Deeply Unqualified for Adulthood

10

Feel Like Company?

February 3, 2013

First, the big news. If you’re busy and don’t have time to read one of my rambling, stream-of-consciousness, navel-gazing blog entries (or just don’t feel like it, for which I would not blame you a bit, by the way), then here’s the least you need to know: THE GUY AND I GOT CAST IN COMPANY AT SHREVEPORT LITTLE THEATRE!!!!!!!!

(It opens June 27, and you need not worry about remembering to buy tickets, because TRUST ME, I will remind you at least once a week for the next 20 weeks.)

(You’re welcome.)

I would say YAAAAAAAAAAAAY!!!!!!!!1!!!!!!!!, but that doesn’t even begin to describe the excitement and utter joy that is practically leaking out of the Powell house this evening. A couple years ago or so, a taped performance of the 2006 Broadway revival version came out on Netflix (pretty sure it’s still on Netflix, actually), and The Guy and I watched it. The only way I can describe our reaction to it is to say the divining rod went down HARD – it’s rare that we BOTH fall like that for a musical or play, as we have different tastes sometimes where theatre is concerned. But man alive, we love Company, and because of it, we fell in love with Stephen Sondheim.

When theatre nerds fall in love with a show, the first thing they want to do, naturally, is put on their own production of it. And we had the idea to approach Bobby Darrow, the artistic director of Shreveport Little Theatre, about putting it on there in his honor, as a way to thank him for his uncountable contributions to community theatre in Shreveport. But there were a number of problems with this little endeavor, motivated by love though it would be. First, we’d have to get Bobby to agree. Second, we’d probably have to raise the money for it ourselves, and for that we’re talking about a sum of money somewhere north of $10,000 (likely a great deal more). Third, we’d more than likely have to find somebody besides Bobby to direct it, and then we’d have to cast it. In other words, it would be practically impossible for two people with a baby and two and a half full-time jobs between them.

It just wasn’t the time.

Fast forward to December 18. I realized I was, as they say, late, took a pregnancy test, and learned, much to our delight, that Baby Powell was on his or her way. Both of us were absolutely ecstatic.

Exactly 10 days later, we heard that Bobby was planning to mount a production of Company at Shreveport Little Theatre in June (i.e., he beat us to the punch). I admit I felt a little wistful. I knew The Guy would probably get cast, but alas, there are no hugely pregnant characters in Company. But in truth, I had no regrets. I would be busily preparing for Baby Powell, and The Guy agreed right away that I could “finish” the nursery (read: do some expensive stuff like have drapes made and get the glider recovered in this GORGEOUS white faux crocodile vinyl I found at Milling Around – I know, I know, it sounds hideously tacky, but trust me, this thing would’ve been drop-dead chic. Also vomit-proof!). And he would probably be cast, so while I wouldn’t be in it myself, at least I would be close to it, and that would be a lot of fun. I thought to myself, I could probably get a babysitter a few nights and go up to the theatre and watch them rehearse. Plus my mom has been wanting to volunteer helping to sew costumes, and that might be fun, too.

It just wasn’t my time.

On January 18, precisely one month after I found out I was pregnant with Baby Powell, The Guy and I went to the OB and had an ultrasound where we learned there was no heartbeat. In a daze, we scheduled a D&C for the following Monday.

It just wasn’t Baby Powell’s time.

I spent the rest of the day alternating between fits of sobbing and a grief-stricken daze. That night, seemingly out of nowhere, a thought occurred to me. “Call Bobby,” I said. “Call him right now and tell him I want to audition for Company.” Understandably, The Guy could not believe I was serious. Somehow, I convinced him I was. Bobby, having no clue that this was anything other than a perfectly ordinary weekend for the Powell family, asked us to come to the theatre Sunday at 4. He said I should prepare a song from the show.

OK, y’all, let’s just stop right here and analyze this for a minute.

1. I am, quite literally, in the midst of a miscarriage.
2. I have not sung for anyone except for babies, dogs and the crowd at a lesbian karaoke bar in New Orleans (long story) since the ninth grade.
3. While I have spent plenty of time singing along with Raul Esparza on iTunes, I do not actually KNOW any of the songs from Company.

I asked Dr. Brandi, “This is the very definition of avoidance and denial, right?”

Her answer?

“Who cares?”

I am here to tell you that the only thing in the entire known universe that could have possibly distracted me from what was to come on Monday would be preparing to sing in front of sober people for the first time since I was 14 years old.

So I threw myself into learning “The Little Things You Do Together.”

When I say that out loud – “I’m really not a very good singer, and I haven’t sung since I was a freshman in high school, but I marched my ass into Shreveport Little Theatre, climbed on the stage and sang like somebody was paying me a hundred bucks to do it,” I think to myself,

SELF, WHAT THE F–K IS WRONG WITH YOU?!?!?! SERIOUSLY, WHO DOES S–T LIKE THAT?!

And, as usual, I have no rational explanation for my actions.

It went…to tell the truth, I had no idea how it went, but I chose to trust The Guy when he said (with a surprised look on his face, I might add) that it went really well.

On the car ride home, I broke down, and was inconsolable until the next day when they wheeled me into the operating room, put a suffocating plastic mask on my face and told me to breathe deeply.

Two days later, while I was still very much in a grief-and-painkiller-induced fog, Bobby called and said he wanted me to read for him. I thought, OK, good, my singing didn’t automatically knock me out of the running. Only problem was, we had to wait for the scripts to come in. So we waited. And waited. And waited.

And waited.

FINALLY, finally, Bobby called The Guy on Friday, and they arranged for him to come to our house at 7:30 that evening. I rushed around, trying to make myself presentable and entertain Harper at the same time. NOT an easy feat.

We read, then we chatted for a bit, and Bobby left. And I was DISTRAUGHT. I felt the reading had gone horribly, possibly so badly that Bobby would be disinclined to cast either of us. In other words, I effed up so bad that I not only failed myself, I took Perk down with me. The enormity, not to mention the stupidity, of what I had attempted to do came crashing down on me. I am a 35-year-old mom who hasn’t been on a stage except to take pictures in over 15 years. What business do I have SINGING and ACTING in a MUSICAL when I have just lost one baby and have another one at home who spends the vast majority of her day trying every way she can possibly think of to fatally injure herself? With everything that’s happened to this family in the previous two months, the last thing on Earth we need is more disappointment, and here I have gone INVITING disappointment into our lives. For God’s sake, I’ve practically rolled out the red carpet for it! How stupid, irresponsible and positively DELUSIONAL can an adult human possibly be?

I took one of the sleeping pills that my OB mercifully prescribed for me and went to bed.

Saturday, I waited uneasily with a big, hard knot in the pit of my stomach. Bobby mentioned that two more people were auditioning on Saturday, so I told myself that we wouldn’t hear anything until Sunday anyway. About 4:00, the phone rang. It was Bobby.

He did not sound especially happy. I braced myself.

And then he said those eight beautiful words: “I would like to offer you the role…”

Everything after that is a blur or, more accurately, a gigantic ball of shiny, blinding light.

I’ve already been going to the gym and exercising at home, getting myself into fightin’ form.

And my first voice lesson is on Monday.

It hasn’t sunk in – and may not for a good many more weeks – that I am going to be performing on stage for the first time since college. That is…just…insane.

I know at least a few of you will sneer at the idea that God engineered this, but I believe He did. There is only one being in the infinite multiverse who could make Kelly Powell brave and/or stupid enough to sing in front of people who can pass a field sobriety test and speak English.

(I also think Thorpe, who was crazy for Broadway musicals, might’ve been kicking, or rather, knowing Thorpe, pinching me, in the ass a bit.)

You know that saying about how when God closes a door, He opens a window? I think that’s what happened here. No show – no TEN shows – could ever “make up for” Baby Powell. But God gave me something to do instead. Maybe it’s not “as good,” but it’s still very, very good indeed. I mean, how many spouses get to do things like this TOGETHER? I get to spend time with my husband and my best friend doing something we both love AND learn from him at the same time.

Both Baby Powell and Company are the blessings of a lifetime. They’re just different blessings for different points in a lifetime.

Now is not the time for one, but it’s the perfect time for another.

Oh, and in case you’re wondering, I’m playing Jenny, and The Guy is David. You can check out those two crazy kids right here (their scene starts at 2:08).

I’m pretty excited to slip into Jenny’s twin set and pearls and see how it feels to be a square.

Your triple double single-threat
Kel

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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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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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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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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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18

Honey, I’m Home

May 8, 2012

We bought a house! For the first time in my life, at the age of 35 (which I shall be in five days), I am officially a homeowner. I was a homeowner before by virtue of the fact that I am married to The Guy, I’m the one who banished The Pink Carpet of Our Discontent and Louisiana is a community-property state, but this time, my name is on the paperwork. I am, in equal measure, totally stoked and completely terrified by that fact.

Moving Day is 15 days from now, and there is an almost unbelievable amount of work to be done between now and then. But I’m so in love with this house, I kind of don’t care.

(This is, in fact, the house on which we made an offer that the owners, on the advice of their realtor, ignored. There’s a very entertaining conclusion to the tale, but just to be on the safe side, I’m going to wait until AFTER we close to tell it.)

(My attorney’s chest swelled with pride just then. He probably even has a tear in his eye. “My little walking libel suit is growing up,” he’s sniffing.)

Now let’s take a tour, shall we? With somebody else’s stuff everywhere? At least it’s somebody who has good taste.

The photos are unfortunately small, as I ganked them off a number of real estate websites before the listing was taken down, but they’ll at least give you the general idea.

—-

WELCOME!

House 5

You better believe I asked homegirl during the housing inspection where she bought every stick of her furniture.

House 19

They use this front room as a giant foyer, which is a great idea, but I’m not sure yet how we’re going to utilize the space.

House 18

The fireplace is gas. They have three small children, so they don’t use it, and we won’t either, I’m sure, but it’s nice to have a potential heat source if the power went out. Not that one is very likely to freeze to death in a Louisiana winter, but it can get mildly uncomfortable.

House 3

House 4

Exactly one year ago, after searching to the ends of the earth (or at least the Internet), we bought a sectional sofa…

…which is probably not going to fit in this room.

D’OH.

House 8

The color of this room is one of the first things I fell in love with about the house.

House 9

Needless to say, we’re not changing it.

House 20

The female half of the couple who live here spent pretty much all her time renovating this place largely by herself, and I know it sounds kind of corny, but her love for the house is obvious in every square inch of it.

House 22

They don’t show in the photos, but the house has several large skylights, including one in the kitchen, and they definitely contribute the open, airy feel.

House 7

STAMPED TIN BACKSPLASH STAMPED TIN BACKSPLASH ZOMG FAINT

House 6

“We can’t buy a house for its backsplash,” The Guy said.

OH YES WE CAN, DUDE. OH YES WE CAN.

House 15

You can also buy a house because it has a cute laundry room.

House 16

And because the backyard is already landscaped. HOLLA!

The husband planted several fruit trees, all of which are now mature and bear fruit. There are pomegranates, figs, oranges, kumquats and apricots. The fig tree is so huge that one of the first things I need to do after this year’s harvest (HARVEST! I am Ma Ingalls.) is prune that sucker, so if anybody has any advice about that, feel free to share.

House 10

Painted wood floors. I died. DIED!

House 21

We bought their bed. That probably sounds kind of creepy, but we love that bed, and buying theirs is a heck of a lot easier (and cheaper) than trying to find one on our own, and now they have one less thing to move. (We’re using our own mattresses, of course. I’m not THAT boundary-less, y’all.)

House 11

The downstairs bathroom is the only room in which we’ll attempt a large-scale renovation. It’s in fine shape now, and we love all the storage, but the tub, vanity and lighting situation are nothing to write home about.

House 12

Since it’s separated from the master by only a bathroom, this room will be the nursery. The Guy and I have agreed that we’ll transition Harper out of our bedroom after we move in. She probably won’t mind.

I’ll be a wreck.

House 14

This open area upstairs, which they use as a playroom, will function as my office.

House 13

This attic area will for now be our guest room, but one day, it’ll be the big-kid room (when we finally have some big kids). As you can see, it has its own attached bathroom, which contains two big closets.

I didn’t think about such a thing when we viewed the house, but during the inspection, we realized that the nook on the left underneath the skylight where they keep a small TV is actually an escape hatch onto the roof in case of a fire. Clever, huh? Actually, because all their children are so young, the couple have a lot of safety features built into the house, which is really nice for my peace of mind.

In addition to gorgeous paint colors and cute backsplashes and skylights out the wazoo, we have three friends who live on our street, sidewalks where Harper and the other small fries can ride their bikes and rollerskate and a neighborhood that has an annual block party.

There’s no place like home.

Your ecstatic
Kel

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