New England Mamas

New England Mamas is back. The blog, devoted to all that is maternal in our steepled corner of the country, has returned from its hiatus with a new organizational structure and several additional voices. I'm excited to be a contributing writer to New England Mamas once again. My first post, which will appear sometime this week, will supply the missing link between Howard Stern and contemporary children's radio programming. Check in daily over at New England Mamas until the connection is revealed.

Do Re Mi on the Loudspeakers, or, Aunt Flo Has Left the Building

I was crying in front of the laptop, moved to tears by the viral video of 200 people dancing to The Sound of Music's Do Re Mi at a train station in Antwerp. From the first splash of the salt-laced liquid on my desk, I had to wonder what the hell was wrong with me. I cried and contemplated, unable to enjoy the strange wonder of the moment.

A quick assessment of the facts didn't lead to me to any conclusions: a catchy tune reverberating from loudspeakers across a huge expanse of stone and marble; people going about their business; a few of them breaking into dance; more and more joining in; and, finally, a whole lotta happiness! As it ended, I remained in front of my computer, stumped. I couldn't understand why my emotions needed out of my body so badly because of a bunch of Belgians.

That's when the first of two truths became evident. The logical idea of questioning my hormones reminded me immediately that it was, indeed, almost that time of the month. My visit to the loo a few minutes later proved that it was exactly that time of the month. I felt strangely proud of the fact that my mind was so in tune with my body that I could pinpoint just when my monthly need for Tampax would commence. I am nothing if not self-aware.

The second truth--what is left when I consider that even hormones need some basis in logic with which to operate--is that I love spectacle. I love boardwalks with neon lights flashing and amusement rides twirling in the hot night. I love propagandist montages with soaring eagles and black and white photos of immigrants. I love gospel choirs. I'd love the circus if it didn't smell so bad. I am putty in the hands of those seeking to play with people's emotion. I love a parade!

It's a nice video. It would have something for all the senses, if only one could feel the grime of the train station and smell the body odor of 600 Europeans. It filled me to the brim with happiness, forcing out these womanly tears of the temporarily insane. But so what if I'm a little nuts. Worse things have happened. Worse things will continue to happen. And when they do, spectacles like these that will remind me that it is still possible to be overcome by something good.

Through Her Eyes

I met up with Lauren yesterday. She's a blogger-turned-real-life-friend. She's a story teller who works with both words and pictures. A moment is more vivid when she shows it to us through her eyes. Nothing is mundane, nobody is normal, and even the cheese graters hold fascination. She shocks me with the realization that her world is the same place I've been living in all this time. I never even knew it.

And she has me pegged. "I can see her being the one at the party with her skirt accidentally tucked into her pantyhose," she wrote about me in her post about our visit. God, she is so right. If I ever pen a memoir, some variation of that statement will have to serve as the title.

But, since a picture says a thousand words and, I promise, you'd rather hear it from her than me, here are a few shots of Number Two to prove my point (in case you haven't followed the previous links to her blog already).

Photos by Lauren

My Baby, Brought to You By the Internet

This is what our baby would look like if The Partner and I did not produce offspring that refuse to acknowledge my existence in any of their bodily features:



For the first time, I'm thankful that our actual children are not our composites. We don't look so hot when merged.

Go make your own baby online! It's not as much fun as having sex but it's a lot less painful than childbirth.

Two Days Late and a Holler Short

A virtual baby shower was held this weekend for GGC and Kristen as each awaits the birth of her second and third child, respectively.

Is that sentence even grammatically correct? Oh my God, I have no idea. That's where I am right now.

Anyway, I missed the shower. The brain of mine that is currently in hiding from the Strunk and White grammar police also balked at the price of admission to the virtual shower: one blog-ode extolling the virtues of newborn babes. Sometimes I get into this mood where I am unable to write about weighty subjects because I feel I can't do them justice. I am in such a mood now, as I have been for the past weekend. And certainly there are few things weightier than bringing a new life into the world--even if it only comes in at 7 lbs 1 oz, like the baby Boss, or 6 lbs 15 ozs, like my recently-born little boy.

So as I sit here typing with the latter in my lap--he's simultaneously eating, sleeping and pooping--I will let these words suffice:

Best wishes, Kristen. By now you're such a professional at this mothering thing--not to mention this blogging thing--that any wishes I can give are a meager offering compared to what you've already accrued. That won't stop me, of course. Here's to continued success in all your endeavors.

And I am so happy to be able to send much love to you, Rebecca, as you put the finishing touches on your next great work. Tell the story until it comes true, right? You've already started to weave the words behind this new life. I can't wait till she comes true through you.

Better late than never.

Write a Book with Blurb

This is the jacket of the hardcover book I created as a birthday gift for The Partner:























Find out more about my wholly satisfying artistic endeavor over at New England Mamas, where I'm hanging out today.


___

Inflammatory Friday

Today's post is brought to you by Whymommy of Toddler Planet. Recently diagnosed with Inflammatory Breast Cancer and with one round of chemo on the books, Whymommy has already put into action an ambitious awareness campaign. As part of that effort, I am featuring her words here today. If you have a blog or an email account and haven't done so already, please consider putting the good ol' copy and paste function to work in order to help spread the message.

From Whymommy:

We hear a lot about breast cancer these days. One in eight women will be diagnosed with breast cancer in their lifetimes, and there are millions living with it in the U.S. today alone. But did you know that there is more than one type of breast cancer?

I didn’t. I thought that breast cancer was all the same. I figured that if I did my monthly breast self-exams, and found no lump, I’d be fine.

Oops. It turns out that you don’t have to have a lump to have breast cancer. Six weeks ago, I went to my OB/GYN because my breast felt funny. It was red, hot, inflamed, and the skin looked…funny. But there was no lump, so I wasn’t worried. I should have been. After a round of antibiotics didn’t clear up the inflammation, my doctor sent me to a breast specialist and did a skin punch biopsy. That test showed that I have inflammatory breast cancer, a very aggressive cancer that can be deadly.

Inflammatory breast cancer is often misdiagnosed as mastitis because many doctors have never seen it before and consider it rare. “Rare” or not, there are over 100,000 women in the U.S. with this cancer right now; only half will survive five years. Please call your OB/GYN if you experience several of the following symptoms in your breast, or any unusual changes: redness, rapid increase in size of one breast, persistent itching of breast or nipple, thickening of breast tissue, stabbing pain, soreness, swelling under the arm, dimpling or ridging (for example, when you take your bra off, the bra marks stay – for a while), flattening or retracting of the nipple, or a texture that looks or feels like an orange (called peau d’orange). Ask if your GYN is familiar with inflammatory breast cancer, and tell her that you’re concerned and want to come in to rule it out.

There is more than one kind of breast cancer. Inflammatory breast cancer is the most aggressive form of breast cancer out there, and early detection is critical. It’s not usually detected by mammogram. It does not usually present with a lump. It may be overlooked with all of the changes that our breasts undergo during the years when we’re pregnant and/or nursing our little ones. It’s important not to miss this one.

Inflammatory breast cancer is detected by women and their doctors who notice a change in one of their breasts. If you notice a change, call your doctor today. Tell her about it. Tell her that you have a friend with this disease, and it’s trying to kill her. Now you know what I wish I had known before six weeks ago.

You don’t have to have a lump to have breast cancer.



Feel free to steal this post too. I’d be happy for anyone in the blogosphere to take it and put it on their site, no questions asked. Dress it up, dress it down, let it run around the place barefoot. I don’t care. But I want the word to get out. I don’t want another young mom — or old man — or anyone in between — to have to stare at this thing on their chest and wonder, is it mastitis? Is it a rash? Am I overreacting? This cancer moves FAST, and early detection and treatment is critical for survival.

The Hand That Rocks the Casbah

A while back and then more recently, this badge was bestowed upon me:

Not only has my status as a girl been validated, but I am a blogger and I rock as well. I am flattered by and very thankful for this gesture by Mrs. Chicky and Whirlwind.

But it remains to see if I am "Hot Stuff." See, GNMparents.com (whose legitimacy can be vouched for by Mrs. Chicken and Slouching Mom, on the grounds that their talented selves are regular contributors) has instituted a weekly contest. I was all kinds of pleased and even more sorts of surprised to see that my post 24/7/730 was nominated. If you check out the post and decide that it's a hellaciously good read deserving of the "Hot Stuff" designation, please cast a quick and easy vote for me over at GNMparents.com.

Pandering aside, I will now pass along the mic to some more rockin' girl bloggers. If any of the following have already been deemed rockin' and have moved on, please excuse the reverb.

1. Debbie at i obsess. Her blog is a window into her psyche, turning us readers into virtual peeping Toms as she bares all. Her candidness rocks.

2. Amy at Binkytown. She writes about life as a wife, mother and professional in a way that feels like lunch with an old friend. Her conversation rocks.

3. Jocelyn at jocelyn's stories. She weaves words into actual events and fictional ones with equal finesse. Her pen and computer drawings are just as evocative. Her art rocks.

More Moving Topics

I'm moving in two days. I went to the store to buy labels so that I could assign some semblance of organization to the used boxes we've been filling--ones that have been through so many moves that each one boasts the Sharpie-d scrawl of at least three previous tenants. I figured a fat white sticker on each box with the appropriate destination for THIS move would help clarify things a bit.

With sticky paper in hand, I returned to my car only to find that it wouldn't start. The Boss was calm and collected as I tried to jumpstart the battery with a big booster thingy I carry around in the trunk but do not know how to use. Thankfully, two gentleman in a tractor-repair truck pulled in across the parking lot just as I began to get disgruntled. I flagged them down and they not only showed me how to properly affix the jumper cables, but proceeded to diagnose and (temporarily) fix the real problem when the jump start failed to work. I was on my way in about ten minutes, extremely grateful to these men for their help and their sunny demeanor. It made my entire day to have interacted with such positive people.

Carrying on in the vein of positivity, check out the new badge on the right hand side of my blog (below the Google ads, which you can feel free to click on as well--a girl's gotta pay two mortgages somehow). The Team Whymommy icon is emblematic of the new coalition rallying behind a fellow blogger who was diagnosed last week with a rare form of breast cancer. A poem she wrote before she got the news sticks in my head every time I go to her blog, and oftentimes when I'm not even at the computer. It is a straight-forward message in chronologically backward form. It is the beginning of a journey that she is inviting us to take with her.

***

My appearances here will be sporadic over the next week as we settle into our new digs.

Happy Independence Day to all.

A Touching Tale

Since I can't seem to summon up the telling of any good stories lately, I'll just point you in the direction of someone who can, and did. Click on this link to revel in the glory of toddler self-discovery. And laugh, laugh, laugh.

'Mell My Winger

Blueberry Surprise

My family does not know about my blog. The secret was not threatened until TrueBlue came along.

A case of the blueberry juice arrived at my door after I was approached about the possibility of reviewing it on my blog. As a sucker when it comes to free stuff, and with a daughter who's a sucker of juice, I was more than amenable to the idea. Tearing into the case upon its arrival, I stored one bottle in the refrigerator (per the kind gentleman's suggestion to let it chill before drinking) and left the rest of the case in a corner of the kitchen.

Over the next few days, members of my household became well acquainted with the virtues of blueberries in liquid form. The Partner drank it undiluted. The Boss got a half and half mix of blueberry juice and water. When she went to bed, I drank mine with vodka. TrueBlue was a hit.



Then Easter came, and along with it, extended family. The case of TrueBlue remained in its corner, a little more than half full. That's when I made the mistake of opening a new bottle to fill a glass for my mother.

"This is the best juice I ever had!" Yes, that is what she said. No exaggeration whatsoever. It pains me to say it, because...

"Where did you get this?" came next. Keep in mind, she does not know about my blog. She cannot know about my blog.

"Um..." I looked around with a frenzied and twitching face for The Partner. I needed backup. But he was in the other room, tending to a fireplace that was spewing ash all over the room and causing random bursts of the fire alarm. "Umm..." I stuttered, again. "The Internet?"

"Oh, it came from the Internet? A whole case? Was it a good deal?"

"Yeah, it was a great deal!" I sighed with relief. That was totally believable, right? I mean, why wouldn't I buy juice in bulk off the 'Net? Me, who has never had so much as a Costco membership.

"How much was it?"

"I can't remember."

"Where'd you find the deal?"

"Hmm. Can't remember. I guess it just came across in an email or something."

"Oh. I get a lot of those emails and I've never seen this juice before."

I hoped my face wasn't getting red. Why was she grilling me?

"Well, I'll just go in with you on a case next time you order," she chirped. "I don't even usually like juice, but this stuff is fantastic."

Dammit. I listened to the fire alarm go off again and silently cursed The Partner's absence. He'd have been much more mentally quick than I. "It was a one time deal," I hedged. "But, uh, I think you can get a dollar off coupon on their Web site."

She looked at me with slightly raised eyebrows and shrugged, unimpressed. Then she walked out of the kitchen, the ice in her blue glass clinking as she went.

I sent her home with her own bottle of TrueBlue later that night. As she and the rest of my family drove off in the mini van, I prayed that she wouldn't someday take it upon herself to Google "TrueBlue" in search of an "Internet special" and stumble upon this very review.

Get The Straight Poop Here

The Diaper Fairy has been dropping by our house monthly since The Boss was born. Our magical nymph takes the form of my lithe, spry and French-accented mother-in-law. She comes, she dotes all day, and she leaves in a flurry of triple kisses, a trail of bulk-packaged diapers in her wake.

It never occurred to me to question the diapers we never had to pay for. So, when The Boss woke each morning, covered from head to toe in thick smelling urine courtesy of fleece pajamas with an uncanny synthetic ability to wick moisture from the middle to all points north and south, I tried to grin and bear it. Or grin and swear it, under my breath.

Imagine my pleasure when a separate fairy descended on our front porch in the guise of the FedEx man. I tore open the box to reveal a package of Huggies Overnights. The plastic wrapped around the thick size 4s promised "unbeatable leakage protection." I rushed them upstairs to the place of honor under The Boss's changing table before coming back down to pour a tall sippy cup of water for the unsuspecting test subject. That night, she went to bed with her thirst quenched and her tush tightly wrapped in extra absorbency.

She woke the next morning, dry. As it was the weekend, I took her back to our bed and plopped her next to The Partner's head. She was butt level with his nose. "Ugh," he said to The Boss. "Who's in town? Urine town."

He could be witty, that man of mine, even when not quite awake. "Yeah, she still smells, but at least it's coming from inside her diaper this time. No leaks. The Overnights worked."

"That's good." He patted the outward dryness of her rump and then rolled over.

I've been using those diapers for the two weeks since, and only once was the volume of her dentally-induced diarrhea (what the connection is between teething and pooping, I don't know, but it exists) too much for the diaper to contain. Since no man-made product in existence could've held that mess at bay, my belief in the effectiveness of these diapers remains unwavering.

Does this mean I am going to go out and purchase them myself? Um, no. But lucky for us, our Diaper Fairy takes special orders. You can bet I'll be placing mine forthwith.

"Oh la la, my poor bebe! Why didn't you tell me zees before? All those nights of wetness! Ze chafing! Ze rash!" I can hear her now, amidst the slamming of her car door and the roar of the engine as she high tails it to Costco to buy Huggies Overnights in bulk.

Roxie's Recommendation

If any of you are not familiar with Ittybits & Pieces, now is the time to visit the blog. Toyfoto's two most recent posts discuss the death of the family dog, Maggie, and the effect of that loss on the rest of the household.

Bring Kleenex, or, at the very least, a highly absorbent shirt sleeve.