Crisis Averted

8

And Now for Some Good to Go With the Bad

December 14, 2012

Updated: Please pray with all your might for the families affected by the school shooting in Connecticut. Our hearts go out especially to the moms and dads who lost their little ones today. It’s an unimaginable tragedy for any parent to face, and it’s even sadder that it happened at this time of year. We also pray for the children of the world, who have to grow up with the reality that horrors like this are not just the stuff of their nightmares.

Y’all better believe I’m holding Ratine Powell a little tighter today and thanking the Most High God that my biggest problem is screwed-up knees.

—-

For obvious reasons, my appointment with the orthopedist got moved up to yesterday. He examined my knees and took a bunch of X-rays, and while the verdict was not entirely good, it was more positive than we had braced ourselves to expect.

Good: The right kneecap (the one I dislocated) is not torn, and there’s nothing chipped off of it. So there’s no reason to perform surgery now. In fact, the right knee will probably never need surgery (barring any more major disasters, of course). So YAY!

Bad: The knee will, however, have to be in a brace for six to 12 weeks. I will need help with Harper for two to three weeks.

Good: I start physical therapy next week, and the doctor said as long as we’re working on one knee, we might as well work on both, which may either lower the need for surgery on my left knee or make rehab after surgery go much, much easier.

Bad: Surgery on the left knee is still, of course, a distinct possibility.

Good: The brace I wore for my first major dislocation, the original one on the left knee, immobilized my entire leg from hip to ankle, i.e., I could not bend my knee at all. Not only was it difficult to get around, the PT afterwards was, how shall we say, intense. Also painful. THIS brace, however, is smaller (about mid-calf to mid-thigh), so it’s a bit more comfortable AND it has a hinge in it so I can bend my knee a little.

Bad: I have to wear it ON my leg, i.e., not over pants, tights or leggings. Not surprisingly, I don’t have any pants with legs wide enough to accommodate this big ugly mofo. Actually, that’s a lie; I do, but they’re sweatpants from Victoria’s Secret with “PINK” emblazoned across the rear.

Needless to say, I will NOT be leaving the house in THOSE.

Good: I have at least two maxi skirts that I can wear, and I just ordered another one from the Gap.

P.S. If you need a little retail therapy today, use the promo code GAPGIFT to get 30 percent off your entire order, including sale items. I got that skirt and a sweater for $43!

Good: My WONDERFUL neighbor Amanda brought over BAGS of delicious but healthy food yesterday, including: salad, vinaigrette dressing, grilled chicken, kalamata olives, artichoke hearts, tomatoes, a fresh baguette, gourmet cheeses, crackers, roasted garlic hummus, pitas, a jar of Roma tomato chili melange, homemade tabbouleh with shrimp and a bottle of Chardonnay. OK, so maybe the Chardonnay isn’t particularly healthy, but it sure is tasty.

Bad: No bad there, except The Guy and I probably had really rank breath from all that garlic hummus. As he said last night, injured or not, that was one of the best dinners we’ve had in ages.

Bad: I feel irrationally guilty that my mom, mother-in-law and Amanda are having to help me with Rat.

Good: Since I’ll be spending a lot of time with my mom and, well, I have quite a bit of time on my hands at the moment, she’s finally going to teach me to hand-sew.

That’s right – I can cross-stitch, embroider (by hand!) and sew on a machine ’til Jesus comes back, but I have no earthly idea how to hand-sew.

Bad: My husband suggested that I audition for the role of a mentally handicapped woman. Oh yes he did.

Good: After he, uh, CLARIFIED that statement, it became obvious that he has much (misplaced) faith in my (nonexistent) acting talents. And he does have a point – I did grow up around a mentally handicapped person, and I can do a pretty awesome Aunt Carol impression*, not to mention that it’s not exactly a stretch for me to walk funny at this particular point in time.

However, this play is set in New York, and I think any of you who have ever heard me talk can probably agree that the chances of me leaving my Southern accent entirely behind are slim to none. On the other hand, it’s not like I don’t have time for dialect coaching right now.

*Please note: Do not send me 28,000 misspelled emails written entirely in capital letters telling me what a horrible person I am for making fun of the mentally handicapped. Aunt Carol could have an IQ of 192 and an impression of her would STILL be funny, I assure you. She may be mentally handicapped, but she’s also kind of a snob. She is also the biggest LSU fan on Planet Earth, a Goldwater Republican and a lover of badminton. There are students currently studying at Harvard who can’t remember dates as well as she can, and I am 90 percent sure that she would punch my mother, her big sister, in the face for a bag of M&Ms (plain, not peanut).

Bad: I can’t climb the stairs for another week or two, so The poor, long-suffering Guy has to make multiple trips upstairs every night for craft supplies.

Good: I have set up Crafting Command Central on the sofa; The Guy now not only knows what a Xyron is but also what it does.

Bad: Since I am no longer getting LASIK for Christmas, The Guy told me to look on the Internet and find something else I want for Christmas (!!!!). PEOPLE, I COULD NOT FIND A THING. I mean, I was on the Tory Burch site, so believe me, I found plenty of stuff I would NOT turn down, but I didn’t find anything I wanted badly enough to spend the money on it and/or that I can use for the next several weeks (e.g., I’m pretty sure a pair of Hunter Wellingtons will NOT fit over this dumb brace).

I also considered asking for chickens, but Mom and Dad, as former chicken keepers themselves, assured me there is no way my injured self can have a coop and all the other paraphernalia The Ladies would require prepared in time for Christmas.

Kelly’s Christmas Wish List:
1. Tory Burch flats
2. Chickens (hens)

Clearly, I have a wide range of interests.

Good: The Guy is going to surprise me! On the one hand, I’m a little afraid that I’m going to get a stocking full of nothing but leopard-print panties, but on the other, I’m pretty darn excited.

Despite a couple of bummers, the Christmas season is full of possibility.

Your optimistic
Kel

P.S. I almost forgot! More good: A lovely and radiant pregnant Christmas angel by the name of Emily brought me a GORGEOUS Christmas tree skirt that looks absolutely fantastic with my tree. MUCH more beautiful than the one I ordered, I assure you. Obviously, this is the skirt I was meant to have all along!

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14

Stage Fright

July 27, 2012

A couple weeks ago, when I traveled to Birmingham for my sorority’s chapter reunion (more on that later), I undertook what was, by far, the most nerve-wracking photo shoot of my career to date. And yes, I am including my first shoot with Jennifer Robison in that statement.

I shot my best friend’s bridal portraits.

The location was the historic Alabama Theater, which made for a breathtaking backdrop but was a real challenge for me, lighting-wise. To complicate things even further, The Guy was on baby duty, so he couldn’t assist me.

Desperate, I posted on the reunion Facebook page: “I have kind of an odd request: I’m shooting Dr. Brandi’s bridal portraits Friday at 1:30 at the Alabama Theater (!!!!!), and I could really use an assistant, which, not being at home and all, I don’t have. Anybody interested in lending a hand???”

By that afternoon, I had a volunteer. Our sweet sister Amy flew in THAT DAY from Washington, D.C., hopped in her rental car and drove straight to the Alabama. Though she’d never so much as held a reflector in her life, she did the best job you can possibly imagine. It was meant to be. The three of us had the best time working together, catching up, laughing our heads off and wandering (unsupervised!) all over that lovely old theater.

And though I was so nervous I literally almost threw up on the way there, I’m pretty pleased with how Brandi’s bridals are turning out so far. Tell me what you think!

There was a lot of this going on that day.

Recognize that necklace?

That’s also the fascinator I bought to wear with my first wedding dress. Remember, the one I had to replace 11 days before my and The Guy’s wedding? All this time, I’ve been meaning to sell it on eBay or something, but I keep forgetting. Well, it just happens to match Dr. Brandi’s dress PERFECTLY!

—-

Dr. Brandi’s every bit as gorgeous as she is smart, and she’s just as beautiful on the inside as she is on the outside. I’m so very blessed and lucky to have had her in my life all these years.

But just because she’s a blushing bride and all doesn’t mean I’m going to let her forget the many shenanigans we got up to, like that time in college when we got drunk in her dorm room and then decided to paint her toenails before we went out dancing that night and after we were done we decided we needed to change our majors to Art Things because we were clearly such GENIUSES but the next morning realized it looked like Koko the finger-painting gorilla had given her a pedicure. After suffering a traumatic brain injury.

And we thought those guys were staring at us because we looked so hot.

—-

You know, stuff like that.

Your much relieved
Kel

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11

Pot Is Dangerous

July 18, 2012

When I was single, any time I imagined the joys of having children – the smiles, the coos, the sloppy kisses and the messy artwork destined for the greatness of the refrigerator gallery – that fantasy was inevitably followed by nightmarish visions of my own incompetence. I might leave it in a shop, for instance, or neglect to feed it until late in the evening, like I sometimes do with Chihuahua.

Chihuahua say, “‘SOMETIMES’ IS VERY GENEROUS ESTIMATE BY MEAN LADY. CHIHUAHUA IS WITHERED HUSK OF CHIHUAHUA. MEAN LADY HIDE CHIHUAHUA FOOD IN CLOSET SO CHIHUAHUA CANNOT GET TO FOOD. IS LIKE EPISODE OF ‘LAW & ORDER.’ PEOPLE OF INTERNET SHOULD COME OVER EVERY DAY FOR TO FEED CHIHUAHUA AND YELL AT MEAN LADY.”

Close-up. #photoadayjune

ANYWAY, I’ve been pretty proud of myself over these last eight months that I haven’t yet managed to injure Harper. (Almost starving her via my non-operational boobs barely counts.) I haven’t dropped her or stepped on her or sat on her or anything, and that’s more than I can say for any of my previous babysitting experiences.

Able to leap small toys in a single bound...well, almost.

That has all changed in the last 24 hours.

It started yesterday afternoon when Harper and I were playing on the (hardwood) floor. Lately, she has perfected her “roll-over-and-sit-up” move. It’s a thing of beauty, really. Wendy-Whelan-esque. The very definition of poetry in motion.

Lately, my little Martha Graham has been trying to figure out how to maneuver herself from a seated position onto all fours. She manages it every once in a while, but she hasn’t figured out HOW she does it, and it frustrates her. Yesterday, after watching her struggle for a few minutes, I thought I’d lend her a hand. So to speak.

Instead, I accidentally pulled HER hands out from under her, and she face-planted onto the floor. And then, because she does not yet know enough curse words to express her rage and indignation, she howled.

She's got her cape on and she's ready to save the world.

“AMATEUR,” Chihuahua say.

And I felt like a heel.

But then I made it up to her by taking her to Toys R Us and buying her a baby pool.

While I was perusing the jogging strollers, I spied the baby potties. “Perkins, can I buy a baby potty?” I asked The Guy. “I don’t know,” he replied. “Isn’t she a little young for one of those?”

PSHAW, PERK! You obviously don’t spend enough time on Pinterest!

Pinterest: The source from whence all good parenting advice comes.

(Also recipes and tutorials about how to make Valentines out of used coffee filters and washi tape.)

Chihuahua say, “WISH MEAN LADY WOULD FIND TUTORIAL ABOUT HOW TO REMEMBER TO FEED CHIHUAHUA EVERY DAY SO CHIHUAHUA NOT STARVE TO DEATH AND DIE. CHIHUAHUA BET THERE NOT ENOUGH BURLAP AND CUPCAKE LINERS IN WHOLE WORLD FOR THAT.”

SMALL THING IS SOURCE OF ALL CHIHUAHUA MISERY. ALSO WOE.

As I perused Pinterest yesterday, I ran across a pin entitled “5 Things to Do With Your Baby to Make Potty Training Later on Easier.” Despite the fact that the author’s grammar and sentence structure make me physically uncomfortable, she grabbed my attention with one of my favorite words: “easier.”

Turns out, her method involves some of the principles of elimination communication. Some people have great success with EC, but personally, I’m not into it. What I AM into, however, is clean floors. And therein lies the impasse.

Regardless, some of EC’s practices are undeniably sound. And one of this lady’s suggestions was to take the baby to the bathroom with you (check) and let her watch YOU use the toilet (also check). In other words, PERKINS, stop facing her toward the wall so you won’t be embarrassed.

She also suggested purchasing a baby potty and, when you go to the bathroom, place the baby on her own potty. This way, she gets used to seeing the potty and sitting on it, and it familiarizes her with the idea that we when go into the bathroom, we’re supposed to do something with this thing here. Sounds good to me.

“I don’t know, Perk,” The Guy repeated, eyeing the potty uneasily. “I’m not sure she can sit on that thing.”

“Of course she can!” I answered brightly. I sat the potty on the ground, unstrapped Harper from her stroller and sat her on the little seat. Her feet didn’t quite touch the floor, but such are the disadvantages of fat legs, I figured.

“There!” I said. “Look at our big girl sitting on the potty all by herself!”

And with that, my daughter took a header off of a fake toilet and smacked face-first into the concrete floor of Toys R Us.

(“WHERE CHIHUAHUA POTTY?”)

Have you ever noticed how judgmental people are in Toys R Us?

When we left, I was nearly in tears. I caused my sweet, innocent Rat-Rat pain! TWICE! In one day! And all because I tried to push her into using the big-people potty far too soon. My guilt was overwhelming.

So I called my mom.

MISTAKE.

I thought she’d never stop laughing.

Finally, Mom had to pause to catch her breath, and I got the chance to tell my side of the story. “I was just trying to make potty training less traumatic for Rat!” I wailed.

“F–ked that up,” The Guy mumbled. And he and and my mother dissolved into hysterical laughter again.

I guess this is what happens when you a) get ahead of yourself and b) try to cut corners.

So what’s the most bone-headed move YOU’VE pulled this week?

You talkin' to ME?

Your chagrined
Kel

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22

On Babies, Blogging and the Unsolicited “Kindness” of Strangers

July 2, 2012

As a few of you may have noticed, I haven’t blogged much lately. Partly, this is a consequence of my schedule and some lifestyle decisions I’ve made. My focus is exclusively on Harper for part of the day, so when she’s napping or I have a babysitter, I work as efficiently as possible on the stuff that, well, pays, which blogging, unfortunately, does not. Also, I try as hard as I can not to work in the evenings so that The Guy can have my undivided attention after she goes to bed.

It’s also the fact that one aspect of the reason I started blogging in the first place has changed, and not for the better. What separates blogging from, say, writing in a diary is the conversation – I write something, you guys comment on it, I comment back, and so on. Lately, though, the conversation isn’t as nearly as pleasant or even civil as it once was.

I’ve always gotten the occasional nasty comment or email. Having blogged for nine years (!) now, I’m pretty good at predicting which posts will net me at least one poorly-constructed missive about what a crappy writer/photographer/mother/human being I am. I expect it, I accept it, and while I can’t honestly say it doesn’t bother me at all, I’ve learned to move on.

But these days it seems I can’t write or say anything – on my own blog or as a comment on anyone else’s – that someone doesn’t tell me what an idiot I am. Not that I never do anything idiotic – God knows I do – but my family’s life runs pretty dadgum smoothly 98 percent of the time. I simply cannot be that much of a f–k-up (pardon my language). If I did as many things wrong as these people say I do, then I would be a walking disaster.

I have actually considered giving up blogging entirely. Like most of you, I’m an extremely busy person. Why waste time on something I don’t enjoy and that doesn’t benefit my family?

In the end, though, I decided I still have something to say, and there are still people who enjoy reading what I write. And that’s good enough for me.

But hear this:

If you don’t like what I have to say, the way I rear my daughter, worship, run my household, conduct my business, love my husband or show my friends that I care about them, then STOP READING. This is harsh, but I think we can all agree it’s true: If you say you don’t have time to clean your house, but you can find the time to type three paragraphs about what a moron I am while your children’s shoes are sticking to your kitchen floor, then, my friend, your priorities are way out of whack. Turn off the computer, and go do something productive.

Or stick around and keep reading. You might learn a thing or two.

—-

One of my sorority sisters announced this weekend that she’s pregnant with her first child. Another of my friends is also pregnant, and yet another is in the process of adopting a child. And it started me thinking:

Being a first-time mother requires your skin to be just about as thick as your average blogger’s.

People come out of the woodwork, it seems, to tell you the most inane garbage you’ve ever heard in your life. Before I had Harper, I was no expert on babies (and I’m still not), but Jesus, Mary and Joseph, I think I can figure out not to feed the baby gasoline, thank you very much.

(I exaggerate, but not by much.)

Or they’ll tell you their Extreme Childbirth stories like they happen everyday. “I gave birth in 45 minutes, start to finish, on the side of the road in the backseat of a Volkswagon Beetle with no epidural while biting down on a tire gauge, so in your last trimester, you should stay in a hotel next door to the hospital! And if you don’t, THEN YOU’RE A BAD MOM AND I HATE YOU.”

Then there are those who get their jollies by peeing on your parade. Everybody has at least one of these in his or her life. They always start by asking a seemingly innocent question.

“What’s your birth plan?”
“Well, I actually think I’d like to attempt a natural childbirth.”
“OH MY GOD. Nobody does that. You think you want to do that, but you really don’t. You’ll see. You won’t do it. Ha ha ha ha, nice try, though!”

“So what are you doing about daycare?”
“My mom is going to keep her during the day for me.”
“Well, she’ll be sick her whole first year of school. She won’t build up any immunity if she doesn’t go to daycare. She’ll miss so much school, they’ll probably hold her back.”

(My child does not attend daycare, so at home, she exists in a hermetically sealed plastic bubble, similar to a hamster ball. There are no germs outside, in the church nursery, at the grocery store, in hotel rooms, in the mall or at our family and friends’ houses, especially if they have their own kids. Oh, and we make Cousin Emily stay home from college.)

Before Harper was born, someone asked me what I planned to do about weaning. (Understandably, we first-time moms tend to get ahead of ourselves sometimes. It’s just the nerves.) When I told her I was interested in baby-led weaning and explained what it was, she literally SCOFFED. Like, I knew the word “scoffed” and what it meant, but I had never actually seen anyone SCOFF until that moment.

Therefore, I offer no advice to my fellow first-timers; you will get more than enough in the months to come. Instead, I’ll simply tell you the things I wish somebody had told me. Hopefully, you’ll find something in here that’s useful to you.

1. You will encounter numerous people (almost always women) who will try to make you doubt yourself and your plans for yourself and your child. These jackasses are easily identifiable, as their assvice almost always begins with, “Well, I thought that too, but…”, “Bad news…” or “I hate to tell you, but…”. They don’t hate to tell you anything, and giving you their bad news delights them! They’re convinced that their experience, awful as it was, is universal, so whatever unfortunate thing happened to them will undoubtedly happen to you, too. If it worked for them, then it’s right for everybody. If they failed at it, then clearly, it’s a stupid method. Usually, they have difficult children and uninvolved spouses. They’re deeply insecure, and you doing something differently from them means they did it wrong, so they’ll do anything, including trying to undermine your confidence, to convince themselves that YOU’RE the idiot.

Ignore them COMPLETELY.

2. If you think you need to go to the doctor’s office or the emergency room, then you do. Don’t worry about looking foolish or seeming like an alarmist. Those doctors and nurses work for YOU; if there were no patients, then none of them would have jobs. If they treat you poorly, complain to their supervisors and/or go elsewhere. Not seeking medical help when you need it is how tragedies happen.

3. Remember that, despite all the horror stories you read on the Internet, the odds are overwhelming that your baby will be just fine. There are kids who grow and thrive in crack houses; as long as you’re a responsible, conscientious parent, your kid is probably going to be OK.

4. Speaking of which, whatever feeding/sleep/diapering/learning/etc. method you decide to use, it’s going to be the right one for your family. As long as it’s generally considered safe by the medical community, it’ll be fine. Just stay flexible, and if one thing doesn’t work out, try another.

5. As you can probably imagine, The Guy and I are not schedule-y people. We hang loose as much as possible. But we will nevertheless testify that ROUTINES are your FRIEND! (Can I get a amen?) Develop yours as soon as possible.

6. It takes a while to find your feet. Personally, I didn’t hit my stride until Harper was five months old. And that’s perfectly fine. Parenting a baby, especially for the first time, is one of the hardest tasks you will ever undertake. Lots of people will try to convince you that they’re naturals at it, and they didn’t have any trouble at all. That’s actually true for maybe 1 percent of them. The rest are lying. It’s normal and healthy to struggle. You’ve got more people than you think you do who want to help you out and lift you up.

7. Next go-’round, The Guy and I will set aside money specifically for baby-related expenses. Between paying doctor and hospital co-pays, buying medicine, shopping for baby gear we needed and hiring repair people, our emergency fund took a serious hit. It sounds stupid now, but we just weren’t expecting Harper to cost that much right off the bat. For future Powell babies, we’ll have a little nest egg to cushion our savings. And if we don’t use it, awesome. Having extra money saved is never a bad thing.

8. You need more baby clothes hangers than you think you do.

9. Target’s Up and Up brand diapers are, in many people’s opinions (including mine), just as good as Pampers, and they’re a lot cheaper.

10. For God’s sake, pack a diaper bag.

—-

Parents and non-parents alike: What’s the dumbest piece of assvice you’ve ever received?

Your no-nonsense
Kel

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16

Five Diapers

June 8, 2012

Packing or, more accurately, re-packing Harper’s diaper bag is serious business in the Powell household. If The Guy or I come in with a trunkload of groceries, Chihuahua wearing a Cone of Shame, Harper practicing her Dying Screech Owl routine and enough dry cleaning to outfit Nicole Richie for three days, then by God, we will repack the diaper bag before we even put the milk in the fridge. There’s good reason for this.

I’m kind of preoccupied with the Zombie Apocalypse preparedness under normal circumstances, so you can imagine that this tendency took on obsessive proportions during the last weeks of my pregnancy. Amazingly, though, the diaper bag went largely ignored – I never even got it out of Harper’s closet. My rationale was that it would be a couple weeks before I took her anywhere that I might need one, so what’s the rush?

Famous last words, as they say.

If it weren’t for the fact that we had Harper, I would call the 10 days immediately following her birth the worst of our lives, hands down. People, there was NO END to the number of things that went horrifyingly, ridiculously wrong. It was practically BIBLICAL. Here is just a small sample:

–We had to take Harper to the emergency room in the middle of the night TWICE. (My boobs weren’t working and she wasn’t getting anything to eat.)
–We had to take me and The Guy to the emergency room once each.
–I got so sick with a sinus infection that I couldn’t hold or even touch Harper for about 14 hours.
–I had what the lactation consultant declared was the single worst case of engorgement she had ever seen.
–Our house caught fire.
–Which caused us to basically have to empty our savings account and give all the money to electricians, appliance-repair people and an unscrupulous heating and air-conditioning guy.

Yes. FIRE.

We had been up all night with a starving and therefore screaming baby. We called the pediatrician’s office at 6 a.m. on Sunday when we realized her eyes were dull, her lips were chapped and the inside of her mouth was bone dry. The doctor told us to give her a bottle of formula, which was, at that point, the single best thing we’d done for her. She took two ounces and passed out in the most blissful milk coma either of us had yet seen. We three were content, and we were exhausted.

After putting Harper in her bassinet, Blake and I laid down together in bed for the first time since we’d gone to the hospital to have her. We were both on our backs – oh, how delicious it feels to stretch out on your back after not being able to for months – and as we sank into the mattress, our feet touched.

It was an ordinary, insignificant gesture, but over the preceding year, it was a comfort we’d begun to take for granted. Now, that tiny moment of telepathy between our pinky toes communicated just how profoundly – and how magnificently – our lives had changed in only a few days. We both had tears in our eyes. Less than a minute later, our new little family of three was happily unconscious.

Exactly one and one-half hours later – I know because I looked at the clock – we woke up to howling smoke alarms. It must be some malfunction, we both thought. We didn’t leave the stove on. Heck, we haven’t had time to even USE the stove! Thankfully, the baby continued to sleep. Blake and I stumbled out of our bedroom, headed toward the kitchen, where we assumed we would whack at the smoke alarm a few times with the broom to turn it off, then return to bed.

Wrong.

The house was filled with acrid smoke.

The Guy turned to me. “GET OUT,” he said. “GET HARPER, AND GO OUTSIDE.”

I ran back to the bedroom and scooped up the baby, my mind racing.

I’m not dressed!
I didn’t see fire.
It smells like an electrical fire.
How long until the fire department gets here?
Is our house going to burn down?
Should I grab picture albums or something?
I need things for the baby!

Wait, what kind of things?!

Thus, Harper and I waited outside for the fire department with her wrapped like an eggroll in four blankets and me wearing a short, sleeveless pink nightgown, an entirely-too-thin-for-the-weather cotton shortie bathrobe and a pair of gold ballet flats with my leopard-print handbag slung over my shoulder, into which I had shoved five diapers.

That was my contribution to my newborn baby’s health and welfare: five diapers.

Turned out the fire was caused by a deteriorated electrical cord on the back of the fridge (I KNEW it wasn’t the heater!). We had it repaired, then I set about ensuring, so far as I can, anyway, that Harper and I never again wind up waiting for emergency personnel with nothing but five measly diapers to our name.

The diaper bag stays packed at all times, and it’s always in the same place, which is a location that is distinctly unlikely to burst into flames. Unless one of my dining-room chairs spontaneously combusts. Which, in my world, is not at all outside the realm of possibility.

Here’s what’s in there:

Five disposable diapers. We cloth-diaper Harper most of the time, but let’s be honest here, disposables can’t be beat when you’re faced with a spectacular blowout.

One or two cloth diapers.

At least one small wet bag, preferably two.

Plastic grocery sacks.

Wipes. Lots of wipes. It’s almost impossible to have too many wipes.

Hand sanitizer. See above re. “spectacular blowout.”

A change of clothes for Harper, which I switch out seasonally or when she has a growth spurt. Right now, since it’s summer, I just carry an extra onesie, but during the winter, we had a long-sleeved onesie, stretchy pants, a pair of socks and a hat. A onesie and a pair of Baby Legs are really all you need for the spring or fall, at least in Louisiana.

A bib or two.

A couple of burp cloths.

An extra shirt for me. Just a ratty grey t-shirt from Old Navy, but it’s better than sporting poop and/or barf all down my front (or back, as the case may be).

Pacifier(s). Harper’s not much for pacifiers anymore, but there was a time when we didn’t leave the house without at least three.

Pacifier holder.

Pacifier wipes. These are also great for bottles, of course.

Teething toy.

Stuffed rattly-doll-type toy.

Small, thin flannel receiving blanket. (This IS Louisiana, after all.)

A Dr. Brown’s bottle filled with purified water. Maybe two, depending on how long we plan to be out.

Containers filled with baby formula and rice cereal.

Baby food.

Baby spoon.

A pair of travel scissors. These come in handy more often than you’d think.

“Hygiene products” for me. Look, momma’s gotta be prepared too.

—-

It sounds like an overwhelming amount of gear to schlep around, but I roll everything, and it all fits easily in my diaper bag with room to spare. These are baby items, remember, so most everything is quite small.

Blake, by the way, has his own plain black diaper bag that has pretty much everything in it that mine does. And yes, he actually likes carrying a diaper bag. In fact, he says he loves it. (He and Harper usually have a daddy-daughter outing of some sort on his day off.) No, he does not care if you laugh at him for wearing a murse. He said that if you see him wrangling a baby and a stroller and you still think that black bag slung over his shoulder with bottles hanging out of it is a murse, then the joke’s on you, my friend.

—-

So now I’m curious:

Whether or not you have a baby, what do you carry to be prepared?

Your Girl Scouting (not really – I didn’t like the uniforms)
Kel

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14

What I’ve Been Doing Instead of Blogging

April 24, 2012

Well, there’ve been several things, actually.

1. Writing, as always.

2. Editing photos every single night, often till 1:00 a.m. or later.

3. Tending a chubby-cheeked little baby whose favorite activities are blowing raspberries, screeching like a howler monkey with its tail caught in a screen door, rolling over and getting pissed off when she finds herself on her stomach instead of her back. In that order.

4. (Reasoning abilities: Harper can haz them?)

5. Also getting my FACE thrown up on by the aforementioned baby. YES.

Bathing Beauty.

6. Trying to make showers happen more often than every three days.

7. Giving a shout out to Cousin Emily for helping a sister out with Number 6.

Emily and Harper.

8. SELLING OUR HOUSE!! Awww yeeeaaahhh…

9. Convincing myself that, if I just wish hard enough, our household objects will animate and pack themselves. And maybe talk to me, cook me food and sew me dresses while they’re at it. Kind of a Beauty and the Beast/Cinderella hybrid-type thing.

10. Looking for a new house.

11. Searching high and low for a new house.

12. Praying fervently to God every single night to PLEASE HELP US FIND A HOUSE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE.

13. Intermittently sobbing uncontrollably because OH MY LAWD, WE’S GONNA BE HOMELESS, PERKINS.

14. Envisioning having to live in my in-laws’ RV in my parents’ side yard and sobbing some more.

Shitter was Full.

15. Relatedly: Considering taking up heavy drinking.

16. Going through a veritable French farce in trying to get treatment for postpartum depression.

17. Who gets postpartum depression when her baby is four and a half months old? That’s right: THIS GIRL.

18. Watching Dr. Brandi throw an over-educated hissy from 450 miles away about my difficulties obtaining adequate medical care and remembering exactly why one should not mess with her. Sister-woman will EFF. SOMEBODY. UP.

19. Being intensely grateful for a good husband, good doctors and good friends and even more grateful that I feel better every day.

20. Making up my mind not to tell you guys about Numbers 16 through 19, but reconsidering when my friend Jenny reminded me that humility is an excellent quality in a blogger.

21. Remembering that I don’t always have to be all like, “Yeah! I got this! I’m fine! Everything’s cool! I AM SUPER AWESOME COMPETENT PEARLS-AND-SKIRT-WEARING JUNE CLEAVER CAREER MOM BARBIE, HEAR ME ROAR OR WHATEVER. Sure, I’ll join your committee!”

22. Thinking that, in the final analysis, Numbers 13 and 14 probably don’t have anything to do with postpartum depression. I mean, we’ve probably all figured out by now that I’m pretty neurotic even when my hormones aren’t out of whack.

23. Making an offer on a house, only to have the owners of said house and their realtor COMPLETELY IGNORE OUR OFFER. IGNORE. IGNORE. IG. NORE.

24. OH YES THEY DID, PEOPLE. OH YES THEY DID.

25. And our offer was only slightly below their asking price! The nerve! Some people, man. Some people.

26. Trying to talk myself out of sending the owners of said house a bill for the treatment of my postpartum depression.

27. Playing Dance Central with The Guy, and even though he’ll be the first to admit he can’t dance a lick, being utterly DELIGHTED every single time I beat the crap out of him. I know, I know. MEAN.

28. Making up Downton-Abbey-esque stories about the toys in Harper’s Easter basket.

Hippolyta.

Honora.

The Twins.

WHAT.

29. Hinting broadly to The Guy about stuff I want for my birthday.

And finally…

Perhaps most importantly…

THIS!

(Well, technically, I didn’t work on that, Lisa did, but I did have to upload a lot of photos, and I minded her when she told me not to touch the buttons.)

I think she did a marvelous job, don’t you?! And all in all, I’d say it’s a pretty good excuse for shirking my blogging responsibilities.

I’m sure we can all agree it’s a heck of a lot better than No. 28.

Your recovering
Kel

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7

B**ch in a Box

March 20, 2012

I can’t pinpoint exactly when or how I first heard about Birchbox, but the minute I did, it became nothing short of an all-consuming obsession.

For those of you who don’t spend an inordinate amount of time playing with makeup, the Birchbox concept is simple but brilliant: Subscribers pay $10 per month, which includes shipping, for a box of deluxe (often larger-than-normal) samples of premium-brand beauty products. Think Nars, Stila, Philosophy and Benefit.

In sum, it’s an idea made of pure, uncut, Colombian-grade KELLY. Birchbox couldn’t be any more perfect for me if it was made of non-conflict diamonds and tasted like Halloween Oreos and booze.

It was a complete no-brainer that I HAD to have a subscription. Debit card in hand, I went to the website and clicked “JOIN.”

“Birchbox subscriptions are sold on a first come, first served basis. Join our mailing list, and we’ll let you know when it’s your turn to sign up. Subscriptions are released regularly!”

“WHAT THE FIIIIIIIIG*?!” I screamed.

*FIIIIIG = Something way more prurient than “fig.”

But…but…it’s…made for me, you know? What do you mean, I’m going to have to wait? But I don’t want to wait! PLEASE DON’T MAKE ME WAIT! PLEASE!

I clicked on “Monthly Member” about 800 more times just to be sure it wasn’t testing my level of desire to have a Birchbox subscription. You know, to make sure the people who have them REALLY want them.

Alas, no.

So I had to wait.

And wait.

And wait.

But then, lo! The magical day finally came! In my email inbox: “The Wait Is Over! Join Birchbox Now.”

DON’T MIND IF I DO!

And that, my friends, is when The Guy’s Month of Misery began.

See, as the mother of a new baby, your days tend to go one of two ways, with no in-between: They’re either really good or really, really, REALLY bad. Now, don’t get me wrong; my worst day with Harper in my life is still better than my best day without her, but those bad days, man…they’ll eat your lunch. Some days, I swear she engages every single one of her infant brain cells in a pursuit she calls “State-Run Psychiatric Hospital: Let Us Drive Mother to It.”

She’s currently going through a bit of a stage. We can see the light at the end of the tunnel, but she’s been struggling with reflux and a fussy phase that babies her age often experience, and for a few weeks there, the evenings, in particular, were extremely rough. The Guy would come home to find me and Harper both crying our eyes out, with neither of us able to do a single thing to console the other.

The worst part was it didn’t get much better after The Guy came home. I could hand her off to him for a little while, but our house is so small that no matter where I go, I can hear her crying like she’s sitting right next to me. And this is going to sound kind of weird to the non-moms among us, but Harper’s crying bothers me. Really, REALLY bothers me. Like, it’s physically painful in a way. Which makes sense, if you think about it – I’m biologically programmed for her crying to bother me. But the point is, going in another room and trying to ignore it and let The Guy handle it is pretty much pointless, because as long as she’s crying, I can’t rest. My brain knows she’s just irritable and over-tired, but my body reacts like she’s being systematically attacked and tortured by squirrels.

So my Birchbox constituted something to look forward to. When I was single, I looked forward to Friday or payday or date night, and those days are still pretty cool, but they’re no longer fundamentally different from any other day. The arrival of the Birchbox would make that day totally different from all the ones before it.

Essentially, my Birchbox became a shining beacon of hope.

Finally, I got the email that it had shipped! I anxiously awaited its arrival.

I waited.

And waited.

And waited.

AND WAITED.

All the while getting more and more upset. I was seriously ready to throttle the postman. The wait for my Birchbox became a totem of sorts for all my frustrations.

ALL my frustrations.

AAAAALLLLL.

You know where I’m going with this, right? My anticipation for my Birchbox got blown way, way out of proportion, because it became like, “WHY ISN’T MY G@$#!*& BIRCHBOX HERE YET I AM SO SICK OF WAITING FOR S@*% OUR HOUSE WON’T SELL AND THE BABY WON’T STOP CRYING AND SPITTING UP IN MY HAIR AND I WANT TO WEAR MY SKINNY JEANS THIS WEEKEND AND WHY HATH MY GOD FORSAKEN MEEEEEEEE.”

Reminder: We’re talking about a box filled with MAKEUP SAMPLES, people. Maybe that state-run-psych-hospital business isn’t such a bad idea after all, is my point here.

The Guy, not really having much of an idea what this Birchbox business was, naturally assumed that we were waiting on a box made of actual birch wood that was filled with…I’m not sure he was even prepared to hazard a guess. Maybe something to do with perfume? A pygmy marmoset? Henry Rollins himself? Illicit drugs?

Finally, finally, FINALLY it arrived!!

Birchbox.

The Guy, Harper and I went to lunch and, with much fanfare, I opened it.

Surprise Inside.

Contents: Tea Forté Skin-Smart Teas (3 samples), Harvey Prince Ageless perfume, Color Club Neon Nail Polish in Age of Aquarius, Lulu Organics Lavender + Clary Sage Hair Powder, One Love Organics Skin Savior Waterless Beauty Balm and Supergoop! Sunscreen Swipes (2)

Was it everything I hoped it would be?

Eh…you know. Pretty much.

It was definitely more about the anticipation than the actual contents, but all in all, I was pleased. I mean, they’re certainly better and more useful than the samples you get at the mall (I actually use most of these items, though I’ve never tried any of these brands), and you spend a heck of a lot more than $10 to get those. No, it didn’t magically cure the baby’s reflux, and 10 pounds didn’t evaporate the moment I lifted the lid, but waiting for it did give me more time to come to terms with those things.

The Guy, on the other hand, was very disappointed. Not only was the box cardboard and not wood, it was filled with…samples?

“It’s like you got a box full of samples,” he said incredulously.

“Exactly!” I said.

(As much as we have in common, there are some areas where we will never, ever understand each other. His is the fact that he can quote Shakespeare to me, then sit down to watch NASCAR and drink domestic beer. Mine is clearly the Birchbox.)

However, we both tried this stuff (me around my eyes, him on his lips) and agreed that it’s super awesome and worth $10 all by itself, although I’m not sure he’d be down with me spending $68 on a full-sized jar of it.

One Love.

And here is a picture of Lola Mowis cleaning herself just because:

Sluuuuurp.

So have you ever gotten just, like, disproportionately excited about something?

Did it live up to your expectations?

Was it makeup?

Your moisturized, sun-blocked, shiny-haired
Kel

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