Archive for September, 2009

Denim Death


Yesterday, my favorite pair of blue-jeans died. I was over at a friend’s house with Nathan. He was sleepy, so I took him into a quiet room and bent over to secure him in his bouncy seat so he could take a nap. That’s when I heard it: the inevitable MOAN OF DEATH. You know exactly what it is when you hear it. You bend over and suddenly, your once trusted pair of jeans cannot take the strain and they just die. But they let you know they are dying with a loud, slow rrrrrrrriiiiiiip as the denim gives way to make room for your expanding butt. My pants ripped with such force and determination that they echoed.  It’s as if my pants were like, hey lets not just rip, lets spew forth a MIGHTY RIP and ECHO and make this as embarrassing as possible so you will finally start dieting! Because, you know, when the sound of your pants ripping echoes throughout the room, you know you have  bigger issues to deal with.


Note: this is not a picture of my butt... it is only the jeans.

I was mortified. Not just because my favorite pair of jeans just died, and not even because I had no other pants to put on, but mainly because this death signified my butt was growing significantly larger. I started laughing so hard that I was crying.

“Is everything ok?” my friend yelled from the other room.

I couldn’t stop laughing.  She came into the room and I showed her my plight. I could barely talk because because I was laughing so hard. Thank GOD this didn’t happen in public, right? I can just see myself in the grocery store or somewhere else where I can’t grab replacement pants from a rack, bending over to grab something off the bottom shelf with my butt in the air, and hearing that mortifying MOAN OF DEATH coming from the seat of my pants. I would have to walk out of the store with a gaping rip in my pants, and I wouldn’t be able to pull off the goth look because the only rip my pants have are in the butt, so everyone would think to themselves, look at her! Her butt is so big that her pants can no longer contain it! And I would have to pretend that I didn’t know what everyone was thinking while I scurried out, trying to keep my composure.

I’m thankful for the little things.

So my friend saw my pants and said, “Don’t worry! I have plenty of pants that will fit you!” Really? Seriously, you have pants that will fit this butt that other pants cannot contain? Oh, glorious day!

She gave me five pairs of pants. That means my butt has not one, not two, but five pairs of pants to rip through.

I’m going to start that diet.


Cannibalization of Thyself


Playing with his feet

There has been a new discovery around here. Nathan has discovered he has not one arm, not two, not even three… but four arms: his legs. He uses his legs and feet in conjunction with his hands for everything. He uses these newfound arms to assist him in everything from playing with the ball on his playgym to rubbing my face when I get too close. He’s like a human monkey… always using his feet to help him with daily activities.

Using his feet

He has also begun to self cannibalize. He heartily attempts to consume his own flesh by gnawing incessantly on these new arms. I keep telling him it’s not wise to eat yourself, but he doesn’t listen. He just laughs merrily and continues consuming his fleshy dinner, leaving trails of slobber in his wake.

About to cannibalize his foot

My little guy is quite entertaining- there is never a dull moment with him around. He keeps me smiling, laughing, and wondering if perhaps I should start self-cannibalizing as well…


Adventures of a Breastpump

Paul and I after the reception

Ah, another Monday. In case you haven’t noticed by now, I’m not a big fan of Mondays. It is the first day of the work week, which means that my husband has to go to work for five days. Today signified the end of our wonderful weekend alone together… I had so much fun with Paul!  The hotel was great, and of course, my husband brought in all our gear.

Including my breastpump.

My big, bulky, cumbersome, hospital-grade breastpump.

He walked through the lobby, arms laden with suitcases and bags, with this huge  gray case that says “MEDELA” on one side and “LACTATION SERVICES” on the other. And it was rattling with every step he took. Loudly. I could see all the bystanders gazing curiously at this cumbersome container as he walked by. He might as well should have hung a flashing neon sign around his neck that said “BREASTPUMP COMING THROUGH” because I swear, it seemed a sea of people parted to make room for him and my breastpump. He stopped briefly to converse with a friend of ours who also attended the wedding.

“Yeah, this is a breastpump,” Paul said nonchalantly with a little smile as his friend looked curiously at the glaring words “LACTATION SERVICES.” I could feel everyone nearby who was staring at my breastpump look from the pump to my boobs.

Suddenly, I felt very self conscious.

Which reminded me of when I went to the hospital to rent my breastpump. Nathan had to stay home with Paul because I couldn’t take him to the hospital with me, so I was on a schedule and in a hurry. But I became lost in the maze of hospital corridors, and the doctors, nurses, and anyone who looked like they knew where they were going were all walking so briskly that I couldn’t stop them to ask for directions due to the fear of being trampled on like a mere mouse in a herd of elephants. Somehow, I meandered my way onto the maternity floor. When I exited the elevator, a group of guys were loitering near the door to the maternity wing, probably chatting about their newborn babies or whatever it is that loitering guys do outside a maternity ward. I looked to the left, then to the right, trying to get my bearings.

“Can I help you?” one of the gentlemen asked.

“Um, sure. I’m here to rent a pump,” I stated matter-of-factly, forcing myself to appear confident and cool. My forced boldness, however, was immediately shattered when looks of confusion clouded every single one of their faces.

“A pump?” he asked.

My heart sped up. Sweat dotted my brow. Did I ever mention I have anxiety issues sometimes?

“Yeah. A… breastpump,” I replied. Only, in my mind, it was all in slow motion. It didn’t seem like I said a breastpump the way a normal person does… it seemed to come out thickly, like someone had halfway pressed the pause button on my speech, making the world come out slowly: Brrrrrreeeeaaaaassstpuuuuuuuummmp.

They all looked from my face to my boobs.

“Oh, go through that door and go right,” the guy said, looking a little off guard. This is silly, I thought. Why am I so scared to say “breastpump?” Should I call it something else, like “boobpump?” Or what about “lactation device?” That was when I made up my mind that I would call my breastpump exactly what it was and I was going to force myself to get comfortable saying it.

After I picked up my big, bulky, cumbersome, hospital-grade breastpump, I hoisted it over my shoulder and began the trek back to my car through endless hospital mazes once again. Only this time, I stopped anyone who looked like they knew where they were going.

“Excuse me, I came here to rent this breastpump and I can’t find the parking garage,” I said to one marathon-walker. She looked at me rudely and pointed vaguely in the right direction, eyeying my giant breastpump.

When I came to a thick crowd of bystanders who wouldn’t let me through, I said, “Coming through with my breastpump, folks.” They immediately parted and made way for me and my breastpump. Almost everyone I passed looked at my big, bulky, cumbersome, hospital-grade breastpump case with the words “LACTATION SERVICES” printed glaringly on the outward side. I fought the urge to turn the case around and have the words “MEDELA” facing outward instead.

So my husband was less embarrassed than I was, but it was still funny watching him carry in my breastpump and all the strange looks he got for doing so. I love that man!


Home at Last



We have finally arrived home! Nathan did wonderfully for his grandma and for his aunt and uncle, who were so kind to watch him while Paul and I attended the wedding. Paul’s mom said Nathan was a happy little guy and she thoroughly enjoyed their time together. I was a nervous about nothing! Nathan took it all in stride with barely a whimper. I kept sending Nathan “Good Thought Vibes” telling him to enjoy his time with his grandma and grandpa and we would arrive the next day to pick him up. I like to think it worked. When the little guy saw me and Paul, he gave us a huge grin and a hearty scissor-leg thunk. Paul and I had a wonderful time together as well… must do this again soon! I’m sad this weekend has come to a close and another Monday is quickly arriving.

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