Another Gray Hair

Down the Road

My street leaves something to be desired, especially at the end, where it T's into a major highway. There my street, which sounds deceptively bucolic with a name like "Fairway Drive," is flanked on either side by some pretty intense eye sores. On the left side is The Rebel Drive-In. Aside from its unfortunate name, this Cleveland landmark is actually a pretty good place to eat. It's been around for years and I could see it appearing on Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives. The building is nothing to write home about but it is not particularly offensive either, except right now. The large iconic sign that faces the road is leaning precariously to one side as if it has been hit by a car or truck. It is one of those marquee signs with the removable letters. Right now, however, there are no letters but under the broken sign is a new sign, a portable smaller marquee. This is what it says:

SIGN BEING REPAIRED

Rich.

We've got a new business moving in across the street from the Rebel, the fourth or fifth in a line of failed attempts in that particular building. While driving back from picking my son up from school one day I noticed that the new ownership was doing some redecorating. It's an auto repair shop but they had clearly been shopping in the mismatched paint section at Lowe's because they had chosen a bright coral color for the exterior and a canary yellow for the trim. The front of the building was 2/3 painted and there was no sign that they intended to finish. After uttering some obscenities under my breath, I decided to embrace it. Hell, if our car ever breaks down, we won't need to call a tow truck. We can just put it in neutral and push it to the Backwoods Barbie repair shop down the street. I'm happy to report that the original color scheme was scrapped for a much more tasteful white with canary yellow trim and the shop should be open for business any day now.

The Baby in the Bubble

Just as I am finally feeling secure enough in my baby's immune system to start venturing out in public again, wouldn't you know it, a pandemic strikes. What freakin' luck I have. Now I have to stay at home and listen to Anderson Cooper rattle off statistics about the impending doom of mankind care of the swine flu, I mean H1N1, I mean hybrid influenza. Whatever the name, it is enough to scare the bejesus out of a new mother. So, if you see me about town with an infant car seat wrapped in Reynolds wrap and "Police Line Do not Cross" tape, please keep your distance. I'll be armed with Lysol and enough anti-bacterial gel to sanitize a small town and I won't be afraid to use it.

Adieu

I'm bidding a fond farewell to my beloved blog photo. I love it dearly but feel the need for some changes. And, in all honesty, I've added a wrinkle or two to my complexion in the four years (I think) since that picture was taken. It's time to move on, to usher in a new era with an equally ridiculous, yet more accurate photo.

Special thanks to my photographer friend, Melinda Nicodemus, for taking the picture for me. I asked her to take it specifically for the blog profile picture.

That Part of the Baby Which Shall Not Be Named

Here's something you don't want to hear come out of your son's mouth about your newborn baby girl:

Mommy, why is Harper's head squishy?

Just typing that sentence gives me the willies! I am not a fan of the soft spot. It terrifies me. The fact that on a portion of my daughter's head, the only thing between the world and her precious brain is a couple layers of skin is something I choose not to think about very often. I cannot touch that part of her head with my hands. When I bathe her, I wash it gently with a washcloth, putting just enough of a barrier between my skin and hers that allows me to pretend that the soft spot doesn't exist. When I catch myself thinking about her soft spot (which I have been doing since I sat down to write this—you should see me. I'm twitching like a monkey!), I have the most horrible visions. I can't write them down because that will make them all-too-real and will make me look like a certifiable nutcase but, suffice it to say, these visions consist of the worst-case-scenarios. I'd feel allot better if I kept a helmet on my daughter 24/7 but, alas, I do not want to stunt the growth of her head. I think I can survive the soft spot stage long enough to save her the humiliation of being known amongst the preschool set as, "That girl with the really small head."

So, I responded to my son the only way I could at the time:

Don't ever say that again.

He looked at me like I was crazy for a few seconds, shrugged his shoulders and walked away. I guess in the past few weeks of postpartum-Mommy, he's gotten used to crazy.

Distraction in Action

There has been personal drama abound in my life of late and I am in desperate need of a distraction. I've decided to throw my energy into couponing. Yep, that's right: couponing. I'm ashamed to admit that, until last week, I had never so much as clipped a single grocery coupon. What a wonderful world I was missing out on! Who knew that you could stack manufacturer and store coupons? Who knew that Bi-Lo and Publix auto-double coupons up to 60 and 50 cents respectively? Not me! But I learned, oh did I learn, when I decided to enroll in the Coupon 101 class offered through a local church's women's ministry. While I'm very skeptical of the connection between coupons and the Big Guy Upstairs, I did learn a great deal and I'm pretty stoked about my new knowledge and plan to capitalize on it as much as possible. Check in with me this time next year. I'll be a full-blown hoarder with stockpiles of boxed mashed potatoes and mac n' cheese in my basement three-feet deep.

In the meantime, let me brag about my scores today at Bi-Lo:

My total purchases amounted to $21.28.

My total after coupons: $5.88

Jealous yet?

Middle Ground

My writing wheels are a little squeaky so it is time that I grease them up again. My WD40 is this blog and I'm determined to get it going again. With a new baby, a 3-year-old and a 6-year-old, I have ample material.

When my first daughter, Tatum, was born, my son (2.5 years old at the time) was obsessed with her. He was practically glued to her side and used every opportunity to touch her and caress her. His favorite, and most bizarre, activity is one I'll never forget. He would grab her teeny tiny hand, place it in his palm and rub it back and forth against his cheek saying, "Oh Tatum. Oh Tatum." It was his way of expressing both his undying affection for her and his resentment of her sudden presence in his life at the same time. It was sweet the first five times he did it. After that it was just annoying. If I were a videotaping Mom (I'm not), I'd have one of these episodes on tape. They were pretty humorous.

I wasn't sure how my older two kids would react to the baby, especially Tatum. She's a bit of a wild card. She's fiercely independent, one of the most resilient children I've ever come across, and she has a less-than-stellar reputation when it comes to babies. She has no tolerance for any children that are younger than her, particularly babies. One of her friends has a two-year-old sister and Tatum refuses to acknowledge her existence. This little girl adores Tatum and wants nothing more than for Tatum to play with her but she refuses. She snubs her with all of the determination of a stuck up high school cheerleader. I asked her on several occasions if she liked babies and always got the same response, "No. I don't like them but I'll like our baby." I worried.

As it turns out, both of the kids have been pretty cool about Harper's sudden presence in their lives. They feel less jilted because they have each other to lean on and I had the foresight to prepare them for the baby by exposing them to good ol' fashion neglect in the final weeks of my pregnancy. Both kids have an interest in Harper and they cannot wait for her to smile and respond to them but they don't hover or smother her. There have been a few behavioral issues but nothing worthy of concern and they have been easy to remedy. I'm grateful to have found a middle ground with two very different kids and that my son doesn't smother the new baby and my daughter doesn't snub her completely. Here's a picture of the three of them sitting harmoniously on the couch. Harper is the little one in the middle, being forced to wave to the camera.

Special thanks to Melinda at Nicodemus Photography for taking this shot and many more. She does great work. Take a look at her portfolio at: http://nicodemusphotos.blogspot.com/

Harper Emerson Hale

This is long overdue but I’m finally getting a chance to write again. Harper Emerson Hale arrived, like all of my other children, off schedule on March 5 at 8:13pm. She weighed 6 pounds 4 ounces and came into this world with a healthy scream. To make a very long story short, I had hypertension and had to deliver early. The hypertension continued post partum and I had the pleasure of a magnesium drip for 24 hours post-op. Things are better now. My BP is under control thanks to some medication and I’ve spent the last 2.5 weeks with a great deal of help from my family and friends. Thank you Mom, Dad, Papa Dale and Grandma Mary and all of my friends who brought and continue to bring meals. What a great help you’ve all been!

Here’s a little snapshot of Harper Emerson:

 

Alice in Chains

I'm feeling a little sorry for myself of late. What, with the digestive system that is all but ceased to work and the WIDE LOAD sign that is permanently adhered to my backside. Not to mention the sheer spectacle I must be getting out of bed in the middle of the night (which is something that happens quite often). The only thing I can compare it to is a morbidly obese woman trying to squeeze herself into an extra small wetsuit. Every time I find myself maneuvering from my side, surrounded by pillows, to my hands and knees, backing off of the bed, I hear Claree Belcher from Steel Magnolias in my head saying, "It looks like two pigs, fightin' under a blanket." It's a real confidence booster.

I was humbled today by an unsettling sight at my perinatalogist appointment. I was sitting in the waiting room, surrounded by high risk pregnant women, playing with my phone when I heard chains rattling and the door to the examination area open. Out waddled a very-pregnant, cute woman in her late twenties. She looked like someone I might have lunch with except for one minor detail. She was wearing a blue jumpsuit with numbers on the back and had chains around her waist that were attached to handcuffs as well as chains bound around her ankles. Oh, and she had a uniformed, armed police officer guiding her by the arm. So, for the next two weeks, when I get the urge to complain about my stagnant digestive system or my soar lower back, I will think of Alice (that's the name I've given her). She has to eat prison food and walk with chains. She doesn't have the luxury of sending her husband out at 9:45pm to get her a bag of Cadbury chocolate mini eggs and she has to maneuver her ample arse out of a cot to pee on a stainless steel toilet in the middle of the night (I realize this may not be entirely accurate but humor me. I get all of my prison info from Oz). Somehow seeing Alice with my own two eyes made the whole situation clear to me. Sure, I know about those Vietnamese women who give birth standing up in a rice field and go right back to working. We ALL know about those women but they don't resonate with us because we can't see them. Alice, she resonated. She made a lasting impression. I guess I've got it pretty damn good.

It's a Bird. It's a Plane. It's OCTOMOM!

I know I might be a little obsessed but I can't help myself. Let's just blame it on my hormones. It's a blanket justification for anything I do. I might as well take advantage of it while I can. Check out this video . A non-profit has offered Octomom (this name kills me by the way) some incredibly generous help that would truly assist her children without delving into taxpayer money. They offered this a week ago and she has yet to respond. What gives? Is she nuts? Do I really need to ask that question?

And, she's looking at houses in the 1 million dollar plus range. Are you kidding me? I grit my teeth as I write this and I want nothing more than to meet her on the street and shake her until the collagen drains out of her lips. I have other fantasies that involve superfly ninja moves but I'll keep those to myself. Thoughts?

So Many Details…

20 days and counting until the next Hale child makes her arrival into this world. Hard to believe. Right now my hope is that I make it to the scheduled date (March 11) so that I can avoid labor altogether. My daughter was not cooperative. She arrived a little over a week before my scheduled C-section and I was not prepared for labor. It really sucked. I'm hoping for a highly sterile, pain-free delivery. They'll be no doula, no midwife, no spiritual experience, no breathing exercises. I'm over that nonsense. We high-riskers don't have any birthing options and I choose to embrace my fate. Give me an OR and a gurney any day over a baby pool in my living room with Cat Stevens playing in the background. Puh-lease.

In the meantime, here's a little blogworthy randomness:

• For those of you unaware, Nadya Suleman, the mother of those now-infamous octuplets, has started a fund-raising website. In case you were wondering, yes, all major credit cards are accepted.
• I've decided my favorite part of pregnancy is the fact that there is absolutely no need to suck in my gut at any time, ever. It's a glorious thing, really. I'm going to miss that the most. Well, that and the kicks. I do enjoy the kicks when they aren't too intense.
• The Oscars are coming up this weekend and I have seen nary a nominated movie. There was a time in my life when I would have seen them all. That time has passed. It makes me a little sad. I'm rooting for Mickey Rourke. I want to see him thank his dog again.
• My daughter has to go to school dressed up as a character from a Mother Goose nursery rhyme next week. Any ideas? I'm at a loss and I refuse to spend any money.