Champagne promises

Well, this is embarrassing. I’ve picked this blog up approximately one hundred million times in the last couple of years, wholly intended to turn this into a “Mom Blog,” but it turns out “Mom Blog” fits as well as high-waisted jeans and sneakers. Not a good look here.

I’m attending SXSW Interactive this year, having missed the past two, and I’m determined to get this back off the ground. You probably won’t hear me babble about my potty-training woes (that’s what Babble is for), but I can’t promise I won’t mommy the waters occasionally.

But I promise more photos, more fun, more snark and much, much more vodka.



TRIVIA: Did you know that Wang Chung means Yellow Bell in Chinese?



I went out at night for the first time last weekend. Chicago’s 3033 was headlining Coldtowne and I brought my one beer (go crazy!) with me for the late-night show. Ethan was asleep before I left, woke up once and was back in snoozeland before you could say, “yes, and.”


Okay, so I’m a little rusty. I’ve been out socially away from the baby before, but not at night. My first adventure was to see Magic Mike with a roomful of mostly female improvisors. The second, was to see Magic Mike with my sisters. That’s right, future baby reading this blog, I left you to see a lot of wang. Such proud maternal moments.

Sooooooo, I’m home now all the time. Not just in the, “Oh, I don’t go out much” (obv., except when wang is involved) kinda way, but in the, “I quit my job to be at home full-time with my son.” kinda way. Yeah. That totally happened. I didn’t think it would, honestly. I thought for sure I was heading back to work. Ethan had a daycare lined up and I was actively working on building up my white gold stash in the freezer. (“White Gold” is what lactation fanatics call breastmilk) The closer we got to the end of my leave, the more stressed out about it I got. Like, waaaaaaaaaaaaay stressed out. So stressed out I wasn’t enjoying what time I had left with the baby, stressed out. Now, Daniel was 100% behind me staying with the baby. He Without Raging Hormones was being the logical one. If I had the opportunity to, why wouldn’t I? Baby E was so small and wasn’t on any kind of routine. (Did I say, “was” like I’m not talking about two weeks ago?)

But the guilt, man. I felt so guilty about not going back to work. I’ve worked since I was 14, give or take some super short unemployed stints. That’s 22 years. I don’t know how to not work.

Actually, that’s a lie. This “not working” is flying by in a whirlwind of constant feedings, laundry, diaper changes and games of, “If I throw this on the floor, will you pick it up?” It’s not the imagined world of a peaceful, sleeping baby leaving me loads of time to write and bake lovely desserts and catch up on my correspondence. Nope. It’s crazy. I can’t imagine trying to do all of this and work 40+ hours at the same time. I marvel at all my friends who do it every day. You bitches are rock stars!

So this is where we are now. I’m going to try and make this blog more of an active voice and less of a neglected sad face. I’m always talking to you in my head. (By you, I mean the blog. Not you. It’s be weird if I was always talking to you in my head.) Here’s to trying to get those words out on the page.

And here’s a picture of Ethan wondering who shrunk his father.



Who, what, when.

If you’ve missed the past few months of sparse blogging, here’s a quick recap.

I was like this:


And then I was all:


With just a smidge of PPD:


Now I’m going to start a whole new blog to mommy all over so this one can retain some sort of debauchery and ennui. Nah. I’m going to mommy the waters here instead. Essentially, this:



Seat of your pants stuff, kids. I know, I know.



Mama-se, Mama-sa, Mama-ku-sa

I’m still alive.

Every time I’ve wanted to stop and write about this crazy, amazing life change, I’ve been overwhelmed by the sheer breadth of what I have to say.

It’s been the hardest, most gut-wrenching experience. I’ve scared myself with very dark thoughts and second-guesses, especially in the early days. I didn’t want to share them because I didn’t want to make them real.

It’s also been incredibly magical. Every single cliche about parenting has been 100% right. As nauseating as that is, it’s totally true. I’m in a love stronger than I’ve ever imagined. I’m constantly in awe.

Because both of those viewpoints swung back and forth so fiercely with my hormones, I’ve been hard pressed to jump back into writing about it. But I think I’m back now. I feel better. Stronger. Less likely to drive away in the middle of the night. (Kidding. But now I get why they make new moms wait six weeks to drive anywhere. It’s for the fear you won’t come back!)

Six weeks, tomorrow. Phew.


(Bed) Rest for the weary…

I’ve spent the last week on bed rest/home rest/hospital rest. I’m fine, the baby is fine, but my normally awesome blood pressure decided to turn not awesome at my last checkup and when it does that in pregnant women, the bells and whistles go off and people start to get really concerned about you.

Which is great. I know I’m really lucky to have health insurance and a team of doctors who are on top of things. The baby is safe and that’s what counts.

But all the worry and the resting and the constant contact with my two new BFFs — Systolic and Diastolic — equals a right pain in the ass.

It is literally exhausting staying in bed all day. I know that sounds ridiculous, but it’s true. Your muscles and bones need to move to feel right. Sluggishness exponentiates upon itself. Things ache. Which is unfortunate because when your BP is high, it doesn’t feel like anything. It’s not like the flu where you feel like you’re sick. Your body is hiding its sick on the inside.

Then there’s this — you feel like you’re not doing enough around the house. It adds to the load Daniel is already carrying. As much as he says not to worry and as much as he does to make things right and good, I still hate feeling like I’m not contributing. I mean I get that I’m not supposed to be doing chores, but I can’t unload the dishwasher? I FEEL FINE, DAMMIT. Let me do something. (Cue the Doctor: “NO.”)

Yesterday I went into my checkup hoping they’d relax some of my restrictions, but then admitted me into the hospital for closer monitoring instead. That was an exercise in fear and patience. Also, I learned that no matter how hungry you are, never ever let yourself think that the hospital-grade tuna fish sandwich is a good option for lunch.

Never again.

So I’m home now. I’ll be here making sure my BP is low and not doing very much of anything. Except playing Scramble. A lot.

On the bright side, this will all clear up once I give birth to the little guy and that’s only 27 days away.

25 minutes off the record books

I miss improv. I really, really do.

It’s depressing, not being in classes, not practicing for shows, not having the energy to go out and SEE shows. After more than a year of immersion, I feel like I’ve got my club pass revoked. (I just removed “… and feel like I’m on the outside looking in” because the ridiculousness emo of that made me laugh out loud.) I MISS IT, DAMMIT.

My friends are putting deposits down on the summer intensive at IO and I’m so massively jealous it hurts. I can’t believe it’s almost been a year since the heaviness of last summer’s heat. There’s still so much restlessness shaking about in the crevasses of my brain directly tied to it.

Hot asphalt. That’s a troupe name if I ever heard one.

Rarr. I know it’s temporary. I also know I have other things I need to be thinking about and preparing for right now (although if one more person gets on me about why I haven’t packed my hospital bag yet, they’re getting punched in the throat).

Today is Tom’s One Day Without Shoes at work and I’m grossed out about it. Bare feet and company bathrooms and kitchens do not mix, y’all. No, no, no.


Three Years

Today is a lucky day for me. Three years ago, in a state of acceptance and fear, I was rolled into an OR at Brackenridge to have my head cut open, my brains moved apart and a wide-necked, ornery, deadly, little bilobed aneurysm clipped.

I woke up from the surgery with all my faculties in place. Well, for the most part. I had some aphasia to work through, (literally) head-splitting headaches and some specific memory loss. But I could see. The aneurysm was nestled against my opthalmic artery, so I was particularly nervous about that. I could talk. I could walk. I would heal quickly and without complication. The recovery would be hard, it’s still ongoing, but the worst of it was better than manageable.

It was the perfect outcome for an impossibly lucky find to what could have been a horribly awful, devastating situation.

That was three years ago today. Every single day since, I’ve been grateful for another opportunity to count my blessings.