Is there any doubt this little guy charmed the entire family silly? 

Sophia concentrates on her third bowl of soup. 

More Soup

It’s a recipe that I made up by accident over a year ago. It’s very simple, really, just two cans of broth, a can of tomatoes, some veggies, veggie crumbles, a little thyme and rosemary, ground black pepper and salt.

I went back to work a month ago, and making the soup is the first calm moment I’ve had since. A lot has happened since I made my last entry. Too much. It’s overwhelming to think about, let alone write about it.

I knew it would be hectic when I got back to work. How could it not be after basking in what I called “baby heaven” for the four months I was on maternity leave? Yes, I was sleep deprived and had cabin fever, complained about the incessant poop and projectile puking, etc., etc. But I realized – even then – that maternity leave was utopia compared to work.

How can an afternoon spent scrutinizing every single line of copy ever contemplated – let alone written – about ice cream compare with spending an afternoon tucked in a rocking chair singing “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star” while absently coaxing a fat, dimpled cheek into blissful sleep?

I think I told my coworkers it was like dozing in a Zen garden for four months and waking up at midnight on New Year’s Eve in Times Square.

The first day I got back, my good friend and writing partner, Meg, told me her dad had an aggressive form of prostate cancer. It didn’t look good, and the prognosis wasn’t clear. He would have to have surgery later that week.

Two days later, I got another shock. My sister-in-law, Martha, had died suddenly in her home. Marty was a Christian Scientist and apparently she’d been suffering from diabetes for some time, though my husband, Chris, and I were unaware of this. We were supposed to see Marty in February, but we had to cancel. She never got to meet Gus.

In the midst of everything, the workload for the client to which I’m assigned increased exponentially. (I write Web advertising copy for an ice cream maker, so this is the busiest time of the year.)

Thus began my last four weeks. I really can’t even begin to write about all the details. Everything little thing seemed revved up by anxiety. At work, a simple status meeting turned into a frenetic, tension-soaked political summit that obliterated the last two days of writing. At home, a spaghetti dinner was brought to a standstill by the sob of a distraught brother.

We attended Martha’s memorial service last weekend, and made some meaningful connections with the family, but everything still felt like it was going a million miles an hour. By Thursday night, an odd sensation crept up on me. I desperately wanted to put on the brakes and just relax, but I was now so used to the pace, the brakes were worn out.

Chris left Friday night to drive to Des Moines to help move Martha’s things into storage. I stayed behind with the babies.

Now normally, 48-hours alone with two kids under the age of two would be stressful for many (just recall the last episode of Supernanny). Everything – feeding, bathing, disciplining, diapering – is all up to you. There are no breaks. No one comes home at 5:30 to save the day so you can at least go to the bathroom by yourself.

But, compared to the last four weeks, the first day was a breeze. There were a few puking incidents on Gus’ part, but Sophia managed to stay clear of the naughty corner all day. (I even got them to take a nap at the same time in the afternoon so I could clean up at least one room in our poor, neglected house.)

Usually, I like to make dinner. A real dinner where fresh veggies are cut and the stove turned on. Where the table is set and everyone sits at it. But it’s hard to make dinner and watch two little kids at the same time. And since Chris was gone, I figured, why bother? Gus certainly wouldn’t miss anything and Sophia would be content with a microwaved veggie burger.

Then, I remembered why I always insist on making dinner in the first place. When I was a kid, whenever my mom made dinner, it made everything OK. I could’ve forgotten my homework, been shunned by kids on the playground at recess and chased all the way home by fat, mean old Ronnie Imhoff. But when I walked in the house and was greeted by the scent of frying onions or baking bread, everything was OK again.

I put Gus in his excersaucer and sat Soph down at the kitchen table with her Elmo coloring book. Then I started sautéing onions. And the stress of the past four weeks began to melt away with the butter in the pan.

A half an hour later, Sophia and I sat down at the table, our bowls brimming. In silence, I watched as she carefully plowed her spoon through the fertile mounds of veggies, turning up a tomato, a kernel of hominy, an onion, then solemnly plopping the entire harvest into her mouth.

It was the most blissful silence I can remember, interrupted only by an occasional “mmm-mmm” and, every mother’s favorite, “more soup.”

Yes, the world may seem like it’s falling apart. Yes, there’s probably more crazy shit that’s going to happen. But I’m thankful that solace can still be found in every precious spoonful of a mother’s home-cooked meal. I’m thankful Sophia reminded me to eat more soup.

Regroup Soup Recipe

1 tbsp. butter or olive oil
1 medium onion, chopped
1 clover garlic, minced
2 cans broth (chicken, veggie or beef)
1 can diced tomatoes, undrained
3 cups veggies (whatever you have in your refrigerator or freezer will do)
1/2 bag veggie crumbles
1 can white hominy
1 tsp. dried rosemary
3/4 tsp. dried thyme
salt and pepper to taste

Saute onion in butter for 5 minutes. Add garlic and saute for another minute or so. Add veggie crumbles and cook for 1 minute. Add broth, tomatoes (with juice) and the rest of the listed ingredients. Simmer on low heat for 15 minutes, until all veggies are cooked. Salt and pepper to taste. Garnish with fresh-grated Parmesan.

Baby Love

Most people usually feel very strongly about Valentine’s Day – you either love it or you hate it. You either declare it a manufactured Hallmark holiday and go on a chocolate martini binge with your best girlfriends, or you casually mark up your favorite pieces of jewelry in the latest Tiffany’s catalog and place it in your lover’s underwear drawer next to the cinnamon-flavored lube.

Yep, your feelings about Valentine’s Day are pretty cut and dry – until you become a parent.

Now, I’m one of those rare people who was always ambivalent about this particular “holiday.” On the one hand, it’s just plain cheesy. It does reek of Hallmark. And on top of that, it always seems to screw up my birthday, which is just four days later.

On the other hand, it totally sucks when everyone at work is getting a cube-full of candy and roses, talking about dinner at Skies and dessert ala Victoria’s Secret, while you sit in a barren cube, starving to death in threadbare underwear you wouldn’t be caught dead in.

So, I was pretty happy if my lover, and eventually my husband, managed to find a middle ground … let’s say a card, home-cooked dinner, and a brand-new bottle of cinnamon lube.

How did this all change when I became a parent? Well, I used to have just one Valentine. Now, I have three. And because I’m so damn busy nursing and potty training and scrubbing away puke and poop and – this week – fighting off the flu, I’ve forgotten all about the stupid made-up holiday. (Hmmm … can you see which way I’m going here?)

Yes, motherhood almost made me take a side – the Valentine’s Grinch! But then, I took a “mommy” time out, grabbed some scrap paper, crayons and water paints (Sophia’s recent Christmas gifts) and went over to the cheesy side after all!

I wrote Daddy a silly little poem from Sophia and Augustus. Then, I decided to write up a little something for Soph and Gus from me. It’s “10 Things I Love About You.” It’s more than plain cheesy. It totally reeks of Hallmark. Hell, it reeks of sappy, untattooed baby books. But if feels so mother-loving … good.

10 Things I Love About Sophia

1. I love the twin dimples just above your shoulder blades.

2. I love how you grunt in frustration when I do something annoying – like tie your shoe or make you pick up your books – and you go along with it anyway.

3. I love your laugh – especially when you scrunch up your entire face and snort.

4. I love how you repeat every word you say twice, particularly the word “milk” when you clearly mean “water.”

5. I love it when you say, “come, come” when you want to be held.

6. I love your crazy squat dance (and, one day, your quads will love it, too).

7. I love it when you “read” to yourself and yell out “noisies!”

8. I love it when you’re all wrapped up in your purple hippo towel smiling and shivering after your “baf.”

9. I love the look in your eyes when you’ve accomplished your latest feat (such as learning the letter H).

10. I love it when you say, “I-You!” (translation: I love you) right before Daddy puts you to bed.

10 Things I Love About Gus

1. I love it when your left dimple appears, because it only appears when your over-the-top happy.

2. I love that you’re the last thing I see before I go to sleep and the first thing I see when I wake up.

3. I love it when you growl at my nipple if something is obstructing it.

4. I love that you’ve smiled from day one, even in your dreams.

5. I love how the teddy bear face on your onesie is so stretched out that his smile reaches around your tummy and to your back.

6. I love that you always want to sit up to see the world.

7. I love that your favorite place to sleep is on my chest.

8. I love that terrible little pout your lips make just before you’re about to cry.

9. I love your curly eyelashes.

10. I love the smell of your sweet milk breath when you yawn.

Diary of a Truly Desperate Housewife

Dear Diary,

Just watched Desperate Housewives for the very first time (a rerun). Realized that these beotches – even the burnt-out one with the four kids – need a lesson in real desperation. What’s so desperate about Prada-wearing, anorexic girls leisurely ironing their husbands’ shirts and/or screwing their plumbers and pool boys? Over here on Rockhill Road, I’m scrubbing puke off the threadbare T-shirt I wear to hide my still-big belly and, well, not likely to screw anyone anytime soon.

So, in the spirit of DHs, here’s the lowdown on a day in the life of a real, albeit temporary, desperate housewife.

Saturday 5 February
138 lbs. (and not budging, despite breastfeeding a 15-lb two-month old, giving up ice cream and making it to the gym once a week), babies 2, coffee units 3, ounces of breast milk pumped 5, diaper units 21, rooms cleaned 3 (major feat), outfit changes 4

2:30 a.m.
Am awoken by V. hungry Gus. A Gus, incidentally, who has suddenly regressed from sleeping peacefully through the night for two weeks straight, to waking up at least once, if not twice, a night! Back is throbbing in horrifying pain (rebelling against doing elliptical trainer, scrubbing kitchen floors, dusting, bathing both babies and breastfeeding from day before).

4:30 a.m.
Can’t sleep. Back is still wreck. Have spent last two hours reading Nickel and Dimed. Is great book by hilarious female journalist who goes undercover working minimum-wage jobs. Is trying to find out if possible to make it on shit pay. It isn’t.

4: 35 a.m.
Mmmmmmmm … worrying about working poor and am getting very sleeeeeee …

7:30 a.m.
Wake up to Soph fake crying (much more annoying than real crying). Back is still V. wrecked. Limp to Soph’s room, grab her and toss her into Mommy and Daddy’s bed for cuddle time. Gus puts up with cuddle time for about 45 seconds before demanding food. Stumble downstairs to nurse Gus. Hear Soph already yelling, “Shapes, shapes! Tee-fee, tee-fee!” (See “Crack for Babies” post for more info.)

8:30 a.m.
In shower for first time in three days. Am amazed, once again, to discover excessive state of hairiness. (See “Mommy, what’s a Kegel?” for more info.)

12:00 p.m.
Is lunchtime. Am scarfing leftover, ice-cold gnocchi with one hand and shoveling veggie burger, green beans, cottage cheese, graham crackers, “nana sauce” and ramen noodles with a roasted red pepper/buttermilk sauce into Soph’s mouth with other hand. Am marveling over creativity and palatability of ramen/red pepper combo … GAAH!

12:15 p.m.
Was Soph throwing ramen/red pepper combo in Mommy’s left eye.

1:00 p.m.
Am in bathroom practicing pottying. Soph is fully clothed, as cardboard flyer on potty seat advises. Am also helping Soph practice brushing her “teef.” (Shhhh …. don’t tell germaphobe Daddy.)

3:15 p.m.
Both kiddos now miraculously asleep. Am scrubbing bedroom floor. Am marveling at gigantic girth of dustbunnies under bed … GAAH!

3:16 p.m.
Tripped over bucket and spilled dirty water down the entire hallway.

3:17 p.m.
Mop-water spillage incident wakes Soph.

4:15 p.m.
Spill is dry and Daddy finally home. Now Mommy and Soph can actually go outside and enjoy the unusually warm weather for a few minutes … ARGH!

4:16 p.m.
Gus has just woken up – starving – from nap.

4:45 p.m.
Am walking with 18-month-old down sidewalk. Strange quaking of sidewalk … GAAH!

4:46 p.m.
Discover that nursing bra strap has been down for entire block.

5:15 p.m.
Am carrying suddenly possessed child into house kicking and screaming at top of lungs. Child V. out of control, throwing self on floor, convulsing, thrashing, etc. Hurls self against door screaming, “Outside, outside,” which is soon followed by forlorn wailing of the old-standby, “Shaaaapes! Shaaaaapes!”

6:45 p.m.
Am deciding which screaming child to console first. Daddy just left for evening.

7:45 p.m.
Am deciding which hungry child to feed first. Somehow manage to breastfeed and bottle feed simultaneously.

8:15 p.m.
Soph now asleep. Gus now wide awake. Am working hard at cultivating enriching Mommy/baby bonding time, but Gus only interested in sucking hand.

8:16 p.m.
Am nursing Gus as incessant hand sucking leads Mommy to believe he must be hungry.

8:45 p.m.
Am nursing Gus as incessant hand sucking leads Mommy to believe he must be hungry.

9:15 p.m.
Am nursing Gus as incessant hand sucking leads Mommy to believe he must be hungry.

9:45 p.m.
Am upstairs on computer beginning to work on blog with one hand and patting Gus with other. Gus still fussy and doing the hand-sucking … GAH!

9:46 p.m.
Am covered in baby vomit.

9:47 p.m.
Am naked from waist up attempting to change Gus out of vomit-soaked outfit … GAH!

9:48 p.m.
Am covered in baby poop.

11:15 p.m.
Am finally in bed. Back is starting to throb all over again. Consider attempting to try to stay up and wait for Daddy to get home so can get lucky in manner of sultry Desperate Housewives vixens, but am overcome by sudden sleeeeeee …

Danny mugs for the camera. 

Uma attacks a plate of spaghetti. 

Penis Circumference and Other Size Matters

Well, after devoting the second diary to my vagina and the third to Sophia’s Baby Einstein addiction, I figured it was high time little Gus got his turn in the blog spotlight.

This week we found out that Gus is the baby-sized version of Danny De Vito. He’s in the 95th percentile for weight and the 50th percentile for height. Hell, the kid even resembles De Vito. He’s dark and bald with huge jowls. And right before he attacks my nipple, I swear he even gets the same sinister glint in his eye as De Vito did every time he ate poor Latka Gravas for breakfast on Taxi.

This is, by the way, the exact opposite of his big sister, who is the baby-sized version of Uma Thurman. Soph measures in the 100th percentile for height and the 50th percentile for weight. She’s willowy, with wispy blonde hair and high check bones. And before she throws a tantrum, she gets the same sinister glint in her eye as Uma did right before slaughtering that whole amphitheater full of Kung Fu chicks in Kill Bill.

Poor Gus. At the ripe old age of 10 weeks, he’s already lost out to his big sister in the height category (Sophia was an inch taller than Gus when she was his age). Hopefully this news won’t be too damaging to his little psyche. Although, considering Soph didn’t even crawl until almost 12 months, Gus has a very good chance of kicking her ass in the crawling, walking and rolling over categories.

By the way, I’m sure 10 out of 10 pediatricians disapprove of comparing one child to the other in any height/weight/poop/pee/fart/burp categories. But if they didn’t want us to compare our kids to other kids, or our kids to one another, why worry about tacking on all the percentiles? Why are measurement stats required fields in all the baby books? Why are parents stressed about the fact that Junior only moved up two percentage points in the head circumference arena since his last checkup?

When he’s a teenager, Gus isn’t going to care one lick about where he ranked on the head circumference charts at 10 weeks. Now, where he ranked on the penis circumference charts he might eventually be interested in. Funny thing – penis circumference measurements are curiously absent from all baby books. Except one.

My dear friend Susie found the coolest baby memory book on the planet. It’s called Baby’s First Tattoo. Aside from recording baby’s first word, step and head circumference, this book also has space for “the diameter of hole baby’s head came through,” (no kidding) “baby’s first arrest,” “baby’s first DWI,” and so on.

Gus is a little too young for us to record some of these firsts, but in the spirit of the book, I thought I’d share some other funny stats for both kiddos. Here goes:

Number of pounds you helped Mommy pack on during pregnancy:

Sophia: 40
Gus: 30

Number of angry red stretch marks you drew on Mommy:

Sophia: 2
Gus: Too depressing to begin to count

Number of projectile vomiting incidents in first 8 weeks of pregnancy:

Sophia: 4
Gus: 3

Number of projectile vomiting incidents in first 8 weeks of life:

Sophia: 1
Gus: 3 or more per week

Number of times your incessant pooping caused Mommy to totally freak out and call your pediatrician at four in the morning:

Sophia: 0
Gus: 1

Number of projected therapy sessions required to help you overcome overwhelming feelings of embarrassment, anger and inferiority caused by Mommy’s self-indulgent, hideously uncool, tell-all baby blog:

Sophia: 100
Gus: 101

You go, Gus!

Crack for babies?

And this week in Diaperland …

1. Chris got his grove back (and then some).
2. Sophia got hooked on Baby Einstein.
3. Gus continued to show off his dimples and mastered sleeping through the night.

OK, I know most of you would like to be spared the details of 1, so I’ll skip right on to 2.

My beloved firstborn is already an addict at age 17 months. It started out innocently enough. We were getting rather bored with our toys, games and books. We were cranky from staying inside all day. We needed some new entertainment … oops, I mean, enrichment.

Oh, OK. Mommy needed to load the dishwasher for once without worrying about us grabbing a meat cleaver from the silverware rack and hacking our little finger off while Mommy’s back was turned for a split second. Mommy figured one little DVD couldn’t hurt. Mommy was horribly wrong.

If you’re reading this and you’re a parent whose kid is also hooked on Baby Einstein, you’re probably smiling knowingly by now. If you’re a parent who’s heard me denounce TV and then smugly tell you about Sophia’s love for reading, you’re probably eating this shit up with a gigantic spoon. If you’re a parent-to-be, take heed!

As Sophia completed her 100th lap around the living room carpet one day last week, I casually slipped Baby Newton into the DVD player (Baby Newton, if it isn’t obvious, is about geometrical shapes.) When the music cued up, she stopped in mid-step, transfixed. A multicolored caterpillar inched its way across the screen. “Bee!” Sophia called out proudly. Technically, it wasn't a bee. But it resembled one. Baby was interacting with the thing, dammit. I headed off to the kitchen to rinse dishes.

Hearing a catchy tune about shapes a few minutes later, I went into the living room to check out the action. Sophia was leaning on a chair, sucking her thumb, utterly frozen in space and time. When she saw me, she took her thumb out to blurt, “Wassat?” and pointed to a 3-D clown dancing jerkily with a 2-D triangle on screen. “It’s a clown!” I sang enthusiastically. “A clown!” she repeated happily, and promptly returned her thumb to its former position. I returned to my dishes.

Well, the video ended just as I was ready to tackle the rest of the kitchen. "So that’s what the'repeat play' option is for," I thought. I looked around my filthy kitchen, then marched back into the living room. “Shapes are ed-u-ca-tion-al!” I sang in my head as I grabbed the remote and hit repeat play.

An hour later the kitchen was spotless, Sophia still had all ten of her tiny fingers and we were back in the living room doing our thing. We read a couple books. Played ring around the rosie. All of the sudden, my Baby Einstein was pointing at the TV. “Shapes, shapes!” she cried.

“Ooooh-kaaay!” I replied. “Let’s play with these shapes.” I grabbed the new building blocks with shape cut-outs Santa brought us for Christmas. Sophia looked at me as if I’d given her a pile of razor blades and shoved the blocks away from her with disgust. “Tee-fee, tee-fee!” she wailed.

She's continued to wail and beg for tee-fee and shapes every hour on the hour since.

Before I'd ever seen it, I was against Baby Einstein. For one thing, they’re owned by Disney. Disney wasn’t satisfied with buying and bastardizing the good names of Dr. Suess and A.A. Milne, among others. No. They had to go way back to before there were copyright laws and pilfer Einstein, Newton, Shakespeare and Bach. (Not that we’re talking apples to apples here, but I don’t see a Baby Elvis, a Baby Gates or a Baby Spielberg coming to your tee-fee screen anytime soon.)

The first time I saw one of the Baby Einstein videos I was pissed. Pissed I hadn't come up with the idea myself. Any monkey with a camera could make these freaking videos! Most of them are just close-up shots of different toys spinning around. If you read the credits, you realize that some hacks with a mini DV camera probably did make them up on a rainy day – almost the entire cast and crew have the same last name!

Yeah, I knew Baby Einstein was a sham, a sappy, stupid video code-named Einstein so poor Mommy doesn't feel so guilty about plopping baby in front of it for hours on end. But I swear – I didn’t know it was crack!

Actually, Baby Einstein is more like heroin than crack. Slowly, the bright colors fade onto the screen, accompanied by the soft tinkle of the xylophone. The lights and colors spin faster and the music gets louder, simultaneously luring and lulling baby until she’s in a multimedia coma, oblivious to the real world. Then Mommy finishes her housework or bills or baby blog. The screen suddenly goes black. Baby comes crashing down. Hard.

Mommy crashes, too. As she tries to convince her screaming child that she can go for a few more hours without staring at toys on a tee-fee screen and actually play with the real things, Mommy realizes she’s become one of them – one of those lazy, disorganized, uninspired mothers who hires Disney or Nickelodeon or Baby Freakin’ Einstein to watch her kid. She’s sold out – and all for one lousy load of clean dishes.

Like the heroin addict, once she’s come down from her clean-dish high, Mommy vows never, ever to resort to Baby Einstein again. And the Baby Einstein DVD mysteriously disappears. "It's lost," Mommy says, shaking her head as baby pleads for it for the umpteenth time.

But then, days later, the laundry begins to pile up. Baby has worn the same pair of socks for two days straight. Daddy trips over the dirty diapers littering the floor next to the overstuffed Diaper Genie.

Just one more time, Mommy thinks. Just enough to get me through one load, maybe two.

Gus sleeps his way through Christmas Day. 

Sophia's Trucker Jacket 

Mommy, what's a Kegel?

Whew! What a week. I had a post-partum exam, helped host three dinner parties and halfway cleaned my house. I’m exhausted … and full. I guess I’ll have to start that diet next week.

I checked out fine at the doc’s office. After I had Sophia, I wasn’t so lucky. I had a bad tear (they said second degree, but what the hell does that mean) and apparently it wasn’t healed. Doc said he was going to put on some “medicine.” Then he asked me to do a Kegel so he could test my vaginal muscle tone. I did one. “Try again,” he said sternly. Another one. “You’re going to have to do a lot more Kegels to get back your muscle tone,” he warned.

I was completely humiliated. I’d been doing a lot of Kegels every day, but apparently it wasn’t enough. This was not good news in terms of how I might fair that night in the bedroom! I’d already made big plans with Chris for that night – our friend, Natalie, was going to baby sit so we could go out for the first time and get busy. Now, my mind was reeling with the news that my muscle tone had been shot to hell, and wasn’t likely to come back anytime soon.

I stumbled out of the office in a daze. Next thing I know, I’m in the bathroom in the hallway in terrible pain and bleeding! Whatever that “medicine” was, it hurt like getting stitched back up again after giving birth! Kegels or no Kegels, my big romantic plans were ruined.

I had a feeling that this time around I would check out OK, but I didn’t make any big plans so as not to jinx myself. I did, however, do tons of Kegels, and embark upon a massive hair removal project. It’s unbelievable how much hair can grow on the human body after weeks of neglect. When Gus was about two or three weeks old I remember realizing that I had simply forgotten to shave anything, including my armpits. I took a shower, was scrubbing myself and noticed I suddenly had armpits like Madonna’s circa 1986. How long they’d been like that, I can’t tell you. I shaved them off with some difficulty, then noticed my legs were also getting out of hand. I decided to let ‘em go until the six-weeks post partum check up so they would be nice and smooth.

Anyway, it took like an hour to get rid of all the hair that had grown – for several months in some spots. I think I went through two razors (I am, after all, ¼ Italian). It felt great – I must’ve been five pounds lighter! I felt almost on the verge of sexy, despite my stubborn tummy flab, the angry-looking stretch marks on my hips and my crazy-huge boobs. But as I was rubbing on some post-shave lotion, I made a terrible discovery: more stretch marks.

At first, I thought they were just those marks you get from sitting in one spot for too long or wearing too-tight jeans. But no. I had little stretch marks all up and down my inner thighs. Again, I can’t tell you how long they’d been there. My guess is that they’d been there from almost the beginning of my pregnancy with Gus, but I didn’t notice them – maybe they’d been hidden by all of the hair all along! Maybe I was in denial. Whenever they arrived, seeing them right before I was about to be weighed, have my vaginal muscle tone assessed and proclaimed able to have sex again was devastating to my already fragile sex-esteem.

This time around, however, the Doc didn’t test my muscle tone. He quickly proclaimed that I could have sex again without any restrictions. The whole thing was anti-climactic, except he offered to put me on the mini pill (I can’t remember now if he said micro or mini, so I’ll have to look it up). “Why the hell didn’t they give this to me after Sophia?” was my first thought, but I kept it to myself since there’s really no point in worrying about that now. Doc also gave me a referral to a Snip Doctor for Chris’ vasectomy. In a few short weeks, maybe a couple months, I can have worry-free sex for the first time in my life. Yippee!!!! Now, all I have to do is get us to want to have sex again.

Yes, it’s been almost a week since I was given the go ahead to get busy, and there’s no busy-ness in sight. It’s a weird deal. I can’t pin it down on any one thing. I don’t really care too much about the newfound stretch marks and I’m already used to dealing with the big belly.

I’m not chomping at the bit to get busy because I sort of wish the Doc would’ve checked my muscle tone. That way, I would know for sure if it wasn’t up to par. Now, there’s no way of really knowing. Chris won’t tell me the truth – no father can tell the mother of his children this type of news! It’s way worse than asking someone if they look fat in their old prom dress, let me assure you.

As for Chris, I can’t tell you exactly why he isn’t chomping at the bit. Could it be that I didn’t shower or change out of my pajamas for two days straight after my visit to the Doc Monday (hmmm…interesting psychological implications here)? Could it be that Gus sleeps a few inches away from us? Could it be that by the time we get to bed we’re so exhausted we can’t read more than a few pages in our books before falling asleep?

Let’s just say that Chris’ lack of interest isn’t necessarily comforting. Now, when we do have sex, there’s going to be all this wonder and doubt built up. Worse yet, I’m going to have to shave everything all over again!