Kel Goes BOOM

7

Of Bum Knees and Christmas Tree Skirts

December 12, 2012

So I guess I need to let y’all know what’s been going on. I was in denial for about 24 hours. And actually, while we’re on the subject, you should know that I love denial. You can convince yourself of anything, you know, including that everything is juuuuust peachy.

But reality has sunk in, and I have come to terms, more or less, with the fact that life in the Powell household is going to be very different for a while.

The last couple of weeks have been…yeah.

In order:

1. My child had an ear infection so bad that she had to go to the doctor twice and the E.R. once. This went on for 10 straight days. Those of you who are parents are cringing right now, imagining what her mood was like.

As The Guy’s boss said, “It’s been 15 years since I had a baby with an ear infection. Can’t say I miss ‘em.”

2. On Oct. 15, I ordered a red and white chevron-striped Christmas tree skirt with “Powell” embroidered on it in green from one of those deal-of-the-day sites called Very Jane. After much back-and-forth, the seller assures me that it shipped last Tuesday. It never arrives.

After several more terse emails, she finally tells me that, in essence, she fibbed when she told me the skirt shipped Tuesday, because it turns out that she didn’t even have it yet. Either that, or she was planning to make, monogram and ship my Christmas tree skirt in one day.

(My mom is a professional seamstress who has been sewing for most of her life. Even she is unable to make, monogram and ship a Christmas tree skirt in one day.)

Rather than in any way making this situation right, she simply tells Very Jane to refund my money. So now it’s 13 days until Christmas and I have no tree skirt despite ordering one two months ago, and as you will soon see, I can’t exactly go shopping for one, either. Oh, and Very Jane DID give me a refund, but they steadfastly refuse to acknowledge my horrible customer-service experience.

Merry Christmas to me.

3. I went to the doctor, where I learned I will have to have surgery on my left knee. This is inconvenient but not necessarily unexpected. As Dr. Brandi put it, “Knees usually finally say ‘enough’ after so many years of dance.”

What was most disappointing is that I had finally made the decision to start taking ballet again. Feel free to laugh all you want, but I don’t think I can express how much I was looking forward to it. I mean, I know good and well that I could practice seven days a week for the rest of my life and never again reach the level I was at when I quit, but 1) it’s some of the best exercise there is and 2) it’s an activity that I truly love like no other.

But that’s life, and that’s dance. There are lots of disappointments.

4. I go on a photo shoot, where I dislocate the OTHER knee.

Excuse my profanity here, but no, I am not, in fact, shitting you.

I didn’t fall, and I wasn’t hanging sideways out of a tree or doing anything equally risky. I simply knelt to take a shot (just like any of you who are clients have seen me do a hundred times), and when I got up, bingo. The pain took my breath away, and I couldn’t talk for a little bit.

Here’s the craziest part: After it happened, I just kept on shooting. Not because I’m some kind of badass or anything, but because a) I was completely and utterly humiliated and 2) I am apparently a pathological people-pleaser. The way I saw it (at the moment, at least) was that my clients had driven all the way to Benton from Mooringsport and I was not about to send them home with four pictures simply because my knee couldn’t behave itself.

Thank God it popped back in on its own, or otherwise this story probably would’ve ended with them calling an ambulance for me.

On the bright side, their pictures turned out really pretty.

5. Because of Knee Dislocation IV (yes, four; that’s exactly four more dislocations than anyone should experience in a single lifetime), I had to cancel a three-hour birthday party shoot for this coming weekend. Thank God, my friend Henrietta agreed at the last minute to take the job in my place. Also thank God that the kid’s parents are doctors, so they understand the situation and were super nice about it and grateful that I found a replacement for them.

Who do these things happen to, I ask you? Who?

6. Then, after rearranging my and The Guy’s entire lives because I can’t pick up the baby off of the floor and/or carry her anywhere, I go to the eye doctor to have my pre-op LASIK exam and learn that I am at risk for a complication and have to have an additional scan before I can have the surgery.

Good: This scanner represents the very latest in ophthalmologic technology!

Bad: However, it has not yet arrived in Shreveport.

Worse: Because it was ordered from overseas and is currently stuck in customs.

Because of the Christmas holidays, they’re not doing surgery as often, so my procedure has been postponed until January 25. This after wearing my glasses and having a perpetual headache for two weeks. I am not ashamed to tell you that I started crying right there in the doctor’s office.

So instead of getting 20/20 vision for Christmas, it looks like I’m actually getting surgical scars and at least two knee braces.

Santa, I’m gonna be honest right now: I’m considering baking Ex-Lax into your cookies, you fat m0#$3^f@(43^.

Because I am trying to maintain some semblance of positivity, we will not discuss the likelihood that, for my and The Guy’s Great-Gatsby-themed New Year’s party, an event I have looked forward to literally for YEARS, I will be sitting in a chair almost the entire time.

—-

While I would like to tell you that I have maintained an unfailingly sunny attitude throughout all this strife, that would be a bald-faced lie. There has been much wailing, gnashing of teeth, rending of garments and florid, Texas-style profanity. It is exceedingly difficult – nay, impossible! – for me to sit and watch a movie without doing anything else, so you can imagine how I feel about being confined to the sofa for two and a half days. And not being able to take care of the house, laundry and baby the way *I* like to do it is about to cause my OCD to eat me alive from the inside out.

The Guy cautions me all the time to stay out of the business of trying to decipher God’s plans, but in this situation, if I had to guess, I’d say that this is his sure-fire way of getting me to slow down. I never take off work even when I intend to. Technically, I’m taking December off, but I turned in an article yesterday and had scheduled no less than four photo shoots. I haven’t slowed down in a long, long time, and I know in my heart that I need to. I’ve been working as hard as I can this year to be the best mom I can possibly be and to grow the photography business, and I’m getting really tired – like, tired way deep down where I can’t even see. There’s just so much I want to do and make and plan and help with! But it’s time to take a break. Obviously, my knees think so, too.

So if you need me over the next few weeks, for once, you’ll know exactly where to find me – on the sofa. While that may sound heavenly to some, I know it’s going to take some adjustment for me to be OK with it, but I also know those are adjustments I need to make. And I’d love some company, so if you feel like visiting, stop by and sit a while. (Bonus points if you bring Thai food like my sweet friend Angela did today.)

Apparently, I’m not going anywhere for a while!

Your laid-up
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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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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13

BEAVERS

January 20, 2012

I usually like to try to be clever when it comes to post titles, but I’m pretty sure this one-word wonder tells you everything you need to know.

Actually, I planned to write this week about my experiences in a sorority, but I figured you guys would rather read about beavers any day, so you’re welcome.

A couple of nights ago, I was in another room when The Guy called out, “Baby, come in here! You gotta watch this movie! It’s hilarious!”

Being, as I am, a big fan of hilarity, I high-tailed it in there. “What’s it about?” I asked eagerly.

“BEAVERS!” he replied.

I walked away, but not before giving him The Eyes of Hate and Rage.

“No, really!” he pleaded. “C’mon, it’s funny, I promise. Sit down and let’s watch it.”

I don’t give a rat’s half-apple about beavers, but I’m almost as big a fan of sitting down as I am of hilarity, so I acquiesced.

Much as I didn’t want to admit it, the movie was pretty cute and surprisingly engaging. It was a documentary about these two beavers, a male and a female, beginning their life together (unlike many humans I know, beavers are monogamous and mate for life) and building crap out of trees, which is, as we all know, a beaver’s life’s work.

I never thought much about beavers before, but they’re really amazing little creatures. Who knew they could cut down enormous trees using only their teeth?! Well, maybe you did, but I obviously didn’t pay enough attention in fifth-grade environmental science. And apparently, they learn dam-building from their parents, so the knowledge is passed down through generations of beavers. Neat, huh?

Anyway, it was a fun show to watch while relaxing mid-week, and rather than refer to them as “the male beaver” or “the beaver with the lighter fur,” The Guy and I started calling them “Beaver Wife” and “Beaver Husband.” We enjoyed comparing and contrasting ourselves with our beaver counterparts, noting that we were really glad that, after we got married, we didn’t have to try to build the Hoover Dam or anything before we could have Harper. We tried to install a diaper sprayer this week, and we had to go to Home Depot four times.

I was painting my nails while we watched the movie, and at one point, I looked up to see a grizzly bear chasing after Beaver Wife. Poor Beaver Wife was waddling as fast as her stumpy little beaver legs would carry her toward the safety of their lodge with this giant, beaver-eating monster loping after her. You could practically see the saliva dripping from his hungry maw as he anticipated the deliciousness of his beaver hors d’oeuvre.

“YOU STOP THAT!” I shouted at the TV. “YOU LEAVE BEAVER WIFE ALONE! She can’t help it that she didn’t work out enough while she was pregnant with her beaver babies and now she’s having trouble losing the weight and she’s fat and slow! Stop it! YOU STOP IT RIGHT NOW!”

I could sort of feel that The Guy was staring at me, horrified, mouth agape, and some tiny, rational part of my brain was telling me very sternly to dial it back a notch, but I just couldn’t help it. Who did that bear bastard think he was?

“STOP CHASING BEAVER WIFE!” I screeched. “Stop it, damn you! You leave her alone! She doesn’t deserve it!”

The bear had chased Beaver Wife all the way out onto the top of the lodge she shared with her beaver family. Thankfully, she dove through a beaver-sized hole and disappeared under the water, safe from the ravenous, beaver-persecuting bear. The bear, however, was still sniffing around for her when suddenly, his heft broke a giant hole in the branches and mud. Now, on top of everything else, that son of a bitch had damaged their roof!

“I HOPE YOU DROWN!” I screamed. “I HOPE YOU DROWN AND YOU GO TO HELL AND YOU DIE!”

It got quiet. The only sound in the living room was the narrator of the documentary telling us in his calm, even voice that “Though the bear continues to search for his prey, the beaver is long gone.”

I looked over at The Guy.

Stephen King wrote in Bag of Bones that a kind of telepathy exists between married people, and I know that’s true, because just then The Guy was telepathically telling me that he was considering taking me to the emergency room.

He cleared his throat. “I think you might be over-identifying with Beaver Wife,” he said quietly.

—-

Last night, after a long, hard day in which precious little went right for me, I was just getting out of the shower when The Guy said, “You had to run from a lot of bears today, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” I said. “Yes, I sure did.”

Thank you for understanding, Beaver Husband. I love you with all my beaver heart. And Beaver Baby, too.

Now go bitch-slap some bears for me with that tail of yours.

Your dam-building
Kel

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21

Losing It

December 29, 2011

So The Guy announced the other night that he hates blogs.

Well, of course he doesn’t hate ALL blogs (AHEM), just personal style blogs and, to a lesser extent, craft blogs.

As I’ve said many times before, my husband is one of the most laid-back humans on the planet, so you can probably imagine how taken aback I was by this statement. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve heard him say he hates something, and two of those things were Ann Coulter and green onions. That obviously doesn’t leave much room for anything else.

And besides, while he’s nowhere near as into clothes as I am, he does like getting dressed up, and he’s definitely not impervious to the charms of a really great tie or a cashmere sweater. So I couldn’t understand this vitriol toward style bloggers.

It all started a few days after we brought Harper home from the hospital and I realized none of my clothes fit. Yes, I tried on half my wardrobe just a few days after pushing an eight-pound human out of my body. I know, I know: rookie mistake.

Naturally, I was loathe to go out and buy anything, because it’s not like I’m going to be this size for very long, right?! Give me six or eight weeks, and I’ll be back in fighting form!

(Did you hear that gigantic CLUNK? That was the sound of all the readers who have ever given birth banging their heads against their monitors.)

Pretty soon, even my maternity clothes were no longer an option. My jeans were so loose that one evening while shopping at Target, I very nearly gave my fellow shoppers on the cat food aisle a free show. It only took a few days of rotating between the same two pairs of yoga pants before I gave in and decided to go shopping. But where could I buy a bunch of “new” clothes without spending a lot of money?

Why, the only place in the world where you can buy both a brand-new Moschino leopard print skirt for $100 and an entire tan polyester leisure suit for $2.50: Goodwill!

(Cue the foreboding music.)

Feeling very clever indeed, I wheeled Harper up and down the aisles of Goodwill in her stroller, picking up jeans, button-down tops and fitted dresses a couple sizes larger than I normally wear.

(If this were a horror movie, this is the part when all the mothers would start biting their nails.)

Confident that I was going to walk out of the store that day with a chic new wardrobe for less than $50, I took Harper and my selections to the dressing rooms.

(The mothers can see the boogeyman sneaking up, duct tape and hacksaw at the ready, but our intrepid heroine is frustratingly oblivious.)

I decided to start with the jeans. I couldn’t pull Pair #1 over my hips. Pair #2 fit like a sausage casing. And Pair #3 did appalling things to my poochy post-baby stomach. Horrified yet undeterred, I pulled on article after article of clothing, every piece worse-fitting than the one before it.

(“DON’T GO UPSTAIRS, YOU IDIOT!”)

After realizing that none – NONE – of the clothes I picked out fit me, I did exactly what you would expect me to do:

I completely lost my s–t in a Goodwill dressing room. There I stood, with my daughter sleeping peacefully in her stroller, bawling my eyeballs out over a pile of second-hand jeans.

(“I’M NORMA BATES!!”)

Needless to say, my headspace was very, very bad, and it only got worse from there. By the time The Guy got home that evening, I was practically hysterical.

After about the third straight hour of listening to me sob about how much I hated my new, postpartum self, The Guy kind of lost it. “It’s those stupid blogs!” he said. “They’re all, ‘Look at me and how perfect I am, and if you’re not as superficial and self-obsessed as me, then you’re doing it wrong,’” he ranted.

See, because I love clothes and fashion as much as I do, I read all these personal style blogs. And two of my favorite bloggers recently (as in, within the last couple of months) had babies. One of them is already back in her pre-pregnancy clothes, and the other apparently spent nine months shopping for this super chic postpartum wardrobe, so she looks like something straight out of the pages of Vogue when she leaves for work every morning (with her hair perfectly coiffed and her nails painted to compliment her outfits, of course). I’m no slouch (or so I thought), but my two pairs of yoga pants and I can’t even begin to hold a candle to that.

Why didn’t I do that? Why didn’t I watch my weight like a hawk while I was pregnant? Why didn’t I work out every day? Why didn’t I spend the entire time trawling painfully hip thrift stores for vintage Calvin Klein blazers and silk trapeze dresses three sizes too big? WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH ME?!

“Um, nothing? You’re normal,” Dr. Brandi said when I called her in tears. While that may be overstating things a bit, she pointed out that those women and their fellow style bloggers make a living by their appearances. The whole time they were pregnant, they knew that very soon afterward, they would have to begin modeling their outfits again, and two pairs of yoga pants were not going to cut it. Therefore, they prepared accordingly. MY job, on the other hand, (thankfully) has nothing at all to do with the way I look.

Nevertheless, I still felt terrible about myself. Surely something was wrong with me. No one else had this much weight to lose after a pregnancy, and it seemed everyone else in the world was back in her pre-pregnancy clothes by the time her maternity leave was over.

The Guy tried to convince me that this could not be so. “How many women do you think feel the same way you do?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I answered.

“Of course you don’t!” he said. “Because these women are trying so desperately to convince the rest of the world that they’ve got it all together, and even those who do talk about it do it in such a joking way that they end up completely glossing over it too. Nobody wants to tell the TRUTH. They just want to say whatever makes them look good.”

But I didn’t even know what the truth was. Despite all the unsolicited advice and bizarre personal anecdotes everyone starts telling you the very moment you pee on the stick, no one talks much about what happens after, and I can kind of see why. Let’s face it, if, in my seventh month of pregnancy, when I was as big as the side of a barn, waddling to the bathroom every 38 seconds and bursting into tears at Fancy Feast commercials, Jessica had said to me, “Oh, and by the way, get ready for your favorite pair of jeans to not fit for a year,” I’m not sure I would have considered that helpful information just then.

So I decided to take one for the team and talk to my doctor (who had twins last year), poll my recently pregnant friends and visit a few message boards. Here’s what I learned:

–There really is no “normal.” Everyone is different.
–Acceptable weight gain is whatever your doctor tells you it is and can range from 15 to 50 pounds.
–You should not even THINK about trying on non-maternity clothes for six weeks after the baby is born. Probably more.
–Most people lose the baby weight between six months and a year after giving birth, but their pre-pregnancy clothes may still not fit for several months after that because their stomachs, hips and chests are bigger than before.
–Even some people who end up weighing less than they did before they got pregnant never fit into all their clothes again.
–Go ahead and buy some postpartum clothes. You may not lose all the weight for nine months, but you still have to get dressed between now and then. When you do get back to your normal size, you can either have the clothes tailored or donate them and take the write off.
–Yes, some people do fit into their pre-pregnancy wardrobes immediately after giving birth, but they are, according to my doctor, genetically gifted freaks of nature, much like Stephen Hawking or Victoria’s Secret models. Do not compare yourself to them.
–Post-baby, skirts and flow-y dresses are the most forgiving articles of clothing you can wear. Jeans are the worst.
–Many people can achieve a flat (or flat-ish) stomach again after having a baby (even multiple babies). It just takes a hell of a lot of situps.

I will probably not do that many situps.

Although I’m quite sure no one mistakenly thinks I’ve got it all together, this is one blogger who will tell the truth about trying to get one’s body back after having a baby: IT SUCKS. IT SUCKS REALLY, REALLY BAD. If I joke about it, it’s because if I think too long and too seriously about it, I’ll cry. And don’t give me a bunch of crap about how I should shut up and think about how much I love my baby. Of course I love Harper. Next to marrying The Guy, she’s the best thing I’ve ever done, and she’s worth ANY amount of pain, discomfort and tears. But this doesn’t have anything to do with her, except that I want to show her the positive example of a fit, healthy mom who feels good about herself.

And slowly but surely, that day is coming. I’m back to my no-grains-and-no-refined-sugar way of eating, and I feel better and have more energy every day. And I’m proud that, thanks to hard work and good choices, the weight is steadily coming off. But in the meantime, it sucks. It sucks to feel a reflexive panic every time anyone invites me anyplace, because I probably don’t have anything to wear. It sucks that even though I used cocoa butter every single day of my pregnancy, I still got stretch marks. It sucks to wonder if the skin on my abdomen will ever forgive me for doing this to it. It sucks that my days of wearing two-piece bathing suits are over. It sucks that I don’t want my husband to see me with my clothes off. It sucks to realize that despite the progress I’ve made, I still have a significant amount of weight to lose.

I certainly don’t mean to discourage anyone. I just don’t want my pregnant friends to be as stupid as I was. No one deserves to have a semi-public meltdown in a thrift store dressing room.

Babies are an awful lot of trouble, you guys.

But they’re totally worth every bit of the hassle.

Daddy-Daughter Doo Dah.

Your slowly shrinking
Kel

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30

Zero to 39

November 15, 2011

“Are you OK?” The Guy asked as I attempted, for the fourth time, to heave my massive body off of the sofa.

“Perkins,” I replied, “I am five feet, four inches tall and weigh close to 200 pounds. NOTHING IS OK.”

Aaaaand that pretty much sums up my outlook on life right now.

I’m not gonna lie; being 39 weeks pregnant sucks. I don’t care how excited you are about your baby (and believe me, I’m so excited I can hardly stand myself), being THIS pregnant is distinctly unpleasant no matter how you look at it.

Let us count the ways:

1. The baby has “dropped,” which means that her head is resting directly on my bladder. Thus, every single time I stand up, I have to pee.

Correction: As it happens, the baby has NOT, in fact, dropped at all. I’m just so short that she’s running out of room. This is quite inconvenient for a number of reasons, but no one thinks so more than my poor bladder.

1a) Prior to pregnancy, it skeeved me out to WASH MY HANDS in a public restroom, let alone actually pull down my pants in one.

I am reasonably certain that I have now used 90 percent of the public restrooms in Shreveport, LA.

Fact: Most of the public restrooms in Shreveport, LA, are truly, truly dreadful.

2. At this point, I have a lot of swelling in my hands and feet, which is normal. This swelling compresses the nerves in my extremities, which is also normal.

That compression causes paresthesia, which is, again, normal, but which is DRIVING ME SLAP OUT OF MY G#$D@&% MIND.

If I stand for too long, my legs go numb from about mid-calf to mid-thigh, and the longer I type, the more numb my hands get, which means I can only type 100 words or so before I completely lose feeling in them and have to take a break.

Being as how I’m a writer and must TYPE FOR A LIVING, this is, to put it mildly and as politely as I possibly can at this point, EXTREMELY M0$%@#F!*$&#^ INCONVENIENT.

3. I now go to the doctor once a week. In other words, I now have to get stark naked in front of at least three people once a week.

This is not nearly as much fun as it might’ve been in college.

To add insult to indignity, there are so far no indications whatsoever that I will go into labor any time in the foreseeable future. More about this phenomenon later.

I would never do it unless the doctor assured me it was medically necessary, but I now COMPLETELY understand the frustration and impatience that drives women to schedule inductions.

My friend Mere said today, “I am such a planner and listmaker…I can’t imagine going about my day-to-day life knowing I could go off like a bomb at any moment. ‘Well, I was going to go to the grocery store, but BAAAAAAAABY!!’”

Don’t I know it. I really wanted to sign up for this super cute Christmas fleur de lis painting they’re doing tonight at Painting With a Twist, but what if I go into labor before then, or, worse, what if it happens while I’m trying to get my holly berries just right? EMBARRASSING.

As I told Mere, “There is NO WAY I would put up with this s–t except I truly believe it’s best for the baby. Otherwise, I’d be scheduling a simultaneous C-section and tummy tuck. And please don’t think I’m joking.”

3a) Actually, Painting With a Twist sounds like a pretty good idea either way, and not just because of the wine, either. Weekend before last, when I showed up to work my shift at the Family Fitness Fest at Betty Virginia Park, no one could believe I actually shoe-horned myself into my pink volunteer’s t-shirt and waddled up there to make healthy trail mix and try to get kids to hula hoop for prizes. But as I told them, the only thing I can think of that’s worse than waiting for the baby to hurry up and get here is sitting around at home by myself and waiting for the baby to hurry up and get here.

4. The only way I can get comfortable in bed is to drape my limbs over The Guy, thus taking some of the weight off of my body and transferring it to his (which, I’m sure, is even less comfortable for him than it sounds, but thank God he’s a good sport). Problem is, though, that my belly is so large that he has to be in a very specific position in order for me to achieve any relief whatsoever, so at first, this involved me waking him from a dead sleep in the middle of the night and instructing him to roll over that way, lay his arm here, put his leg right there, move his rear, etc.

We’re so accustomed to it now that all I have to say is “Perkins, can I put my leg over you?” and even though he’s out cold, he just flops onto his side and Assumes the Position.

5. I am an emotional disaster.

I don’t even want to KNOW what’s going on with my hormones, and the distinct lack of progress on my body’s part is starting to take a toll on my psyche. It used to worry Dr. Brandi a little that I never, ever cried (like, not even at funerals), but I can now assure her that I have cried all the cries that I didn’t cry for those many years, and I am quite sure that whatever emotional constipation from which I used to suffer is now more like cataclysmic emotional diarrhea.

Seriously, if I were a dog, they would’ve already put me to sleep. Because of the rabies.

Things That Have Made Me Cry in the Last Seven Days:

–Chihuahua limping.

(She’s almost 12 years old and, not surprisingly, has arthritis. She’s fine.)

–Winnifred barfing on the bed.

(To be fair, though, that might make anyone cry.)

–Saving Private Ryan.

(I know. I totally had that one coming.)

–The baby hamsters at PetSmart.

(I started thinking about how one day Harper’s going to ask me and The Guy for a hamster and we’ve already agreed that we’re going to hem and haw and make her wait it out and give her all these big lectures about RESPONSIBILITY but on the inside we’re going to be all, “YESSSSS!! FINALLY!!” because we secretly want a hamster too and how she and the hamster will grow up together but those things only have a lifespan of like three years and it’ll die and then we’ll have to have that talk about death and how the hamster has gone to heaven to run on his little wheel and eat alfalfa pellets with Jesus but by that time Harper will already be three years older and OH MY GOD MY BABY IS GROWING UP SO FAST SUNRIIIIIIIISE SUNSEEEEEEEET.)

WHAT. I have never once made any claims of sanity, OKAY?

–Nursing bras.

(If you’ve ever purchased a nursing bra – hell, if you’ve ever even SEEN a nursing bra – then this one needs no explanation.)

–The weather.

(It’s November 15, and as I type this, it’s 76 degrees outside.)

(UNFAIR!)

(ALMOST AS UNFAIR AS BEING 39 WEEKS PREGNANT AND SHOWING ABSOLUTELY NO SIGNS OF IMPENDING LABOR WHATSOEVER!)

(But not quite.)

–The November issue of Martha Stewart Living.

(I want to make that pumpkin mousse so bad.)

So that’s what I’ve been doing: Going stark-raving insane. And sewing things!

But now I want to know: When’s the last time YOU lost YOUR marbles? (Bonus points if it happened in PetSmart, Petco or similar.)

Your weepy
Kel

 

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9

The Great Pumpkin

October 28, 2011

I know, I can’t believe it, either:

I’m actually blogging twice in one week!

(Can you believe there was once a time when I blogged every single DAY?)

Thus is the power of Halloween.

Wednesday evening, The Guy and I attended one of Shreveport’s favorite Halloween activities, Pumpkin Shine on Line, a free community event hosted by Southfield School and sponsored by SPAR.

It’s pretty cool, actually: People from the school and the community, including local artists, carve about 1,000 jack-o-lanterns and line the pathways of Betty Virginia Park with them. Various choirs, cheerleading groups and that sort of thing perform, and the school sells concessions.

The only problem is the 3,000 other people who attend. If you’ve been reading this blog for any length of time, then you know I don’t always never have enough patience with my fellow man.

I won’t go into detail except to tell you that if you really want to offend people’s sensibilities, then let them see you take a picture outside after dark without a flash.

IT BLOWS. THEIR DAMN. MINDS.

Seriously. They can’t handle it. And if they seeing you doing it, then they’re gonna act like you insulted their religions and stole something from their mommas.

Pumpkin Shine on Line - Jack Skellington.

Pumpkin Shine on Line - Aboriginal.

Pumpkin Shine on Line - Cinderella's Carriage.

(FYI, all you have to do is crank up your ISO, open your lens aperture as far as it will let you – meaning lower your f-number as much as you can – use a slow shutter speed and hold very, very still. If all else fails, ask your husband to hit your subject from the side with the flashlight on his iPhone. Same effect as a flash, but it’s not as ugly.)

However, if you want to offend MY sensibilities, then look at this pumpkin and exclaim, “Oooooeee, look-a thar! It’s one of them blue dawgs, like by that guy that paints them blue dawgs!”

Pumpkin Shine on Line - Blue Dog.

His name is George Rodrigue, and if you live in Louisiana and don’t already know that, then the rest of us would like to kindly ask you to get the hell out.

…

The latter stages of pregnancy are making me cranky; does it show?

—-

There’s only one sure-fire cure for pregnancy-related rage: sweets.

And if it’s October, then you can never go wrong with sweets that contain pumpkin. Add chocolate, and you’ll have the hormonal, swollen-ankled beast purring like a kitten within the hour.

First up: Pumpkin Chocolate Chip Brownies.

(Click on the photo to get the recipe.)

The Guy loves savory pumpkin dishes but is less a fan of pumpkin desserts. So he said that if using Katie Ett’s Donuts4Dinner ratings scale, he would give these brownies 2 1/2 donuts.

I, on the other hand, love pumpkin-flavored anything, so I would give them 3 1/2 donuts.

Next: Pumpkin White Chocolate Chip Cookies.

The Guy: 3 1/2 donuts
Kelly: 4 donuts

I made these after we got home from Pumpkin Shine, and by the time I’d finished eating the first one, my faith in humanity was restored. Well, as restored as it’s ever gonna get, anyway.

The only thing that kept these from going all the way to five donuts is they were the teensiest bit too sweet. Next time I make them, I’m going to reduce the amount of sugar and see what happens.

—-

Just so you know, I wouldn’t hate you for sharing your favorite pumpkin-related recipe in the comments.

So are you guys as obsessed with squash as I am, or are pumpkins strictly for carving?

Your about-to-turn-orange
Kel

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