Thoughts I have after watching a particularly dark and moody independent film, (that in no way referenced cats eating their owners at all, but the super morose film churned up enough vile thoughts within me that it ultimately led to this oddly shaped blog post), because I was bored last night, because my husband went to watch The Avengers with his BFF and I almost rented New Year’s Eve, but I wanted to be considered less vapid in the eyes of my mate, who would unavoidably judge me when he got home.

I googled cat eating their owner today.

Not because I have a specific fear of a cat eating me, but because I read about it in a book. The author casually mentioned that if an owner of a cat dies, the cat will eventually get hungry and eat their person, and I had to find out if it was true.

And it is.

And now I am.

–afraid of being eaten by a cat, that is.

But I don’t live with any cats.

I live with a mouth-breathing pug that licks the upholstery, and the air, if she or someone in the room just farted, and her personal favorite, your shin if you’re not careful. And apparently dogs will eat you too. They might wait a little longer, because they actually have a heart, but eventually they might start to nibble at you.

I also live with 3, soon to be 4 other human beings. So the likelihood of me dying in my home and no one discovering me for such an elapsed amount of time that my dog starts to eat me is about as probable as me discovering that I have a conjoined twin. In my armpit. Who’s name is Dottie. And works as a telemarketer. And enjoys Corn Nuts, the BBQ flavored ones.

Nonetheless, the fear has been evoked.

I mean, can you imagine? First of all you’re dead, but you’ve probably died in some noble way, like giving money to an online charity to help people build water wells in Africa, and then your brain literally explodes with the sheer joy of picturing all the lives you are going to change with one small tap of your cursor. ::Click:: And that’s when you fall to the floor, smiling of course.

And then your obese pug waddles over sniffs your hair, and then starts to eat at your nose.

I’d like to think my dog is considerate enough to lay with me for a while and mourn my passing, Perhaps lick my shin for an unrefined, even by her standards, amount of time.

Actually I would not like to think of it at all, because this topic is entirely too morbid, and terribly vulgar. But it’s too late, I’ve already dug it up, shaken it around, and let it fall all over myself.

So my next logical step in this morbid conundrum is to teach my dog to fend for herself, should the need arise.

From now on, I’m going to start keeping a box of Cheez-Its low enough in the pantry that she can just open the pantry door, knock the box off the shelf, eat away at the box, rip open the plastic bag, then she could possibly live for enough time to not eat me. That’s actually asking for a lot, especially for my less-than-intelligent dog, but maybe my death will cause her to rise above her shortcomings and persevere. It would be like her very own made for TV movie, Watch as one courageous pug that lost it all begins to build her life back together one Cheez-It at at time. 

I’d watch that.

But if she absolutely had to eat me, I’d prefer that she start on my toes, and work her way up. I mean, it’s bad enough to die in your home and to have no one notice, but then you add the extra level of embarrassment because now your dog is feasting on your face, and you might as well be dead.

Oh, wait.

Sooooo, in conclusion, I think I’ll stick with anencephalic films next time. They’re way more my speed.

As if it were food.

We let them chew it.

Listen.

Taste it.

Inhale it.

Because we want them to sing triumphantly. Loudly and boldly. We want them to dance without boundaries. We want them to appreciate melodies and instruments, the subtle falsetto of a voice, and the way music makes your body sway without you knowing. It just rocks you from side to side, or your head nods gently, as if it were agreeing to the lyrics. So we celebrate that in our home. It’s always spilling out of our windows, out of our hearts, and out of our mouths.

Lately we’ve been listening to French music. I’d like to sit here and wax on about how we chose to listen to French music because we are such an elevated family. Because we are cultured, creative, and always searching for new ways to express ourselves. Because everything sounds better in the French language, and that’s actually true. Pat and I went to Paris for our honeymoon, and we heard it spoken all day, it poured into our ears, but it could never make it’s way out of our mouths. We would hear homeless people cussing at each other in the subway, and I’d think, now that’s a beautiful language. The phrase, “Your mom is a worthless whore,” inspired me on that trip to write tragically embarrassing poetry and take black and white 35 mm pictures of Parisian children on a merry-go-round in a very non creepy way. But that’s not why we chose French music to fill our house. The truth stems from my children still being massively addicted to the Cars movie franchise. Disney is their drug, and I am their busted up dealer. My eyes puffy and swollen with lack of sleep and my judgment impaired because the movie promises 90 minutes of peace and quiet to fall over my children. I give in because it’s easy. Easy to push play and relax outside on our patio and pretend I’m somewhere far away where animated cars who have to use the bathroom don’t exist.

So there’s this scene in the Cars 2 movie where they fly to Paris and this adorable little French songs comes on and it’s so perfect and Berlyn and I have practically mastered all the words in it, except for not at all because we know absolutely no French. “sha sha a mor parfume.” That’s as close as we can get to the language. And it suits us because we still feel tres magnifique.

Although I almost have a physical reaction to the mere mention of the Cars movies, this song helped widen our musical expanse. And next I think we’ll start start on Bollywood music. Jai ho!

And speaking of French things, I thought that I would try my hand at making French macarons this weekend for Mother’s Day. I had visions of me presenting perfectly airy pink cookies with a chocolatly middle to my mom and she would inevitably swoon and her hand would fly up to her mouth as she’d swear I bought them at an authentic patisserie. But hard cold reality set in and my cookies were chewy instead of airy, they were flat instead of poufy, and I was mildly ashamed to give them as gifts, but I did any way, because they were still the fanciest cookies I have ever made, and on some strange level I was proud of myself.

And then it was Mother’s Day which was festive and light and made my heart swell up like a giant balloon because all day Berlyn would find herself saying, “Mommy I love you.” and “Mommy,  you’re so beautiful.” And then it would ignite Hudson to chime in and say, “I love mommy too!” as if it were a competition. It’s not. But if it were, everyday a different victor would emerge. Because sometimes Berlyn says, “I love you, but not when I get in trouble.” Because their love for me right now is conditional upon how many treats I let them eat or how long they have to sit in time out, but my love for them never ends. Ever.

And I heard someone once say that having children is like having your beating, pumping heart walk around outside of your body; vulnerable to everything. And it’s true because most of the time all I want to do is wrap my arms all the way around them, squeeze tightly, and never let go.

Yesterday I went to Fox 5 News Studio in San Diego to model some fantastic hair extensions by Hot Heads for hair stylist extraordinaire, Tera Rae Stephens. I’ve never been to a News Studio before, and I was entirely wide eyed and fascinated by everything. 

Everything.

The green room was bustling with military wives getting make-overs, varicose vein doctors giving impromptu consultations, and us, with our lushious long hair.

When we walked into the studio I was like woooooaah, and oooohhh and cooooool. Because I’ve have never been in a studio before, and it was pretty darn neat.

 So naturally I took all the blurry photos I could manage.

If you want to watch the segment here’s the link.

Which ultimatly left you hanging.

Which is fine for most of you, because the thought about me divulging information about my uterus makes you want to cut your eyeballs out a little bit. And I totally get that, especially because I’m friends with about 80 pregnant women right now on Facebook, and if I have to hear another update about how tight their pants are getting, or how many bowls of ice cream they’ve consumed in the past 12 hours, or how many times their fetus has kicked them in their pee-pee bags, I’m going to hand deliver those babies myself right here, right now. Seriously.

But for those who are fascinated with the exciting world of pregnancy, I’ll fill you in with my business.

I’m feeling surprising well most of the time. If you don’t count the constant fatigue, and the night time nausea, I feel fantastic.

I’ve gained 7 pounds already and I’m only 11 weeks pregnant. Which means I’m gonna be a chubby and happy pregnant lady. I usually eat a vegan diet, but lately I’ve been craving cheddar cheese, cottage cheese, and MEAT! (Duh! That’s where the 7 lbs came from).

I have a pooch. It looks like I have a ripe beer belly. My pants still fit, but my baby gut hangs over sides and wiggles and jiggles. Apparently when you’ve done this twice before, you baby making parts have no problem remembering exactly what they’re supposed to do, and the pooch appears much sooner. Yay!

I’m due on Thanksgiving (please, hold your applause).

Which means if I play this sucker right, I’ll get numerous days of Thanksgiving leftovers delivered to my door.

Although, if my memory serves…

((FLASH BACK)) Queue the wavy lights and the eerie music.

It was December 24, 2009, I had just birthed Hudson 3 days earlier, and I was hosting Christmas Eve dinner at my house. Turkey, cornish game hens, and mounds of mashed potatoes decorated the table. I think I had even lactated in the brussels sprouts and no one seem to mind. It was a joyous time. The family got to see a tiny baby, and I got to eat like a king in the comfort of my home, in the comfort of my own elastic paneled sweatpants. It was an ambitious undertaking, yes, especially when you considered the freakish control nut I become in the kitchen. But I have to be; when my mom wants to add water to the gravy, I need to be present to slap her wrist and offer milk her instead.

We ate, then everybody said their goodbyes and left.

Christmas morning came, and we celebrated as a new family of four.

Then came Christmas evening.

But there weren’t any leftovers to fill our bellies.

The grocery stores had all closed.

No one offered to bring us a meal.

It was bleak, dark time for us. I called my mom crying, and she came to the rescue.

What did she bring us? Was it a bounty of leftovers from the Christmas gathering she just departed from?

No.

Was it a bowl watered down gravy?

No.

It was Jack in the Box.

A chicken fajita pita for me and a hamburger for Pat.

Merry Christmas Brumfields.

So I have to be careful how I play this one. If you want to bring me a meal after this baby is born, you must bring me your Thanksgiving leftovers. Especially your pumpkin pie. I’m not accepting a chicken fajita pita this year. I also love mashed potatoes, but I draw the line at cranberry sauce from the can, you can keep that. Unless it’s homemade, then I’ll take it. I’m sorta luke warm about brussels sprouts, but I love grean beans. And of course, don’t forget the turkey. I think I’ll go back to being vegan when I’m done nursing.

Only I don’t like donuts. And I apparently think that those that do like donuts are back wood Appalachian folks that drop their G’s and order donuts that really don’t exist at all. Not even in Appalachia.

Now brace yourself, because here comes the part in the story that you’re supposed to feel sorry for me, oh the poor girl who doesn’t like donuts. But let me tell you, life not liking donuts was tough. For most, when that pink box appeared, people would become elated, bouncing around claiming things like “Glazed!” or “Sprinkles!” There would be shared hi-fives, and fist pumps. And then there was me, I would solemnly shrug and say something like, is there a bagel in there? No? Okay, I guess I’ll just drink this scrumptious glass of water instead. Mmmmm, water. It’s almost as satisfying as a sugary cake snack that is acceptable to eat first thing in the morning. Truth of it was, donuts made me feel left out. And no one likes feeling left out, even it it means that those involved are going to get diabetes and hypertension.

I want hypertension too!

The reason why I don’t like donuts is unknown. Especially because I love everything about donuts except for the actual consumption of them. I love walking into a donut store, and seeing all the shiny cakes lined up in the cases under the lights. I love the colors and the smells. I love how pretty they are when they’re dripping with glazes or nuts or sprinkles.

I just don’t want to put it in my mouth. I think maybe because they’re too greasy and sugary.

Wait, am I even saying that right now!? Something is too greasy and sugary? Like cookies being too chocolaty and delicious? Ice cream being too creamy and sweet? Brownies being too gooey and moist?

So I thought about it long and hard while everyone was placing their donut order this morning.

I thought, hey, you know what? I think I’ll try one. Maybe a sprinkled one, ya, that sounds nice. Plus this time I’ll actually be included in the donut enthusiasm, and be part of the sugar high and inevitable lethargy that soon follows. Count me IN!!

And so I ate one. A multi-colored sprinkled one. Deep fried and oozing with sugar. The hardened glazed became crushed and fell in sheets of saccharine under the weight of my teeth when I took that first bite. The cake was slightly crisp on the corners but soft and doughy inside. And to my surprise it was light and airy. But it sat heavy in my stomach, and my mouth was coated with its grease. I gave the donut a good hearty try, and I’ve concluded something that I’ve known for many, many years now.

It was true when I was 7, and I’ll say it again now, sick! Donuts are nasty.

The resemblance is uncanny.

But instead we went with Zoey. Mainly because I was leafing through a Jane Magazine  (remember Jane? It was my fave) reading the “You + This Move = Sex Goddess article and I noticed Zooey Deschanel was on the cover, and I thought, hey, that’s a cute name.

BAM. Zoey it is. Her full name being Zoey Zosefenia, but I only call her that when she makes no-no in the house.

Who knew that Zooey Deschanel’s fame would sky rocket? Well it did, and it has inevitably left my dog Zoey with an inferiority complex. I mean how can a dog compete with an ukulele and those adorable thick bangs? She can’t. So what does my pug do? She gets cancer.

Blah.

On Friday, she went in for surgery to have it removed. I was a mess. I sobbed and snotted to the vet as I was dropping her off. It was not one of my finer moments.

Here are her incisions. I thought that flowers would be nicer than scaring you with puffy, red stitches.

When I picked her up, she was loopy and jumpy. But after I fitted her with this jaunty baby tank top, she took a much needed 6 hour nap.

Sweet dreams Zo Zo.

Over the weekend we’ve also been treating her as if she was an invalid. Strolling her around the park and everywhere else we went. It’s bad enough that we have her wearing Hudson’s clothes, but we are also pushing our dog around in a stroller. If she wasn’t recovering from CANCER REMOVAL, I’d be ashamed of myself.

Aside from having to wear baby shirts for the next two weeks, I’d say Chairman Zoey is going to be alright.

Some days I’ll blatantly confess that she’s annoying. I’m not super proud of admitting this, but then again, I’m not super excited about her singing the same refrain from a princess song that her dance class practices to over and over and over again.

And she’s not even getting the words right. She’s all, “A princess inside you will grow, you are the new.”

That doesn’t even make sense.

And then Hudson chimes in, and starts his version, and she yells at him for getting it wrong.

::Pause for irony::

So, Berlyn, you think that the song goes, “you are the new?”

Those types of lyrics might work in an indy folk song, but not in a princess song fit for a 5 year old’s ballet class.

But other times I might admit to her being awesome. And brag non stop about her. Which is really uncomfortable if you are on the receiving end of this. I’m all, “That’s cool that your son is reading Cat in the Hat, that’s a good book. OH! Did I tell you that Berlyn is reading encyclopedias now? She started on X and I think she chose that letter because she’s so creative and not at all consumed with linear thinking…”

Please feel free to hold your hand in the air until I stop. Sooner or later I’ll realize you’re not enjoying what I have to say.

Bragging parents are basically the worst.

And then there’s the times that she surprises me, and I don’t have any idea what to say about her. Like the other day she was playing with her friends and they were having a good time inspecting a snail and picking dandelions.

Later that afternoon, she told me that one of her friends said, “I want to see Berlyn’s mommy’s boobies and flower.”

***

I don’t get many people that say they want to see my boobies and flower, so naturally, as you can imagine, I was stunned.

Er.

Umm.

Ahem.

Well Berlyn, what did you say?

I didn’t say anything.

Good. It’s not nice to talk about other people’s private areas. The next time they talk about that kind of stuff, just leave.

Okay mommy.

And thank you for telling me. You’re a good girl Berlyn.

But really, who am I kidding, asking her to leave right when things get interesting? The minute I hear the word boobies, my ears perk up like a Springer Spaniel, and I plant myself directly in the middle of that conversation.

I mean, who doesn’t want to hear about boobies?

But somehow I trust Berlyn will make the right decision the next time she’s faced in this situation.

Although I think boobs and other inappropriate things are hilariously funny (who doesn’t??). I will protect my children’s innocence ferociously.

As for what to do with this little girl that says she wants to see various parts of my body…I have no idea. Do I tell her mom? Do I advise Berlyn just to stay away from her? Do I sit quietly in my corner, and judgy-judge-judge her?

I’ve made the mistake of bringing something up to a parent before, and the parent just shrugged me off and made me feel like there was something wrong with me, not their child. Parents are weird sometimes. If my daughter was saying those things I’d want to know.

Yesh, when did being a mom get so hard?

There’s always money in the banana stand.

I didn’t bring Zoey, and that felt kind of weird not having her there. It’s like going to a playground without your kid, except no one thought I was creepy. Instead I looked around at the majority of people, and thought, Woah! You people are cray-cray! I saw at least 4 people with baby bjorns, but instead of precious 5 month old human children, they were carrying their DOGS! I always joke with Pat that I’m going to put Zoey in a baby bjorn, and he laughs, as we imagine Zoey being contently carried around in the safety of baby sling, but seriously, we’ve never. Although I have zipped her up in my sweatshirt and carried her around the house, does that count?

Leave it to the Pet Expo to make me feel normal. I mean, these girls are cramming a discontented chihuahua into a purse and and some how, by that small act, I feel more peaceful, because simple is mostly always better. Because here I am, pushing my two year old in a stroller, holding hands with my five year old and munching on some kettle corn. BTW, I apparently have three hands in this scenario, because pushing a stroller, holding hands with my daughter, and eating kettle corn requires three. Whatever. You get the idea. No one is crying or trying to escape a cramped purse, and that’s the stuff that makes my life feel cozy.

But, then there is that thing about my dog having cancer. I guess that’s pretty uncozy.

Zoey’s going in for surgery on Friday to have her tumors removed. I’m feeling a lot of things about it. Mostly scared. I just keep looking into her poo-colored eyes, and holding her jaw in my hands and shaking vigorously it while saying, “I LOVE YOU, YOU DUMB PUG!” I’m nervous that they won’t love her as fiercely as I do, and she needs so much love. That’s what she operates on. Food, eh, water, sure, but love is what keeps that asshole alive. And those people at the vet better not throw her anesthetized body around and treat her as if she was a piece of meat, and they better not kill her on the operating table because if they do, I will blow down their door armed with a oozy and vengeance. You think I’m kidding, Doc? Try me.

And then there’s this nagging sensation that always plagues me. I want to move again. Somewhere far away, because I like to live my life somewhere between imagined and real. Because in that place of middle ground I don’t have to make any real decisions. I can just fetter back and forth, and rock myself into a daze of different. Dreaming of living somewhere else, a thousand miles away from family, loved ones, and my familiar places would only throw my brain into a spiral of sadness and tears. And what sense does that make? So I’ll stay, until I can identify why I want to move so bad. I need to place my finger on it so that it solidifies into an actual thought and not just some whim or ideal picture I’ve painted in my mind of what my life should look like. Because right now my life looks like this:

And it’s good. It’s so good. It reeks of good. So I just need to shut my brain off, tell it NO, and smack it’s proverbial hand. But seriously, could you imagine my brain having hands? It be all, like, hello! I am waving at you (in a French accent, of course).

But with me there’s no mystery fluid, no algebra class, and the embroidered flower imprint is on my forehead.

True story: I almost fell asleep driving home one afternoon. I was coming home from something and I was some place, and some other people were involved. I can’t be bothered with details, but the important facts to know in this story are, I was driving, it was 2:16 in the middle of the day, my children were in the car, and I was sleepily fighting off the urge to drop my head into my chest on the freeway. Um, scary. And now that I think about it, it could have something to do with me listening to Ryan Adams croon his silky lullabies in the car, while I was watching a plastic bag drift listlessly in and out of traffic lanes.

Well whatever it was, a valley girl would have this say about it, um, like freak-kay.

Thankfully we made it home safely and no one died in a flamey car accident of death and destruction.

The reason why I’m super tired is not because I’m staying up late doing awesome things like learning Mandarin or baking a ton of delicious snackable treats (although I should…), it’s not because I have this weird disease, or a pack of worms living in my digestion track that suck the life force from my bowels, and it’s not because I don’t eat enough protein like my mom’s always saying to me, and that’s why I look tired all the time, and would I just eat a steak already?!

It’s because I’m pregnant.

There. I said it. We’re having a baby.

Correction, we’re having another baby. Because we already have TWO crazy kids…

And now we’ll have another one.

It’s like boom, bang, bing.

Three.

And I’m like oookkayy…?

But really I’m like squeeee!!

Because I literally love everything about a squishy puffy baby.

I love to walk around everywhere and have new baby in a sling and swat adoring hands away as if I have some delectable prize hidden in my pouch and everyone wants just one sweet taste.

I love to rock, and sing, and breastfeed.

OH MY GOSH, you guys I LOVE to breastfeed!

I’m going to breastfeed the shit out of this new baby.

You watch. Actually, please don’t watch, because you know, you might get an eye full.

So all in all, I think we’re going to be alright.

It wasn’t planned. And my thinking is that these things never are. It’s God’s perfect plan, and I’m just along for the ride.

We are excited, scared, and super chill about it, all at the same time.

And I had an ultrasound last week and I saw it. He? She? Baby. The important thing was there was one in there, and it waved at me. Well, no it didn’t. But I got to see it’s precious little heart beating, pumping and thriving.  I was a ball of nerves, but after the images flickered on the screen, all I felt was peace and joy.

I know this photo doesn’t look like much it’s all blurry and blobby…but hey, it kinda looks like an Yosemite Sam mustache.

Well great horney toads, we’re having another baby!