins folds of skin into tight contraptions like jog bras, I hate exercising, I hate exercising in front of people.  I think I was temporarily abducted by aliens and the pod-like creature they sent to occupy my body while they probed me went on-line and used my credit card to register me for this torture they call boot camp.

And not that it's about comparing yourself to others and judging (EXCEPT THAT IT IS!!) I just didn't want to be the biggest or the slowest in the group.  I am not the biggest, but Sweet Lord in Heaven I am the slowest.  There is another new Mom in the group and the first day we befriended one another because everyone else in the group has been taking this boot camp for, oh, like YEARS.  Great.  So we bonded over the fact that having babies is hard and we're both so out of shape and YAY!  I thought,  she's  got to be slow too.  Only then two days later as she was sprinting past me she let it slip that although her baby is only three months old, she's been running with him in a jogging stroller.  Whore.

We had to do assessments on Wednesday and I was so on the short bus that day.  We had to run a lap, then run a lap jumping rope and then do the whole thing over again.  And we were timed.  Did it bring back horrific memories of junior high PE class, when the teacher thought I got my period three times a month because I was always claiming I had cramps and couldn't participate?  Why yes.  Yes it did.  I think I had a flashback and was suffering post traumatic stress disorder (OHMYGAWD my hair is not feathering correctly today and Ricky is asking
someone else to the dance and my yearbook assignment is late and I just have to have Survivor's new 45 Eye of the Tiger and LIFE
IS LIKE SO TOTALLY OVER KILL ME NOW), but I still  had to run and then try to RUN WHILE JUMPING ROPE.  Jesus H. Christ.  If I couldn't manage that when I was twelve what on Earth would give them the idea I could do it now?

My first attempt at running with the jump rope was so pathetic, in fact (picture a baby cow being roped by a cowboy, only a lot less graceful) that the coach took pity on me and gave me the Special Jump Rope. For Special Kids, if you know what I mean. It had plastic bead-like things instead of just a thin plastic rope and I guess the idea is that it's heavier and therefore easier. 

MY ASS.

But I stumbled and tripped my way through four friggin' laps and everyone else was done a good five minutes before I was. Was it humiliating? You bet it was.  Did I care?  Well…kinda.

Remember the Horribly Embarrassing Swimming Experiment of 2006?  I don't know why I keep doing this to myself.

I can blame it on the Awning, I think. Each time the Awning and I get out of the shower I am traumatized.  Each time I lay on my side and the Awning flops down next to me, I am shocked, SHOCKED! at the amount of extra flesh that accompanies me everywhere I go.

Speaking of extra flesh, and really? who doesn't LOVE talking about extra flesh (am I right?) another super fun by-product of the pregnancy are these new, uh, folds of skin I have.  On the plus side The Girls  are still bigger.  The downside is that I now have to worry about boob sweat.  This phenomenon was new to me. And not a welcome addition I might add.  So between the boobs kind of folding over on themselves and the Awning, I now have to…powder my folds. 

Yes, I said it:  POWDER MY FOLDS. With baby powder.  And God only knows what else is under there…spare change?  BeBop's missing cell phone charger? Jax's 12,000 pacifiers that have mysteriously disappeared?

Could this post get any more disgusting?

Actually knowing me, it could get a lot more disgusting so let's just leave it at that. I will try to post more about boot camp, either here on my new-fangled Twitter thingey (which of course I can barely figure out) so that I will risk public humiliation if I puss out and quit boot camp before the four weeks are over.

But come to think of it, this blog (and actually my entire life)  is just a long series of humiliating experiences strung together so that might not seem like incentive, but at this point I'll take anything I can get.

And on a totally unrelated, really random tangent, you know those t-shirts or bumper stickers that say things like: Mountain Climbers Do It Up High or Scuba Divers Do It Under Water or Truckers Do It Long Distance…remember those, like from the 80s when everything was tacky and not at all PC, remember?  Well, I'm going to make a t-shirt for twin Moms that says:  Twin Moms Do It Wait What Was I Talking About

And that, my friends, really is a mish-mash, just like I warned you. 

C-Section Mamas: HOLLAH!

Okay.

So it’s been a while since we’ve had a little chat about my Lady Business.

And I know you’ve just been sitting around, in those moments when you really have nothing going on, and wondering to yourself, “Self, what on EARTH is happening in and around Watson’s Girly Bits these days? Hmmmmm…must remember to e-mail and inquire.”  Except then you get all busy again and your e-mail to me falls farther and farther down your To-Do list.

And I forgive you. Because I have a big heart like that.

And I wouldn’t want your concern for me and my bits to get the better of you, you know, keep you up at night and such.  So let’s have a little chat. Especially my fellow c-section twin Mommies, seriously crack those knuckles gals, as if you’re about to give a piano recital, and GET TO TYPIN’.

Momma wants some comments, chickens.

Remember those posts during my pregnancy (also know as The Time I Swelled Up Like Free Willy) when I was totally freaked out about the state of the flippy flaps?  Well, you’ll be happy to know that they did, in fact, pretty much shrink back to a fairly normal size since having the babies.  I know! One less thing keeping you up at night, am I right?

BUT.

I have an issue. A major issue.  And I’m not quite sure how to explain it.

Let me try to draw you a picture:  So I did, in fact, gain about a million pounds.  Some of it was carrying two fairly giant babies. (Not GIANT giant, like I was gestating two baby elephants, but you know what I mean.)  Some of it was the liver problem that caused me to gain a pound of water A DAY towards the end of the pregnancy. And some of it was due to the chocolate milkshakes I drank to ease the heartburn. But my point IS my stomach expanded to an unruly and completely terrifying girth.

And then I had the c-section and lost close to 50 pounds in about two weeks. So my skin was stretched out and then snapped back, like a huge, fleshy stretch mark-covered rubber band. (God help you if you’re unlucky enough to be reading this post during your lunch break!)

So annnnyyyywaaaaay….I now have this…this…section of skin that sits a lot lower than it should.  My lower abdominal flesh is, well, sort of saggy. SUPER saggy, you might say. In a very Golden Girls kind of way.  Not that I’ve seen any of the Golden Girls without their panties and I don’t mean any disrespect to Estelle Getty, was she the one who just died?  God rest her soul. 

But what I’m trying to tell you is there is this…ummmmm…an overhang, if you will.  At certain times it looks remarkably like an awning.  Like a beige and pink striped awning.  (Thanks for nothing stretch marks!) Sometimes I imagine it IS an awning, like at a cute little French sidewalk cafe.  And I imagine under this awning there are attractive young couples drinking black coffee and discussing politics and the chic new First Lady and her scandalous past and planning their next trip to the French countryside for wine tasting and I imagine it could be called ‘Girl Parts Adjacent’ (because that’s CLASSY right??) and then I’m all GET A HOLD OF YOURSELF YOU FREAKING NUT BALL.  

So here are my questions:  If I lose the rest of the baby weight will this ever go back to its rightful place? Will the overhang magically disappear?  Is this a result of gaining so much weight, the c-section or both? (Well, I already know the answer to that.)

I guess I’m wondering if anyone else out there has been a victim of the Golden Girls Attack of the Droopy Flesh Monster?  Will the dreadful stretch marks ever fade? Am I destined to have a flippy flap cover my flippy flaps, practically ensuring that I would need to MapQuest my AREA should BeBop ever want to locate it?

Sort of like this, only without the lights because they would get all caught in my pubes and could be a fire hazard and okay, I’ll stop.

2195506588_0719a32a34 

I don’t know WHY I’m the only person who talks about this stuff, really. I have no shame.  No shame at all.

Whine And Cheese, My Specialty!

So BlogHer 2008 was a bust.

For me, that is. Everyone else seemed to have a fabulous time.

I managed to come down with a terrible summer cold and miss almost all of the festivities.

I was planning on going for the whole day on Saturday. No kids, no husband. Weeeeeeee! I must have registered months ago, and if I wasn’t such a ‘tard I would have figured out how to put that “I’m going to BlogHer 2008” button on my sidebar like forever ago.  That’s how excited I was.

But I missed almost the whole goddamn thing. The opening session, lunch, the panel discussions, the book signings, even meeting up with the Marvelous Mel*.

I MISSED IT ALL.

With BeBop’s urging (and by ‘urging’ I mean he basically dragged my snuffly ass out of bed and MADE me go) I got up Saturday morning and after about three hours of ingesting various forms of cold medicine (helpful hint:  friends don’t let friends take seventy frillion different kinds of cold medicine) I drove myself to the nearest BART station and blew my nose for thirty straight minutes on the ride up to San Francisco.

After navigating the busy streets of the city (where did all these people come from? I asked myself. And why are they ALL going to DSW Shoe Warehouse??), I stumbled into the hotel and was soon overcome with a fever, copious amounts of perspiration that led to the dreaded BOOB SWEAT, a sneezing fit, frizzy hair and the horrifying realization that

1) everyone there looked totally cute and well-put-together; 2) everyone had totally cute haircuts; 3) I had neither of these things going for me. 

And I knew no one.  I was completely, utterly, ALONE. [cue sad music]

So I…of course…being the confident and self-assured woman that I am…went to hide in the bathroom for ten minutes and tried to pull myself together before the afternoon session about monetizing your blog. 

I’m sure the session was informative.  I am GUESSING it was informative because I was so hot and cold and sweaty and freezing and snot-producing and worried I might run out of Kleenex that I was far too distracted to really pay attention. 

I tried to write down the most interesting facts and here, direct from my astonishingly accurate and detailed note-taking, is the extent of my newfound knowledge about earning money through blogging:

* cost per click? find out what that means

* cost per aqu acqui acquition acquisition?

* what the fuck?

* must research affiliate networks (what r they?)

* what the fuckity fuck fuck?

* people say ‘do u know what i mean’ all the time.  Must be hip thing to say.  Must remem. to say more often

* moderator  = awesome hair.  How can I have cute haircut like that?  Have v. straight hair.  Like straw.  Must research perms:  do people still get them in 2008?

So, yes.  Well worth the schlepping as you can see. I did not get to meet any of the awesome women who attended, nor did I get to stalk follow around try to get a photo with hear Heather speak at the closing session.

And did I get to hand out any of the kicky new business cards I had printed up, just for this occasion?  WHY NO, but thank you for asking.  And why, might you ask, did I have business cards printed up for this occasion? 

BECAUSE THEY TOLD ME TO.

As BeBop always says, I have an unnatural (and very disturbing) sense of respect for authority figures. And the kind folks at BlogHer suggested that I bring business cards and so that’s what I did.  Forked over about $30 just to get some cards printed that I toted up to the city and right back home again. And now they are shoved into my underwear drawer in the hopes my family doesn’t stumble upon them and ask what this blogging business is all about?

And guess what else? I hurt my foot. As in, I hurt the tendony part on the bottom and limped all the way back down to the BART station, through the throngs of people pushing their way into the Shoe Warehouse and my foot hurt so badly I didn’t even go in to see if there was an awesome shoe sale underway. Now that’s real pain.  And how did I hurt my foot?  Running up two flights of stairs to get my swag bag?  Or racing to the assigned room to get a great seat?  Why, no.

I hurt my foot…sitting.  Yes, you read that correctly.  SIT. TING.  In a chair.  Honestly, what kind of a lame ass hurts her foot sitting in a chair for an hour and a half?  (Don’t answer that.)

To be frank, I thought I’d spend the day meeting fabulous women and I’d try to get them to like me and also convince them that I was as cool as they were, only with much less attractive hair, and it would be just like junior high all over again only this time with business cards.

I was also hoping I’d run into someone in the bathroom who would take a sneaky peek at my name tag and remark, “Why YOU’RE Watson? Of My Dear Watson??  I read your blog all the time!”

Now that was clearly the cold medicine talking, people.

I wanted to hear Mel’s panel and raise my hand during Q&A to — under the guise of asking a relevant question — really make a comment.  You know how people do that?  And how frigging annoying it is?  YEAH. I wanted to do THAT!

But sadly, it was not meant to be. This damn cold kicked my ass and then came back for more.

Now I’m left, bereft and alone, to blow my nose, contemplate what to do with 200 business cards, re-read my notes and try to figure out what SCO MOZ means, wait for next year and, generally, just wallow in self-pity and regret.

Do you know what I mean?

*Ah, people? Did you know that our dear, sweet and totally awesome Mel is like a comic book hero now? Did she tell you about this?  How BlogHer put together this incredibly well-written and illustrated little booklet that highlighted a few bloggers, sort of the Super Heroes (Heroines!) of the Blogosphere and each one got their own cartoon character super hero drawing to go along with her profile.  YAY MEL!!

One Grateful Momma

Parkie and Mommy
   

Wait, WHAT?

I have another kid somewhere??  WHAT THE???

The real reason for this post: who’s going to BlogHer?  Can I see a show of hands?  Let’s meet up! 

Really, I’m not nearly as odd in person.  No that’s a lie.  I’m actually much odder. 

But I’d still love to meet you. Anyone?  Hello?  [crickets]