Urban Drool

Dear Boy,

I remember the day that I met you, sprawled out on the stage at the theatre where we were having our first rehearsal. When you looked up at me and introduced yourself, I remember thinking to myself,

“Wow. His eyes are a really soft brown…but there’s those green flecks all around. If we have babies together they might have those gorgeous eyes.”

No. That’s so not true. I actually just thought that you were hot and damn, it had been a long time (nearly 2 years) since I had had a guy, and wouldn’t some post-rehearsal canoodling be nice?

Answer: it was nice. Very nice. So nice that I decided I should marry you!

The day of our wedding was an absolutely wonderful day, filled with love and smiles and flowers. And I truly enjoyed the place where we married and the ceremony. But oddly, I did not really feel any more connected to you at the conclusion of the ceremony then I did beforehand. In a way I feel like I have been “married” to you for quite a longer time then these past 3 years. Does that make sense? You and I have shared such an amazing connection for such a long time, before we were even living together, I think, that the wedding day was like fantastic buttercream frosting on an already existing, truly delicious red velvet cake.

We have been through some incredible times these first 3 years of our marriage, haven’t we?

Year One:

- I failed the Bar Exam, and I was so horrified and upset with myself that you had to spend an entire morning calling all our family and friends to let them know and then carried me into the bathroom and showered me and washed the vomit out of my hair.
- We bought our first house
- You made the hardest decision in your life and left the theatre company that you dreamed up, began, maintained and saw to amazing success for 5 years
- We decided to stop using birth control
- My body decided to stop ovulating

Year Two:

- I got a new job (which, of course, I now hate)
- You got several new jobs…
- You got infections, tests and lots of drugs
- I got examinations, cysts and even more drugs
- You decided to go back to school
- Lucy decided to get conceived

Year Three (i.e. this past year)
- You completed your Master’s Degree with near-perfect grades

…and…

- Lucy

You want to know something? Everyone always assumes that you are some driveling selfish jerk with no control over his emotions and I spend every minute of every day “taking care” of you. I cannot think of a more unfair and inaccurate portrayal of our marriage. There have been innumerable times over the past several years where I would not have made it through the day without you and your support. In the space of a heartbeat you can become the strongest rock in the universe.

Your humor, which always makes me stop, laugh, take stock, and see the situation through more realistic eyes.

Your words, which seem to always equally infuriate and enrapture me.

Your smile, which warms me from the center of my belly through the bottoms of my feet, tips of my fingers and up to the top of my head.

Your skin, which puts forth the most comforting smell in the world to me.

Your mind and soul, with all the complexities and layers that they contain.

Your daughter, your most incredible gift to me. Our wonderful gift to each other. The reason I get out of bed every morning.

These are just some of the things that make our marriage the amazing partnership that it is.

I used to feel very unsure of myself and my role in your life. Why did you pick me? Why am I the one, after you had so many “ones”, that you ended up deciding to share your life with?

I’m still not 100% sure of what the answers to those questions are, but I no longer doubt that I am the woman you want, should be, and are with.

And I love the fact that, despite my certainty of our place with each other, I still wake up EVERY SINGLE MORNING and look over and you and think to myself “Wow! You mean he’s still here? I really get to keep him? I get to love him forever and ever?”

And I will.







I can’t think of anything else I would rather do with the rest of my life than to be yours.

You’re a good man, Charlie Brown. I love you with everything that I have.

Happy Anniversary.

This past week has been a little better. And it was not until yesterday that I really realized why: It was one of the first times since returning to work that I have not felt so amazingly alone. The Boy and I had been concentrating so much on the day-to-day survival of our new-found parenthood that I think we were leaving some very important areas of our life sorely neglected. Namely: our marriage. Us, as in, an intimately connected couple.

Last Friday night, we finally started to scratch the surface as to what was making me crazy, what was making him crazy, why we both felt that neither one of us were really emotionally supporting the other the way we should. The way we used to. We didn’t solve the problem. But we finally admitted to one another that there WAS a problem and we able to identify it’s source.

Here is a breakdown as to what some of the past 8 weeks has been like in a He Said/She Said kind format:

ME: I don’t want to be back at work.

Him: He is overwhelmed at times, being the primary caregiver at home.

ME: I was finding it difficult to empathize and be supportive when he would show signs of needing to vent about being the sole servant of our little dictator, because I wanted what he had. Wanted it so badly.

Him: He was finding it difficult to listen to me constantly complain and sob about being away from her because there was nothing he could do about it. And a part of him is feeling guilty maybe? Guilty that we don’t have a more financially stable environment; one that would allow me to stay at home with the baby, or only working part time.

ME: I was resentful that he was not more sympathetic-oh-honey-I-KNOW-how-HARD-it-must-be-for-you-at-work towards me. Resentful that he was not greeting me at the door every evening with a box of Kleenex to wipe my teary eyes (HA!!).

Him: He was resentful that I could not really acknowledge the sacrifices that HE has been making - earning his MBA while taking care of our pickle. Being a wonderful father and learning how to wipe spit up, answer emails, sing songs and finish a corporate dossier all at the same time.

Basically, we have both been so wrapped up in our own damn misery to spend too much time worrying about/trying to soothe the other’s misery. I felt alone. He felt alone. I felt dis-connected from him and our family and in that, from the baby. He felt dis-connected because he does not really have a “peer group” to speak of. Our neighborhood is not exactly teeming with young, professional stay-at-home fathers. No one around to really vent frustrations to, including me, from whom he was purposely keeping his frustrations.

And there was the constant black cloud of our mutual psychological wounds which stemmed from my time in the hospital. I think, like me, the Boy just recently started to fully acknowledge how horrible the whole thing was.

But last Friday? A step forward. And every day since then? Another tiny step forward. I am making an effort to come home in a more positive frame of mind. He is making an effort to listen more productively when I need to vent. I am making an effort to get him to open up more and talk to me, even if the only thing he wants to talk about was how difficult the baby was that particular day. We smile more and hug more.

And yesterday we spent some time really talking about how we both felt about Lucy’s birth and the aftermath and how we both feel about a 2nd pregnancy and birth.

I guess I didn’t realize how desperately I was seeking some validation from him about what I went through to bring her into this world until last night. Last night he talked about how amazing he thought I was for what I withstood during the days/hours/minutes leading up to Lucy’s birth. And I know now that he doesn’t (and never did) blame me for what happened. I don’t know why I ever felt that he might.

I sat there, at the Olive Garden, holding my baby. With a half-eaten plate of tortolinni in front of me. I looked across the table at the one who has been there with me throughout this entire sequence of events. The one who was there for all the fear and blood and tears of pain and tears of joy. The one who takes the most precious care of our baby. The one that I trust with my life. So why on earth was I ever reluctant to trust him with my heart?

And I cried a little.

And I knew that it was all (eventually) going to be OK.

**apparently this was on the Boy's mind today as well. You should head over to his space (link to the left under "Da Boys" becuase I don't know how to put a link in my blog entries yet) and read all about me in "Crazy Wives." He is less charitable towards me in his post than I was towards him in this post but...oh, well. It's still a good read. Talk about a serious "He Said/She Said kinda thing, yes?"**

This weekend you bounced back and forth between very cranky (damn teething!) and happy as can be.

This weekend you made my heart melt (again) by cuddling up on my chest and falling asleep. For hours and hours. Twice.

This weekend you loved it as we all piled into bed together and sang you songs as you smiled and drooled and cooed and ahhed.

This weekend you made my heart melt (you know, again) as you howled and howled becuase your poor mouth was so sore.

This weekend you started to find out how to grab things and shove them in your mouth, by way of your left nostril, chubby cheek and right eyeball.

This weekend you (wait for it now!) made my heart (what?!?!) MELT (again and again) by holding my breast in between your tiny, chubby hands and shutting your eyes tight while you nursed and nursed and nursed.

This weekend I made the decision to seek some therapy - mostly so we can have more weekends like this weekend.

This weekend you gave me this smile...

Well. That last entry was great fun, wasn't it?

Thank you so much everyone for the reading and commenting and e-mailing and supporting and loving and "We are here for you Lumi" -ing. It was a difficult entry to write and an even more difficult entry to actually publish. It feels a bit like a scab that I am just now starting to pick at - a nasty little infected scab that has been sitting and festering for the past 13 weeks.

I know that I need to expel these demons at some point. I am toying with the idea of some therapy. Or maybe I'll just play the "sit around and see if it gets better" game. I haven't decided yet. The Boy does what he can, but I get the feeling that he doesn't quite get 100% what this feels like. It's not his fault. I think he is suffering under a combination of
a) not really being able to relate because he does not have the physical ties to the day of Lucy's birth that I do and
b) avoiding really talking about it becuase he harbors his fair share of emotional trauma from the whole thing as well. After all, it was he that had to stand there helplessly and watch me get banged up by the labor, suffer through the C-Section and then hold our newborn baby while I bled and bled and...bled.

But GAH!!...enough of that. I didn't want to re-hash all that shit today. No...today is for fun and squeee-ness and Lucy pictures. The boy has tons of pictures of the pickle on his site, and I REFUSE to let him show me up in this arena.

So...batten down the hatches and get ready for the Most Adorable Pickle In All Pickle-dom.



Here she is at a mere 5 minutes old. Some random nurse in the Operating Room took this picture. She is trying very hard to have her first poop.



This is one week later, about 1 hour after we arrived home. I carried her straight into our bedroom, undressed her from her icky-hospital garb, put this (entirely too large) outfit on her and took her damn picture. It was one of the first "normal" things I had done for her.



...and then we took a nap, because getting born and almost dying is really fucking tiring.



Here we are snuggling after a nursing. Because being born and almost dying also makes you very hungry.



We like to sleep in a great big pink-stripped bag.



We also like to show that we are totally punk-rock, and that our Auntie Pru is the only one who really understands great style.



We try to go on walks every night, so that mom can lose the (100 and) 15 extra pounds that she needs to lose. Ha!



Dad likes to live dangerously and prop me up with pillows and take goofy pictures of me after mom has gone to bed. Becuase Mom? Would totally never allow such things to occur on her watch.



...but it's OK becuase then dad and I take naps together while mom takes goofy pictures of us.



Mr. Harold used to be the baby until the Pickle kicked his ass to the curb. He is still deciding how he feels about the whole thing, but feels that he can emotionally commit to at least "babysitter" status for now, even if it will take him awhile to work his way up to "protective older brother."



We only had to dance and yell frantically for 13 mintues straight in order to get THAT smile to take THAT picture.



Lucy doesn't understand what all the fuss is about. She could have totally held up her head AGES ago if she had felt like doing it.



Again with the camera? You people wear me the fuck out.

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And there she is! So far, anyway. I think we'll keep her.