Cut through the clutter

The following is the most recent column I wrote for the summer edition of Valley Parents magazine. Yes, this is a cop-out and I recognize that, but well, what are you gonna do.

***

At eight months in, I can say I’ve learned a few things about parenting.

A sample:

1) I can do almost everything I did pre-baby, but now with one hand – including write this column.
2) It is possible to craft scintillating dinner conversation around the contents of a soiled diaper.
3) Less is more (and not necessarily in relation to No. 2).

Now, No. 3 is an unlikely revelation for yours truly, as I’m sort of a “more is more” kind of gal. As proof, please refer to my laughably large and impractical purse collection, and the 60-plus wine glasses that wound up on our wedding registry after a power mad UPC scanner spree through Crate and Barrel. White wine, red wine, stemless, stemmed, causal, formal. I needed 60. And yes, all but about four of them are in still packed in boxes stacked in our laundry room.

But I checked my usual leanings toward the mass accumulation of stuff at the door when it came to my daughter, June. What my wedding registry lacked in austerity, my baby want/need list made up for in an uncharacteristic lack of clutter. My parents and in-laws hooked us up with most of the necessities, the rest I approached with a “we’ll cross that wipe warmer when we come to it” sensibility.

If it isn’t borrowed, it was purchased on the cheap. If June can make do without, she does without. We’ve purchased a few teething toys to supplement all the generous gifts she’s received, but that’s about it. Any items she does have to play with are augmented by her fascination (mostly oral) with books. She’s got plenty of books.

Invariably while playing with her toys, June loses interest in the modest assortment of noisemakers and stuffed animals before her and snatches a pair of baby pants out of a pile of folded laundry. The journal I keep in her room for my tearful scrawlings of baby milestones may as well contain Elmo’s tell-all with the way she lunges for it. The lid for the plastic container holding some of her teething toys is like forbidden fruit. Who needs Fisher-Price when you’ve got Tupperware?

That resourcefulness has got to be from her dad’s side. My husband has spent a good chunk of his life fending for himself in the wilderness, everything needed for survival efficiently wrapped up in the pack on his back. This has always fascinated me.

Me: “Wait, what about the spare deodorant?”
Him: “You don’t bring deodorant.”
Me: “So, no scented shower gels?”
Him: “You’re kidding, right?”
Me “How about a tube of mascara – can you bring mascara?”
Him: (silence)

Stuff is not his bag. Ironically, he wound up with someone who cites bags as her bag.

But I am getting better, and I credit several house moves in as many years with tempering my need to collect and save. And June, too. Watching her while away 25 minutes chewing on her cereal bowl has hammered the lesson home.

While visiting my parents in suburban Chicago recently, I spent some time going through old boxes of things I’ve held on to from grammar school, high school and college. I was appalled at what I found: mortifyingly sappy journal entries (grammar school), a program from some football game of which I have zero recollection (high school), an old beer bottle, the skunked, syrupy remains of Rolling Rock still redolent in its green confines.(College, clearly). I saved the journal, the rest was tossed.

I was thinking of June as I was decluttering. Would she be interested in seeing any of this someday? Should she be seeing any of this someday? Would I want her to cling mightily to so much stuff?

I’m not a maker of New Year’s resolutions but I did pledge one in the low light of a frigid winter’s morn with June in my arms: Don’t say “need” when you mean “want.” I need food, shelter, love. I want a haircut, a meatball sub, those wine glasses.

It’s a bit why I’ve really tried to pare things down when it comes to June’s belongings – in order to save what matters. I’d like to be able to produce an old toy that she spent hours gnawing on and tell her, when she’s an adult and we’re enjoying a glass of wine out of her mother’s ridiculous collection, what it meant to her. Or show her the blueberry stains on the summer dress that showed off her deliciously chubby knees. Or flip through her favorite board book, the page corners tattered from being gummed more than seen.

But that’s the stuff I want to keep.

No, it’s the stuff I need to keep.

A Dilla of a pickle

Sunday morning was a gray day, outside and in.

All because of a black-and-white hound.

We said goodbye to our 2-and-a-half-year-old dog, Dilla. It was a pretty fraught decision, but it's the right one for all parties involved. Especially her. She went to live with a wonderful family in Connecticut. And no, that's not code for anything nefarious, she really is living with a wonderful family in Connecticut.

Greg and I have been hemming and hawing about finding a new home for her for a little bit now. We're gearing up to move again, someplace a lot smaller, and having two dogs cooped up in a tiny house or apartment is not fair to them. June is about to start crawling and in order to create more space for her, we're boxing the dogs out even more. We've had Dilla for two years, versus Gypsy's nine with Greg, so by default she was the one on the chopping block, so to speak. It's a lot of work, and expense, to have them both and a baby and I can't devote the attention to them I used to with June around. It's more than we can handle on multiple levels. To quote Greg quoting the USPS after announcing the closing of all those post office branches, we're trying to "rightsize" our operation. Dilla is collateral damage in that rightsizing.

But only for us -- she's somewhere that is going to make her blissfully happy.

It was sort of the perfect scenario. My friend Gerry was looking for a dog, a black one, too, and we were looking to find Dilla a new home. It happened quickly, but that's better than being belabored I suppose. Gerry has two sons young enough to bestow upon Dilla a cuddle-crazy heroine's welcome, but not too young that she's going to he headed toward a tail pull-a-thon. The way Gerry describes his sons, they will be great for her, and her, them. I can't think of a better solution to this.

Either way, it's breaking my heart. Concurrently breaking and warming. Warming the broken pieces. The dogs drove me up a freaking wall this winter, about which I've written, but as June has gotten older and more aware of their high entertainment value, and as the mass of snow gave way to a backyard paradise, the pooches made their way back into my heart. But while there may be room in our hearts, our home is another story. And big dogs in small spaces ain't fair. And truly wonderful dogs, like Dilla, deserve the best.

I had a pit in my stomach leading up to when Gerry was slated to arrive. I gave Dilla a bath -- always a challenge -- then shared a little of my homemade macaroni and cheese with her. I tried to take a couple of photos but she turned her head to the side and gave me this eye, like "When was the last time you took a photo of me alone? Something must be up."

I burst into tears while feeding June that morning, the blubbering and bleating sending her into fits of hysterical laughter. I called Dilla over to sit with us, her tail thumping the ground and her head weaving to and fro under my hand in order to find the petting sweet spot. I stared at the two of them, June and Dilla, and let go of the image I always carried in my head -- the one looking about five years into the future, of my dog sleeping at the foot of my daughter's bed. Staying close, as she did with me while I was pregnant.

Greg and I got her a little over two years ago from the Southwest Missouri Humane Society. It was already beastly hot for early June, and Greg woke up early to call a guy about a canoe he saw on craigslist. The canoe had sold so Greg, summoning up the next-best-thing suggestion, said, "Wanna go look at a dog?"

I didn't. We already had a dog, a wonderful dog, and two seemed like a handful. But being a good new wife (and also morbidly curious), and understanding the merits of Greg's argument (puppies are much easier to train with older dogs around), I obliged. He had been sending me links to a puppy he found on petfinder.com. The jpeg showed a goofy looking little thing, ink-black, save for a white spot on her chest and paws, with a huge head and two spazzy hind feet kicked out next to her. The listing said she was half-black lab, half-Great Pyrenees. It said her name was "Alyssa."

"Alyssa?? They have got to be freaking kidding," I thought.

I get that a humane society might be hard-pressed to generate original names for each of the hundreds of puppy mill drop-offs that get carted through their doors yearly, but I'm a little wary of pet names that are reasonable monikers for humans. Roger. Stephen. JoAnn.

Alyssa.

We got to the humane society and Greg told the volunteer that we were there to look at Alyssa (oy). She led us into the corridor of dog cages, a Phil Spector-grade Wall of (barking) Sound chattering our teeth.

"There she is, the one on the left."

Dilla (er, Alyssa) sat and watched us, ears perked up on her disproportionately large head, tail thumping the ground, her front white paws dancing in excitement. Her littermate was with her -- humping, biting and pawing the dogshit out of Dilla (sorry, Alyssa). She paid it no mind, and continued to stare at us with a sort of pitiful hope.

Shitshitshitshit, I thought. She's freaking adorable.

Next we took her outside to their dedicated dog run, watched her break into the goofiest gait imaginable, possibly for the first time. We threw a ball and she watched it sail through the air. When it landed with a thud she went back to sniffing a pile of dog turds near our flip-flopped feet. A fetch dog she is not. Finally Greg put the onus on me: "Well, what do you think?"

Shitshitshitshit.

Let's do it. Greg said she should be my dog. I should name her.

I liked that.

As soon as the decision was made, I was in love. She wasn't jumpy or yippy or snippy in any way. She just stared at us, tail wagging, happy to be there. We got home and Gypsy was salty, growling at her as we brought her inside, clearly cognizant that there had been a seismic doggy shift in the house. He disappeared as we fawned over the new pup, who was puttering around and taking dumps at will. That night as we were getting ready for bed upstairs (stairs that we had to carry her up), she made her way to Gypsy's dog bed in the corner of our room. She sniffed around and plopped down with confidence as if to say, "I'll be taking this one, thanks." Gypsy, who had spent the afternoon pouting in our basement, eventually came upstairs to find that his last sacred space, the foul WalMart dog bed, was now occupied. Gypsy tends to internalize his feelings (this is a veterinarian's assessment, by the way), and sighed and opted for an impossible-to-access nook in between the bed and the dresser. There he stayed until we moved months later.

Dilla, who is named after the late experimental hiphop producer J. Dilla, took to the basic obedience commands early and easily, and even had a relatively smooth transition into house training. She did, however, enjoy gnawing on wood, linoleum, carpeting and anything else not cheaply replaced, earning her the nickname "Security Deposit Killer." For a long time she refused to go to the bathroom on walks, and when she heard another dog barking she'd hit the deck and decline movement altogether. She wouldn't lick our faces, but instead aggressively sniff one of our eyeballs, and she would sit and watch me get dressed in the morning with an almost perverted zeal. She'd eschew her dish of clean cold water, choosing instead the brackish, larvae-loaded rain water collecting in lawn chairs in our yard. You couldn't sit anywhere near her on nice days outside, as she'd be mobbed by winged insects. Her dense coat was what we referred to as "Fly Xanadu." She had a bark, which she used often, that sounded like Phil Hartman imitating Ed McMahon.

She shed more than any animal has a right to, and would occasionally go AWOL when we let her out for her morning whiz. She'd get up multiple times in the middle of the night to adjust her position, walking in a circle and then falling to the floor with a sleep-shattering thud. This went on until we blocked the stairway to keep the dogs out of our rooms at night. She had a nervous peeing problem for a while, leaving little yellow surprises on our tile floors. Or worse, when we lived in that horrible place in Lebanon, would retreat upstairs to pinch one on the carpet right outside the bathroom. That dog pissed me off to no end on multiple occasions.

But man oh man, was she sweet. And smart. And, AWOL incidents notwithstanding, extremely obedient. She was a saint with June, and sat patiently while I slowly lost my mind and yelled during the long, harsh winter spent trapped indoors. Before we banished dogs from furniture, she would get on the couch next to me and put her head in my lap, snoring like a large man. She was my girl -- well, my girl before my girl was my girl -- and she loved it.

Monday night was a rough night. The house was bigger, quieter, emptier. Greg noted that was sort of the point in us finding a new home for her, we were running out of room, but still, it hurt. She's still everywhere -- and by that I mean her thick, coarse hair is covering every surface in our home. But also that I instinctively went to retrieve her absent food dish to get her dinner, waited at the door for a minute too long after Gypsy came back in the house, thinking she was still outside, and even now, I have my feet drawn under my desk chair to make room for a snoring black dog that's not there.

And Gerry, if you're reading this, it's in no way meant to lay a big guilt trip on you. You're ushering in Dilla 2.0 and doing us the mightiest of good deeds. More importantly, doing her the mightiest of good deeds.

Right at the point last night when I was feeling saddest, guiltiest, most regretful, my phone let out a ping and on it was a text message from Gerry. He wrote of how great she was on the drive to his home, and how they had taken a nice walk, and that the family was in love with her already. Included was a photo of his two adorable, redheaded sons doting on Dilla, parked on the floor with what can only be described as a big ol' doggy smile on her face. I burst into tears. That's exactly what she deserves.

It was meant to be.

I know some day June will ask why we gave away such a great dog, and I will have a less-than-great answer for her. "You'll understand when you're an adult," I'll tell her. Hell, she might not. I won't blame her. But I think of those boys, those sweet redheaded boys, and I'll tell June, "We had to share her. She was too good to keep for ourselves."

I was remembering back before I got pregnant and how Greg and I would go running together. He would take Gypsy, always game for exercise, and I would take Dilla, more of a couch dog who had to be coaxed into a run. Sounds familiar. Dilla and I felt the same way about morning runs as we did a lot of things. It's goofy to say that a dog reminds you of yourself, but Dilla was a lot like me. A perennial younger sibling, a bit of an instigator, a homebody, sort of a loner, a smartass, a pleaser, a cuddler.

A vocal sort, and a little too loud when she needn't be.

I'm not going to pretend that saying goodbye to Dilla was akin to losing a loved (human) one. But it was still hard, and likely the hardest decision we've ever had to make. My mom said something about how now we have a taste of what it will be like when June goes to college. Now, I know that this is not exactly a fair simile, but I sort of get what she's saying. The baby grows up and needs space we can't give her, needs space that's going to help her grow. We oblige.

Last night before we went to bed Greg said to me, "My heart is heavy. Let's have that be the only dog we ever give away." I started sobbing, the guilt and grief bubbling out into my husband's arms. But then I thought of that picture Gerry sent and my tears stopped, pretty abruptly. I fell fast asleep.

I don't remember my dreams.

One of my father-in-law's old Tennessee idioms is, "The sun shines on every dog's ass some day." And Sunday, after the fog burned off, and as Gerry's car was rolling out of our gravel driveway, I caught a glimpse of Dilla through his rear window.

Tail wagging.

Insecurity blanket

June has just declared detente with her second cold.

While it was certainly more, um, productive than the first in terms of mucous output, it was pretty mild. Save for one night, she slept fine, was in a great mood, and it remained in her sinus cavity. Nothing in the ears, lungs or throat. I'm very thankful for that.

There was one big beef poor June had with her malady, however.

Kleenex.

For a baby unaffected by most things that would upset a child (loud noises, whacking herself in the head with a toy, the administering of a rectal thermometer and the like), Kleenex is her undoing. It got to the point where she would simply see me pull one from the box and start to recoil.

I had a thought: this must be why the white sheet became the symbol of surrender -- deep-seeded issues arising from infant colds.

My dad, watching her writhe and bellow while I grasped her sturdy cheeks with Kleenex in hand, offered a typically wise observation.

"This must be where insecurities come from."

So, so true. Here's a lady (me) who has made it her life's work to do nothing but good for this child (June). Feeding her when hungry, comforting her when upset, hand-picking dog hairs from her toys when they become unrecognizably hirsute. Suddenly I approach her with the Dreaded White Thing and intentionally annoy the crap out of her. She doesn't realize it's for her own good (and for, admittedly, my snot phobia). All she thinks is, "Well, this sucks. Thanks for nothing."

I think about those kids we all knew in grade school -- the ones who, on their healthiest day, had two streams of snot the width of PVC piping shellacked to the underside of their nostrils. Is this going to be June? So scarred from her mother's persistent nose wiping that she chooses to eschew it altogether? I shudder at the thought.

Then I think about myself, and the fact that there is no shortage of insecurities rolling around in my dome -- most of them tied to a specific moment in time and burned into my memory. Let us take a look back, shall we?

Insecurity No. 1: My obsession with clothes.

As I've mentioned before, this one didn't exactly yield an impeccable sense of style. While I may stew about what I wear (and fantasize about outfits as I drift off to sleep at night), I normally don't look particularly good. Take today, for instance. I changed three times getting dressed this morning. Three times. What wearable golden egg emerged victorious? A stained skirt and a shirt so stretched in the bustline that I can just whip one out without adjusting any clothing. No, I'm not going anywhere, and yes, it made functional sense, but three times? Three times??

I remember doing something similar in 7th grade on the day I was to visit New Trier High School (what a joke that was -- like that was ever even a fleeting option). I had been thinking about what I was going to wear that day for weeks. New Trier was a fashion mecca of pegged jeans, hemp ponchos and crystal pendants. How do I, with the austere wardrobe typical of the uniformed, compete with that? When that morning finally rolled around I chickened out of dazzling all those boys with my authentic Jeremy Roenick jersey and opted for the invisible look: jeans, a giant green v-neck sweater and a white turtleneck. And not even my "good" white turtleneck. I had to secure it with a safety pin so the collar would hug my neck just so. My guide for the day, Jillian Abruzzo (name changed), wore white jeans, a chambray shirt, and, as I discovered when she changed for gym, a real bra with lace on it and everything. My mind was blown and I, deep down, thanked Jesus for my predetermined path to single-sex Catholic high school education. I was just not ready for the level of sartorial responsibility coeducational schooling demanded.

Anyway, the insecurity can all be traced to one definitive moment.

Picture it: OLPH Preschool. Glenview, Ill. 1981. A gaggle of girls standing in a hallway talking before Miss DePrima ushers the group into her classroom. One of the girls' mother approaches.

"Oh, look at all you girls in your pretty dresses!"

Little Kerry beams, then panics, looking down to find that she is NOT wearing a pretty dress, but instead a pair of purple overalls and a heart-studded turtleneck.

Cue a lifetime of clothing anxiety dreams, wardrobe regret and the ability to remember what I wore on just about any given day of my life.

Insecurity No. 2: The wearing of makeup every day*.

Now, It's not a face full of foundation and an eyeliner beauty mark, or wearing makeup to the gym (if I went to the gym), I'm talking a little mascara, a little concealer, a little Benefit Dandelion to give June something un-wretched to look at. It's part of my routine and if it makes me feel a little better, then why not, right?

*Every day is a bit of a stretch, as there are plenty of occasions where this ritual gets shirked. But most days is accurate. And if you have seen the photos of the morning of June's birth and the mascara on my tear-streaked cheek, then you get the idea. Although, in my defense, I went in to labor when we were out to dinner so I didn't exactly rush home to prep my skin. Anyway.

I trace this one back to the following. It was on or around my 13th birthday when my mom felt I was old enough to handle the heavy journalism and ensuing body image problems of Seventeen Magazine. She brought it home from the grocery store and presented it with grandeur, cognizant of the life-altering power it possessed. I was elated. Having recently discovered the joys of scented lotions (see No. 3), it was like they had run those Love's BabySoft ads for me alone. I scanned the table of contents: "Does He Like You?" -- who cares. "Your Changing Body" -- gross. "Zap That Zit in a Hurry" -- my hands couldn't work fast enough to find that page.

It was between that generous review of "Return to the Blue Lagoon" and the box ad for those deodorant crystals that I found a story about a pair of modeling sisters. They loved one another (lies), and did everything together (serious lies) and stumbled into modeling when they were discovered on the beach near their California home (oh, come on). The younger of the two, also 13, was breathtaking. Straight, sunkissed hair, a smooth bronze sheen to her skin, perfectly aligned Tic-Tac teeth. I closed my eyes and summoned the power of all the beauty gods to find a visage like this little bitch's when I opened them again. Instead I found a head of hair like David St. Hubbins', including some big-mistake bangs I had recently cut myself, a gray pallor and a grill full of sideways horse teeth.

I burst into tears.

This girl upset me so much that my mom, who had since surprised me with an entire subscription to Seventeen, threatened to cancel it if it was going to continue to affect me this way. No! No! No! It can handle it, I told her. I needed this magazine now. I was one UPC code away from the free Caboodles gift set.

Rather than letting the teen model bring me to ruin, I channeled the negative energy and decided to put it to good use. I sneaked into my sister's room, rifled through her makeup bag and produced a free-gift-with-purchase-sized compact of Clinique blush in Totally Tawny. I ground the included brush into its cakey constitution and applied it with such gusto that I split the brush hairs in two and could feel the brush's metal anchor scraping my skin. Forehead. Cheeks. Chin. Nose. Eyelids. Heck, neck too. Why not. I admired my creation in the mirror. I looked tan, beachy, like a sun goddess.

Meg walked into her room, pissed. We were headed to a graduation party for her and her friend and this was not what she wanted accompanying her. I assumed it was because I looked so good.

"What the hell are you doing? Get out of my room! And you look like you got burned in an industrial accident."

So much for that.

It's being applied with a much lighter hand these days, but it's still being applied.

And I know now I'm totally not a Totally Tawny.

Insecurity No. 3: The need to smell good.

This stemmed from what I like to call "The Horse Days." I'm talkin' interest in horses as well as a resemblance to horses.

And apparently an odor reminiscent of horses.

It was a love not unlike what so many other girls experience at the onset of adolescence -- the horse love. I have no idea why. Is it their majestic beauty? The aristocratic airs horse people have? A communion with nature? The fact that, unlike boys, horses will love any old sadsack who flat-palms them a carrot? I'm guessing that one.

Whatever it was, I BEGGED my parents for horseback riding lessons. After years I finally wore them down and I was treated to a two-week summertime riding camp at the Horse Forum in some northern suburb I'm forgetting now. For the first week I threw up every day, and by the end of the second week I realized what terrifying, pissy animals horses are and that put an end to that obsession.

But it was sometime during my Horse Forum days, before I saw a horse bite Lizzie O'Rourke in the chest and thus get turned off from the hobby permanently, that I was with my dad at the Winnetka Village Toy Shop and was able to successfully lobby a Breyer model horse -- a Pinto pony, if you're wondering -- out of the visit. In a gesture of thanks, I threw my arms around his neck and gave him a big, genuine hug.

Only later did my mom delicately explain to me that my dad said the hug was a rather musky, equine one and perhaps I should think about showering after returning from camp. She handed me a stick of Avon deodorant that had come in a gift pack she scored for half-price the day after Nite Lites, and suggested maybe it was time. For the record, I would have been better off with the crystals in Seventeen Magazine. That deodorant was a joke. Anyway, I was pretty shook-up by the whole ordeal and committed to not only not smelling bad, but smelling almost offensively good at all times. Lotions. Potions. Perfumes. Shower gels. Soaps. It's an affliction that follows me to this very day. This morning, with my stained skirt and light makeup application, I am enshrouded in a subtle mist of Hawaiian Pikake flower essence. It is delightful.

So very long story short, the littlest things have the biggest impacts.

And, please Lord, may June take after her insecurity-free father in this respect.

Back that thing up.

I have a new appreciation for doctors.

Granted, I've always had an appreciation for doctors but now I value them even more because that job sucks. Yeah, they get paid a lot, but they deserve it. Think about it: they're dealing with puss and veins and kids' snot, three of the grossest substances / presences on the planet, people do nothing but complain to them, they're just sitting down to dinner and their beeper goes off because some paranoid mom such as yours truly has a child with the sniffles, and they spend all day in a windowless office wearing rubber gloves. I hate rubber gloves. I should amend my earlier statement about puss and veins and kids' snot to include rubber gloves. God, I'm getting the heebie jeebies just thinking about them.

And even during well visits, you're never talking about good stuff. They just sit there rattling off the list of maladies you may have had or may very well will have before the clock runs out. High blood pressure? Thyroid problems? A family history of rickets? They never ask you if your hair has gotten any thicker or if you discovered you have a high tolerance for expired food, or something else equally cool. The conversation always winds up a downer.

When I was in my preteen years I thought I wanted to be a dermatologist, under the impression that I could wear a white lab coat and design skincare regimens for celebrity clients. Then I found out it's mostly lancing boils and parting butt cheeks on the hunt for precancerous moles. Survey says? No dice.

This comes on the heels of several unplanned doctors appointments in the last few weeks. There was one for June while in Winnetka, in which a sweet pediatrician accommodated our transient selves to give us the blessing that June, with her cold, was well enough to fly. Then there was another while in Winnetka, only for me, during which I flashed a nurse-midwife, causing her to wince (I'll get to that in a second), and the third was here in New Hampshire, when I visited the poor physician who had to go poking around, um, downstairs to determine whether or not I had hemorrhoids. I referenced this in an earlier post.

I know what you're thinking -- "Uh, gross." I realize no one wants to read about my butt. No one. Least of whom, my husband. But I was begging him to indulge me in a little discussion on the matter. He didn't want to hear about my infected black fly bites, so why in sweet baby Jesus' name would he want to hear about rectal bleeding? Unfortunately his wishes were not heeded and he not only had to hear about it, he had to buy me Preparation H.

Before I go on, let me tell you I DO NOT, I repeat, DO NOT have hemorrhoids. Turns out all the fuss was over a very minor irritation that arose from childbirth. Nothing to it, nothing required. And for those ladies expecting their first children, embrace the possibility of a) this sort of thing happening to you, and b) this disturbing comfort level in discussing these sorts of things also happening to you.

And I believe this could be of help -- or at least for a good "been there, done that" chuckle to some of you -- as I believe most of my readers are moms themselves. And a 63-year-old father of mine. And potentially one or two Catholic priests. But I digress...

I think this was the most surprising part of this whole ordeal: I had this poor doctor's finger up my butt and I didn't bat an eye. One minute we were talking about his visit to Saddam's palace while he was stationed in Iraq, and the next he was a couple inches away from tossing my salad. I listened, I cracked jokes (what else can you do?) and I shook his hand at the end (ha) of it all. He used terms like "bottom" and "fanny" and I countered with "butt" and "booty." I remarked that this was a helluva way to kick off a Friday. He told me he liked my story that had run in the paper that morning.

I have to give a lot of credit to pregnancy and childbirth for giving my modesty a kick in the pants. The whole "drop your drawers, and spread 'em" directive is so ho-hum that I'll do it at the dentist if I have to. Would you like me to hold the light in place for you, Doctor? Skooch in any particular direction? Point to the trouble zone on that medical poster of a woman's bottom half? Help me help you.

Don't get me wrong, the experience was still thoroughly awkward, especially since I was convinced I had the H-word (what Greg insisted I call it) when in fact I had nonesuch. How one goes about experiencing a false positive for hemorrhoids I may never know, but I did it. Clearly I've never had hemorrhoids before or I would have done a better job of identifying the problem. In the meantime, I needed a doctor who had confronted more carnage in the pit of Sadr City to tell me I was healthy and to eat more fiber. Thank God for that $0 copay.

For those of you who have stuck with me this far, thank you. For all the others who have navigated away from this page in favor of that Web site with the live feed of those Akita puppies, I hope you will return.

In related news, the more recent doctor's visit was for mastitis. Or as I described to my dad, who promptly put his fingers in his ears and started ululating, "an infection of the hooter." Which is almost intolerable soreness and a red stripey presence that looks like someone cold-cocked the underside of my tatty. I have loved breastfeeding so far. Honestly, it's been wonderful. The bonding, the health benefits for June, the convenience, the savings, the assistance in the weight loss -- I'd do it forever if that wasn't creepy. This is the first hiccup and I attributed it to the fact that I wasn't pumping while I was in Winnetka. Or maybe it was an ill-fitting nursing bra. Or maybe my "era of good boob feelings" time was up. Either way, I got some horse pills that make my mouth taste like I've been eating mulch and I'm almost 100 percent better.

Point being, very little grosses me out anymore.

You wish you could say the same about this post, huh?


(And happy father's day to my blessed husband, father, fathers-in-law, late grandfathers ... and all the other guys out there who showed up and then some.)

Peaks and valleys

A month? I haven't posted in a month?

For shame.

Sorry folks (uh, mom). It's been quite the four weeks. First my parents were in town, (good!), then my grandfather died (bad). After that I thought I had hemorrhoids (bad), but it turns out I didn't (good!). And how does someone think they have hemorrhoids but actually be in possession of blessedly normal bowels? (bad... and good?) Anyway, then I got slammed with freelance work (good!), but got an insurance bill for over $9,000 for June's birth. Uh, bad. But as I suspected, we were billed in error. Good.

Very good.

But now I sit with a few minutes to spare, listening to the tickticktick of the kitchen timer laying in wait for the roast chicken and potatoes in the oven. Beautiful baby's in bed, sun's slipping away behind the hills, husband's chatting on the phone, cool summer breeze is creeping in through the windows. It's a jeans-and-flipflops kinda night. I love the roasting, stifling heat of a Chicago summer's eve (uh huh huh), but this is pretty nice, too.

As I mentioned, my grandfather died several weeks ago. He was 94. It was neither tragic in the untimely sense, nor terribly sudden, nor greeted with the wash of regret over missed opportunities a lot of folks feel when an elderly loved one passes. Spoose knew precisely how I felt about him, and God bless his kind heart, I knew precisely how he felt about me.

It's very weird that he's gone. Dad and I kept repeating those words when we were in Winnetka a few weeks ago. How is that possible? He's here, then he isn't? But I just talked to him? He just told me he couldn't carry my shoes (but he effed up and said "I couldn't carry your jock" ... then started laughing really hard. "I haven't said that since I was in the service!" he said. Which got me thinking, what the hell was he telling guys in the service that for anyway? That's awfully, um, loaded.)The point stands -- and as Trish said when I wrote to tell her, "Moose and Spoose always felt strangely immortal to me." And how. Sure he had his "spells," or, you know, had one ear, but he was with it, and funny, and sweet. It's easy to ignore the fact that he was repeating himself, when he's telling you how much he loves you.

Spoose's death is hitting me in waves. The morning I found out was one wave, the night of his funeral was another. I had a good cry the other day when I finally grew the balls to re-watch the video my dad made months ago when he met June for the first time, and a couple Saturdays ago when my spectacular and oddly-dialed-in-to-the-cosmos mother-in-law, Sharon, told me about the vivid dream she had of her own beloved grandfather. "I was thinking about what you said to me after your grandfather died," she said in her whispery-sweet voice. "Where does that energy go?" My guess is the only place we're not too distracted to give that energy a platform: the zzzz's.

I'm hoping for a dream like Sharon had -- one where he appears with a smile, gives me a hug, tells me I'm "the greatest", and is so vivid that I could feel the nubby wool of his soup-stained John Gardner's Tennis Ranch jacket. But Sharon's grandfather died decades ago, so I guess I ought to be patient and grateful for when it does come.

I did dream the other day that we were with him, but he wasn't doing so well. We were at a grocery store, he was talking to a bag boy and then fell -- he closed his eyes and that was it. I woke up.

June and I were back in Winnetka last week for a planned visit. June got sick, as did I, so we spent the last two days of our trip either at the doctor's or trying to get an appointment. We didn't see Moose until our last day when she stopped by, looking cute in her skinny jeans and oxford shirt and driving that death trap of a Pontiac with no working seatbelts. She looked great, was funny and loving, but there was a sadness to her. Hey, she had Spoose around for 67 years so what do we expect? She said several times as we were talking, "It's so quiet. I pretend he's on a trip." I'm sure psychiatrists would recommend confronting the loss and working through it in order to process the grief and move on. I said to her do whatever helps you sleep at night. If it's pretending he's still around, why not. She's 89. She's had enough pain and loss in her life. She's also had a tremendous amount of joy and laughter. Whatever she did to rectify the bad stuff in the past has worked.

I'm not so good at pretending he's still around, because he's simply not. But it's strange living so far away and attempting to accept it. His death is difficult to confront because I am not around to really sense his absence. In some respects I feel like I can get in touch with him a little more easily now. I find myself quoting him a lot more. Talking about him a lot more. Talking to him a lot more. I know folks who had lousy grandparents so their death never had an impact. It's like when the face fell off the Old Man of the Mountain here in New Hampshire. This community built an identity around this presence, but now the presence is gone. Folks thought, "Well, now what?" The identity is still there, but the face has changed. The only difference is this sucks more.

I had Spoose for 33 years. That's remarkable for anyone in terms of a grandparent. A week before he died mom and dad were here visiting and dad and I spent some time after dinner one night talking about Spoose's war service. He was a pack rat -- not a hoarder -- but someone who held on to seemingly meaningless stuff. But when he returned from his time at sea on the escort ship, he got rid of all his military belongings. No hats, no papers, no jackets. He gave some away, tossed the rest. That part of his life was over and he was ready to move on.

Dad told me that he heard from a friend who was at the funeral who witnessed something pretty spectacular. Right before the eulogies started June began to get a little squirmy. Greg got up from our front row pew and made his way down the center aisle toward the back of church with our baby as "Mountains of Mourne," an old Irish song and one of Spoose's favorites, was played by the musicians. Dad's friend said June was beaming the whole way back, and looking up toward the ceiling, her huge blue eyes affixed on something worthwhile. It was a powerful sight, the friend said.

It's instances like that that has me convinced his "energy" is still floating around. I walked through our house today and, I swear, I could smell him -- that comforting blend of dryer sheets, the ocean in Southern California and the faintest traces of Moose's "Charlie" perfume. He's not here, but in some respects he's here more than ever.

The face of that mountain may have changed, but the mountain is still worth visiting.

cheater, cheater pumpkin eater

Recycling = good, right?

Better for the environment, better for our wallets, better for our conscience.

Bad for blogs.

I'm posting another column I wrote for Valley Parent, the Valley News' parenting magazine. It ran on Friday, May 6 -- it's a little homage to my wonderful mother.

Unfortunate thing is, it's sort of lame and doesn't do her justice. Like anything birthed from a creative spark, the work is never done. As soon as I filed it I thought, "Christ, well, that was not even close to my best work." My apologies to my husband, the editor of Valley Parent, and all the, well, Valley parents who read it. And to you, dear reader, too. But mom's still in town and I have to do some reporting for a freelance assignment in about a half hour so it's crunch time.

Without further ado, behold mediocrity (ironic, given it's about a sensational woman).

***

Mother's Love Never Sleeps


A 3 a.m. wake-up call was an unlikely time for such a revelation.

I managed to open one fatigued eye and stumble out of bed toward my crying baby daughter’s room. It wasn’t so much a cry as it was a bellow.

“I’m boooooored,” she howled in her indecipherable infant gurgles. “Mom, come get me!”

Mom was tired -- I’m talking, real tired -- and not wild about this new trend of mid-night wakings after she had established a blessedly dependable sleep-through-the-night routine. Nevertheless, I ambled in and leaned over her crib, my daughter’s tiny smiling face dimly illuminated by a nearby nightlight. She kicked her little legs and let out a delighted squeal.

“WELL, HELLO JUNIE!” I erupted, jaw aching from smiling so hard. “I MISSED YOU!”

This unbridled enthusiasm, a greeting befitting a homecoming after days of separation rather than a couple hours of fitful sleep, was how it dawned on me.

I was becoming my mother.

Friends of mine have long said that they’ve had similar “a ha!” moments, only more appropriately categorized as “oh no!” moments – usually noticed when barking orders at a child, or seeing their reflection in the mirror after a particularly sensible haircut.

My realization, to my dear mother’s credit, was made after an expression of joy. Yes, I have a good one.

My mom had four children, pretty spread out in age, in what must have been an exhausting 30 straight years of parenting with a child under her and my dad’s roof. Yet regardless of where her day was headed, or whatever sullen phase we found ourselves in, the greeting was steadfast: “HI SWEETIE!”

So rare were her moments of dispassionate parenting that they were the sure-fire signs that she was either sick or we had done something seriously naughty.

My little brother drawing on the dining room walls with purple Magic Marker comes to mind. This happened when supposedly under the watchful eye of my older brother, who was holed up in his bedroom listening to music during wee Rembrandt’s stroke of creative genius. I don’t recall what made my mother angrier – the fresco of Skeletor on her white walls, or my older brother’s dirty dish of Chef Boyardee meat ravioli dumped in the sink on that Good Friday 25 years ago.

A mother’s love – a widely bandied about concept of unfettered worry, unconditional devotion and blinding adoration. They say that until you parent a child, you just don’t get it. Now that I’m a mother I think about my own mother’s love quite a bit, especially the blind adoration part, and usually while I’m up all night worrying.

My mom recently told me she recalled walking through our hometown with me at an awkward 12 or 13 years of age, and her getting legitimately angry that no one was stopping her on the street to tell her how cute I was. These people must be out of their minds not to be fawning over my daughter, she thought.

Several years ago when my dad was putting together a movie about my life to show at my wedding, she saw some footage from that “cute” era.

“Now I get it,” she chuckled. Perspective showed her what unconditional love didn’t – giant crooked teeth, large, mismanaged hair and a questionable penchant for layering clothing.

“But I still think you were adorable,” she added.

My mother’s enthusiasm equaled gratitude, altruism and most of all, her having fun. I look at photos of her as a young new mom herself, her pretty face affixed in a perma-grin and eyes awash in joy at the wriggling miracle in front of her. Sure there’s fatigue there, perhaps a festering diaper sitting just out of frame, but there’s such happiness. And lots of it.

It’s the face I’ve looked at my whole life.

As I scooped up my daughter, cooing a little victory hymn, I yawned amid my kissing spree on her warm cheek. She reached up and brushed her small hand across my mouth and smiled, giving me her little baby nod of approval.

“Your mama loves every second she spends with you,” I whispered to June.

Heck, I learned from the best.

Hostess cupcake

My folks are in town and the landscape is finally in bloom. I don't think it's a coincidence.

A warm front has moved into the Moving Finger.

I've been woefully MIA given I've been on deadline with some paying gigs and I'm on a two-sweep-a-day chore diet. The weather is mild and our dog that I've before said was half-Great Pyrenees, half-Robin Williams, is losing about 30 percent of her body weight in follicular matter. I'm not really sure what I'm going to do when June starts crawling. A muzzle? For her? Cruel? But possibly necessary. Without it she could be dealing with the canine hair equivalent to black lung. I was pulling hairs of all colors, textures and lengths from her clothes the other day and I said to her, "Poor Junie. You will forever be covered in hair. Be it mom's, dad's or dogs'." I wish her the best lint brush the universe has birthed.

Anyway, at the moment my mom and I are watching decorating shows (cable has been canceled but we're still getting it. Sweet), my dad is editing on his computer, and Greg is watching the Pacquiao / Mosely fight at a friend's house (special occasion). June is snoozing, steak is digesting, wine is being metabolized. Life is good.

Tomorrow is mother's day, my first. We're heading to brunch in Woodstock, VT and then going to an educational farm to give June her first taste of exploited livestock. I will definitely be incorporating bacon into my brunch. I love that kind of stuff.

It's been an incredible visit having my parents here. It hurts, how much I miss them. But we make these trips count. Sitting around watching "Storage Wars" doesn't sound like we do, but this means a lot to me. And June. Our frequent skypings have paid off, as it took her roughly 45 seconds to reacquaint herself with Nana and Doose. She's smitten.

I'll post more soon, truly, I will. But in the meantime I have family to revel in, and a daughter on whom to dote.

Happy Mothers Day.

Eat crow... if prepared well.

Amateur blogging lesson No. 447:

Don't insult people by name in this era of Google alerts. Especially if they don't deserve it.

Food Network show host Sunny Anderson left a very gracious comment on a blog post where I said some not-so-nice things about her employer, her colleagues, and well, her. She was sweet, engaging and complimentary of my daughter. What a class act. Hats off to you, Sunny.

This might sound like butt-kissing of the highest order, but it's a good lesson for me. This is why I, as a rule, don't like diary-style blogs. It's too easy for folks to make sweeping generalizations and pick on celebrities -- the blogger has to answer to no one and gets to remain anonymous and high and mighty from his/her sweatsuit on the couch. (I write this now wearing boxer shorts, brown socks and slippers. I am that jerk).

I'm not nearly as gracious as Sunny. I remember seeing negative comments from idiots like myself insulting my dad's book or my younger brother's old TV show and making real efforts not to come out with defensive guns blazing. What the hell do they know, I'd think. In fact, I maybe didn't show much restraint, if I recall. It never ends well.

This is why I could never be a "stick-it-to-'em" style newspaper columnist. The first upset call I'd get, I'd be backpedaling so fast the gears would shoot sparks. I just don't like people being mad at me. Call me soft, call me safe, I don't care. Saying mean things in a blog is easy. Too easy. And tacky as hell.

So Sunny, if your google alerts alerted you to this one, allow me to apologize. You are clearly doing something you love, and doing it extremely well. That's a blessing. And you also taught me a valuable lesson in grace. Thoughtful, charitable responses like yours are what I'd like to teach my daughter. A quick laugh is easy, but a kind word is character building.

Bravo.

Slackin'

Hi all,

Whoops. Slacking off, here. But I guess it's not slacking off when the reason I've been absent is because I'm working... doesn't really count if it's the paper chase, no?

I'll get on this soon. I got ideas, folks. Ideas I tell ya. In the meantime, I leave you with kind of a lame column I wrote for the Valley News' quarterly parenting magazine, Valley Parent. This came out a couple months ago. Actually, that's what I'm working on now -- the column, and a story, for the next one.

Enjoy. Well, sort of.

***

I was experiencing the quintessential motherhood moment.

My 7-week-old daughter June, nestled in her portable car seat, met my gaze with her big, shiny blue eyes and smiled.

Then came the fury.

It stunned me that out of such sweetness erupted something meriting a haz-mat suit and industrial cleanup. But as I high-stepped through the restaurant where my husband, visiting sister and I hoped to grab a meal, carrying June like a football to keep the mess contained, I caught a couple of knowing glances from fellow patrons.

The “Say no mores.” The “I’ve been theres.” The “I hope you packed a spare outfits.”

I did.

Moments later I was in the restaurant’s bathroom running interference with the offending diaper. There was a knock on the door and I could hear a woman’s voice outside. From my cross-legged position on the floor I reached up, opened the door and said, “We’ve got a diaper situation here. It will be a few minutes.”

The woman nodded and gave a little wave, a sort of wordless “I’m with you, sister.”

These silent sentences from fellow parents, new and old, have often become more comforting to me than actual articulated language; the little smiles, the exaggerated frowns, the hands placed over hearts after glances at the pink bundle in the car seat hooked over my arm. Good and bad advice comes barreling in regardless of my queries, but the quiet support of a fellow parent is an indication that I’m doing something right. Or that I’m doing something wrong that has at least been done before.

Such was the case when I hovered around a noisy heating duct in a store hoping the consistent racket would lull my baby to sleep during some errand running. It was unorthodox, and she would have been much better off napping in her crib at home, but we weren’t home, and a gray-haired man passed us and gave a wink. I read it as “Whatever it takes, right?”

For all I know it could have been, “Lady, you’re out of your mind.”

I recently thanked my dad for drumming the capacity to be embarrassed right out of me during my childhood. He started early, with his silly public behavior, questionable fashion choices and unyielding “war on rudeness” that usually resulted in unsolicited lectures to sullen teens in the service sector. It was hellish for a while, but now little fazes me, which has helped quite a bit now that I’m a mom and my social mirror has fogged up.

This was helpful the time I caught myself involuntarily swaying in the cereal aisle of a grocery store to lull my baby to sleep – only my baby was at home with my husband. Or the time I did about 75 reps of deep-knee bends in a pub during the lunch rush to keep her entertained. Or the time I belted out the falsetto harmonies to Prince’s “1999” to counter her fussiness in the handbag aisle of a discount store.

During that performance, a woman alongside her preteen daughter caught my eye and smiled, indicating familiarity with both the song and the tactic. I smiled back and then launched into the chorus.

The nice thing about this behavior is that none of it is a surprise to me, nor is it unwelcome. Sure, others are witnessing my introductory course in motherhood, but they are also watching me having a lot of fun. Parenting with an audience means my husband and I are getting the baby used to being around other people and situations, I get to practice my public singing, and the Upper Valley gets a chance to steal a glimpse at the cutest baby girl ever (biased?). And where there’s an audience, hopefully there’s a little applause, if silent.

So next time you see a baby-toting blonde woman belting out a rousing rendition of “Junie Trotter, She’s My Daughter” (second verse, same as the first), say hi. Or better yet, shoot me a smile.

It can speak volumes.

Food Notwork

We canceled cable the other day, but it's taking a few days to take hold. Fine by me -- I'm jamming all the crap in I can before it's curtains.

But no love lost, really. As I've mentioned before, I have a bit of a love/hate thing going on with television and right now we're ebbing toward hate. Especially of (duh-duh-DUH) Food Network.

That's right, I think I've official burnt (pun intended) out of cooking shows. Well, more specifically, those offered by the sugar peddlers at Scripps. I've given them some of the best years of my life and what do I get in return? A growing list of people who make my skin crawl.

I remember Food Network fondly in a purer, less polished time. Mornings were spent with the flavorful cookery and mild lesbian undertones of "Too Hot Tamales." Afternoons captivated me with "Molto Mario's" implausible girth and roster of "B" celebrity guests. And evenings were ushered in by Sara Moulton, fresh off her day job with the Lollipop Guild, stumbling around her kitchen set and talking about her kids Ruthie and Sam (I didn't have to look that up) and living without a microwave. Then there was Emeril Legasse, all pudgy swagger and catchphrases, ruining a perfectly good meal with a splitting headache. Last I checked he had burned through a couple of trophy wives and was on PBS* chasing people through Whole Foods stores. Bam, indeed.

But then Food TV execs discovered telegenics, and the polarizing British humor of "Gordon Elliott" reruns were replaced with Giada DiLaurentis' leviathan tits. I was on board there for a while, shows and tits alike, and was legitimately learning things. Practical things. How to make risotto. How to carve a chicken. Why using kosher salt was preferable. And I'm talking about watching these shows on our couch in college, hungover, with the only thing of any culinary measure under our roof being deli turkey atop Reduced Fat Wheat Thins. But these were lessons I would stow away only to apply later.

Most of our current household dinner staples can be credited to Ina Garten, and June has Bobby Flay to thank when the scents of frying onions and roasted peppers waft their way through the ceiling grate in our kitchen and right into her bedroom. Tyler Florence's bloat convinced me his boeuf bourgignon was worth trying -- it was -- and Alton Brown, nerdy has he is, had me at "macaroni and cheese."

But then Paula Deen patented her phony "yeeeaaaawwwwwwwll," and Sandra Lee was greenlit to comport with earthlings, and the Neely's felt fit to pause from their Sock-It-To-Me cake assembly to make out. Ugh, get a room. And -- oh God -- Guy Fieri. They were starting to lose me.

I peaced out recently when I realized that in 14 years of devoted Food Network viewing, I had seen every recipe come to life in their two-dimensional anondized aluminum archives. I was explaining this to Trish and Dave when they were here the other night: you know that mathematical principal where you can figure out how many numeral combinations are in a given number by multiplying each of the digits in that number? Factorials I think they were called. Well, I've experienced a Food Network Factorial. I have seen every possible combination of every ingredient out there. In fact, I think they've just started over. It's 1998 again, only Rachael Ray has been charged with replacing every occurrence of "chipotle" with "pancetta."

In honor of this I've assembled a log of glossary terms that played not a small part in my defection from the brand.

Nutty: One of the more overused words in cooking television. Whether it's a "Walnut Encrusted Nutty Nut Loaf" or a fruit salad, these hosts will describe something as "nutty" in order to sound like they know what the hell they're talking about. Usually they don't. The likelihood of an ingredient actually "imparting a nutty flavor on these cake balls" is slim, and moreover I want my cake balls to taste like cake balls, not nuts. Find a new adjective.

Nice: I've got here a nice leg of lamb. Get yourself some nice blood oranges. You want the pan nice and hot. Another filler word. When you have to fill 22 minutes with step-by-step instructions on how to scramble eggs, a word like "nice" comes in handy. But I never want to hear it again.

Cut to size: This is a Sunny Anderson staple. Cut to size? Cut to what size? You're chopping an onion, not trying to fit it through a button hole. That's not the term you're looking for, Sunny.

"Go ahead and...": Having been to j-school, it was hammered home to omit unnecessary words, especially when trying to meet a length requirement (clearly that lesson didn't stick). So hearing "I'm going to go ahead and heat this pan," or "Go ahead and add the beef suet," I go ahead and flip off the TV. Really? Go ahead? This is an attempt to sound casual and it reminds me of the boss I once had who fake yawned every time he asked me to do something because he was uncomfortable giving orders and this was a way to project to his underlings that he was ok with it. He could have been confused for a narcoleptic. Come to think of it, he also abused "go ahead and..."

"Aaaaaaaaaahhhh- can you go ahead and call Ameritech and talk us out of this bill? And maybe clean the toilet? Oh, and work this weekend? - aaaaahhhhhh."

Please.

Chiffonade/mirepoix/bain marie/braise: If you're glued to "$10 Dinners With The Blonde Harpy Who Won That Contest," then chances are you've seen a cooking show or two before. So explaining to the viewing public how to operate a peppermill is likely superfluous. Just go on the assumption that they're only watching you because the "How I Met Your Mother" channel is at commercial. Somewhere James Beard is rolling over in his grave. Wait, is he dead?

Ok, so you've gotten this far and you're thinking, "Boy, she sure is whining a lot about TV," or "Wait, I thought this blog was about motherhood?" If so, I don't know what to tell you. It's actually been heavy on my mind lately, and as my mom would say, "if it's not paying rent, put it out." So out it goes.

Next one will be about June and not just co-opting her image to draw in readers. I promise. And if you're wondering, she's still pure joy.



*PBS still has the only cooking shows worth watching. Emeril's excluded.

Clothes make the June

I had an unusually hard time picking out an outfit this morning.

It was a crummy day, so it had to be something comfortable. We weren't planning on going anywhere, so it didn't have to be anything special or need to be jammed in a raincoat. But just for a little boost of confidence amid all this bad weather, I wanted something fun and colorful.

Pink stretch pants and a polka dot hoodie it was.

You've all read enough USA Today articles to see that writing device coming from a mile away. Wait a sec! She's talking about her daughter! Not her! How clever!

And yet, I still use it. Amateur.

Anyway, such is the decision making process for dressing my daughter. Even on the days where I know the only mammals we'll interact with are a couple of mutts wont to eat her dirty diapers, I go through the same a.m. rigamarole.

I open her dresser drawer and pull out all manners of pastel loungewear, peter pan collars, cardigans and novelty socks. For someone who isn't herself preppy at all, I seem to be dressing my daughter like a drooling Rory Kennedy. Alas, I pull each item out, drape it over her wriggling person, prone on her changing table, and weigh the possibilities. Is it warm enough? Will she be comfortable? Does it make the most of her beautiful coloring? Did the sh*t stain come out? Then after careful deliberation do I make the plunge. Three times out of five she's crapped clear out of it within an hour and back in her ill-fitting fuzzy jammies with reindeers all over 'em. Point being, the gal needs to, at the very least, attempt to put on a proper outfit in the morning.

The buck (reindeer segue intended) stops at June, however. This morning after I actually switched up her outfit mid-change because option No. 1 didn't play up her eyes enough, I shuffled into my room and slapped this doozy on my pasty butt: jeans that weren't flattering five years ago when I bought them, much less now with a substantial post-partum muffin top, a sweater oft chosen for its vomit repelling properties, and to cap it off, slippers that are a couple strands of DNA away from getting up and walking out on their own.

When I was packing us up for Phoenix last month, I pulled out a suitcase that could have reasonably fit both of our clothes for a long weekend. Could have. After carefully folding the fifth pair of "fancy pants" and reaching the meniscus of the bag, I brought out the big guns. An orange monstrosity we've nicknamed "Big O." It's the sort of suitcase where you do an internal "No whammies! No whammies! No whammies!" when the ticket agent at the airport puts it on the scale, even if it's half-full.

I filled it. Mostly with her stuff.

This annual trip used to be where I'd roadtest my own spring looks. Break out the creamy white gams, kick it in some sundresses, see what accessories work with what duds. I put a lot of thought into this stuff, which is interesting considering I never really looked that good.

But this is the Junie Show now. Ain't nobody looking at me, and plus, sundresses are pretty impractical if you're a breastfeeding mother and don't take kindly to sitting on a picnic bench in the Phoenix Muni beer garden in nothing but sensible drawers and a pair of flipflops.

I have transferred most of my clothes fixations onto my dear girl, with a notable predilection toward those aforementioned peter pan collars and gingham.

I know precisely where this interest, nay, obsession comes from.

My own mother.

She has, for years, said she wants to launch a "What Not to Wear" spinoff about kids clothing. Mention a baby bikini and you might get a response about how people have 80-some years to look like adults and only three to look like babies so what's the hurry. She makes a convincing argument about why putting an infant in a novelty tu-tu is a bad idea. Bring up Gwen Stefani's boys and their tendency to tackily overaccessorize, she'll counter with their Easter 2010 "Little Lord Fontleroy" knee-sock get-ups. But whatever you do, don't utter the words "baby tuxedo" in her presence.

You're not ready for it.

The first time I ever brought Greg home to meet my parents, so early in our dating days that my parents didn't even know that we were dating, my mom somehow got fired up about baby tuxedos. Frankly, I have no idea what could have triggered it. We were sitting in their back room with the big farm table, having a nice little casual chat and then the conversation took a dark turn toward itty bitty bow ties and cummerbunds. My mom's voice, always sweet and loving, got a little loud. I remember derailing the diatribe to nervously explain to Greg, "Uhh, hahaha, uh, She feels very strongly about kids clothes."

Mom, I'm here to tell you I get it. I really do.

I've been humbled by how unbelievably generous friends and family have been with gifts, many of which were clothing. I'm also impressed that everyone has good taste -- or at least my taste -- because I love everything she has received. My mom is right about one thing: babies ought to look like babies. Not little John Gosselins in training.

June is dressed like a baby.

Anyone who knows me well is aware of the sort of psychotic relationship I have with my duds. I used to boast being able to recall the outfit I wore on some of the more insignificant days of my life. Simply put, if I could remember the day, I could remember what I wore. I'll admit I've fallen off a bit since June was born, but only because I've reassigned that talent (?) to her wardrobe. I attribute this flirtation with savant-itude to being in preschool, wearing a pair of purple overalls and a turtleneck with pink and purple hearts on it, and standing in a group of classmates wearing dresses. A mother dropping off her child walked past and said, "Oh, look at you girls, all pretty in your dresses!"

I was devastated. Little Kerry Leonard was not wearing a dress, ipso facto I was a troll.

Don't think I don't remember that moment every time I snap the crotch of June's tear-away Oshgosh B'Goshes.

But overalls aside, most of her "daywear" resembles jammies, meaning they have a "footy" feature. So I can see why Greg shakes his head when I change her out of a "jammy" set with footies and hearts into a "romper" set with footies and hearts. If it were up to him entirely, she'd spend the day in her boy's dinosaur jams. Ladies, can I get a amen?

On the days when he does dress her, and she is paraded through the living room wearing a get-up clearly (admittedly to me only)meant as nightwear, I'll say to him, "This is not the Playboy Mansion! We get dressed in this house!"

The cruel irony being this soapbox is usually mounted while I'm wearing a bathrobe.

But clothes are my thing so Greg gladly passes that baton.

It might sound a little crazy, but I talk to my mom every day. Sometimes multiple times. The trend started when we moved to Springfield and needed to touch base for wedding plans. It accelerated when I was pregnant and sought guidance. Now those phone calls are to gush about my sweet girl, and garnished with a near-daily skyping.

Every morning during that first call she asks, "What is June wearing today?"

She used to ask that question of me.

But I totally understand why she queries. When that time comes where I can't see June every day, I hope to Jesus she calls me and tells me in detail everything she has on, so I can have her in, as my mom would say, my mind's eye.

Tomorrow when I put her in her white Polo romper with the ruffled collar (it's supposed to be nice. I've been known to plan ahead), she'll be in mind's eye and my arms alike.

Clip on, clipper

I've taken on a new hobby.

I figured a new baby, a fledgling career in freelance writing, professional-grade pet hair removal, and other basic household tasks just weren't enough.

Enter the coupon clipping.

And I'm not just talking about scouring the Sunday circulars for a couple pennies off a can of Alpo folks, I'm trolling Web sites for free samples, mail-in rebates and big ticket manufacturer's discounts. If I didn't get that can of Febreeze for 35 cents last week, I'd say this was all pretty pathetic.

Nah, still pretty pathetic.

This morning I said to Greg, "Ooh, today is the Sunday paper! I can't wait to see what coupons are waiting for me!" Greg, my reporter husband, responded, "Really, coupons? Not the story I worked all week on?"

Oh yeah, that too.

My mom is an excitable partner in crime in all this, having picked up the habit during her more destitute days as a new mom in Phoenix. I remember her telling us about the time she unloaded on my dad for buying cans of 7-Up, rather than a two-liter bottle from the store that honored double coupons. It was a dark day in their marriage.

I feel like we're crossing another frontier in my move toward being a raging cliche. Get married, have baby, quit job, start a blog about motherhood, clip coupons, get an unflattering but sensible haircut, and cap it off with a drinking problem. More than halfway there, I reckon.

Driving home from Price Chopper on Wednesday, I called her to tell her how much I saved on groceries thanks to my savings measures. Fifty-eight dollars, I revealed after considerable build-up. She gasped. I told her they were having double coupons days. She gasped again. Just the reaction I was looking for.

That night after he returned from work I told Greg, who was also happy for me in a better-you-than-me sort of way. But then I made the mistake of expounding how I was able to finagle a 16 oz. bottle of Ken's Steakhouse Salad dressing for 75 cents. There was math involved, and detailed explanations of number-of-servings savings with getting a larger size. I watched the light flicker out of his eyes when I started in on why buying two was more economical than one. He raised one eyebrow -- and if you know Greg you know just the look I'm talking about -- and said, "Uhh, good?"

I asked him if he never wanted me to explain anything like that ever again. He nodded.

I don't blame him one bit. It's a pretty geeky hobby, and if you're not careful, you become like those people on "Extreme Couponing" who abuse the system and act put-out that those criminals at Gatorade expect to get paid for their product.

I got sucked into an episode while I was nursing June back in Winnetka in February. I watched in horror as the big lady with the rosacea snapped at grocery store employees because her nine-cart haul crashed their register's computer system. My jaw went slack upon seeing their storage space, stacked floor-to-ceiling with jars of Prego pasta sauce, packets of Top Ramen and Dial handsoap. I winced every time she blathered on about how much she loved couponing, which she pronounced "q-pawning." I decided she was what was wrong with America.

Then I thought, "Wait, I can do that!"

Last week at Price Chopper (double coupons!) I realized what am amateur I was. The left pocket of my coat was dedicated to coupons for items I had already placed in my cart, the right was for coupons I was contemplating using. I kept forgetting which pocket was designated for which and wound up inadvertently dropping fuel in the process, gasping as I watched my 50 cents off any Newman's Own product coupon flutter to the store's sticky floor. I snatched it up, blowing off the dust it had collected upon its descent, while my heart pounded at the thought of paying full price for microwave popcorn. June, in her carseat stuffed into the grocery cart, yawned and crinkled my $1 off Gillette Body Wash in her wet paw.

An attractive woman and her preteen daughter rolled past and I noticed a large binder lodged in the child's seat, full of plastic baseball card sleeves holding hundreds of coupons. They lingered in the room spray section and I watched as she flipped through her book, located her desired savings, and then cleared the shelves of dozens of Glade Plug-In refills. I felt that same hot flush of jealousy wash over me I used to feel when a classmate would saunter in with a new outfit on during non-uniform days. "I want that," I thought, ignoring the fact that most electric room deodorizer scents give me a headache.

June, normally a wonderfully patient grocery store companion, began to fuss while I compared Land O' Lakes butter with a coupon versus the cheaper store brand. I imagined she was saying in her bellow, "Jesus, just pick one already! What are you vacillating on, like a nickel savings?" Channeling her maternal grandfather, for sure.

My mom says these are habits that I'll take with me through our marriage, richer or poorer indeed, and that I'll never just willy-nilly throw things in the grocery cart that we don't absolutely need. I think that's a worthwhile lesson to learn.

I'll certainly remember that when my free sample of Efferdent arrives in the mail in eight to 12 weeks.

I can hardly wait.

To quote Homer Simpson ...

I'm busier than a Japanese beaver.

Well, that's a bit much. I've got a decent amount of things to do and June is on a nap strike today. Ergo, blog is getting shelved. Again.

I hate to disappoint you all (mom), but check back tomorrow (mom). I hope to have something up then (mom).

Ok, off to bribe June to sleep with a clean diaper and a hooter.

fuel

It might be time to start thinking about giving June solids.

When we were at her pediatrician's last week, she told me to start looking for cues that June might be ready for rice cereal. Do her eyes follow objects from your plate to mouth? Does she root while watching you eat? Has she tried to grab food from you?

As of last week, the answer was largely "no." Yes, she has shown increased interest in watching me eat, but it ends there.

Until yesterday.

June, perched in her exersaucer, stared in peckish fascination, and rooted, as I ate (wait for it) a peanut butter-and-Dorito sandwich.

Spinach salad? Yawn. Chicken breast and brown rice? Booooring. An apple? I'll stick with the liquid stuff. But arguably the most laughably nutritionally bereft thing I could be stuffing into my pie hole has her captivated. Captivated!

That's my daughter, all right.

Now, I'm a reasonably healthy person, but when I say I have been taking that "breastfeeding burns an additional 500 calories a day" factoid (I hate that word) to the bank, that's no puffery.

And they're 500 empty calories, believe that. The sandwich was a snack.

So I was a little crestfallen to see that June reserved her big admission of readiness for a disgusting sandwich I invented when I was 13. I mean, don't get me wrong, it's disgusting in a stoner's delight sort of way, but it's not something I imagined wrapping up with love and and a handwritten note and sending off with her in her lunchbox. That note would read something like, "Dear June, I love you so much. Mind the corners of the Doritos because the peanut butter is like spackle and these things are wont to lodge in your throat and cause some minor esophageal tearing. I am a cautionary tale. Kisses! -Mom."

I say a little prayer of thanks every time I swallow one of my CVS brand prenatal/lactating vitamins because there have been some questionable meals I've passed on to this poor girl. Mounds of pasta with sodium-heavy jarred sauce. Generic Tombstone frozen pizzas. Ice cream. That's it, just ice cream for dinner. Poor thing ingested that for the first 12 weeks of her zygotic life. The midwife had me convinced that wasn't such a bad thing for a newly pregnant woman. Her words? "It's better than potato chips." I didn't have the heart to confess that's what I had eaten for breakfast.

Entire days would go by where the only green thing I ate was a Mike & Ike.

Greg said something yesterday about getting excited for out CSA to begin. For those who don't know, CSA, or community supported agriculture, is a sort of farm cooperative where one buys a "share" in a local farm and in turn get a basket of fresh produce every week. Our landlord, Steve, runs a thriving and well respected organic farm called Blue Ox. We, naturally, subscribed to his CSA and the veggies started rolling in around mid-April.

Those first boxes were a mani-chromatic sight for winterized eyes. Flushed-pink radishes, verdant chard, peppery baby arugula, piquant scallions -- just thinking about it makes me want to barf.

You see, these shipments coincided with some beefy morning sickness so my memories of the veggies are of excitement, then reticence, then hauling arse to the bathroom. To this day I can't look at a radish without seeing post-traumatic memory flashes of our toilet lid.

It didn't end with vegetables. The morning of my birthday Greg made me bacon and eggs. The smell of frying bacon, normally the sweetest of perfumes, prompted me to barf. Five minutes later I was eating that bacon.

Meh.

I didn't really have the cliched pickle-and-ice-cream cravings (well, the pickle part) you hear about in pregnancy. More than anything, I had strong aversions. Mostly to green vegetables. And chicken. Unless it was fried or ground, I couldn't go near the stuff.

But I did ramp up the sugar consumption. At around five months, I went to the dentist, per recommendations for pregnant women. The dentist, also five months pregnant, told me she would be calling out numbers for the hygienist as she looked at my teeth. Ones and twos? All is good. Threes and fours? A cavity or similar. Pretty soon after beginning she wasn't calling out numbers. It was her defeatedly rattling off, "Same. Same. Same. Same. Same." A mouth full of fours. Ouch.

But I did some good. Notably, the night I went into labor. Greg and I were out to dinner and I was eyeing fried chicken and french fries on the menu. At 39-and-a-half weeks pregnant, what's a little trans fat? Something inside of me, likely my daughter descending into the birth canal, guided me toward shrimp scampi with steamed vegetables and brown rice. Energy food, I thought. It ought to do me some good. As I shoved the last forkful in my face, I had the first crampy trace of a contraction.

A little concerned about June's interest in my bread-bound abomination, I sat her on my lap today and slowly paraded a carrot through her field of vision. Back, forth, back, forth, and finally to my mouth, June's giant blue unblinking eyes were locked on it until it was chewed and out of sight. Her little tongue slowly emerged from her mouth. Victory, I thought, and hugged my little girl.

To celebrate, I ate a Dorito.

lost dog

Dilla went missing yesterday.

Ho hum.

Where we live, on Mars, there are no fences, but the dogs are obedient enough that if you open the door and let them out, they'll stay on our property. Most of the time.

Dilla, age 2, is technically no longer a puppy. But she's still a young dog, so I guess she's hovering in teenage territory. Therefore, while she is responsive and able to be reasoned with, she still tests boundaries like a mother scratcher, and consequently makes me seriously regret pet ownership.

So yesterday, like other instances, Dilla exited the house, dilly-dallied for a minute, and then went to roost on our landlord Steve's tomato field, still snow-covered but undoubtedly redolent in the scent of deer and woodchuck. That's her boxed wine right there.

After about 40 minutes of her not returning, I put June in her bouncy seat, locked her in tight, and then started shouting Dilla's name out various doors.

"Mother-effing effing mutt," I'd mutter after she didn't reappear, keeping my Lenten promise, then turn to smile at my gurgling daughter. "Screw that freaking dog."

The poor dogs. I've been sort of a deadbeat caretaker since June was born. I remember reading all this preemptive psychology about how postpartum women tend to have trouble showing affection for their partners, given they spend all day in a very physical relationship with their baby. I didn't experience that. I relished hugging Greg at the end of the day and being cuddled as opposed to the other way around. I would have loved to have read something that said, "You might be able to snuggle with your husband, but in turn you might find great catharsis in verbally abusing your pets."

Dingdingdingdingding.

Anyone who has met these dogs knows how good they are. Sweet, obedient, mellow (mostly) and incredibly gentle and loving with June. But when you're a winter shut-in and all they do is follow you around begging for food and love, and emit hair in cartoonish puffs at every turn, one might see where I start to go a little nuts.

It's the little things that have driven me bonkers with them. The way Dilla cannot lie down without flailing into a wall and allowing her dead weight to fall to the floor in a nap-busting thud. Or how she manages to fall asleep in the most oft-traveled corridors of our downstairs. Or when either or both are gassy. Or the Sisyphian challenge of staying on top of their shedding. Or how Gypsy insists on licking Dilla's empty bowl, pushing it around the kitchen in stoned hope of kibble magically appearing in its drool-smeared confines. That's usually met with a, "Gypsy? Seriously?" which prompts him to look super guilty, pupils dilated from his phenobarbital high, and slink off to pout.

I can just imagine folks reading this and thinking, "Jesus Christ, what's wrong with this woman? They're just dogs." You're right, folks. They are just dogs, doing what dogs do. But a loooong New Hampshire winter stuck indoors and a priority shift has made me more of a jerk than I was four months ago. So there.

Greg has laughed, and stifled some judgment, when he hears me interacting with our brood:

"HI JUNIE! HOW'S MY SWEET BABY?! I LOVE YOU SO MUCH YOU WONDERFUL LITTLE GIRL!"

Then the falsetto drops several octaves to a demonic growl, brows furrow, shoulders hunch in anger, eyes blacken.

"DILLA! SHUT THE F*** UP!"

Don't get me wrong, I love my dogs, I really do. On the purely practical side, I'm easily spooked when alone, so having them around puts me at ease considerably, especially those nights where Greg works late and I've plotted our escape from backwoods cannibals through June's room, into the barn and out the back. Dilla will start barking if she hears something in Vermont, so I've always got one foot out the door and the other on a banana peel.

If actual backwoods cannibals were to actually break in, the dogs would quickly acquiesce and give them the licking of a lifetime. Ah well.

But these are a couple of sweet, sweet animals. Gypsy's been Greg's dog and companion for nine years, a duration longer than a whole lot of marriages. Dilla's the newer addition, but has proven to be affectionate, smart, curious and protective, especially of me and June. It's humbling when I think or what an arsehole I've been to these poor little dudes. I tell them to get the hell out of my face, they look at me with sad eyes, and then the obediently oblige.

Ouch.

About two weeks ago, I was getting June ready for bed, rocking her and nursing her toward a deep sleep. The dogs aren't allowed in her room in order to spare her things from a canvassing of coarse, canine hair, but Dilla stuck her head in to see what was going on. I didn't shoo her out for once, so she entered quietly, sniffing June's toys and eventually finding purchase near my feet. She watched me sing to my daughter, tail wagging, eyes illuminated and with a real look of doggie joy to her. My heart broke a little, thinking about how I had spent the day resenting her presence as I was trying to devote all my time and love to this baby. Dilla just wants to be part of the family, I thought. Ease up, Kerry.

And just like that, she got up and headed for the door, without me having to kick her out. Impressed with her intuition, I said, "Dilla! Good dog! Good dog!" Clearly excited by the compliment, she came puttering back in, tail wagging so violently it hit June's exersaucer and sent a discordant orchestra of bells and jangles into our peaceful ritual. June startled.

I felt myself tense up as Dilla parked herself by June's playmat, back leg lifting and scratching violently at the feather boa of fur she grows around her head in winter. I watched a blizzard of black hair tickle each one of June's toys, many which spend significant amounts of time in my baby's mouth.

"DILLA! UGH, DILLA! GO! NO, BAD DOG! LEAVE! Uh, please?"

At this point June's eyes were open and she was looking at me like, "Do you mind? I'm trying to enjoy a meal here."

So much for that.

I didn't grow up with pets. There was a very literal rule about it in my house as a kid: people in, animals out. It didn't matter if it was a chipmunk hoarding acorns in a bureau in the attic, a skunk meeting its demise in the chimney, or a dog crapping on the kitchen floor. In the Leonard house, four-legged creatures need not apply.

But it didn't end with the legged varieties. When I was about 10 I won 13 goldfish at a local fair. They were my first pets and I joyfully dumped the Ziplock baggies full of stunned fishies into a glass serving bowl, relishing my water-logged harem. Not four hours later, my dad, in disgust, flushed the entire lot down the toilet after convincing me that they would not only survive the trauma of our 100-year-old septic system, but go on to grow, thrive and multiply in the great fishbowl that was Lake Michigan. I recall standing above the toilet, stomach in knots, bidding my adieus.

"We'll meet again," I thought, imagining a "Splash"-esque reunion the following summer at Tower Road Beach. It wasn't to be.

In fact, my dad has long joked that he wants to start a business called "Pet Assassins." Have a gerbil you don't want anymore? Give P.A. a call and they can paint some rubber tire treads on Fluffy that will distract everyone from the small caliber bullet hole in his head. And for those looking at this in disgust, it's just a joke. He is not capable of harming animals. Someday I'll write about the bird who got into our basement and had to be released as proof. Oh wait a sec, there was that instance with the mouse and the blowgun dart... never mind.

Point being, I always loved dogs but I never had them, so the little things that dogs do I'm still figuring out. It's funny to think that June will have this experience of growing up with these two. I often wonder what she's thinking when she sees them, these ambling, salivating, fur-bearing quadrupedes -- but she probably looks at them the same way she looks at us. We've always been here so she doesn't know differently.

And yesterday, when Dilla returned home, sitting by the back door with the weight of her conscience hanging her head low, I let her in and admonished her for being a jerk. I then picked June up from her bouncy seat and brought her to the couch to feed her. Dilla approached to give the baby a sniff.

June squealed in delight.