Bodybuilder Magee

Yesterday was another banner day for feeling like a total hoss.

You know how everything is just completely worse when you're exhausted? Olivia was up for three hours Wednesday night, just crying and whining and keeping me up for THREE HOURS.

I know what you're thinking, you're thinking that she is probably teething, right? I KNOW, me too! But no, no teeth. Not even a hint of a tooth. This kid is not getting teeth, I swear. We are going to have to purchase a set of hand-crafted baby dentures for her first birthday present.

So. Anyways. I was really tired. And for some reason, I thought it a good idea to wear a skirt with tights on Thursday, even though I was slightly annoyed by the tightness around my tank gut when I left the house. As soon as I got to work, I was cursing my sausage encasing. I'm not very smart, you see that. And then! AND THEN! It's the last couple weeks of the year and so work just totally blows a big fat fattie, and that's all I'm really going to say about that.

I should just stop telling this story, because it requires so much back story that it makes me want to die, and so you are probably already dead and not even reading this. I DO NOT BLAME YOU.

Perhaps you remember my coworker who volunteered to become my punching bag fitness coach? We will call him Bodybuilder Magee, even though he is older than electricity and has flat old man ass, and wears cologne that smells like a hamster cage.

Well, he's a repeat offender in the asshole department. I get up at 5, and I'm usually hungry for all or part of my lunch at around 10:30. And Bodybuilder Magee is always commenting on what I eat and how early it is. Like, "oh, digging into your lunch already?!" Or, "uh oh! Eating cookies!"

OH MY GOD.

I'm not even a nice person. I'm not going to lie. I have to try really hard to not kill people, like, every day. So my ability to leave my machete at home every work day is amazing. Bodybuilder Magee should be glad that he survived Lupron, because Mark barely escaped, and I actually like Mark.

Now. Yesterday. I was "digging into" my salad at 10:30. And don't you know that Bodybuilder Magee comes into my office and - I kid you not - peeks into my bowl. Like, he puts his face near my bowl. Or, more to be more specific, he put his eyeballs near my really sharp fork.

"Oh, good job! Eating salad! Already?"

Really? Are you insulting me for eating early, or congratulating me for eating a salad before my thighs take over the world? BE MORE SPECIFIC, OLD MAN!

"Oh, hahahaha..." Fucktard.

Later in the day, I was eating some delicious candy from the corporate gift basket, and it was all just too much for him to bear:

BM: "Uh oh...you're eating all the candy! Good thing you ate that salad earlier, and that soup...did you plan to eat the salad so that you could eat the candy later?"

JK: "No, I ate what I ate because I wanted to eat it, why do you feel the need to comment on my eating all the time? Do you need something from me?"

This is exactly why I hate people, in general.  I swear to god I'm going to tell him he smells like hamster cage.

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In news that is exciting only to me: I have 1,000 Google Reader subscribers!  Which sounds awesome, except Amalah has like 5,000, so.  That is exciting only to me, obviously.  But I remember not too long ago, being excited about having 100.

"I Started Piling Maxi Pads on Nate's Workbench"

That title?  That, right there?  That's why I love Blair.

(It was a tie between that and DOES A FAT BABY FART? )

How excited was I to snag this guest post? 

(Very excited, is what I'm getting at.)

And how glad are you that Blair has written this fantastic post for you this fine Monday?

(Pretty glad, since I appear to be having some sick love affair with parenthesis.  Annoying.)

Blair is hilarious.  I LURVE her blog.  You read this post first, but then you take your sweet ass over to her blog and read all of her archives.  I promise, you will not need Kotex, but you may want some Depends.

(She is funny, and you might pee in your pants, is what I'm getting at.)

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So.

This is awkward. I don't even know where to begin. Normally, in my own world of internets best known as The Heir to Blair, I begin with a tale, or a picture, or even a long drawn out "Y'ALL WILL NOT BELIEVE THIS SHIT S-DASH-DASH-DASH." But since I'm a guest of Jen's, I figure it best that I a) introduce myself & b) not drop profanity in the first paragraph. oh, & use a coaster for my sweet tea.

& since it is flu season & I don't shake hands for fear of smallporks, I shall introduce myself simply as "Blair." As previously stated, I normally run rampant in my own little world of cupcakes, baby puke, & discussions about my sex life, but a week ago, I opened an email from Jen. "Would you be interested in guest blogging?" it read. "DOES A FAT BABY FART?" I responded. (the answer is yes. just ask my kid) When I questioned her on topics, she gave me free reign.

BIG MISTAKE, JEN.

So I emailed her back. Because I had this topic I was itching to tap out, but I figured I should ask her permission before regaling her readers with tales of my bleeding vagina. Manners matter, people! & with her permission & the most incredibly dull, drawn-out introduction, I begin my guest blog:

Y'ALL WILL NOT BELIEVE THIS SHIT.
Disclaimer: I typically shy from writing about family members. Or friends. Or relationships. & definitely work. I am of the opinion that no good can come from blogging about those topics, but this is WAY TOO GOOD to be kept a secret. & I have my husband's permission.

Back in January 2009, I peed on a stick. & this appeared:

I'M PREGNANT! A BABY IN MY UTE! It's awesome! I won't have a period for almost an entire year!! I saw this as a blissful opportunity to make the world a better place. To be the attention-whore I always wanted to be as people stared at my belly, showered me with gifts, & rained compliments upon my glowing, happily knocked-up self. (by the way, mission totally accomplished)

My mother-in-law saw my pregnancy as an opportunity to boost Kotex's market power. (mission also accomplished)

The first time she brought me a pack of pads back in March 2009, I was a wee bit dumbfounded, a little embarrassed, but silently accepted them. Maybe she found them in the back of her closet & is going through "the change?" Since I am not one to question the fruitfulness of another's womb, I stuffed them in the back of our own bathroom shelf in case of emergencies. Until her next visit, when she brought 5 packs of pads. & the next, when she brought 3 more economy packs, plus 2 packs of panty liners. "These are for after you have the baby," she finally warbled in explanation. Listen, lady - there is no need to hold stock in Kotex. MY VAG IS NOT GOING TO BLEED PROFUSELY FOR AN ENTIRE YEAR. "Oh, I know," she chirped. "But like I told your stepfather-in-law, you'll get your period again!" OH MY GOD. You're discussing my monthly cycle with a man my husband doesn't even share DNA with?! Stab me in the eye with a dull spoon. NOW.

So I contemplated saying something to her after we hit 500 pads, ran out of room in the guest bathroom, & I started piling maxi pads on Nate's work bench in the garage. It's not that I didn't appreciate the generosity. Or gesture. But honestly, there are certain boundaries that should not be crossed by mother-in-laws.

I happen to lump my bleeding vagina into that category, along with discussing how I lost my virginity & the cost of our mortgage payment.

But I just couldn't. I was weak! I was intimidated! Despite over-sharing my procreation methods on the interwebs, I was a prude! & in all honesty, watching her stagger into my casa with bags of Kotex was sending me into fits of giggles with every visit. I could not explain to this woman that with the exception of healing from the D&E after the miscarriage, I never used pads. That the moment I discovered that first wee bit of womanhood at the tender age of 12, I demanded that The Momma teach me to use tampons. I could not stare my mother-in-law in the face & tell her that what emerges from my vagina past Harrison was none of her business. & so I stayed silent, watching with hilarity as the pad count tick up over 700...800...850...

(thankfully, Walmart pretty much accepts any return, other than children & dead pet hamsters. I have spent many, many hours waiting in line for a pimple-decked 15-year-old sophomore to issue me a gift card in return for said feminine products.)

Last weekend, she sent the total over 1,000. & when she leaned over my son in a conspiratorial manner & whispered, "These are for Mommy" while winking & patting the pack of Kotex, Nate stood up. & doing what I could not do with quiet male dignity, explained that he has never, ever seen me purchase maxi pads. While I, ever mature & helpful, muffled my laughter into my sweater sleeve.

That, my friends, is the definition of a good man. One that can stand up for your vagina to his own mother. I married a good man.& to date, I have returned 1,028 maxi-pads to Walmart.

Well, first I eat an entire plate of cookies...

Since Olivia is all shiny and new now, I feel all kinds of pressure to start some holiday traditions with her.

The thing is...I don't really have any traditions. Besides stuffing myself until I wish for death eating.

For Christmas, I'm thinking Christmas jammies for Christmas eve, some sort of treat for breakfast Christmas morning after gifts. Maybe a new ornament every year?

What holiday traditions do you have? For Christmas, or any holiday? I need inspiration.

Ten Months: You know who else can do that? MY CAT.

It's getting harder for me to keep track of and blog about the new, exciting things that Olivia has been doing.  Because they are amazing...to nobody but us. Like, OMFG, Olivia watches us walk across the room! And she follows us! Isn't that amayZING?!

But it is. She's gone from a sleepy little pile of cute, to a huge, interactive, silly pile of cute.

Fun things Olivia does at 10 Months:

-Sits on her knees and bounces when she is excited. Usually paired with wild-woman arm flapping and squee noises heard 'round the world.

-Notices and loves the television. And FAIL of all FAIL, she loves Barney. I mean, really. She loves that purple douchetard. She also loves Elmo. This makes me die a little bit inside.

-She knows exactly what "no" means, and it totally pisses her off. Her favorite things to go after are the dog food bowls, and the garbage can in the kitchen. She babbles and squeals as she crawls toward them, and when you tell her no, she sits and screams her head off in agony. "BUT MOM! THA BOWLZ!"

- Still working on the whole walking thing. She easily cruises along furniture. She has a stroller and she walks all over the place behind it, smiling like she just found out that she won a million biter biscuits. She tries to stand, too, but it only lasts about 3 seconds before she falls on her butchie.

(I call her butt her butchie. Because I like to squeeze her butt cheeks and say buttcheeksbuttcheeksbuttcheeks. And it is easier to say butchiebutchiebutchie.)

(And I am totally amazed by her 3 seconds of standing, so much that I yell for Mark every time - DID YOU SEE HER STAND FOR THREE SECONDS ZOMG?!)

- The past couple of weeks, she has started clapping. Which, adorable. Enough said.

- She likes music. She shakes her arms and wiggles when she hears it.

- Still a total attention whore. I'm going to just stop mentioning it in updates.

- It seems like she says ma, da, dah (doggie), and ba (baba/bottle) with purpose. I'm not confident enough to say that she has words yet. The only constant is HAI! which she has been saying for a few months.

- BEGS for food. Comes up to you, smiles, coos. Drools. It's insanely adorable. She loves to eat. Table food. Bottles? Not so much.

- There is one new development that I absolutely HATE: separation anxiety. I don't mind holding her, and calming her down when I just walk out of sight. But, oh god...the daycare drop off. BRUTAL. She reaches and cries. Even when my mom watches her. The upside is that I get a giant smile when I come home, but ugh. The drop off is awful.

This is what she does when I get the camera...definitely fun to come home to!

We go back to the ped for a weight check soon, and we also go to the pediatric gastroenterologist this month. I'm curious to see what they will say about her weight and switching her to milk in a couple months*. I can't imagine that she managed to gain too much after the Great Illness of 09. I'm just hoping she's not too far off the charts.

*A COUPLE MONTHS! I'VE GOT A BIRTHDAY PARTY TO PLAN!

Ho ho ho and a bottle of Pedialyte

On Saturday night, we went to a Christmas party for kids. Santa was there.
And don't get all excited to see a delicious picture of Olivia screaming her fool head off on Santa's lap. She freaking loved Santa! He gave her a candy cane and she was all, "I want a Barbie Hot Tub Palace and a $200 gift card to Baby Gap, and I also want to yank on your beard. Kthxbai."

The party was a success for everyone involved, until Olivia barfed on the floor.

The evening started off swimmingly. After three families showed up with kids dressed in their Christmas finest, I had to send Mark home to get Olivia's Christmas getup. Because I am not competent enough to realize that you dress your kid in her Christmas dress at a Christmas party, and so I put her in a pink and navy blue dress with leggings OH MY GOD.

The thought crossed my mind before we left. But, I was afraid that she would spit up on her dress and then be dressless on Christmas. Which, HA.HA.Motherfucking HA.

So, yeah. Olivia puked pizza.

Now, this isn't Mark's version of puke, which is a tiny bit of spit up. This was...projectile. Rank. Chunky. VOMIT.

This was...all over me, the carpet, the toys. Luckily? No children were drenched in the Great Christmas Barf of 09. Luckily? Three of our friends were there to wipe me off and bring me a towel.

Olivia has only done one other actual VOMIT. Both times I was totally mature and responsible, and yelled "HALP! HALP! HAAAAAALP!" And you know how people always say that it won't be gross when it's your kid? Yeah, that's total bullshit. It was completely disgusting.

The thing is, is that I didn't care. I felt bad for her. Awful. I went to Walgreens with vomit all over my pants and sweater to buy a new rectal thermometer (ours broke*) and some Pedialyte.

The girl in line in front of me sniffed the green cloud air around me and crunched up her nose. That sounds like an exaggeration for the sake of this story, but I promise you it is not. She was totally disgusted by me because I smelled like a drunk lightweight whore after a fraternity party. But really, who shops the coupons in the Walgreens ad at 9:45 pm on a Saturday night? Don't you expect to see people who smell like vomit at Walgreens at 9:45 on a Saturday night**? I just gave her the wide-eyed, "What. No, really, what?" look.

You'll remember that Olivia shat on someone's floor, too. It's like she's going for some sort of bodily function trifecta. I don't even want to know what the third part is...

So this was all on Saturday. Sunday she was not her usually peppy self, but she was playing and eating and PEEING, which is key, apparently. And then Sunday night when I put her to bed I was all, she's fiiiiiiine.

Then she had massive diarrhea in her sleep, all over her crib. And then she threw up. And then she dry heaved. And then we all died. The end.

Oh, but seriously. How sad is a sick baybee? SO SAD, that's how sad.

I was up most of the night with her Sunday, and managed to drag my bedraggled*** (not bedazzled) ass to work for a half day. My mom stayed with Olivia so that I could go in and clear out my inbox. I finished an entire day of work in 4 hours. I don't know if that means I was a superstar on Monday, or if I am a lazy bitch waste of space on a normal day.

She seemed OK on Monday night. Tuesday was a good day. I'm hoping we're over the worst of it. But I know you've been waiting for a good poop story, so, you're welcome.

Quite possibly completing the trifecta at this very moment...

              Photo: Portrait Innovations; Dress: Gymboree, may it rest in peace.

*Just rereading, and WTF? Why do I feel the need to tell you ours broke? So you don't think we lost it in a rectum? Or that we use it in our mouths now?

**I was a Walgreens employee after college, at a 24 hour store. You'd be surprised at the late night clientele. Or not surprised. Whatever. One time, this old lady came in the store at 2 a.m. and she walked a circle around the store while she pooped her pants. It ran down her leg, and left a trail of poop. I'm not even kidding at all.

***5 minutes before I had to leave, I finished drying my hair and realized it was an oil slick.  I forgot to rinse my conditioner.  Too late, went to work with my roots all separated.  I'm sure they are going to send me a $10,000 bonus just for trying so hard to look like a stone cold fawx.

Mommy Wants Vodka

I couldn't think of a better title for Aunt Becky's guest post. Because isn't that the best name for a blog, like, ever? It's the only one that I like better than mine.

Yes, I somehow managed to talk Becky from Mommy Wants Vodka into doing a guest post on my blog. In her defense, I tricked her with an email subject lined "Twinkies!"

I love Love LOVE her blog. Somehow, she manages to write a great post every day. And not just throwing out pictures or whatever, she actually delivers every.single.time. If you do not read her blog, you should. She's funny as hell.

Enjoy this post from Becky of Mommy Wants Vodka, "The Drink of The Apocolypse."

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A couple of years ago, when my husband, The Daver and I still lived in a Oak Park, I was making a trek back from St. Charles, when he called my cell phone. When I answered, he asked if I needed anything from the local CVS—this was my boyfriend before Target became my boyfriend--because he was there picking up Twizzlers.

“Yeah,” I told him. “I need some Slim-Fast. The strawberry kind, please. Don't get me the chocolate stuff.”
“If you say so,” my husband said. “I think it ALL tastes like donkey ass. But whatever, where is it?”
“It’s over by the dietary stuff, against the south wall,” I informed him. Then I giggled. “Wait, I thought YOU were all directionally superior to me!”
“Dude, not here. The layout to this place makes zero sense,” he snipped, annoyed that I was mocking his directional sense for the eleventy-hundredth time that month, after he’d gotten lost in Wisconsin, the state WHERE HE CAME FROM.
“Okay, so do you want the 200 calorie or the 300 calorie stuff?” He asked me, obviously standing in front of the dietary aids.
“Wha…?” I asked him while lighting a cigarette. “SlimFast comes in one variety and it’s all about 200 calories.”
“Well, all they have is generic in your fancy STRAWBERRY flavor,” he replied. “Do you still want it?”

Knowing that drinking the generic stuff was better than being tempted by the bacon and eggs he and Ben would be having for breakfast the following morning, I agreed to have him grab the 200 calorie stuff.

About a half an hour later, I pulled into our shared garage, about 4,000 years away from our actual condo building and about twenty minutes after that, I was finally up the twenty flights of stairs, and standing in our armpit of a kitchen, panting in the sweltering heat.

I immediately noticed, sitting jauntily on the counter, was a case of Ensure.

Generic, Strawberry flavored, ENSURE. Which, were I a geriatric with digestive issues trying to pack on the pounds, would probably be a delicious and high calorie snacky-poo. But, since I was a 23 year old with digestive issues trying to REMOVE the pounds, I wasn’t so thrilled.

“Dave…” I trilled into the house, “Honey?”
He walked into the kitchen to give me a hug hello.
“Baby…” I asked him hesitantly, wondering if he were punishing me for singing Rod Stewart at the top of my lungs when he was in a bad mood the previous night. “Baby, are you mad at me?”
“No,” he replied, genuinely confused. “Why?”
“Because you bought ENSURE. Not SlimFast. Are you trying to fatten me up? Or are you just trying to give my guts a low-residue treat?”
“WHAT?” He asked, now looking more closely at the box of cans. “I totally thought this was SlimFast!”
“No baby, that isn’t even close to SlimFast. This shit is for people who have no colon left. And maybe in 30 years, I’ll need it myself, but for now? Not so much.”

“Hm.” He said, looking at the box.
“Well, I suggested. “On the bright side, if zombies attack, I guess we're going to be pretty well stocked for a couple of days, I guess.”

Let me toss your Google salad.

How about a fun list of Google keywords that lead people to my blog?

Category: Vagina Topics
Needle up your twat IVF
Look at my vagina
blowing out candles with vagina


Category: All about Asses
mercy butt cream
best prescription medicine raw chapped butt
best thing for chapped ass
my ass hurts and i'm real mad

Category: The Duggars (WTF, I've mentioned them like 3 times in 2 years?!)
The duggars
I hate the Duggars
The Duggars are gross
Hate the Duggars
Duggars Disgusting
Duggar broken vagina
Are the duggars disgusting?

Category: Guesses at my full name.
Jen Epper
Jennifer Epper
Jenn Epper
Jen E. Per
Jenny Per

Category: Hairy Hairy Hairy
Big Hairy Legs
Hairy Legs
Hairy Underwear
Hairy Go Peeing
Hairy Relax
hairy clown underwear scary

Category: The Beetus
bitch don't know 'bout my diabeetus
diabeetus cat is not happy about this one bit
wilford brimley stupid

It's Jaci, like Jackie, not like Jaycee.

I wonder how many times you've said that, Jaci?

Oh, Jaci and I got in trouble when we were little.

I hope that Jaci won't mind me telling you how we got yelled at in the hall in 5th grade for throwing little wads of paper into someone's exposed butt crack. OR how we got caught passing notes about our awful teacher's wig and painted on cheek freckles (Mrs. Edison, I'm looking at you), and she called us IGGERNET, and then we laughed in her face.

Jaci is hilarious, and so is her blog. She writes what she thinks, and what she thinks is All Kinds of Awesome. It is one of those blogs that never gets Marked As Read on my reader, and I am so excited to put her in charge of my blog for today. So enjoy this guest post from Jaci and then head over to her blog and get caught up!

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Yeah! I’m a guest on Jen’s blog! Jen and I go way back (to 4th grade when she’d invite me over for sleepovers and we’d watch The Little Mermaid on a continuous loop and laugh at kids we didn’t like until we almost peed our pants).

Jennepper has always had the gift of sarcasm, internets.

I never heard of blogs until I read Jen’s a couple of years ago—then I thought, “If she can write one so can I, damn it!” Annnnd…that’s how I created Ravings of a Mad Housewife out of pure jealousy and high school immaturity.

My blog falls into the lame category of Mommy Blog, but I write about whatever comes into my head. For example:

Have you ever had someone get all up in your face about how you could afford to be a stay-at-home mom if you just learned to “sacrifice”? I got that over Thanksgiving dinner—from GRANDMA.

It’s bad enough when some pro-homeschooling blowhard gets all up in your biznass, but Grandma? Gawd. I had to sit there, pregnant and bored, while she told me how she stretched Grandpa’s $48 per week and how she hasn’t worked (or driven a car thankyouverymuch) since 1944.

(Want to know her reason for quitting her cushy secretarial job? She was afraid the big time CEO’s would tempt her away from grandpa. I’m totally going to use THAT excuse on my husband when my maternity leave is over.)

Then my aunt jumped in with her SAHM advice—“I didn’t go back to work until your cousin was 16.”

My jaw dropped. “You mean you didn’t work full time until then.”

“No. I didn’t work. PERIOD. I stayed home.”

As they both tag teamed me with promises of the money I could save if I just learned to sew our own clothes (Argh! Duggar jumpers!) I couldn’t help but feel that their lives had been such a waste.

Don’t get me wrong—I want to stay at home with my babies—but I don’t want to stay home waiting for my pimply-faced 7th grader to climb off the school bus at 4 pm. What is there to do all day? Dust the baseboards? Bake my own bread? Snoop through the kids’ bedrooms?

If Grandma had gone back to work in the 60’s, she would have qualified for her own social security instead of pinching pennies on Grandpa’s. If my aunt had even worked part-time during her kids’ school years, maybe they would have had name brand clothes, vacations, and dinners that didn’t involve hot dogs.

So, while I wanted to scream out, “How could you find any personal fulfillment in NEVER leaving the house? I want more out of my life than that!” I kept my mouth shut. It takes a certain breed to be a SAHM-lifer, and it’s best not to look them directly in the eye or speak loudly or they’ll tear your face off.

It’s also pointless to argue that your husband’s income will not cover all of the bills and you have to work, because really? Sewing machines, coupons, and dinners made out of dried beans can easily cover $18,000 of missing income.

Duh.

She makes this face...

When I take her picture:

The guy at Portrait Innovations called it a Stinkface, just before I punched him in the wiener*. Would you believe me if I told you that I can't write a real post because I am in jail for punching a Portrait Innovations "photographer" in the wiener?

I'm slacking. Like, a lot. I have stuff I want to write, but it's all jumbled in my brain. I blame it on Turkey and Starbucks. Our Thanksgiving weekend could not have been better - it was relaxing, Olivia was adorable, lots of good eats and visiting, some Black Friday deals. My brain is protesting the return to normal life.

I hope everyone had a filling Thanksgiving. Feel free to tell me about it in the comments. Or tell me a joke. Or give me a diet tip.

*I wrote all the Wieners in this post as Weiner and had to fix them all in the spell check. "I before E except after C and in words like Weird, Neighbor and Weiner." But don't call your neighbor's weiner weird, because that would be impolite.

A Great Blog? Definitely!

Another guest post by another of my favorite bloggers: Beverley.

I can't even remember how I found Bev's blog, A Baby? Maybe... Most likely some lucky Googling about Infertility. But I've been a big big fan of hers for a few years now. Her posts are always clever, and she always closes with the very best quotes.

I love Bev. I love her style, her sense of humor, and her honest yet polite way of writing. If we lived near each other, I'd beg her to be my real life friend. But since we live far far away, we are stuck being Internet friends. Her adorable little Lucy is a month older than Olivia, and OHMAHGAH is she just so freaking cute you won't be able to stand it!

(I'm not going to post for Thanksgiving - I think we all know what I am thankful for this year. So make sure you enjoy this post from Bev before you pass out from your Turkey coma, and have a fantastic Thanksgiving!)

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Oh man, I’m so excited to be here. It’s like a birthday present in itself because I luuuurrrve me some Jennepper. Truly. She’s amazing, and she didn’t even pay me (very much ) to write that. Anyhoo…

Well, here I am. I had the big 2-9er yesterday and I am now officially in the final year of my twenties. Do I think that 30 is old? Absolutely not, but the recent streak of gray hairs on the top of my head and the wrinkles on either side of my eyes say differently.

It feels like it was just yesterday that I was graduating college, soon to turn 23. I was going to be big time. A big time journalist. Traveling all over the world. No settling down for me, no way. Husband? No thanks. Kids? Absolutely not.

Then I met Rob. Freshly single and looking for a summer fling. He was visiting Oregon for the summer. He would be gone by September. It was perfect. We’d have fun, he’d go home and I’d get my big time job and start living my glamorous life.

Fast forward to the end of that summer, I was not letting that boy go anywhere without me. We were madly in love and that was it. I picked up and moved thousands of miles across the country to a city where I knew no one. All alone in New York City living above Wall Street with two complete strangers, a curtain as a wall and a low paying job at a crazy animal magazine that I hated. All for him.

We married the next September, just before I turned 24, barely over a year from when we first laid eyes on one another. In a vineyard in the breezy late Oregon summer. There was dancing, laughing, so much happiness. The thought of needing anything else, anyone else, in our lives, far from our minds.

All that no husband stuff that I thought before. Silly! Ridiculous! At 25, when he jokingly asked about having a baby, I did a double take. A baby? No thanks, I told him. I’m not the motherly type. I’m not good with babies. Children don’t like me. I’m not silly enough. I don’t like cartoons. Hate them actually. I haven’t changed a diaper since I was 13, and even then I doubt I did it right (and now that I think about it, who the hell leaves a baby with the 13 year old? Really?) I’m never the one who “wants to hold the baby”. Besides, I would go nuts if I had to stay at home with some sticky child all day long. I don’t even know how to do art projects or whatever else you do with small children. No thanks! He laughed and told me he’d gladly be a stay at home dad, think about it Bev.

I did. The more I thought, the more I liked the idea. Maybe I could do this. I could be a mother. Hell, why not?

So we tried. This is exciting. And fun! We’re going to be parents. What should our baby’s name be? Do you think its going to be a boy or a girl? I’m certain it worked this month. Maybe next month. I so don’t want to have a baby in January. I’d prefer a spring birthday. Maybe next month. And then we tried some more. Why hello there 26th birthday. And tried some more. Hmmm. Turns out they lied in high school. It isn’t that easy to get knocked up.

See you later 26, here comes 27. Damnit, I want that baby. I don’t care what month. I don’t care if she’s a girl or he’s a boy. I don’t care. How can I want to be something so badly, something that I never thought I wanted in the first place? But I did, more than anything. Then it happened. We were pregnant.

28th birthday I’m huge. I’m ecstatic. We’re waiting. It’s almost been 9 months. I get a girdle-like belly contraption to hold my enormous girth that is hurting my back and a pregnancy massage for my birthday. So glamorous! My feet look like sausages in my too small shoes. I waddle around at work, need help getting up from the couch at home. Hey, 23 year old self, look at me now? Betcha never would have guessed it. Ultra glam job? Nope. Married? Yes! Baby on the way? Yes! Happier than I’ve ever been? Absolutely.

29th birthday. Yesterday. My last year in my twenties and how I have changed. What I wanted for my birthday at 23… probably a pair of designer jeans and that chunky Tiffany necklaces that EVERYONE wore back then. What I wanted for my birthday at 29? A maid, because damn it’s hard to keep a house clean these days, and my post-pregnancy OCD has kicked in to high gear so much so that a maid is my ultimate dream. A not very feasible one, but a little wishful thinking never hurt anyone.

What I got? A husband who stayed home from work in order to clean the house top to bottom, cooked a traditional English dinner for my birthday. A beautiful baby, who is the light of my life, that went to bed without so much as a peep last night so that Mama could watch So You Think You Can Dance and read her new book in absolute peace.

No maid? No problem. I couldn’t want for more (ok, maybe I still want the maid a wee bit). I’m living my last year of my twenties with all the things I thought I didn’t want, but in the end have made my life complete. A very Happy Birthday to me indeed!

Thank you Mrs.Jennepper for having me!



“Grow old along with me!
The best is yet to be.”
- Robert Browning