Battening down the hatches as a new family of three

Sorry for the absence last Monday, ReaderFriends … If you didn't catch the news on Facebook or the Jaunty Quills blog, Arizona and I were in the process of welcoming Baby H into the world (I'm still working on an online pseudonym, bear with me … What do we think of Wallaby?). And as he turned out to be a big baby, it was a bit of a process. But I've got good drugs, Arizona is doing lots of 'let me get that for you', and over the course of the week, we've gone from happy but shellshocked:

To glimmers of a new normal:

So far, I'm grateful for a whole lot of things--my wonderful hubby; our strapping son who's already sleeping three or four hours at a time (bless him); the happy accident that we're not living in, say, the 1700s, when things probably would've had a very different outcome last Monday … and the fact that Baby H came a little early, which means that a) he didn't get any bigger before attempting to exit stage I-don't-think-you-fit-through-there; and b) we're not staring down the barrel of doing a mad dash to the hospital into the teeth of Winter Storm Juno. 

Yeppers, here on the east coast of the US of A, we're looking at our first big snow event (snowpocalypse?) of the winter. The weather hens are flapping around on the telly, telling us the sky is falling, and those of us who know the routine are doing the usual prepping. Gas for the generator, check. Full charges on all phones and computers, check. Lots of candles and lighters, check. Plenty of food, including canned stuff that will heat easily on the Coleman stove or George Foreman, check. But we've also got the added challenge of a New Baby, and not really being sure what he needs on a day to day basis yet. 

Yesterday, the three of us ventured out to do errands. I managed to pack and forget the awesome tri-fold changing-pad-slash-carry-purse that a dear friend made for me (shout out, Donna!), but we at least remembered the baby and managed to time his feedings so he was a happy, sleepy thing for the duration. (This as opposed to a couple of days earlier when I whipped out an emergency boob in the pediatrician's parking lot, thereby quelling an impending riot.) We got gas, hit the bank, and then pulled into the grocery store, where the parking lot was already packed by midmorning two days before the crap weather was scheduled to hit. Arizona visibly girded his loins and said, 'Do you want to stay in the car with Baby while I do the shopping?'

At least I think that was what he said. I was already out the door and halfway across the parking lot. 

See, he would cheerfully live on a mountaintop and venture into the nearest town only when our supplies ran low. Me? I occasionally need me some noise, lights, rude people, nice people, chai latte and two-for-one sales on English Muffins. So in I plunged to Stop and Shop, which has all of the above, and I started working my way down the daunting list that Arizona and I had put together that morning. In doing so, I completely skipped the baby aisle, not realizing it until I was well past the frozen pizza. 

When you're doing the infertility dance with a side of I-waited-too-long-and-now-am-too-damn-old, you come up with some pretty whacky coping strategies (or was that just me?). I didn't obsess about seeing babies out and about with their moms (too much) or put on my judgy pants when I saw parents doing things different from how I thought I would (mostly). I did, however, avoid going through the baby aisle of whatever store we might be in. I just didn't need to see all the mysterious stuff I might never use, like snot suckers, tiny nail clippers, and fourteen different kinds of wet wipes, each designated for a different body part. Never mind the things that parents speak of with such reverence, like the Diaper Genie and the Boppy.

I still stayed out of those areas once the doctors started saying things like 'you've got a happy baby in there' and 'we'll see you in a week', not wanting to jinx it. So you'd think that my first official venture into Aisle 4 would be a momentous occasion, right? Angels would sing, some appropriately kicky theme song would pour from the overhead speakers, and my fellow shoppers (even the rude ones) would spontaneously burst into applause because Arizona and I had Gotten It Done, Dammit.

In reality, I abandoned my cart next to the beer and waddle-bolted back to the aisle in question, dodging other bodies and carts, and doing a lot of the 'ooh, ouch, eek, ack' that currently accompanies my attempts at perambulation with a whole lot of stitches in tender places. Down Aisle 4 I went, past the wipey things, washy things, sucky things, and liquid food things that I haven't yet felt myself lacking, down to the diapers. 

Where I froze, confronted by entirely Too Many Choices. 

And then I, who routinely ignores the suggestions from Amazon and Netflix as to what I might like based on my past purchases, preferring instead to do my own research and form my own opinions, grabbed a familiar bag like it was a lifeline in the midst of Winter Storm Juno, going with the same brand and size (not newborn, see above re: big baby) that the hospital had provided. And, sweating like I had thrown on a heavy parka and twenty extra pounds and gone for an awkward jog (because, well, that's pretty accurate), I returned to my cart, panicked briefly when I didn't see it next to the pizza, located it next to the beer, and continued onward, triumphantly in possession of a storm's worth of Pampers. 

I hope.

First Love and Happy Almost Birthday to Me!

Click for art link

Yep, Capricorn here, with all the contradictions that come from the goat personality (driven, ambitious, unsentimental, focused on common sense, tends to gravitate towards material reasons/rewards) trying to coexist in some sort of harmony with the fish personality (focused on the arts and spirituality, prefers spiritual or emotional rewards, idealistic). I'd say that these days I'm more fish than goat, but I've definitely had my goatish decades! 

I'll be celebrating my forty-mrmph b'day this week, presumably either by taking the day off to hang with a couple of friends, one of whom is a talented photographer and wants to do a Giant Baby Bump photoshoot for her portfolio … or by waddling off to the hospital to relocate the Giant Bump's primary resident to the great outdoors (sorry about the January in New England thing, kid, and welcome to the wonderful world of layers). 

Ever since finding out that my due date falls a little more than a week after my birthday, I've been hoping that kiddo will pick a different day and gets a birthday of his own--though I'm told he'll get priority one way or another: The sonographer at the high-risk clinic laughed at me and said, "Mom's birthday stops mattering once baby is here." 

For a while, I was all like "Is that true?" and "Yikes!" Not because birthdays are all that big a deal around here, but because one of my recurring fears about this whole process (along with the doozies my sleeping brain has cooked up involving sharks, Nazis and pick-a-plague-scenario) is whether I'll be able to do Mom well and still be Doc Jess. Now that the day is nearly upon us, though, I'm more like, "Bring it on, baby!" Not because I'm dying to be done with the waddling thing, though there's some of that … but because my inner fish is ready to share. 

Back in the day, I was a late bloomer and didn't start dating until my senior year of high school. He was (gasp!) a sophomore, though at a different high school. We'll call him TN, because those were (and hopefully still are) his initials--we met at the barn where I boarded my horse and hooked up after a friend did the wing-woman thing, whispering "TN likes-likes you" and "Would you go out with him if he asked?"

It was a surprise, as TN was cute, funny, and a bit of a bad boy, and I had long been typecast as the awkward, four-eyed geek who rarely dressed or acted quite right. So I hadn't been asked out in, well, ever. The age gap was less than you'd think, too, seeing how I had skipped a grade, putting us only a year apart in age. As in, exactly a year. Because we had the same birthday.

It was a sign! (More so than our first date, which involved Howard the Duck. 'Nuff said.)

We celebrated two birthdays together. That first was spent in the heady adrenaline rush of new love. And not just love, but "LURRRRVE", in all caps, shouted to the sky. Because it turned out that we worked. We meshed. Days were brighter, colors sharper, jokes funnier … And I not only got what all those romance novels had been trying to tell me, I felt smug as hell, because I had found my happily-ever-after already, without all the hand-wringing and drama that the characters in those books always seemed to go through. 

Or so I thought for the entirety of one long, glorious summer.

Unfortunately, by the time TN and I got to our second shared birthday, we were trying to pretend everything was okay despite my having started college and him having started cooking at a family member's restaurant, and wanting to be there every spare minute he had away from school … when not that long ago, he had wanted to spend every spare minute with me. Neither of us did anything wrong--that would've made it easier, I think. No, he found a new direction, I chased and clung, and the magic just … disappeared.

When the end came I was devastated. Gone were my best friend, the boy who had given me my first kiss (among other things), and all the wild, improbable plans we had made for our shared future. It hurt all the more because we broke up within a week or so of my parents announcing their divorce--they did their best to keep the world solid beneath my feet, but still. 

It would be three years before I dated again--almost my entire college career--and nearly two decades before I stopped trying to make it work with guys who didn't threaten my equilibrium nearly enough, and let myself fall fully, stupidly and head-over-heels in love again. 

I get it now--the kind of love that I've been writing about for so long, and the struggles it can take to get there. The lessons you learn along the way. How it's important to be your best self with your partner rather than expecting him to fix you, and vice versa. I also know (even if I still want to struggle against it sometimes) that the things I can't control far outnumber those I can. I can't predict where we'll all be a week from now, a month, a year … but my fishy self is okay with that. Worrying about it isn't going to change the outcome, so why not find something to love about each and every day? Especially when we live in such exciting times.

So bring it on, baby! Take my birthday if you like--I'll share. Heck, you can have it. Just come out safe and sound, because your father and I are ready to meet you, love you, and start this new--and wholly unpredictable--adventure.

Blessed be.

Do you have THAT neighbor … ?

The other night, it went like this:

Arizona (peering out a front window through a decent snowfall): Is the German Shepherds' house is on fire?

Me: Now *that's* something you don't hear every day. (Comes in from the kitchen to hunker at the window beside him. Sees flames licking up alongside the brightly lit house, which is a river and a street away, but clearly visible through the winter-bare trees.) Wow! Maybe? Or could it be on their TV? In a fireplace?

Arizona (grabs binoculars--which are never far away, and make Darwin smile at his preparedness--and stuffs his feet into a pair of flip-flops--cause, yanno, Arizona--and heads out onto the front porch for a better look)

Me (starts pulling on a parka, hat, gloves and snow boots--cause, yanno, New Englander--makes sure I have my cell phone and realizes I don't know their street number, then sticks my head out front): What's the verdict?

Arizona: Well, *something's* burning, for sure.

Me: Let's go take a look. Dinner'll keep. (Heads back inside to put our dished-out turkey and rice in the microwave--cause, yanno, cats.)

(A minute later, with him having exchanged his flip-flops for boots and thrown on a parka, we stand out in our driveway. Which, for the record, could double as a ski-jump and is wearing a layer of fresh, slippery snow, leading down to unplowed roads.)

Me: What do you think?

Arizona: We'd probably get the car down okay. Not sure about back up. 

Me: Let's hoof it.

Arizona (eyes his could-deliver-baby-any-day-now wife): Um. 

Me: I'll be careful. Promise. And if I fall, I swear I'll aim to land on my ass.

(A minute later, safely down our driveway and trudging through the snow up our street.)

Arizona: Did you bring a flashlight?

Me: No. I can see fine. 

Arizona (Shoots me a 'but the cars can't see *you*' look and produces the flashlight he almost always has on him, along with a pocket knife and cordage.)

Me (defensive): I've got my cell phone. And my keys.

(Somewhere, Darwin shakes his head and wonders if I was the best choice for procreation.) 

(A couple of minutes later, having dodged two plow trucks and one SUV going WAY too f-ing fast on the snowy back roads, we get in range of the house in question. The lights are all on, but we don't see anybody inside, and certainly no sign of an 'eeeee, fire!' response happening.)

Arizona: Smell that?

Me (wrinkles nose): Wiring. Or at least burning plastic. Maybe vinyl siding? Think their electrical box committed suicide?

Arizona (comes around to far side of house and peers down driveway): Nope. Barbecue.

Me: Whaaaa?

(Sure enough, there's a BBQ on the porch, smoking away. The flames have burned down, but it's clearly the culprit. And it smells awful.)

Me: What were they doing, the ceremonial New Year's burning of the ex-husband's things? 

Arizona: Sure doesn't smell like hot dogs. Come on, let's head home. (As we turn onto our road, he glances back.) Glad everything was okay. Also glad we didn't just call the fire department without checking. You never know with those guys.

Because, you see, the house in question is rented by THOSE neighbors--the ones with a bunch of big, ill-trained dogs that, up until a recent Facebook spat with a couple of other neighbors and input from Animal Control, would bark 24/7 in their yard and routinely roam free, chasing cats (see above for picture of Lucy stuck fifty feet up after they had come and gone), jumping fences and muddying up pools. 

In fairness, things have been soooo much better since said FB altercation, but the dialog got pretty heated, and it wasn't like Arizona or I felt like we could call over and say, 'Hey, everything okay?'

So we hiked over in the snow to see for ourselves. Because that's what neighbors do, regardless, and we hope that if the situation was reversed, they (or someone) would do the same for us!

What about you? Do you have one of THOSE neighbors? Do tell!

Stubborn? Who, me?

It should probably be seen as a sad state of affairs that my mother--who was up until recently famous for not knowing how to answer her own cell phone, which could neither text nor take a picture--now has a smart phone with all the bells and whistles, and pays about the same per month that I do. Not to mention the part where I whipped out my phone over the holidays to check a message, and got a round of 'oohs' and 'aahs' from the assembled family members, along with a "I didn't think they still made flip phones." Whereupon I had to admit that they didn't, and I'm a freak.

Yes, it's true. I'm clinging to outdated tech. Hard. I'm not even sure why--it's a pain in the butt to answer a text with the old keypad, where hitting the number 1 enough times eventually offers you A, B or C as options, and it's not worth taking a photo knowing it's going to be the size of a microchip and I'll have to text it to Arizona and have him send it to my email.

At the same time, though, I kind of like not having email access all the time, and there have been a whopping two times that I could've used internet access out on the road and didn't have Arizona right there with his work-provided smart phone to pick up the slack. So is it really so bad that I cling to my creaky old phone?

Then there's the car thing. My mom is currently car shopping and Arizona and I are (unfortunately) probably not that far behind her, so there have been some recent discussions of the new models with AWD … and the squirrel-powered engines that come standard these days. 

Okay, maybe that's not entirely fair … but this girl learned to drive in and around Boston, and still tends to take the 'when in doubt, aim and hit the gas' mentality, especially on the highway. Which isn't an easy thing to do when you feel like you've gotta whip your squirrels to get any acceleration!

If I could replace my eleven-year-old turbo Baja part for part and horsepower for horsepower (or keep it on the road forever), I would do it … except that Arizona doesn't exactly fit it with room to spare, and while Baby H will be a smallish package for some time, I'm told that won't last forever. At some point, we're going to need to transport large, gangling humanoid males in the midst of growth spurts. Sigh. 

So … we're either going to be stuck with squirrels, or we're going to have to upgrade the engine, which will come with a whole lot of crap we don't want, like back-up cameras and on-board navigation. All so I can get my RPMs up from squirrel to angry badger territory. I get the whole save-the-world thing, honest, I do! But when we come down to it, I'll cheerfully sacrifice some MPG for actual acceleration.

Yes, stubborn. But, hey, at least I own it (sort of), and I try not to let it affect other people. Except for the part where my beloved has to fold himself nearly double to get into our one car. Or the other week, when I had to ask the roadside assistance lady to Google me the number for a local taxi …

How about you, ReaderFriends? Do you have a something that you cling to, even when logic and the 21st century suggests life would be easier with the newer version? Please don't tell me I'm the only one!

On not breaking a leg this holiday season

Hello, ReaderFriends, and Happy Holidays to those who celebrate! 

Seeing how Arizona's spirituality lands somewhere between Navajo and agnostic, and mine is mostly self-assembled, our celebration is a bit of a mutt. We have a 'Winter Tree' that I decorate myself and Arizona surprises himself each year by enjoying; we do small gift exchanges with each other and my family and go spend time with his on Christmas day; and we take some time to be together and reflect on the year past and the one ahead.

And, weather and circumstances permitting, we take the bikes somewhere fun for a ride. 

This year, the usual tradition has been complicated somewhat by my super-pregnant, ordered-off-the-mountain-bike status. So we've adapted--going on some fun hikes, ostensibly scouting new biking locations for next year. How is biking going to work with a new baby involved? Beats me, but I'm sure we'll figure something out. (Crossing fingers.)

One of the coolest locations we've scouted is Rocky Neck, where an old WPA project building overlooks the sound on a lovely piece of state park. On the 'bringing things full circle' front, the first and only other time we had visited was to scout the building as a possible wedding venue. At the time, we deemed it too big (and frankly intimidating) for our small friends-family-and-barbecue plan. Now, though, Arizona declared it perfect. Because, you see, it has Good Rocks.

Here's the two of us scouting those rocks a couple of weekends ago and modeling our furry hats. (For the record, he was wearing said hat when he first came toward me across the ferry parking lot for our initial face-to-face meeting, and my original 'wonder if he'll be over six feet like his profile claimed' quickly morphed to 'jeepers, what is he, like eight feet tall?')

And here's Arizona this past weekend rocking the … er … rocks.

I, of course, was firmly planted on my hiking boots, taking the pictures (in a furry hat). And before I sent him off to have his fun while I hiked down to get a good picture angle, I gave him a kiss and hesitated. There was no real point in telling him to be careful, because if you're too careful on a downhill like this, you'll go over the handlebars. And I didn't want to tell him not to crash, because that's sort of inevitable in the sport, especially when you're scouting a new line. Break a leg? Just no. 

I went with "Have fun and try to land softly." And he did exactly that. So that is what I wish for you, ReaderFriends, as we navigate the holiday season and look to the year ahead. Have fun, and try to land softly.

--Doc Jess

An Open Letter to the Alarm Cat

Dear Pixel,

We love you dearly, and still marvel on a weekly basis that a bright, generous soul such as yourself found your way onto Route 95 that morning two years ago, and that you survived your dash across five lanes of traffic to where I had pulled over to help. And that, ironically, I had been on the way to the animal shelter, wanting a second kitty who was more amenable to cuddles and hugs than Lucy T. Cat, whose folder at the veterinary clinic is splashed with warning stickers and the nickname "Cujo."

The Universe got it very right when it paired us up--you are as soft, warm and cuddly as I could have asked, and you are Extremely Serious about your job of helping me write each day. I realize that some times it may feel as if there is no end to the pens and papers you must sit on, the computer keyboards you are required to walk across, and the effort it takes to poke me into the optimal position for your next nap. You take it all in stride, though, uncomplaining. You are a valued employee, and your annual review will reflect this, as will the raise we are planning for you next year. It is called a "catio" and will be attached to my office window and replace the scrubby bushes in the front yard.

However, in your annual review (and, well, pretty much every morning), it has come to our attention that you have taken on a second set of duties that you pursue with equal zeal: that of Alarm Cat. We would like to point out that we have small mechanical devices that perform this job adequately, and on a schedule of our choosing. Also, we would like to note that when these mechanical devices fail to raise an alarm around daybreak, this does not necessarily mean they have malfunctioned and need you to back them up. Similarly, you do not get extra credit when you anticipate them by anywhere from a minute to an hour. Sometimes us humans need extra sleep, too.

We can only assume it is your lack of faith in these devices that has prompted you to assume the duties of Alarm Cat, seeing how you have kibble in your bowl at all times; Squishy Food is not dispensed until 5 p.m.; and upon my awakening, you immediately repair to your window perch for an extended bath-nap combination that undoubtedly fortifies you for the busy day ahead.

We acknowledge the grievance you recently filed, regarding our closing of the bedroom door, and understand that this causes you great distress as you picture what might be going on outside of your reach, and assume it involves Cthulhu. If you could see your way to trusting the small mechanical devices more, and perhaps waiting for daylight before sticking your paw in my mouth, then we would be less likely to invoke The Door. 

It is our hope that the three of us, along with the Feline Workers' Union, will be able to negotiate some sort of an Alarm Truce in the year ahead. However, please note that your other excellent interpersonal and editorial assistant skills far outweigh the impact of your overzealousness in this other matter, and that we have no interest in altering the lifetime contract that was signed the moment I dug you out from underneath my car on that highway. We love you very much, and look forward to many more years of you being part of our family. 

Regards,

The Management

An Ode to my George Foreman Grill

I don't know about you, ReaderFriends, but I rarely (like, almost never) watch a TV commercial or see an Internet ad and think "I gotta get me one of them." 

I mean, really. Why all the dollars spent on car commercials, most of which look the same? I'm going to pick a vehicle by reviews, word of mouth, price and research, not because some VIP tells me it'll make my ass look smaller, or faster, or more fuel efficient or whatever. Same with restaurants, beer brands, and car insurance.

Now, mind you, I'm a fan of ads as an art form, as tiny little stories that play out on screen. (For example, the new Netflix one at the airport gives Arizona and me the giggles.) But while I enjoy some of the insurance commercials out there (the All State deep-frying-the-turkey ad is one of my all-time faves), they haven't influenced my choice of provider (USAA all the way, baby!). And half the time I know I like an ad, but couldn't tell you for love or money what company it's supposed to represent.

So suffice it to say that what little brand loyalty I possess comes from my own experiences, not the idiot box. Mostly, anyway. Because, as with any rule, there are a couple of exceptions. 

My green nonstick frying pan is one, impulse purchased at Wally World following the questionable consumption of a late-night infomercial that showed happy little sunny-side-up eggs sliding cheerfully of said frying pan and onto a plate, with (allegedly) no lubrication involved. And to be honest, it's a good pan. Maybe not lube-free, but plenty sufficient for Bacon-and-Eggies Saturday. 

Then there's George. Do you remember those ads with George Foreman and his gazillion kids, all named George? I do. And how about the ones where he extols the virtues of his indoor grillers, with their fat-channeling grooves, quick preheating, and numerous health benefits? Sign me up!

Yep, many years ago, I succumbed to those promises and bought an indoor grill that looked rather like the UFO at the World's Fair--you know, the one where Will Smith and Tommy Lee Jones bust the place up fighting the big alien Bug in the first MIB movie? Yeah, it was like that, and it served me well until getting lost in the move to CT. I didn't replace it at the farm--who had time to cook when there were chores to do? However, a few years ago, in the early days of my new post-farm life, I once again saw a commercial for George and his gazillion kids, and found myself hankering for fat-channeling grooves and numerous health benefits. 

Are there better mini-grillers out there? Probably. Could I have done some research and come up with a different option? No doubt. 

Instead, I drove down the street, found the proper aisle, and got myself another George. And you know what? We love him. We even bought him some accessories. And if he died tomorrow, we would go right out and buy him all over again. I use him for everything from seared tuna to waffles, and a whole lot of stuff in-between.

So what about you? Have you succumbed to a commercial? Have a gadget that you adore and would willingly buy over and over again? Have a recipe for me and my George? Do tell!