I need a haircut

and an extra set of hands, an assistant, a spell checker, a car, one million dollars or five, HBO, a dishwasher, a chef, a spa, and a drink.
I have been seeking balance as of late and trying to find time to breathe. The bubble bath aint cuttin it. Ideas?

month 4

You, my love are now 4 months old and counting. Today you realized that Olive is a live cat not just a stuffy. You tugged on her tail and laughed loudly when she ran away in complete terror. Now she keeps her distance and leaves rooms upon your entry. Maybe we need a dog to save the tortured cat.
Most nights you fight sleep with the whole of you. It is a game we keep playing and you keep loosing, eventually. You have your first cold and you swim right through it, nothing can stop you. Your scooting across the floor is quickly becoming a crawl but you want to stand, you have to stand, you need to stand. Yaya bought you an excersaucer which we kindly refer to as your desk. You, our boss, now have a desk in which you can spin, sit, stand, and dictate. I never thought I would want or need an excersaucer so badly.
We listen to the Rushmore soundtrack and Billy Bragg, you laugh and raise your arms in complete excitement. It’s your favorite time of the day. Yesterday we went shopping and you smiled outrageously at each and every stranger we came by. Truthfully it kind of scared me. I hate strangers, I don’t make random conversation with others, I never really thought I could, but now I have to. You have so much to say.
I have started working from home. All hours we sit, you on my lap, typing one-handed, me hoping for naptime to meet the deadline. You reach for the keys and add your input, “;khjpmpe0g0”. It is adorable and hard to erase because you typed it.
The rain has started so our walks are hesitant. You refuse sleep in the daytime without such so around the apartment we walk, you in the snugli, I with my coffee. It’s kind of the same.
Constantly in motion, curious and busy we are. And so it goes my love, so it goes.

Bart says my infinity for the elderly is cause for concern. He rented some old Hitchcock flick and when I protested, he said “But it’s old Noelle. You love old. You even love old people and no one loves old people, not even other old people”. And you know what? He’s right.

The Fussbudget Month 2

I’ve found my new writing hour to you my sweet. Early when the birds rise and no one is yet alive. In silence I sit. Coffee black and warm. In front of our window I sit and watch the words bounce off of me and spill into your legacy. The telling of you. Welcome to your second month, almost third.

We’ve terrorized you. You screamed. She put four tiny holes in you and you yelped, I cried. How could we justify the hurt? We walked it off in the NW of your Portland and took you home. 10 pounds 4 ounces and by noon you were happy as hell despite my shaken heart. You forgot the ache but I squirm at the mention of the next 4.

I find the Professor in you is alive and well. You voice your concern on the tip of every NPR topic. You look, serious and under whelmed and then you laugh hysterically. I struggle to keep up and I sense that your relationship with Henry the elephant far outweighs ours intellectually for which I am envious (Jealous of a stuffed elephant much? Yes!). You’ve discovered your throat and you scream. I come running and you want nothing more than my laugh. Your smile is wide and is never fails to take breath. Vaccine Shmackcine, and we revolve.

You throw up your arms and coo. The revolution is here and you are ready to fight. We dance every day. You pull yourself up and rollover and still you decline the Baby Bach. The Mozart suits you and the White Stripes excite you, but Chris Isaac has your heart. If it’s possible, I think you might have your first crush.

You take bath time very seriously. In the water you explode with bits of laughter and I know that one day, some day I will have to forcibly remove you from it.

I resigned from my job in order to stay home with you, for you. On the couch we sat, your Dad asked you if I should go to work on Monday and you frowned. I asked you if you’d like to play Foot phone ABC and you squeled with delight. Did, dead, done, I resigned.

You met Liam. You looked over him in question. I can’t wait to see you realize him.

Each day, every day, in awe we sit. Revoloution.
Love, Mom

The backyard of my youth was in the heart of North Portland. Green and large with life, boxed in, hidden. It housed my father’s woodshop, a boat, a wild cocker, and the garden. The garden that my father fenced in post by post and seeded. Each section divided in order that the proper amount of light and moist would touch down.
It was a masterpiece.
He built a corner entirely devoted to the sun complete with two benches engraved each with his daughter’s names,
mine misspelled.
He and my mother would spend entire weekends in the yard, deep in dirt, talking and laughing along to the radio
blaring classic rock.
I remember that yard so clearly.
I remember its beginning without an end.
I remember the shorts my dad wore, and my mother’s torn Oregon Zoo tank top. My dad’s huge flip flops and my sister running around bare… and me
in the sun trying to construct a time machine out of a cardboard box, desperately trying to find my way out.
Mostly though, I remember my name carved, Noel.

Sophia
You are one month plus some old. You are Fussbudget, and Soapie to some. You are your father’s Frog, and your mommy’s Bird. You are the purpose and meaning of our being, our Professor.
Every day I fear that your head might pop off. I fear that in sleep you will drift and drop off your dream’s edge. And already my dear, I fear, you are growing too fast.
You have begun the mold of your smile. You grin. You wink in glee and your lips puck at the seams. Occasionally you look like our own miniature version of Walter Matthau, the grumpy old man version.
You have so much to say and I wait in tense anticipation for your first words knowing full well that they, like you, will be brilliant and breathtaking. You move your lips with mine and stick out your tongue to push the words along. Surely your first word will be a sentence and somewhere in that sentence the word boob will fall.
You sleep often, and you dream. You wave your fists and mumble. You smile sweetly and laugh. I try to wake you but it only serves to disturb your splendor, so despite the books read, and advice spewed I sit quietly and watch you.
We dance every day, you and I. You prefer Chris Isaac over Baby Bach and Ella over Billie. You are of Bart and I though, so tastes will surely change, but talk radio will remain.
You are every reason I will ever have to breathe. You are my greatest success, my heart, and my world.
I love you.
Mom

Sophia Jane

aka FussBucket, Soapie, Professor, Frog, BIRD.

Good Great Friday

It’s good Friday or as Katie Couric would have it, “Great Friday”. I am awake every morning, wide awake at 7 AM. I have taken to a routine whereby I check in with the Today show for the date and day. (today for example, is Friday, FYI.) Then I check my email, read my blogs, and the NYT. Then, excitedly I stare at my book with the TV on mute because actual reading now has become complicated and only reminds me of freedom. This whole time mind you I am anxious for 10 AM to turn on NPR and listen to Talk Nation. Once Talk Nation and Fresh Air wrap up I am back where I started, in bed, staring at the wall. Such is my lot, but it won’t be long now and next week I am quite busy with 4 doctor visits and a Dateline special on Sunday featuring Mike J Fox…quite busy. Maybe today I will mix it up and make it a Great Friday… Maybe I’ll put on a movie or play Solitaire, who knows…it’s my oyster.

Bed rest is for bitches.

I am of the 8th percentile of women sent to bed for the remainder of pregnancy. It seems that possibly, just possibly all women aren’t meant to carry little human beings in them while working forty-fifty hours and trying to make time for rest. In fact it seems that rest should be the priority when taking on this task. In my rush and worry to keep up with my job’s expectations and secure a financial standing beyond that of a single 20 something I overdid it and like a child I have been sent to my room and punished with unpaid leave. I have to lie down and drink quarts and quarts of liquid. I am allowed to get up to pee, thank God but baths are still strongly suggested as a shower would just be too strenuous. The car rides between home and the hospital have become adventures in themselves. I get to go outside. I get to see people other than Bart and my Mom. Yesterday I had a Dutch Brother’s coffee and it quickly became the highlight of my week. I suppose for now I will cross my fingers and hope for the best and learn to knit. Even the fucking slipknot is complicated. Whoever said this is easy was not in my lucky top 8. I’m BORED.

John Tesh is my Life Coach

As of late I turn to soft rock, ice chips, and my cat for company. I am the size of a mountain and have the attention span of Robin Williams. It is like a binge. A huge retardation of what is supposed to be a beautiful experience. Beauty does not suffice. Rather, it is earpopping and disastrous. I am clumbsier than before and can not concentrate. I am a hippo without a head, a heart without a brain. And I cry a lot.
However, there is good in this news. All is not lost.
John Tesh is on the radio. 5 days a week he entertains my newly found simplicity. I laugh outloud and heartedly take in his "Intelligence for your Life" advice.
Did you know that if you take 5 fewer bites of each meal, you will lose 5 pounds...in time? John Tesh taught me that. He's like Jesus, only taller.

Always a step behind and a day ahead

I am so not cool. I’ve always known this and have been for the majority of my life content with it. I’ve never really had to defend it or call notice to it before. It’s allowed me to dress myself cheaply and by my own code. I can laugh at the jokes I think are funny and I am surrounded by friends like I am music, full heartedly or not at all. That’s why the accusation that I am a hipster was so alarming. Offensive yes, but more so surprising. If I am how do you say, ‘hip’, what the fuck have I been doing alone in my room for the majority of my life. It’s certainly not hip to paint stupid pictures and watch The Cutting Edge night after night, or is it? Classification is by accident a majority of the time and more often then not, ill-intended. Come May, I suppose I will look back at this stranger’s stupidity in envy. Once Mom becomes my title, no one, not even an emo-clad moron will have room to comment.

A New Year

Her name will be Sophia Jane. She will have my nose and wear it proudly despite Bob Hope references. She will play a million instruments, learn a million different languages, and then forget them because that’s what children do when they become whole. They take the bits and pieces and save the ones worth saving to remain whole. She will rebel or maybe not at all. I never saw cause for rebellion, I was born free. Although I did seek it. She will know the difference between wrong and right and will fight to the death to render them. Fingers crossed she will be healthy and happy all of her days. She will fall in love and out of love. One day, some day, a fool will break her heart and turn her tears into gold. She will be a million times better than her mom and pop at everything and will never cease to amaze. She will be a Sophia Jane, a wise girl in a new world. Here’s to the New Year and all the promise it really does bring

Because the Mafia is/was a Beautiful Thing

I went to bed alone and woke up alongside the Spartan. The very same Spartan who showed up just to cook me breakfast, the one I thought I could/would never miss. The Mister whose ego when in the same room with my own can control electrical devices and possibly, the tides. And it didn’t scare me, it revived me. It wasn’t alarming, it was refreshing. The winds have shifted and I can’t blame it on hormones this time. This time, he’s right; this mafia is a beautiful thing. We have a beautiful thing.

Ten fingers, Ten tows, and a button nose...

Girls rule Boys drool and I can see now why it tis called a miracle. To watch a baby swim around in a haze of black and white that is your own stomach is quite the thrill. I have pictures. I have hope. I have a Sophia Jane. Healthy, happy, one pound. And I can truly say that this is the happiest I have ever been in the whole of my life. The Sox winning the series, my first love, sourdough toast, while wonderful, have not a tenth of the joy she brings.

THE HE SHE OF IT ALL

I am making Christmas cards, in battle with a glue stick, and excited for tomorrow’s news. Yes, tomorrow donkeys I will find out if I have a Jack or a Sophia Jane. The surge for such knowledge has dominated me entirely. First comes fear, than excitement, followed by fear, and excitement again. If you’re placing bets on this one, call em off. I have tried my ass off to determine if Professor is a he or a she with no end. The pictorial debut and a happy healthy baby, fingers crossed.

Flesh and Blood needs Flesh and blood

I am stubborn. Really stubborn. I make a decision regardless of its weight and stick by it despite the ruins. I am not one to compromise or reason with. Winter is my favorite time of the year because the cold suits me. I am wrong a lot. I say mean wretched things and I displace praise. I can hold my own and have always been to proud admit otherwise. In other words, I don’t need nobody.
So when a somebody comes along and offers laundry, eggs scrambled (the only way I’ll eat them), coffee, fresh and dark (the only way I’ll drink it), and quiet, witty conversation (the way I prefer it) I am quick to decline it. So begins the discourse. First, I pick at it. I seek out indiscretions, mistakes, liabilities. I slowly and surely devour it. It is destructed and I, again, am alone. Because I don’t need nobody.
Or maybe I do.
Maybe, just maybe I can learn to live with the spoils of someone else. Maybe my pride can step down. Maybe it has to this time. Maybe I’ve no choice in the matter. Maybe it’s beyond me. Maybe Johnny Cash was right, “Flesh and blood needs flesh and blood, and you’re the one I need.”

Armstrong

I live above the Homestar. A very trendy coffee shop for all the very trendy middle age folks who like soy milk, over priced retro furniture, and apparently Lance Armstrong a little too much. This morning I woke up as I do on Saturday mornings, early. Saturday being my only early shift and my Friday to boot, I usually have to hit snooze until I hear a bus go by and realize that it might have been mine. This morning, however, I awoke to screaming cyclists instead. 6:30 in the am. I tossed, I turned. It was worse then the bar traffic come closing time next door. It was coffee shop, ass early, trendy cyclists traffic. Forced out of bed two hours before my actual alarm, I was intrigued and pissed. What kind of party are these people having? Is exercise really a cause to celebrate? Has the mid life crisis really come to this?
When I went downstairs it was yellow. Children, Women, Men, all in yellow watching the tour. Weird coffee guy Paul had set up a television set and had his Lance Armstrong bracelet on. It was LA mania. Maddening, but a bit amusing, so I stayed awhile. I read the paper for the most part but found my eyes creeping up whenever they cheered. I am in general a bit of a sport's enthusiast and can appreciate the typical Gatorade commercial, but these people were over the top. One guy had sharpie markered his bald head in block letters to read, ARMSTRONG. A very trendy 30 something had her hair in ribbons, one read, arm, the one read, strong. All of this I thought, all of this before 8 on a Saturday morning. Shit. I am in my twenties and I don't get this pumped about anything, not even in decent hours. It was as if Lance Armstrong gave these people some sort of hope. Some union. Some reason to be happy. And it wasn't as depressing as I originally made it out to be. It was kind of sweet actually.
As I looked around at the LL Bean clad mother, the fanny pack guys, and the J Crew singles I realized that maybe there is more to it than soy milk and Eddie Bauer, maybe the midlife yuppie knows something I don't. I mean hell, they were all genuinely happy right there and then. Maybe I need a Lance Armstrong, a belief, a faith of sorts. Or maybe, I need a thicker floor and a spine. Who's to say. I just know that a yellow jersey and spandex now represents a whole new facet in the midage bracket of my mind, one I enjoy watching, but fear returning to.