Cheek

Yay! I am back! Somewhere else!

Come here: http://momstrous.com/ if you want :)

In the next week or so, I'll be updating it with my new comics--it will be a largely comic site about motherhood (remember Infertile Myrtle?)

It's good to be back!

 

New post

New post at NO :) http://thenakedovary.typepad.com/thenakedovary/

Come on over.

Here is the new blog. http://thenakedovary.typepad.com/thenakedovary/   Complete with archives, if you're willing to scroll back in time....

Here is what happened:

I asked my brother to design my new blog.

He took a LONG time in getting back to me about everything.

Then he quit his job.

Then I had a LOT of stuff going down at work, and at home, and life became overwhelming. Yeah, I know, it's no excuse, but it's what happened.

The blog is obviously not pretty, and I need a new design, but I can still write while I get that put together.

So come visit me. I've really, really, really missed you all.

New Blog Coming Soon!

Pretty soon I will have a new blog, a new start. My brother is designing it for me and based on his previous work (he designs web sites) it should be amazing. When it's done, I will leave links here for the new blog. I'm hoping to upload a lot of my archives from Naked Ovary to the new blog, too, which will be called (big surprise.....da da da) The Naked Ovary. I just couldn't give it up!

I don't want to update too much, because I want to save it for NO, but things are good with everyone.

See you on the dark side!

How Do I Rue The Day? Let Me Count The Toys.

I am still wading through your tome on sleep and how to get some. I got none last night. I slept in one hour spurts and fed She Who Awakes Constantly every hour. Something must be up. It's bad, people. I'm going to compile all of your comments into a handy list that I will then refer to, so keep 'em coming.

You will be relieved to hear that I am not pregnant. It was an errant puke, I suppose, one of those UPEs--Unidentified Puking Episodes. At any rate, Random is relieved. And I guess you could say I was too--I mean who the hell do I think I am, anyway? Pregnant after a quickie, whilst on birth control pills and breastfeeding full time? Who am I, Fertile Myrtle? Heh. We all know what Tire* would have to say about THAT.

But here is the REAL point of my post:

There are several toys in the house that drive me absolutely insane.

These are generally toys given to us, generally in a goody bag or something, generally unrequested and immediately regretted. These are toys that, for whatever reason, inspire extreme movement or noise or jumping up and down or thrusting over and over in faces. Or they are just plain ugly, and always underfoot.

Past toys of this ilk include:

• A red flexible square of see-through plastic, about three feet by three feet, that came with a bowling set and that was used as a cape, a mask, a jumping off item, and anything BUT what it was supposed to be used for. I hid that thing about forty thousand times and MP always found it--I shoved it under the couch, behind the couch, folded it up and put it between books on the bookcase. Still she found it and put it on the floor for me to slide, trip on, and curse. It is now in some landfill. Sorry. 
• A pinwheel. This thing, although initially amusing and pretty, has been shoved in my face so many times it was broken over a knee (okay, it wasn't, but we plotted its death like that). It too met a garbagey end, and is entertaining some vultures as we speak. 
• The wooden sausage. See a previous blog post. 
• A tin of marbles. I gave MP this, in her stocking. Or rather, Santa gave it to her. I'd like to shoot Santa and her good intentions right about now. Those marbles are always underfoot, an army of marbles, always being poured into some other container (shoe, plastic bag, flower pot, coffee mug) and always threatening to choke baby Chloe. I want to kill these marbles. Lordy, does MP love these things, though, so I have not confiscated them yet. 
• And last but not least--a pom pom, which MP calls her "pom." This thing is used every day if possible, cheered heartily with, rammed, again, in our faces, left in my kitchen (there is a standing rule: no toys in the kitchen. The pom, however, somehow transcends the "no toy" rule as, MP attests, it's "not a toy.") MP will jump like mad with this thing, and bemoan the fact that there is only one of its kind (and it will stay that way, God help me, until she decides to become a cheerleader, at which point I will accept my fate as a Cheerleader Mom, ai).

So. What toys do you rue the day you ever purchased? What toys do you hate to listen to, hate to look at, hate to play with, hate to watch in action? What toys make you want to commit yourself? And why, pray tell, do you hate these toys? Please share your horror stories.

By warning each other, we will be doing ourselves a great service. It will keep the Bad Toys from making us crazy.

*In case you have no idea what I am talking about, I used to draw a comic featuring an infertile heroine and her pet tire.

Sleep? Yeah, I Remember That.

A long, long time ago, in the land of No Children, I got sleep.

I got some good sleep in those days, weekend morning sleep, early night to bed sleep, and naptime sleep. It was a plethora of sleep.

Then MP arrived, and she curtailed that sleep. She would take her time getting to bed, coming out regularly to ask for such items as her pillow (actually a blanket), or to tell me her Monkey Fish was making a weird noise (her aquarium toy that was running out of batteries and actually groaning). And she would wake up early, bouncing into our room at the good hour of 6 to 7 ish, announcing that "IT'S WAKE UP TIME!!!!"

And so there was less sleep to be had.

And then the littlest one arrived, she of the pterodactyl scream and the wide grin. And she was bound and determined that No Sleep would happen in the house, or else.

She teased us. Sometimes, she would sleep long stretches at a time. Other times, she'd awake every hour. At four months, the pediatrician scoffed and told me I needed to let her cry a bit, put her in her own bed (she was still in a bassinet next to ours), wean her off the constant night feedings. I scoffed right back (I can scoff real good) and ignored him. She still slept in the bassinet. I still fed on demand.

And now we are at the almost-seven-month mark, and she is not sleeping through the night, my friends. On the contrary. Sometimes, she will gloriously surprise us with a six hour stint and no wakings, but last night....last night she awoke, I am NOT KIDDING, around eight or nine times. Every hour. She fed for a minute or two and then went back to sleep. I tried to pat her, whisper shush, to no avail.

Random wants her out of our room and into her crib, but I'm concerned about what that will mean for me--I will then have to listen to the monitor, get out of bed, trudge down the hall in a half sleep, feed her, put her back, etc. etc. Rinse and repeat. I can barely, sometimes, discern where she is in her bassinet to take her out, let alone to walk down the hallway at the hellish hour of 2. In my house, we wake up at 4:45 for work (YES THAT'S AM, PEOPLE) so sleep is a premium.

I don't want to stop breastfeeding--and feeding her more doesn't seem to work--we feed her "real" food at dinner and she goes down shortly thereafter. I, like Random, would like her to eventually move to her crib, but I'd like her to be sleeping more before that happens. She could be teething--she's got no teeth yet, but waking up that much (every hour) is a bit unusual, even for her--she averages maybe 2 times a night. STILL. The night waking is nuts. Last night she woke herself up because she farted loudly--it made her cry (and Random and I laugh--we couldn't stop. There's nothing like laughing when you are so sleep deprived you can't even distinguish between the dog in your bed and the baby in the bassinet--and yes I have tried to put the dog back in the bassinet, thinking he was Chloe).

Anyway: Help. I need your sleep stories. I need book recommendations--I have the "No Cry Sleep Solution," but I'm not sure that will work with her since she's so booby attached. I need your wise, sage assvice. How do I work this?

Oh, and I should mention that I just threw up in the middle of the day and Random is so convinced I am pregnant that he took off immediately to the store to purchase an HPT. I am scoffing at him, because I am SO not pregnant. While it is true that I haven't resumed my periods yet and have missed a day or two of minipills here and there, the idea is so preposterous. I will let you know. In the meantime, tell me your sleep stories!

In Which I Emerge From My Pity Pit, With Pictures To Boot

  Oh, my sweet, smart, beautiful big girl. What a good sister you are: so patient when Chloe pulls your hair, such a good help, so funny and silly and creative. I love how you collect things of similar sizes and shapes--like marbles and wooden peas--and put them in containers that you tote with you all over, proclaiming that "the marbles need to be with me because they need their mommy and I am their mommy." I love the way you get concerned when someone or something on tv is sad. I love the way your little brows knit when you are trying to remember something, or think of an excuse. I love how you leave your room at bedtime, after you are supposed to be in bed, and stand in my doorway fabricating excuses for being up ("I have a secret to tell you!" or "Ummmmmmm...make sure if you go downstairs, that's just for a minute.") I love how you console your sister, singing her songs about not being sad. I love how when you are in time out, you sing about being in time out. You are the light of my life, little big girl and I adore you to the moon and back.

  To my gorgeous, happy, glorious baby: what a joy it is to take care of you, to be your Mama. You have the ability to make me laugh no matter what kind of mood I'm in. Your blue eyes, your wide smile, your hysterical giggle--I can't keep away from your warm neck, your slightly stinky feet, or the upside down C that makes up your belly button. You roll everywhere, my little rolly polly bug; you laugh all the time, at everything. You adore your big sister, love being with her. But it's your Mama you crave the most: you check me out all the time, grab my shirt and stick your head down it, eye me up. Your dad sings songs about you to me as you stare at me: "Don't you always feel like..someone is watching you?" and "Private eyes, are watching you, they see your every move..." You are just learning to sit up and soon you will be crawling--you can heft yourself up on your knees and hands and rock back and forth. I love you, baby, so much.

Here's to 2009. Thanks, as usual, for reminding me what's what. These two keep me going, in all ways that matter. I hope you have things that keep you going, and that you keep them warm, and close to your heart.

I Suck, But I Have Excuses To Why I Suck.

Yeah, I know. It's been awhile. I've been avoiding Typepad like it's a pile of guilty bills, or the hospital statement for Chloe's jaundice treatment that we still haven't paid because who the hell signed us up for out of network doctors anyway? I'm annoyed with myself, because I haven't been writing and I've gotten all rusty and out of practice. And I find myself writing only updates instead of the more interesting, meaty stuff that's happening, like my ongoing breastfeeding saga, or my sneaky push to have another child, or MP's blossoming as a big sister.

So here's the other part to my not writing: A smattering of depressive self-pity, the ugly, soul-darkening kind. I've found out that many of my friends from graduate school--the ones that I got my masters in writing with--have published whole books and are teaching writing at colleges. And I try not to hate the fact that I do not have a book, and I do not write daily like I always promised I would, and I am not even close to currently writing a book. And then I found out that my old, very very best friend from when I was 15 is a famous fashion designer who has had six runway shows (successful) and whose house is featured in magazines ("we got this antique, wall to ceiling mirror from a flea market in Paris, and had this piece shipped from Bali"). I'm thrilled that things worked out for her the way she planned: At age 13, we hung out on her bed and planned out our lives together. We were going to live next door to one another in awesome mansions, and she would design clothes while I, her top model, wrote in my spare time (when I wasn't strutting the catwalk, of course). This happened for her.

Well--yes, of course I'm thrilled for her, I adore her, even though we haven't spoken in a number of years. I will always adore her. But using all these successes--books published, fashions designed, houses decorated with gorgeous objets d'art--as a measure of where I am in life in terms of my career is not doing me any good in the self-pity department. I am nowhere near writing a book; I can't even drag my ass to the computer to write on this blog. I am way, way too fat to be even a fashion model for plus-size clothing (breastfeeding worked with the first thirty pounds but has not been able to shave off the twenty remaining...which if lost would STILL put me in the pudgy department).  And I lost a beloved job right before I gave birth last year, a job that I was so proud I had, thought I was good at, and had no idea I was about to lose. At a place that I still, unfortunately, work at, and have to face the fact that I failed every. single. day. that I go to work. (This kills me so much that I am trying to transfer now, from a place that was my second home less than a year ago.)

But none of this is really important, right? I keep telling myself that. So much else is going on--the kids are so, so good; my mom is getting better; my marriage is still strong. I count those as successes, and really, they are the ones to count. The career thing, that would be nice, though, if that could work out.

Since I last wrote, my mother has had surgery for kidney cancer. The doctor removed a tumor and her kidney, and she made it through well. The kidney cancer is gone, apparently; it hadn't spread. Next up is the lung cancer--a different cancer that the doctors found in her lungs. They will operate in late January on that and remove tumors and part of her lung. This will, supposedly, render her completely cancer free. Such good news, so far.

So this post leaves me with a question for you: What do you count as your great successes in life? What have you accomplished? And what do you do when you see everyone else getting somewhere, leaving you behind? Does it inspire you, or leave you wilted?

Thank You's, and Fresh Starts, and Other Stuff

First--thank you so much for your words of comfort, for your advice (not so assvicey) and your virtual hugs. It's been really, really hard here these past few days. During the two weeks when we didn't know what was going on (something on my mom's kidney, but they weren't sure if it was encapsulated or not, then thought it was and they'd just remove the kidney), I was doing okay--fingers in ears, blinders on, lalalalalalalalala. Once we heard that the tumor wasn't encapsulated, that it was possibly in her lungs, the fingers plopped out of my ears and all of a sudden I was on the Train To Hell. Every stop produced more and more horrible thoughts and I couldn't get off it no matter what I did--all I could think about was all the horror that we'd be in for, and it just got worse and worse as I went further into it. But I threw myself into teaching regardless (seniors in high school have this funny way of making you temporarily forget your problems--most of them are so funny and awesome), and I threw myself into the kids (so when MP woke up crying because she couldn't find her "red top"--which turned out to be the top to a bubble bath container, I.E. "garbage" she had reimagined as a toy, I simultaneously thought "you're CRYING about GARBAGE while my MOM IS SICK???" and "THANK GOD you are crying about garbage." 

Anyway, my father just became a US citizen after 43 years of living in this country, my brother is visiting my parents, and my mother seems to be doing a bit better. I sent flowers and chocolate and all of my love, and on Monday she'll go for a biopsy and hear the results late next week. So I'm learning to breathe again till then. And hoping against hope that those spots in her lungs are just bits of scar tissue from the pneumonia she's had. Thanks again for all of your lovin'--it reminds me why I still keep this here blog.

As for fresh starts, I'll be making one soon. My brother designs websites now, and he's offered to design mine for free with a new Internet address, the whole shebang. The new address will be www.gotcheek.com, but you'll be redirected there from here. I'm not sure when it will launch, but once it does I expect I'll be posting more and resurrecting my balls from the cold dark ground where I buried them two years ago with the closing of NO. I'm tired of censoring myself, of caring what other people think so much. My writing has suffered because I'm not blogging more, and I quit just as things were getting good for me. So I'm going to try a comeback. Heh. Such as it is.

In Other Stuff, MP is a freaking awesome big sister, Chloe is 5 months and still nursing, although we've added veggies, fruit, and rice cereal to her diet, since she's a voracious little thing. This has not affected how much she nurses, like the doctors said it would. She loves to eat. She loves to nurse the most, and I am obsessed with it and slightly maniacal now--the little huffing panting sound she makes when I get ready to nurse and she knows nummies are coming, the way she frantically sucks if she thinks I'm going to pull her off after a bit of inactivity, the way she clutches at my bra strap----melllllllllllllllttttt. MP is learning her letters--she can identify all of them--and she's loving and sweet and funny and so, so smart. And she has an incredible memory--if you say she can have a jellybean in a week if she's good she'll hold you to it all week long. I have to pinch myself every day--I am just so lucky in the kid department.

Thanks again for sticking around. I plan on getting back into the Blogworld, reading more, commenting again, all that good stuff, too--because there are some of you that I really, really miss. The break's been good for me but I need to come back.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone. And thanks again for being here.

An Update I Wish I Wasn't Making

Today I found out that my mother is very sick. We've known for a few weeks now that something was wrong in her kidney--they found a tumor there. But it looked like the tumor was confined. Now they think it's spread, possibly to her lungs--there are spots there. This would be Stage Four kidney cancer, then. They've scheduled more tests, but the doctors apparently said (this from my dad, who couldn't stop crying) they don't even know if taking out the kidney will help at this stage.

I am, as you can probably guess, not doing well. My parents live far from me, and I'm trying to figure out when I should go, for how long, what to do about work, all that stuff. I need to suddenly be the adult here, be the one asking questions and holding everyone up, because they aren't doing well. I'm very close to my parents, and they are falling apart before my eyes, and it's the scariest, most terrifying thing I've ever seen in my entire life.

I've lived these past few weeks in a daze of kids and house and preparations for Christmas, not letting myself ask the question "what happens if." My brother just asked me that question. He said, "Karen, what's going to happen?"

I don't want to know the answer to that if this thing has, indeed, spread to her lungs.

I'll know more soon, because I couldn't get a lot from my dad. He was barely coherent, and then I suppose I asked too many questions, because he hung up on me.

And somehow I have to find it in me to be a mom--a functioning mom--around my kids. How do you hold up their world when your own is crumbling into pieces around you?