HIPPO BRIGADE

Ew, so does that mean you touch your baby’s poo?

Disposable diapers are gross. Can I get an Amen?

They’re stinky, so you stick them in the diaper pail, which is all fine and good, until the diaper pail fills up, and then you have to empty the thing, which has now morphed into sweaty, stuffed kielbasa that weighs approximately one thousand pounds and smells like a truck stop urinal. And then getting it down the stairs has become a ginormous feat, but you feel good because you streched beforehand, but just as you got halfway  down the stairs, you swear the thing grew arms and legs, because oh crap, the sweat bag just decked you in the jaw.

Okay, so we know they suck, but we use them several times a day because they’re “easy” and the hospital loads us up with them, and all the parenting magazines advertise them, and that backwards R store has them coming out their backwards butt-hole, so we think they’re our only option.

But I’ve stumbled upon another option. Except when I say stumbled, what I really mean is that I sat for hours and hours in front of my laptop researching cloth diapers, while my older child relentlessly beat my baby over the head with a wooden toy.

Of course I would glance up every once in a while to make sure that there were no blood or tears, but a mom’s gotta do what a mom’s gotta do, right?

I’m ignoring you for your own good! I’d yell out from behind the computer.

I’m trying to be environmentally responsible!

I appreciate you!

I’d tell my neglected children.

I started off with ‘green’ disposables. I tried Nature Babycare, Earth’s Best, and Seventh Generation. But those aren’t any better than regular disposables, because the toxins that make them absorbent are still present, plus they still sit in landfills and oceans FOREVER.

And I don’t like the image of a baby walrus chewing on a diaper filled with my baby’s poo.

Nope, not one bit.

So then I looked into gDiapers, which is a cloth diaper with a flushable insert.

And they prepared me mentally, physically, spiritually for the next step, which was totally cloth.

I actually found gDiapers to be more work than all cloth.

There was all this tearing the insert open, and flushing, and plunging my backed up toilet, and ultimatly, I was not a fan.

So now I use BumGenius. They’re all in one, so I don’t have mess with an insert, I just take it off and put a new one  just like a disposable.

Zing- za-dan!

It’s so easy.

Seriously.

Plus no baby walruses have to eat my diapers.

It’s been a few weeks, and I really like it.

And so does Hudson. He hasn’t had a single diaper rash, and I feel good about the organic cotton against his skin.

Plus I’ve heard disposables lower sperm count in males, so his balls are pretty happy about it too.

Fo’ Sheezy, I’m Wheezy

I’m pretty snacky.

That’s the thing about me, I could always go for a snack.

Whenever I’m at some one’s house and they ask, “are you hungry, do you want something to eat?”

The answer is always YES. But because I’m polite, and don’t want to come off like a rabid beast that will eat all of their food, I generally say, “nah, I just ate, thanks. But is that Chex Mix on your counter? I’ll just have a small handful.”

Then an hour later, I’ve devoured their entire bag of Chex, drank half a liter of flat Diet Coke, and my gracious host caught me licking their plastic honey bear container.

And I wonder why I never get invited anywhere.

So last night, after we tucked the kids in bed, Pat and I turned to each other and romantically embraced.

No. Just kidding.

We both decided we were snacky.

But because the snacks in the house aren’t good enough for us, I went to CVS (or Cee Vee’s as we lovingly refer to it as) to score some extra delectable nibblets.

I was feeling super charitable, so I took Zoey along. Sometimes she can be a total turd in the car. She’ll run from one side of the car to the other, and start doing the Mexican hat dance on my uterus with her tiny paws because she’s so damn happy to be going on an adventure. But this time she was calm, and sedated.

Maybe it was because I was sitting on her head?

When I pulled the car up to the front of the store, there were about 9 teenagers sitting out front. They were all talking and texting, and whatnot, but as soon as they saw me they stopped and stared at me.

I started to feel nervous.

I don’t know why.

I guess it was because it felt like high school all over again. Except in high school I was cute.

And 20 pounds lighter.

And blissfully oblivious.

I got out of the car and felt the warmth of their eyes on me. Zoey was being wild and wanted to jump out and get some candy too. So I had to corral her back into the car with all the awkward clumsiness I could muster. I used my ass as a shield, and nearly closed her face in the door.

I could tell those pesky kids were laughing at me. Not only did I look like an idiot, but I was dressed like an idiot too.

I didn’t realize when I left the house, because all I could think about was pretzel M&Ms, but I was wearing my patent leather, neon yellow  running shoes, frumpy shorts with chicken fat stains, and an off the shoulder tee shirt that said, “I’m wheezy” with a picture of an inhaler, and it partially revealed my nursing bra that looks like it has the power to wrangle even a gorilla’s mammaries.

I had to walk straight though the crowd to get to the door of Cee Vee’s.

Gulp.

*Here I go*

I didn’t realize the power teenagers had over me until that very moment.

I almost got through the crowd, and then told myself, I can do this. I am a strong, confident WOMAN.

It felt like I was walking though one of those human tunnels that people do after you get married or something, but instead of throwing soft and beautiful rose petals, they were throwing me straight into an ambivalent spiral of anxiety.

And then one of them said, “Hi Weezy.”

Crap.

What is it about cocky 16 year-olds that make me feel like I’m in Mr. Tsuda’s algebra class all over again?

And why I’m wearing a dumb shirt with an asthma inhaler on it?

Seriously, I’m usually a very confident and secure human being.

I think it was the combination of low blood sugar and the flood of high school memories that gave those suckers such power over me.

And I can’t believe I was humiliated in front of my own dog.

I think I deserve extra candy for that.

Hudson’s 6 months old.

This is what you looked like when you were 2 months old.

Then 3 months old...

4 months

5 months

...and now you're 6 months old

Your personality is emerging and you’re loving, gentle, curious, and active.

Your giggles warm me.

And your bight blue eyes are astounding.

To celebrate your 6 months of being awesome, we fed you some goop for the first time.

I know is was kind of meh, but food gets a whole lot better tasting, I promise.

Your sister said it best when she said, “Oh, big boy now.”

It’s true, you’re not my tiny, fragile newborn baby anymore. Now you’re sturdy and very aware of the world around you.

Plus, you’re very active and you’re practically crawling now. I’m sorry for not putting you on the ground more. It’s for your own good. Well, it’s really for my own good, but same difference.

Way to go Huddy. Happy 6 months. You’re turning into a pretty awesome human.

The Backwards R

If you have a child, chances (backwards) R that you’ve been to this mega-sized baby mart.

It is the epitome of everything that is wrong with the world.

The minute you step in you’re greeted with the most insane florescent lighting, because apparently all the superfluous plastic baby gear looks better when the light bounces off it and partially blinds you. Even before your pupils are able to properly dilate, you suddenly find yourself face-to-face with a portly woman with a purple smock and adult acne asking you if you need help.

Once you find what you need, you second guess yourself 6 times because they’re are far TOO MANY CHOICES, but before your brain leaks out of your head, Purple Smock is back asking you if you need help, again, because you look like a moron staring blankly at the shelves.  You ask her for her opinion on diaper cream, and she has to radio in 3 co-workers on her walkie-talkie before she tells you she likes the one that her manager told her to sell more of.

You finally make a decision and notice that you’ve left your wadded coupons at home!!

FRICK.

You could have saved $3.23 on that diaper ointment, but then you realize that coupons are for turds who enjoy carrying a fat stack of crumpled papers around with them at all times, and instead you like looking into your bag and seeing order, not chaos, and you think, it’s cool. I’m totally fine with not saving 3.23, because at least my life is more visually attractive.

And before you are able to turn and leave the store, the cashier hands you a fistful of paperwork in the form of 3 receipts and a coupon booklet.

And you think, you know where you can stick your coupon booklet, and then you envision throwing the papers back in her face.

HA. That will show her!

But instead you polietly take them and shove them into your once visually attractive bag.

Maybe you know the store I’m referring to?

Well. I hate it.

From now on I’m going to patron stores with creativity and integrity. Stores that are mindful of their shoppers, and don’t try to assail them with coupons and marketing tactics.

But since there are no baby stores in Orange County like that, (except for milkalicious),

I’ll be shopping on Amazon.

Peace out Backwards R. We are offically over.

First Family Vacation

Where the heck have you been, Beckey? You might ask yourself.

Or you might be like, what? You went somewhere? Who the hell cares. What I want to know is how long is a hippo’s gestation? Can I find that here?

No, you can’t find that here.  But I have photos of our fantastic road trip where we traveled up and back down the California Coast.

It’s just as facinating, I promise. Or…it’s like those boooring family slide shows you were forced into watching when you were a youngster…you decide:

Here we are driving. There was a lot of that.

We visited San Luis Obisbo to watch my coolest bro-in-law graduate, then headed up to San Francisco.

Golden Gate Bridge

Then we went to Monterey.

Monterey Bay Aquarium

Carmel-by-the-Sea:

And took Highway 1:

Isn’t it beautiful?

Then, we went to Solvang and tasted wine…

Even Hudson got to taste some wine.  Everyone’s a winner!

There was an overarching theme to our trip. It was Bad Mood Berlyn.

Girlfriend was moody.

Here's Moody Berlyn at the quaint French cafe in the Ferry Building in San Francisco.

Moody Berlyn walking down the Embarcadero in S.F.

Moody Berlyn in our hotel room.

Moody Berlyn on a couch looking at a table of flames.

We then realized the cure to her bad mood was in the form of bacon, ice cream, lolly pops and wine.*

She perked right up.

At a breakfast spot in Solvang.

Eating ice cream while it was freezing outside at Ghirardelli Square in S.F.

Getting sauced at the Saarloos Winery/Enjoy Cupcakes bakery in Los Olivos.

*No, we didn’t really give her wine. I thought it would be fine, but Pat wouldn’t let me. He’s such a party pooper. Lame.

Sausalito

And that, my friends, was our family vacation.

Last week in photos

Here’s some stuff we’ve been up to.

We demo’ed the side yard.

I helped.

If you consider standing inside, watching from a safe distance helpful, then yes, I helped.

But we can’t take out that lattice behind Pat yet, because a mommy and a daddy mourning dove have built their nest there.

And they laid eggs.

Twice.

Yeah, as soon as we thought the coast was clear and they all flew the coup, they came back the next day and started laying more eggs.

Apparently momma bird thinks the world needs more mourning doves.

Except momma is kinda of a klutz, because she dropped one of her eggs.

Meanwhile, Hudson had a fever for 9 days.

And I pulled all my hair out and went to the doctor’s office just about every day.

But he didn’t seem too bothered by it.

Berlyn had a giant booger.

And in my opinion, the best part about last week was finding these suckers:

Nope, they’re not girl scout Somoas, they’re Keebler.

So now I don’t have to wait around for a 5 year old with a superiority complex.

I can eat them anytime I want.

But if I eat too many, it’ll give me an excuse to run in my brilliant new patent yellow trainers.

Zowie! They’re bright.

And that was my week.

My new cozy pants

Hi. My name is Beckey, and I’m addicted to comfy pants. It’s been three days since I last wore comfy pants in public.

Hi, Beckey

Here’s the thing: pants with a supportive elastic waistband are just plain comfortable. And they hold in my mom belly in nicely. I don’t have to worry about that tube of flexy skin wibbling about, waiving to my grocer and whatnot while I’m bending over to grab a gallon of milk.

What is that?

Seriously.

My belly stretches and gets huge for 9 months, then I pop out a baby, and the thanks I receive is a smooshie, mushy middle?

In order for me to feel normal, I need to holster my lady love. It needs to be tightly coddled inside the confines of my yoga pants for me to feel less jiggly and more free to experience the world.

It’s like those artfully shot tampon commercials; where they’re riding a horse on the Hawaiian shoreline. Or when the women start twirling around for no good reason.

Because they can.

In my mind, in order for me to twirl carelessly or ride into the sunset on a horse, I need to be snapped into place by my yoga pants.

They’re like spanx for my midsection.

Sound effect: WHAPPACCHHH!

But I want to look less schleppy.

Conundrum.

**Thinking face

I don’t want to look like I’ve just come from a cycling class at the gym everyday.

Because I haven’t been to the gym in two years.

I don’t even know where the gym is anymore.

So, here’s what:

I’m gonna wear jeans.

When I’m running errands.

Maybe looking nicer will convince me to work out every once in a while.

I donno.

I’m hoping for a domino effect.

Jeans!

Everyday!

It’s going to feel weird at first. What with all that starchy fabric poking at my belly. But maybe I’ll get used to it.

It will be like when I got used to thong underwear.

At first a string going up my ass crack drove me crazy, now it’s like, meh, whatever.

I’m hoping in a few weeks jeans will be like my new cozy pants.

Or I can just get these:

Pajama jeans!

Cozy pants that look like jeans!

It’s brilliant.

Yo Soy Enferma

What adult gets fevers?

I thought fevers were only for babies and old fragile women with bone loss and a penchant for whacking people with their walking stick. I’m pretty sure it has something to do with their inferior DNA.

My DNA, on the other hand, kicks mahja ass. It’s all, I never get sick, go on try me.

See that crusty band-aid on the playground? I’ll eat that as an afternoon snack.

That hospital door knob? (lick::lick::lick)

Elevator buttons? I’ll press them all and then rub my fingers all over my face.

That’s just how awesome my immune system is. I’d like to attribute my supersonic health to all the hours I logged in at day care centers as a child, eating mud and licking other kid’s sandwiches.

But then something strange happened this week, I felt all hot, then cold, then hot, then cold, then OH MY GAWD! GET THESE CLOTHES OFF MEEE! Are there tiny heaters inside my pants? What the hell is going on?! Why am I all clammy? Why is the floor wobbly? Why is everyone talking so loud? Why are my pants still on? Are my boobs sweating?

In other words: I got sick.

Turns out, I don’t do ‘sick’ well. I’m all crabby, and cranky, and then there’s all my kids I still have to take care of.

All two of them.

But why does it feel like I have 12 when I’m sick? Thankfully my husband took care of Berlyn, we even shipped her off to her grandparent’s house twice.

Stay-at-home-moms aren’t allowed to get sick.

We don’t get time off so we can just lay around and watch the Montel Williams show all day and stew in our own sick-stink.

I remember when I was in grade school and I would get sick, my mom still had to work, so she’d drop me off at her BFF, Rosemary’s house. Rosemary had much older kids, and they didn’t live with her, so there were never any toys, or fruit snacks, or Judy Blume books at her house. Just a lot of fake plants and an old pin ball machine that didn’t work. All there was to do was lay on the couch and stare at their tiny T.V.

It was there I learned about daytime television: Jerry Springer and Ricki Lake, Judge Judy and telenovelas.

That’s a lot of bitch-slapping for an 8-year-old to handle.

Although it was a good vocabulary lesson. I learned what the words paternity test, transsexual, and nudist colony meant.

As an adult, when I get sick, I’m nostalgic for a time when I can just curl up on the couch with a blanket, a bowl of soup, and some vulgar television. But that’s not the case anymore. My household doesn’t stop needing me. I still have to keep on mommying.

I love my job; please don’t think I’m complaining (well, I am a little bit). There are so many awesome things about being a mom that make up for this. It’s just that being sick is a giant inconvenience.

And it’s something I became painfully aware of as I was stirring my own homemade chicken soup.

I made myself chicken soup, while I had a 103 degree fever.

I’m almost positive my sweat droplets made it’s way into the soup.

My husband later asked, “what’s that flavor? I can’t quite put my finger on it. Is it cumin?”

It’s human sweat.

“Oh.”

::pause::

“It really is quite delicious.”

My ears are cold.

I think something might be wrong with me.

Why?

Because my ears get really cold when a draft rushes past them, and then they start to sting and cause my brain to hurt.

Here are times this has happened:

• While riding a bike
• When I’m jogging
• When it’s windy
• When I’m on the Dumbo ride at Disneyland and the temperature is less than 72 degrees fahrenheit.
• And when I’m streaking past your mamma’s house at 2 a.m.

I’ve never talked to a doctor about it, but I’m pretty sure it’s my body’s way of making sure my brain doesn’t leak out of my ears when the wind kicks up. Because wind can totally blow the brains out of some one’s ears if it’s strong enough. I saw it once on a Youtube video, and Youtube videos don’t lie.

But instead of running indoors where the wind can’t get my precious brain, I hide my ears under various pieces of clothing.

Most times I look quite fetching, wouldn’t you agree?

um, yikes. I look freaky. But at least my ears are safe and warm.

Olivia Newton John video? Nope, just chilly ears.

You’d think I’d get smart and buy myself a pair of ear muffs.

But I can’t commit, because I haven’t seen any that I really like.

Until I saw these bad boys:

Man, I’ll bet her ears never get cold, and her brain stays in her head, right where it belongs.

The end of an era.

I think I’m done having babies. At least that’s what I keep telling my lady parts.

I’m all, “Listen here ovaries, fallopian tubes, and you too uterus! No more babies, ya hear?”

Don’t you wish it was that easy? Then you wouldn’t have to worry about your sheets smelling like a condom or those beastly birth control mood swings.

You know what I’m talking about ladies, those crazy fits of rage where you flip over the table, stand on the rubble, and then do a lewd hand gesture to your neighbor out the window as he walks his dog. And then seconds later you let out a meek, “sorry”, and nonchalantly shrug your shoulders to your husband, as if to say, What? Now who’s gonna clean this mess and apologize to Mr Sheldon?

Yeah, I’m not so down with that.

Yoo-hoo! Hello?

Back to me being done having babies.

Hudson is such a precious little nugget, that I’m cherishing every part of his baby-ness, because I know it’s the last time.

He’s been sleeping beside me in a co-sleeper since he was born.

You know, those crib thingies that attach to your bed? So you can caress their soft head while they sleep, OR jostle them rigidly while you’re half awake to make sure they’re still breathing?

Ya, those things.

This is what they look like:

I’m sorry, let me rephrase that. This is what they look like if you’re incredibly hip, and modern, and you live in Tokyo, or some awesome Scandinavian town. Mine just looks like this:

About two months ago (when he was 3 months old), I did his night time routine and laid him down in his co-sleeper, and he usually rolls over and goes right to sleep as if to say, okay mama see ya on the flip side. Which really means, see ya in 6.5 hours where I’ll desperately cry out for some leche, then fall asleep half way through the feeding and leave your left boob all lopsided. SUCKA!

But this night was different. He cried.

A lot.

And after trying many things, I stuck him in his crib. In his room. Really, really far down the hall. Which is at least 20 steps away.

He fell right asleep.

But when it was time for me to go to bed, I grabbed him out of his crib and stuck him back into his co-sleeper, next to me. Who’s the sucka now, huh Hudson?

All was fine for a few weeks, then he cried out again. And again. So finally I acquiesced, and let him sleep in his crib all night.

What kind of baby tells you he’s ready to sleep in his own room?

A crazy baby named Hudson, that’s who.

That night was fun. I paced the halls, stared at his video monitor, and contemplated laying with him in his crib.

It’s been a few weeks, and he’s doing swell in his own room. But his co-sleeper is still attached to my bed.

It’s empty, waiting for him to come back.

But he’s not going to.

It’s kinda sad, really.

But it’s not totally empty. It’s become my new night stand. Because the co-sleeper blocks my actual night stand. So I have my chapstick in there, my mouthguard, my bottle of water, my monitor. I think I might even stick one of Berlyn’s dolls in there to make me feel less weird about this whole thing.

Because putting a fake baby in the co-sleeper would make the whole thing less weird.