Mommy Blog

Due to the major, life-altering milestone of mommy-hood, a new blog is in order. Visit me at: sweetbabyjack.wordpress.com.

7 Weeks

For seven weeks I have been intending to say something, anything, about the miracle of a mini-me who entered my life on January 14th. The hard part is not finding the time (I have been blessed with a baby who likes his sleep), it's finding the desire. Every spare moment I'm given I'd rather be gazing at my sleeping angel; walking through the neighbourhood with my little man in tow; kissing my husband for giving him to me; or curling up on the couch with my son snuggled deep into my chest. He will only be this tiny for a short time and I don't want to waste a second. So instead, I give you a montage of my last two months of bliss.

Sweet, the day after he was born.

What I do instead of blogging - watch my son sleep.

Sweet, snuggling with Mommy.

Family time.

And Now...I Wait

I have officially surpassed my due date, which coincidentally fell on my husband’s birthday. He crossed his fingers for our child to be born yesterday (as of 1 minute ago - happy birthday sweetheart) so he would no longer have to celebrate the slow progression of wrinkles and silvering hair. However, it appears that Sweet has taken on the ‘fashionable lateness’ qualities of his/her Mommy. I don’t blame my child; it’s much warmer in my voluptuous, insulated belly than it is in the chilled desert air. My 40-week ultrasound revealed that, despite my best doughnut-laden effort, Sweet does not exceed 8 pounds, so there is no urgency (yet) to induce.

And so…I wait. For an overcommitted work-a-holic, it is a rare occurrence to wake up with little more to do than anticipate my first contraction. Over a candlelit birthday dinner my husband and I smiled at each other adoringly and breathed in our last savory moments of silence.

Party with my Belly

My Finnish DJ friend hosted a show at the Vegas version of Privé the evening following Christmas. I hadn't seen him or his wife since the music conference in Miami two years earlier, so I had no intention of missing his performance in my backyard. Sweet has patiently endured the trashy pop and trance tunes that so frequently blast from my car stereo that I figured s/he would either sleep soundly or decide to make a slightly early appearance as Mommy shook her tooshie on the dance floor.



In a room full of slender, pompous 20-somethings, I can only imagine the sneers my buxom, 9-months-pregnant belly must have garnered. In fact, as I pushed Sweet awkwardly through crowds of drunken, dancing suits, the bouncer not-so-kindly denied my request to leave through a roped-off exit (I feigned discomfort in an attempt to break the rules) saying "maybe you shouldn't be here." He was right - not because my unborn child and I couldn't handle the multitude of people or the body-vibrating bass, but because one should never have to stomach such a pretentious scene on orange juice and water alone.

Regardless, it will make a good story to tell the little one when I'm in dire need of "rock star" points, because Lord knows I tossed my cool out the window somewhere along Route 40.

Wonderland

Just when I began to accept my distance from the East Coast, the East Coast came to me...


And just as I ascend to the pinnacle of turmoil in advance of our baby's birth (transitioning work; year-end deliverables; prenatal classes; gift-buying; and preparation for all our relatives arriving for the holidays on the doorstep of our tornado of a half-painted and woefully disarranged house), our ages old backyard tree collapsed into our pool under the weight of the powdery goodness that Las Vegas is not particularly well-designed to handle.



Regardless, I say God bless the snow. In all it's infinite chaos, it will still never fail to calm me. I think I'll make some hot chocolate for Sweet.

Rainbow Pack

Mothers-to-be, carrying carbonated orange juice and a bandeau-covered, oversized belly through a casino are quite the attention grabber. It’s as unlikely an image as Grandma Hazel clinging to a walker and an IV pole, rolling dice at a craps table full of cowboys. I will not lie and say I don’t enjoy the attention, particularly the googly-eyed, approving smiles of gambling fathers. In my state of natural obesity, it’s nice to be appreciated.

Las Vegas residents do not typically rush to the Strip for entertainment; there is plenty to be found elsewhere without the insufferable crowds (or obnoxious drink prices, if you’re able). But local-discount (or free – courtesy of generous concierge-friends with strings) shows are still a draw, as is the intensity of a solid power-hour of…bingo. If you enjoy a $15 diversion, but still want to socialize with your companions, don’t purchase the “rainbow pack”. My teal-hued dauber saw more action in sixty minutes than a low-rent call girl does in a week. Empty-handed, save some aquamarine ink stains on my hand, I still left the casino bingo hall feeling a satisfaction that no money-sucking blackjack table can bestow. Gambling without breaking the bank and a free hot chocolate in the belly I share with my Sweet. This may become a Thursday evening habit.

Sweet

Meet Sweet, the pig-nosed, meatball-cheeked, apple of my focus for the last 34 weeks. I love this little worm nestled contentedly on the right side of my belly, poking at my bladder and jabbing at my ribcage.

With only 6 more weeks to go, I find myself reminiscing fondly about these last 7 ½ months and thanking the wrinkly little alien for being so kind to his/her work-a-holic of a mother. Save a 24 hour cold, I never got sick (I’m thankful for good vitamins, strong genes, or perhaps both). Save the pre-programmed exhaustion of my first trimester, I managed to survive my work weeks often on limited amounts of red-eye-induced sleep and forever changing time zones. Save an instant thickening of my once curvaceous waist, to the untrained eye my pregnancy was well concealed until my 5th month and my ankles have yet to swell (I still sport 4 inch heels to social events). Save a vivid dream or two that were the likely result of internal activity, I have never been awakened by the baby’s movements; never felt pain, discomfort or nausea; rarely had to get up in the middle of the night for a desperate pee; and never been want for assistance. Sweet has breezed past velvet ropes and slumbered while I shook my expanding hips on more than one hot night club dance floor; trucked along quietly on hikes through Red Rock Canyon (the last of which, although brief, was three days ago); listened patiently and attentively to my never-ending conference calls; and darted agreeably by my side through airport after airport; rental car after rental car; city after city. For the last 7 ½ months it has been tranquil baby, me and a suitcase against the world. I am a very, very lucky woman.

And now, here I am; home at last, nesting - washing gender-neutral jumpers, hooded towels, bibs, wash cloths and booties no bigger than my finger; preparing my home for the entry of a child who is already, quite possibly, an angel.

Grounded

I read about the latest blogger happy hour in my former city and my appetite was whet again. I didn’t mean to stop writing. I can’t say it was an accident, really. By “not actively preventing”, my husband and I conceived within 5 days of my last post (educated guess and women’s intuition being the pinpoints). Since then, I have carried my developing baby genius 120,000 miles around the country in 7 months for work and the sheer exhaustion has limited my creative juices. In fact, my imagination is still barricaded by the perpetual distraction of consulting and the little one doing somersaults in my now enormous tummy. I did, however, finally fly my last flight before the birth of my first bundle of joy. I have not entered an airport in 10 days; a bittersweet reminder that life as I once knew it is on the brink of phenomenal overhaul. There was precious little that I had to give up to move to Las Vegas, but without doctor-permitted access to the friendly skies and weekly visits east I am now obligated to forge my desert living and reminisce about what I have really left behind.

Guardian Angel

I’ve often thought of myself as extraordinarily blessed; so much so that I can’t help but wonder from time to time whether there is purposeful, divine intervention sheltering me. My yet discovered celestial reason for being. Take my accident last weekend. I was forced by another vehicle into a concrete wall at sixty miles an hour and walked away without a scratch.

I often deliberate my guardian angel with a Private Ryan-like torment. What have I done to deserve this charmed, unblemished life? For all intents and purposes, I’m a Plain Jane corporate lemming who is too risk averse to change her hairstyle, let alone change the world and thus, my boundless comfort is also my subconscious burden. My uncanny lack of scar tissue (both emotionally and physically) is not just a statistical outlier, but an outright improbability. I say my prayerful thanks with a gnawing guilt that I am misusing my godsent time.

And then I received some appeasing clarity. I was discussing the miraculous outcome of my accident with my preacher’s wife of a sweet, elderly grandmother when she said, “You know, Jessica, you just make so many people happy.” And maybe my purpose is as simple as that…

Welcome to Nevada

It’s amazing what kind of impact a 45 second change in direction can make. My choice of words is what some might deem ironic (although technically ‘non-impact’ and ‘on-course’ would be the ironic words) given their literal intent. The opening scene: 10am; pure, desert sunshine; crisp, dry, morning air; fresh squeezed orange/carrot juice; convertible top down; CD player set to a crooning Aussie rock band; open highway. A sip of juice and five minutes later another driver forgets to check his blind spot. The closing scene: squealing, fishtailing wheels; burnt rubber; blackened concrete wall; a skid mark spanning four highway lanes and a mangled, leaking, smoking car coming to rest on a bed of jagged rocks.

Aside: Does it seem strange to anyone that there are no airbags deployed in this picture? I will be having a long conversation with Ford on Monday.

That mental video clip has played over and over in my head at least 200 times today and I’m doing my best to avoid contemplating what ‘could’ have happened. I walked away unscathed as did each of my passengers. After the dust settled on my slightly bruised forehead, the tears commenced. I was unharmed and I could not have cared less about my mutilated vehicle. I was crying to drain the emotional panic that had erupted within me because I couldn’t see my husband for the entire 45 second duration of our accident. He had opted to spread out, unprotected across the back seat (giving his best buddy shot gun for our road trip). Until I heard my sweetheart’s voice from behind my headrest, after slamming head-on into a wall of concrete and spinning in a 360 across four lanes of oncoming highway traffic, I had no knowledge of his outcome. The idea of losing my universe of happiness was too much for my psyche to hold inside for long. Traumatic events are a frightening reminder to prioritize.

Hooah

I am in the midst of boxing up my belongings (and thus, procrastinating) and I came across some items in our closet that inspired me to write a brief post: my husband’s old army ranger uniforms in crisp mint and olive. I couldn’t help but run my fingers across the finely pressed collars, yarn-sewn name tags and metallic decor. He served in his youth, long before we met; crawling through swampy murk, defusing land mines, diving through clouds, starvation, push-ups, chin-ups, blisters, frost bite. The words to describe my pride escape me. I married a hero.

On the Road Again

My husband and I are ‘do-it-yourself’ kind of people. Scour your own tiles, spice your own beef, move your own house 2,500 miles across the country… My parents call daily to inquire optimistically about the changing of my mind. But what better way to keep the marital adventure sparks flying than to tow my sweet scarlet muscle car behind a 17’ truck filled sparsely with the trinket-like beginning of our life together? [Rhetorical – I can think of many]. Regardless, this was a long drawn out decision that we made together and I’m looking forward to the endless hours of alone time on the back-country highways.

Alma Mater

Tonight I stood at the front of a room full of ravenously inquiring brilliant minds; young, hopeful, yearning. I began [paraphrase], “Interesting that our firm is presenting to you this evening in this location; I have quite the fond memory of this room because it was within the very same chairs almost 10 years ago that I sat where you are today…” RRRRRiiiiii!!?? [That, if not plainly evident, is my alphabetical representation of a record scratching violently to a halt]. 10 years? Has it really been that long?

What I recall from that fateful 1998 fall evening in the warm confines of the student union building, where I drank hungrily the words of my future colleagues, was pure, intimidation-brimmed excitement. The hymen-tearing “I want to do that” experience; raw, unjaded desire. These consultants represented the brass ring; the fruit of my academic labours. Their delivery was effortless, their passion unparalleled, their culture so obviously unprecedented.

And now I am the embodiment of everything for which I vocationally ached. At least, that’s what I’d like to imagine I exude as I speak with as much confident energy as I can muster to an audience full of Me Juniors; the only thing separating me from them being the words “10 years”. Their drive, their naiveté, it’s so sweetly enviable. The soul of my younger self perches playfully on my right shoulder and mocks, “Oh, for these students to be flies on the wall of your subconscious right about now...”

Control

There are so many tidbits of information orbiting the hemispheres of my cerebral cortex at the moment that I doubt my present ability to write with any clarity. My mind is peppered with the uncertainty of momentous change and the pong-ball mayhem of my endless to dos. Most days I surface only seconds long enough to gasp hungrily for air before sinking again below the weight of my tiring schedule.

Interestingly enough, in the midst of my deep, sparkling chaos my husband and I have begun to consider our family plan. Unbeknownst to him, many a solitary tear has strolled across my cheeks in the last few weeks as a result. If you’ve read my blog for any short period of time, you know how vividly I dream of children. At the same time, a child means absolute upheaval. What I desire most frightens this control freak in much the same way that a dog trembles under the refuge of a dining table in a thunderstorm. The boom of black clouds rioting is enough to send rational consideration out the window. I married my soul mate who promised me partnership for better or worse; regardless, I cannot seem to squelch this innate fear I have of surrendering dictatorial governance over my own well-being. I rule me. I take care of me. I prosper, because of me. This regime, this formula, this methodology - it has worked for decades. Jessica is because Jessica does all and [please pre-excuse my French] I am scared absolutely shitless to let someone else take over. How can a caregiver accept the role of care given? The answer: with a vehement amount of resistance, procrastination and relative anxiety that materializes in the form of needless overexertion. Hence, the periodic tear or two. How else is a wound up girl like me to release those built up bubbles of hesitation?

Today's Carat Word = Patronymic

It’s a curious feeling this “in limbo” thing. I’ve been making slow but sure progress on the legal documentation of my new surname, but I still flinch every time somebody refers to me politely as “Mrs. Clark”. It’s been more than four months (not including the few months prior to my wedding where I whispered my future name to my atmospheric audience and practiced my future signature on newspaper scraps) and the adjustment has not sunk in. What's odd is, the sound of my maiden name in conversation is equally as bizarre. My name no longer rolls off my tongue without conscious deliberation; when somebody asks who I am, I hesitate.

In my honest opinion (because what other opinion would I offer?), the only deplorable thing about marriage is the name update process. Though by law I can call myself whatever I please, by convention I’m a traditionalist who loves the idea of sharing my sweetheart’s patronymic; in symbolic gesture of my gratitude and respect. The administrative hours spent in line at the county clerk, DMV, immigration, Social Security, bank and HR (not to mention countless internet upgrades)…have, although fleetingly, made me consider the sanity of my choice.

Now that I’m nearing the end of the paperwork, I wonder how long it will take for the change to feel natural. New clothes – a few days; new address – a few weeks; new car - a month; new name – to be determined…

Fragrance

“Ooh, but I still smell her. [Inhales deeply through nose] Women! What can you say? Who made 'em? God must have been a fuckin' genius. The hair... They say the hair is everything, you know. Have you ever buried your nose in a mountain of curls... just wanted to go to sleep forever?” - Scent of a Woman

I know each aroma that emanates from my husband and believe it or not, I love every one of them – particularly the scent of his shoulders as my eyes flutter and I curl up against him in those waking moments before the dawn. I love the softness of his breath; the mild sour of his sweat; the apple of his pomade; the sand of his soles; the subtle, entrancing spice of his neck. Whether freshly groomed or leisurely shaggy, he always radiates a hypnotic wonder that paralyzes me. We make for interesting cavies in the study of romantic chemistry.

As I lie next to my husband ingesting his sweetness, or inhale what lingers on his pillow when he is gone, I sometimes find myself considering the importance of aromatic compounds to the success of a relationship. We have been known to writhe in laughter at each other’s unpleasant stories of the fetid clam hatchery and the dime-store musk of former flames. What exactly is it about one person’s hygienic habits that are so repulsive to the first lover, but so palatable to the next? After all that contemplation, all I am left to comprehend is that, whatever olfactory god blessed my husband's glands, he has ruined me for other men.

January's Book of Jessica

Perfect Match by Jodi Picoult

I have opted out of the book clubs to which I used to belong because I no longer have the leisure of finishing books on a dictated schedule. However, I absolutely love to read (a curse of my premature literacy at age four) and do so as often as my life-balance permits. I envy with virtual seething drool the number of hardbacks Namaste plows through and thus, I have made a new resolution to read, in one year, at least one sixth of what I presume Namaste consumes [excluding her students’ writing and her requisite PhD literature]. In other words, I am attempting to savour one novel per month. I intend to use my blog as a forum to discuss briefly the impressions I develop from my periodic verbal ingestion. My independent book club, if you will.

This month’s fare: a fast-paced, pop fiction best seller from an author known for her deeply emotional exploration of difficult issues. She is the sole writer to have evoked in me a weep-out-loud-for-five-minutes sentiment when I read her acclaimed “My Sister’s Keeper”. Unfortunately with this novel, she failed to reach the heights I have grown to expect. The characters were genuine and unguarded; impossible not to pity. Her descriptions, as always, were magnificent and robust. The problem with this novel was in the storyline; a plot that was both tired and exaggerated, just like a Matthew McConaughey film [A Time To Kill, anyone?]. Despite its hurried gait, the plot twists were strangely roll-your-eyes unbelievable. Halfway through the book I considered shelving it entirely. I was disappointed that she revisited the concept of infidelity with the enduring, lovelorn BFF – a theme that consistently bores me. If not for the vacillatingly virtuous husband and the angelic, victimized son I might have considered the novel a valuable time despoiler. The read was simply bourgeois and my expectations far exceeded the vanilla I was fed.

Vail

Everyone has a vice; something on which too large a reasonable percentage of one’s income is spent. My vice is travel (and expensive wine; but for the sake of this post we will assume my zest for pricy blends is commensurate with my penchant for world exploration). This is the reason I do not own designer handbags, nor are my appendages adorned with a multitude of Tiffany’s baubles. I’d rather spend my hard-earned salary on airfare. That’s why I keep my Myspace calendar updated, so my friends don’t have to play the “Where’s Jessica” game. I’m hardly ever home.

This week, it’s Vail, Colorado; where I spent the day bulleting through knee deep powder moguls on the back bowls of the mountain. On the last quad-lift of the day preceding my last run, as the wind bit at the air pocket beneath my goggles and the sun illuminated the bleach of the snow-capped trees, I seriously said a prayer of thanks. I realize this manic voyaging is not sustainable; but for now, I give in unreservedly to my vice because…I can.

Are You There God? It's Me, Jessica.

Interesting that when I’m the most tired, I can’t fall asleep. My thoughts are as flippant and circular as the dryer currently spinning the last of my [formerly moth ball smelling] ski clothes. As the dust of my excitement settles and the certainty of my lease termination taunts me, I battle my nagging doubts solo, in what feels like a hotel bed. This is something I will have to get used to – spending multiple evenings separated from my husband’s thermal affection. I have a million fateful reasons to relocate, but the advocate devil perched atop my ear is fighting logic with claws bared. And, in the midst of this life-altering decision crux, I am headed to Colorado to escape. There is a message here somewhere: a sign, an admonition, a reassurance? Alas, a cryptologist I am not. Instead, I await the 4:30am alarm and wonder (with that same angst-y paranoia I have unwilling inherited from my superstitious grandmother) what is going to become of me when I leap deliberately from the security of my nest…

It's Time

It appears that I am on the verge of embarking upon [at least what I consider to be] ground-breaking adaptation and there is a huge piece of my psyche that is petrified. One might find it surprising that fierce, confident, fearless Jessica has a hesitancy about change running deep enough that I won’t even upgrade my eons-old (as far as technology is concerned) 4GB iPod. I had no qualms about jumping out of a plane from 14,000 feet or swimming to the floor of the ocean; these exhilarating adventures simply salt and cayenne pepper the average day. But my spirit is bound on a rack of diametrical opposition. On one extreme I am dauntless; on the other extreme I am as bashful as a deer. In 8-plus years I have lived in the same city and worked for the same company. Of course, I have met extraordinary success in doing so; but now, when change is looming, I realize my stability is also the manifestation of my aversion to risk.

The change to which I’m referring is a relocation to Las Vegas. Oddly enough, my husband just left that city a year ago to immerse himself in the fast-track corporate Bunsen burner that is the East Coast [and, of course, me]. So, why go back? Why now? Both questions have been the source of some lengthy, personal, contemplative heart-to-hearts, of which I will spare you all the details. Just know that this is not a whimsical choice.

I’m deliriously excited but timorous; enthusiastic but cautious; intrepid but apprehensive; a vertical, ambulatory paradox. Our decision will be finalized within a week...