The Posada Catch

Yesterday we celebrated Dominican Republic's Independence Day - el 27 de Febrero. I couldn't help but think that if this had only been the U.S. Independence Day, July 4th, I would have been enjoying many refreshments with real alcohol instead of the virgin Cranberry Mojito that wonderful Husband made me. Oh well, there's always next year.

As all good Americans when there is a warm weather holiday to celebrate, we celebrate with pasta salads, solo cups, and a grill bursting with grilled meat - meats that cluck, meats that moo, meats that are spicy or Italian... yummmm. As all good Americans, we celebrate with a BBQ.

Husband dressed Rafa in her BBQ clothes and I finally dressed myself - no small feat when you're feeling this big. Our family of three headed over at 4:00. We were first to arrive - on time - unheard of in DPT (Dominican People Time) but we knew that Rafa's bedtime at 7:00 would make us first to depart too. (Yes, readers, Husband and I are ferocious about the same bedtime. It's what has let us order pizza and watch movies on properly named "PizzaMovie Friday" and allowed us to actually like each other every other day of the week for the last 10 months of our daughter's 16 month romp here on Earth. Please stop telling me that we have to be "flexible" about our bedtime. Her bedtime is the reason we are still in love.)

As a wise man once said on a totally different topic:

"My choice is what I choose to do and if I'm causing no harm it shouldn't bother you."

Applies here too.

I like arriving early to parties. You always get the closest seat to the food and drinks table. And being 36 weeks pregnant, I don't need to make excuses about not moving from this seat, especially with men:

I say: Ugh. Ahhh. My vagina bone feels like it's going to fall out whenever I get up.

Terrified Man says: Oh. Oh gosh. Ok. No worries. I'll climb over you. Don't move. 

(I don't actually pull out the vagina bone card unless it's Husband who gets more information then he probably needs  about my vagina bone.) 

Rafa, Home Hellion, reverts to Baby Shy Shy when we get somewhere new. So she stands by the door staring around at her new surroundings. Husband and I, never far, leave her there. She'll figure it out in her own time. Eventually she walks over to where we are - where I am - because I am seated next to the food table. She is our hungry, hungry, hippo. The apple doesn't fall far kinda thing.

Our host, dips an orange pepper into dip and offering it to Rafa asks me, "Will she eat this?" To which I respond, "She'll eat anything you give her." - which is awesome now but something I need to teach her is a No Bueno Idea when some creepy guy offers her a piece of candy, deary. She takes the pepper and first licks off the dip - I've taught her well. Then she slowly eats the pepper waiting for it taste as good as it did with the dip - her daddy has taught her well. When she's done, she' back at the table, looking at me, saying, "Mas (-more in Spanish)"

Our host then offers her a strawberry dipped in whip cream. Heavenly. The next hour or so continues like this, Rafa trying mostly everything on the table except the things I won't give her like Spicy Buffalo Chicken Dip - although Husband seems to think that she could handle Spicy Buffalo Chicken Dip. She's now totally comfortable eating in her new surroundings and I make my way to the outside terrace and sit out there with friends.

After a bit, she walks through the open sliding door towards me with Husband right behind. Immediately I look at her face and notice that around her eyes is a bit red.

Me: Is she ok.

Meeks: She's fine. Why?

Oh fathers. You just don't catch what mothers do.

I note the pepper in her hand but I also notice the piece in her mouth that she is slightly gagging on. I'm not worried about the gagging - this happens often with our hungry hippo (yes, this has happened before. Having a good eating kid is awesome but one of the downsides is that she often shoves whole pieces of things in her mouth and then realizes that she needs more than 8 teeth to help it go down). But something seemed different from the other times I've seen her gag. I've also seen this before with Jersey, our puppy mill hot mess rescue poodle with a sensitive stomach.

I reacted the way I do when Jersey tries to throw up on our new couch or area rug (although the rest of of floor is tile - he chooses the f*cking carpet - every single time!), I stuck my right hand out in front of her mouth just in time to catch her throw up chewed up pepper, saliva and gross sh*t into my hand instead of our hosts' terrace.

A one handed catch I would like to point out. 

Meeks: Oh maaan.

Me: Did you give her the Spicy Buffalo Chicken Dip?

Meeks: No. (Sees me looking at him with my non-believing eyes) I swear.

Me: (Stare down. He knows this to mean move fast)

(He walks inside to find me a paper towel.)

I sit outside on the terrace having barely moved my colossal belly from the chair let alone my seated position, holding Rafa's arm with my left hand and her vomit in my right hand.

No vomit on the terrace and only a small trickle on her BBQ dress.

Proud. 

Personal Information Vault: I always felt a certain affinity for Jorge Posada #20 since my birthday is on the 20th. Totally arbitrary. Nonetheless... great catchers think alike.

Running Away with Me

I'm what you could call a runner. 

Give me an idea or thought and I could run with it faster and further than Gump. It could be a positive idea or a negative one. It could be small or large. No matter. It's what my mind does. It runs.

Two days ago, Meeks and I came home from our Daytime Beach Date. I wanted some time away with just Husband now, 5 weeks before Little B comes, 5 weeks before the proverbial shit hits the fan.

When we got home from our Daytime Beach Date, our sneaky, slippery dogs ran out the front door of our apartment and ran down 4 floors to welcome Meeks and I me home. We decided to take the family for a walk. I guess technically, Olive and Jersey decided it but whatever.

As I bumbled around with the dog leashes I heard Meeks say, "I'm officially a dad."

I looked over and he had Rafa on his shoulders. I couldn't decide what was cuter: Rafa's ferocious smile and gleeful laugh that freely emptied from her belly OR Meek's idea of what being a dad is. Once in a while, you catch a glimpse of who someone is by little crumbs they unknowingly leave for you. This was one of Husband's telling moments. I can't say I much disagree. I vaguely remember when my dad could no longer hold me on his shoulders - devastating. Blocked from memory. Carrying your kid on your shoulders does make you a dad.

Walking down our street, I couldn't help but stare at Rafa. She's gorgeous. Perfect little ringlets of dark hair, dancing eyes that are deep with curiosity and happiness, perfect porcelain doll face - gorgeous. And when she laughs, she's mesmerizing. I could truly watch her for hours discovering, playing, interested, flirting, waving at everyone as they walk by. She lives in the now and enjoys everything, the smallest of moments that might seem inconsequential to anyone else. And I know she enjoys it because she doesn't hide a single thing. All her emotions are there to experience. The good, the bad, and the ugly.

Wah-eh-wah-eh-wah 

wah wah waaaaah.

And as I watched her, myself almost tripping every few seconds on the very crooked sidewalks of Santo Domingo, it occurred to me that I'll never have this moment or these moments again.

And my mind began to run.

Before I know it, she won't be this small baby that gets excited with every new word she is able to say or every time we understand what she wants because of her building vocabulary.
She will be a toddler, talking so much we'll have wished we never taught her words.
And after that, she'll be a kid. A real kid that goes to school and has friends and other interests that don't involve opening and closing closet doors, kitchen drawers, or bins of nicely folded clothes.
Then she'll be a teenager. If you don't mind I'd rather skip thinking about this phase.
Next, a mini adult. Off to college, work, architecting her future in whatever road she chooses to walk down.

STOP.
As Husband asked me when I ranted this projection the other day, "Have you literally skipped ahead 20 years?"

Yes.
Yes I have.
And I'm not skipping ahead. I'm running.

Because 20 years is the blink of an eye in dog years. Faaaaast.

Two years ago we had just found out that we were pregnant with Rafaella. Three years ago, the thought of her was the thought of her and no more than just a thought. Six years ago, I had just met Husband at my new teaching job...I was calling him Mr. Kaufman. Meeks would come later. 11 years ago, I was starting my final semester of college. College! College was over a decade ago. College that I just graduated - or feels like it anyway - was 11 years ago.

So yeah. Time moves fast and phases you thought would never pass, have come and gone and new phases have emerged in its place. No longer a wild child college girl but a working teacher with a serious boyfriend. No longer a girlfriend but a wife. Not just a mother anymore, but a mother of two.

Who am I?

What year is it? Sometimes I have to remember my age by the year. And sometimes I can't remember the year.

And so I beg, please Rafa don't grow up. Don't get older. Don't get jaded. Don't get teenager nasty. Stay this adorable with your 8 little Stitch-esque teeth and your very loud squealing every time you're filled with so much joy that you can't hold it in so you have to squeal like a piglet. Stay small and holdable because when you're a teenager you won't say Up and want me to carry you. And if you did, I probably wouldn't be able to lift you for very long... but I'd try.

Stay seated on daddy's shoulders so that he could always carry you and not let your new, precious feet touch the old, dirty ground and so that we could lift you up because when you're older you won't need us to anymore.

And there I go again... running.

Sorry Husband. I can't help it. Try to keep up.

Inspired by Coach

Today we visit Doc Little B.

She will hopefully tell us that Little B decided to turn and is now in the head down, legs up, GO TIME position. At the end of this week, we will be at 35 weeks which means that he has another two weeks to turn on his own before they suggest turning him themselves. I'm not on high alert and have complete confidence in myself, the doctor, and most of all Little B but I needed a little pep talk. A little clearness.

So I went to to someone that always make me feel inspired...

Coach Eric Taylor.

If you've never seen it, you have not yet lived. Friday Night Lights was the best television show ever and Coach Taylor made you want to be a Dillon Panther if for no other reason than to learn from his Master Splinter-esque speeches.

So today, as I am visualizing the turning of Little B, I watched a few Friday Night Light Coach Taylor speeches on YouTube to get my head on right.

Clear eyes, full hearts... 

can't lose.

Enjoy!


(Pilot Episode after Jason Street is taken to the hospital)

Give all of us gathered tonight the strength to remember that life is so fragile. We're all vulnerable and we will all at some point in our lives... fall.

We will all fall. We must carry this in our hearts, that what we have is special; that it can be taken from us and that when it is taken from us we will be tested to our very souls.

We will now all be tested. It is these times, it is this pain that allows us to look inside ourselves.

Who or what inspires you?

Write Free (Inspired by Yoani Sánchez)

A few years ago, at a friend's vacation home, my least favorite type of conversation sparked... a political one laced with the idealogical views of a mystical Cuba. I have had enough conversations with far too many people who have gathered their information on Cuba's utopian possibility from fanciful movies or hopeful and limited news reports to know that this conversation would go nowhere.

Because the truth is that you could only really know what it means to live in Cuba one of three ways:

1. You were born there.
2. Your parents were born there.
3. Your grandparents were born there. 

I fit into categories 2 & 3. As the kid of two Cuban parents, there is no choice but to be bombarded with status updates of Cuba's present state of affairs. It's like Cuban Facebook around the dinner table. And to understand the whole Cuban story, you have to be logged in all of the time because like all things Cuban you have to patch together pieces from different cars to make a boat.

In these conversations people talk about Cuba's FREE healthcare and FREE education and FREE public programs and it all sounds so tempting, so attractive. I understand their position; living in the states you see plenty of discrepancy from the top to the bottom. A small percentage of über billionaires own two and three and four+ outlandish properties while some poor sap works hard to provide for his family only to lose his only hous. It's enough to make you itch at the filthiness of it all. There is a push for financial equality. This is not lost on me.

But when people talk to me about how they would rather live in a country like Cuba where all people live with equal rights as opposed to in the United States where there are the haves and the have nots I smirk and stifle a snarky, belly laugh because at that moment it is clear to me that they have no idea what it really means to live in Cuba.

You spend your life standing in lines and stretching things out. You stand in a line at the panadería when the bread is being rationed. You stand in a lines at the butcher when the chicken is being rationed and then stretch out the life of that chicken by using every imaginable piece on that sucker down to the beak. You stand in a line at the market when the toothpaste or soap is being rationed. You stretch out a piece of gum by placing it in sugar water overnight to hold some of its flavor. Careful not to use too much sugar though - they're not rationing that out for another 2 weeks.

"Still," people say, "at least we would all be eating. At least we would all have access to FREE healthcare and FREE education and FREE public programs."

That's fair. Although I'd argue that as my mother says, "What good is FREE healthcare, when there's no medicine?"

And what about so many other freedoms.
What about the freedom of speech?
What about the freedom to come and go as you please?
What about the freedom to believe in your own religious faith?
What about the freedom of press?
What about the freedom
                                                             to protest,
                                                                            to speak out, 
                                                                                                to be against, 
                                                                                                                     to choose? 

to be you?

La Bloguera Cubana, Yoani Sánchez, knows first hand what it means to really live in a Cuba where utopia is something out of a book and an ideal that doesn't exist in reality, where she lives in "the absence of freedoms [we] Cubans suffer." Just recently she has been granted the freedom to travel out of the country for 80 days, although, putting a time limit on her travel goes against the definition of "freedom," I suppose. The strength in her words has shaken me to my core:

... Hence my intention to continue "pushing the limits" of reform, to experience first hand how far the willingness to change really goes. To transcend national frontiers I will make no concessions. If the Yoani Sánchez that I am cannot travel, I am not going to metamorphose myself into someone else to do it. Nor, once abroad, will I disguise my opinions so they will let me "leave again" or to please certain ears, nor will I take refuge in silence about that for which they can refuse to let me return... No passport will function as a gag for me, no trip as bait. (From Sánchez's post "What Will Be")

 "No passport will function as a gag for me, no trip as bait." Wow. Just wow.

Even more wow! is that she writes her blog under the beard of a government who doesn't tolerate a difference of opinion. She writes her blog, Generacion Y, despite censorship in Cuba by emailing her posts to friends outside of Cuba who post them for her, who translate them into other languages.

When I look at the two sides of the spectrum of people who say they'd live in Cuba to be "equal" and Yoani Sánchez, I am overwhelmed by the contradiction. I leave my house everyday to write and create whatever I want with no pressure about what I write besides the pressure I attach to myself. I am not fearful in the way of words, of who I will offend, of who I will piss off. It's not a thought for me. That fear doesn't live in my world. She is brave to write as she does about what she writes, but make no mistake and don't be fooled... she takes a chance every time she writes anything about Cuba.

If this is what you mean by wanting to live Cuba, a country that provides an idealistic "equality" for all, by all means, go. Be Free... but be careful what you say.

I for one, as a fellow blogger and lover of my freedoms to say what I say, write what I write, and be who I be... I'm good where I stand.

Write FREE.

As a comment today, write anything you want to say and pay tribute to those who take a chance every time they WRITE FREE.

Procrastinating the Good Stuff

Why is it that it is easier for us to get to the chores, the responsibilities, the daily grind? Why is it so easy to check off the everyday to-do list than it is to check off the feeling good to-do list?

At our last baby doctor's appointment, our doctor informed us that Little B is breeched which would explain the stomping on my pelvic floor and the fist in my ribs. According to her suggestion, swimming   would help him to move into ready to go position (since it elongates my body and gives Little B more room) and would also be good exercise for me. Because of her advice and (mostly) the fear of having to move Little B into positioning by unnatural ways that could break my water in the process and cause labor 3 weeks early, I decided to start swimming.

Everyday since I've been "suiting up" and heading to Fiesta, the pool where we're members.

It's not a bad way to start the day.

Okay. Okay.

So it's an amazing way to start the day.

But here's my question today? 

Why did it take doctor's orders for me to start this?

 I am in a place both by location and fortune that I could enjoy free time, warm weather, and a pool membership. It seems like an easy equation? Doesn't it? I've even had husbandal support. Meeks has been telling me for months to take it easy. To go to Fiesta and get some back relief and, while I'm at it, down time. Why haven't I listened? I have enough time during the day.

ROUTINE:

• Wake up with Rafa
• Feed Rafa
• Make breakfast with Rafa
• Eat breakfast with Rafa
• Get dressed with Rafa
• Pack up
• Head out to coffeeshop for writing (cross fingers I'm there by 10:00 am)
• Head over to school for lunch with Husband (by 11:00 am)
• Finish lunch (by 12:00 pm)
• Work on writing OR work at school (12:00 - 3:30)
• Go home and climb the four flights of stairs that are right now my enemy (by 4:00)
• Spend time with Rafa and Meeks (until 6:00pm)
• Start Nightly Routine (see Nightly Routine)

NIGHTLY ROUTINE:

• Put Rafa in high chair for Baby Einstein 
• Get rid of proof that a baby runs the house by cleaning up toys and setting house for adult time while Meeks makes Rafa's bottles.
• Give Rafa bath - well I sit and watch as Meeks bathes her. I'm not much help these days with this big ol' Little B filled belly.
• Take shower as Meeks puts Rafa to sleep (by 7:00)
• Drop dead. At this point my feet, back, and pelvic bone are DONE.
• Eat dinner (anytime before 8:30 is hopeful).
• Talk to Meeks. Finally we have a moment alone.

Okay, so the thing about this "having time" thing is that, I don't. I'm so invested in my routine, my daily grind, that it's hard to make time for anything else. It's so much easier to say YES to my routine than it is to say YES to sitting in or by a pool and enjoying a little bit of R&R and much needed back relief. 

Even my first few days at the pool were hard. 

I gave myself a time limit:

Okay. I'm here for an hour and then I'll get dressed, put on my makeup, drive to school, rush to meet Meeks for lunch.  - Any ideas how hard it is to move fast right now?

I brought my laptop 

Maybe I could work on something for work here or do some writing or editing.

But eventually, I allowed myself to

It took some mental manipulation but I allowed myself to stop and take advantage of the opportunity in front of me. One day, one of the staff members said to me that this baby is going to be a helluva swimmer. And as I was swimming, an amazing thought doggy paddled into my mind. What if I looked at this as something not selfish for me but needed for us? 

I am close to 35 weeks pregos with Little B and carrying him has been getting increasingly more difficult than it was with his sister, Rafaella. The last month of my pregnancy with Rafa I spent salsa dancing at more than one party. Right now, I am using both hands to help cross my legs. But maybe that's because in the last month with Rafa I wasn't doing what I'm doing now. I wasn't carrying around and taking care of another baby, a 16 month old baby. She had my our full attention. Little B hasn't had that as much - second child syndrome and all. Maybe that's why he's nudging all of the time. 

Hey, Ma! Remember I'm in here too!

When I changed my outlook, I changed how I viewed my alone time. Truth is, it's not alone time. It's time with Little B. We listen to music through my headphones, we breathe, we swim. I rub my belly and he kicks me in the gut.  

And that, I can gladly put into my daily grind.

Photos from Dominican Fiesta Hotel & Casino website

Why do you think it's easier to put off the good stuff?

In Every Hallmark Way

Meeks and I have never been much of a Valentine's Day couple.

For our first year together, I had one of his roommate's let me into their apartment and I cooked a 3 course Seafood Extravaganza. I made him the first of my many photo video musical montages cleverly called 333 Days for each day that we had lovingly spent together up until that point. And that would kinda be it as far as Valentine's Day goes. 

Every year after that we haven't given Valentine's Day much thought. He did decorate my car once and maybe we've shared some cards but some Valentine's Days, it'll be halfway through the day before either one of us even realizes what day it is, at which point we'll will wish each other a quick Oh Yeah! Happy Valentine's Day.

This year isn't much different. No plans. No presents. Not even a card or balloon. And I have to say that I really believe that we do such a good job, in general, of talking and keeping date nights, and making each other laugh or doing things for the other person, and finding our time, all the while having had a baby 16 months ago and being very aware that we are 6 weeks away from our next that this day is not like any other day for us. 

We do put our relationship first. Above being parents, above being individuals. I think a marriage needs that kind of commitment to survive. We need to come first and he needs to be my first priority or this doesn't work. I don't mean this in a needy, who needs friends, I don't need "me" time kind of stalkerish way. I mean this in a Healthy Marriage 101 way. No one is more important than this man that I vowed to dedicate my life to... and no one else should be. Because when the kids are grown, when they move out and find jobs or partners to share their lives with, when friends begin to build their own families and move on, when parents move to Boca Raton and begin to get old, the only person you have is the person you chose to link your life to. 

I know this, most of the time. I say it, probably not often enough.

So in honor of you, Mr. Saint Valentine, I think sharing how much Meeks means to my life is quite apropos. 

♥   ♥   ♥   ♥   ♥

I looked at Jersey the other day.  

This is a picture of when we first got him May 2009

My poor, little Hot mess (notice capital H), Jersey.

I looked at him the other day and realized that in many ways, he was where our little family got started. Meeks and I had finally agreed to move in together and we didn't know where where we would move, how we'd decorate our apartment, or where our relationship would go but we knew we wanted a dog. After some time of looking, we would drive to North Shore Animal League in Long Island on May 17, 2009 and find a dog appropriately named Jersey.

He was a puppy mill rescue. We were uncertain that he'd ever fully be socialized and definite that he was a hot, Hot, HOT mess. But I loved him. Meeks... not so sure, but after some coaxing he would give in. We always talk about how Jersey wouldn't have left there had I not found him, but the truth is, without Meeks there would be no Jersey. I had wanted a dog but wouldn't have taken on that commitment at that time without someone else's support. I had just finished student teaching and didn't even have a job! I am a very Leap and the net will appear person but sometimes I need someone at the top of the platform to push me. Meeks doesn't push hard but he definitely nudges.

We put in all the humanly love that we possibly could with Jersey but after a while we knew there was not much else that we would be able to do for him. We humans had done all that we could for him. But what about another dog? He had already proven at the dog park that he wasn't afraid of dogs... just their owners.

Meeks was all about getting a second dog. We did a bit of searching but weren't sure if another dog would even be allowed at our apartment. That was until.... May 17, 2010. Yep... the same date only a year later!

I found Olive on the street when I got to work that morning. I assumed that a dog like that wasn't a street dog so I took her in. That night, we took her to the vet, bathed her, fed her, and took her picture to make LOST DOG signs. But after a few days it didn't look like anyone would be claiming her. I had already used up my "pick of the runt" card with Jersey so I didn't want to say anything about this new rescue dog. As luck would have it, I didn't have to.

On a drive to somewhere Meeks suggested Sooo... if no one claims her, do you wanna keep her? 

When I least expect it, Meeks surprises me.

In 2011, in a matter of 10 months, Meeks and I got engaged, married, moved to our first abroad experience, and had a baby. And that's not mentioning leaving my job, the death of my grandfather, a major friendship fallout, and family crises. We had more to handle that year than most people could handle. I'm strong. Meeks makes me stronger. 

When we had decided to teach abroad, our main focus was a place that we could afford to live off of one salary so that I would finally have the time, my chance to write. This was before we knew about Rafaella's entrance. So after we became parents, it would have been easy for him to put all parental responsibilities on me. After all, I was the stay-at-home parent. It only made sense that I would take on the bulk of at-home needs. I knew that.

But there's a reason I knew I wanted to marry him from the moment we met.

(Road trip to Nashville, our first month together.)

Well... there's many, but in this case it was because he simply didn't expect me to become something different. He knew that caging me into a straight domestic life would drown me. He knew I needed to be a mom but that I also needed to get out. To write. To create. To be who I was. And he reminded me of that. He reminds me of that daily.

In those quiet moments that you have as a new mom struggling to be everything, he whispered supportively that I didn't have to give up one thing to be another. He told me that I was a good mom even when I left the house to write, especially when I left the house to write. He told me that I was a good mom when I doubted that I was or when others judge our lifestyle. That a good mom is many things and doesn't fit into one category.

Not fitting into a typical "mom" category... with Husbandal support

And he does this without fail. When I stress about balancing writing and working and being a mom, he reminds me that I came here to write... not make money. We'll be fine he says. Because at the end of the day you're here to write. And we are here to create, grow, and build our family. At the end, none of the other stuff matters.  

Yes readers, he actually says this. And means it. And believes it.

I know he believes it because he reads every one of my posts. I'll come out of the shower sometimes to find him on the computer reading this very blog when he can be checking his email or his facebook, or watching Amy Goodman on Democracy Now! or reading up on any sports news, or just watching TV and relaxing. He talks to me about my writing, about how he cooked dinner, about how we're raising our kids, about how we could continue to build our marriage with strong, unbreakable roots.

He believes in me and we and in the whoooole kit n' caboodle.

So when I say that I would not be where I am if it weren't for him, I sincerely (and literally) mean it. I wouldn't be married or a mom or living abroad or writing. I wouldn't have my two furry babies or my presently growing belly. I couldn't dream big or dream crazy if I didn't have him to tell me that I was actually crazy but that he loved that about me.

He has allowed me allows me to be all of the things I have always wanted to be: a wife. A mother. A writer. A traveler. A believer. A wine drinking, breakfast making, pinterest clothing inspired wearing, pizza loving, volleyball playing, tough as nails, girly as curls, nonviolent rabble rousing kind of woman.

He accepts all of it. He may not love it all, all of the time, but he finds the places to love me. In the small moments where I build him the perfect bite or beat him in mini golf or cheerlead as he plays football, or take the rescue of animals into my own hands, he finds the moments to love me and accept me the way only someone who knows you that well can love and accept your every way of being.

So, to the man who has literally made my life what it is and has given me every dream I have dreamt for myself. I love you a bushel and a peck, to the moon and back, and in every other Hallmark way that I could say it.

You, Meeks, are my favorite.

Saving the Big $$$ and Earth All at the Same Time

I should start this post by mentioning that I am not the most eco-friendly mom on the block. I drive everywhere, run my A/C at unGodly temperatures, and have become horrible at recycling since we've been in DR. Truth be told I'm not sure if they even recycle here?

Meeks and I just started using reusable diapers and are still in the trial and error phase - more error than trial. Before Rafa was born we had talked about using reusable diapers but knew that the beginning stages of babyhood would not be the right time for us to put a system like that in place.

Fast forward to now. With Little B well on his way, the talk of putting this system into place was more urgent. Yes we care about our environment and love the idea that the reusable diapers are less harsh on Rafa's bottom but our main reason for switching from Pampers to bumGenius is $$$.

In the long run, reusable diapers just cost less and like my mom said, "Oh. These aren't the cloth diapers de la epoca de la nana." (aka: from back in the day)

Here is a simple math problem: 

Couple Wow spends 1500 pesos on a box of diapers in the Dominican Republic. That's roughly $35 (U.S.). A size 5 diaper box holds about 135 diapers. Couple Wow bought 15 reusable diapers - USED. They look and - most importantly- smell new and were less than half the cost at $150. How many boxes of diapers would Couple Wow buy to equal the cost of what they spent on the reusables?

4 boxes (more or less)

And by the 5th box of diapers Couple Wow will have made their $$$ back.

I could, with total certainty say, that we have purchased waaaaaaaaaaay more than 4 boxes of diapers in this kid's lifetime. Even if we had bought the reusables brand new, with the most expensive bumGenius diaper costing $25 for one, we still would be saving $$$ by now with the amount of disposable diapers we have used in the last 16 months.

But let's go back to my point. I am not the most eco-friendly mom on the block and our choice of switching was $$$ related.

With that in mind, I've started to think of what other ways we could save here and there. The easiest and smallest way we came up with recently was to make our own face towels.

Everyday, after every one of Rafa's meals, I walk over to the paper towels, rip off a whole sheet, dampen it, and clean her hands and face. It's not that big of a deal.

3 paper towels a day
21 paper towels a week
84 paper towels a month
1095 paper towels or 19 rolls a year

And those are just the paper towels I use on Rafa's hands and face.

Since Meeks and I have also been organizing our home for the arrival of Little B we have been looking at what clothes will become the "I can't bear to get rid this so I need to make these clothes into a quilt" pile and which clothes will become the given away or donated pile. While we were looking through the tremendous amount of clothes we had we discovered the tremendous amount of little receiving type blankets we had too. We had about 20. 

Another simple math problem:

4 of which were big enough to use as a swaddle when Rafa was über tiny.
4 of which I used to place over the changing pad to catch minor drips and avoid having to wash the changing pad cover every other day.  

How many does that leave that we never used?

12

So we decided to put these to use. Eventually, we will cut these blankets up to smaller pieces of fabric and try to use them as reusable wipes. (I did say eventually and this eventually is a long way down the road.) Then we decided to use some now as Eco-Friendly Face Wipes which is a much easier way to get use out of them and spend less $$$ on paper towels and do something nice for Mother Earth.

It was soooooo easy.

Step 1: I borrowed a pair of pinking shears from a friend (no cost). I hadn't heard of "pinking shears" either but another good friend told me they are scissors that are zig zag toothed used for clothing. They help to prevent fabric from fraying in the wash. 

Step 2: I took one of my extra receiving blankets and spread it out on a table (again...no cost). 

Step 3: After folding it in half to see the crease, I cut the fabric down the middle.

This is what the cloth will look like close up using the pinking shears:

Steps 4-10: I continued to fold and cut the fabric down the middle.

Step 11: I folded and cut until I ended up with 16 square fabric sheets. You could keep yours bigger if you like them paper towel sized but I feel it's easier for me to maneuver cleaning Rafa's face when they're smaller. 

This morning when we were done with breakfast, I grabbed a towel, dampened it, and cleaned her hands and face. And when I was done, I rinsed it in the faucet and hung it to dry. 

I gotta say it felt pretty good being the most eco-friendly mom on the block for a minute. 

And what I learned is that it's not about doing something that is not going to fit into your life. Like a New Year's Resolution, if you make it something unrealistic, you're less likely to stick to it, but if you start small and weave things in to your everyday life they'll most likely become a part of what you do.

Question of the Day?:

What things have you incorporated into your life that were easy and small but made a big impact? 

How Many More?

When we were home for Christmas last year (2011) and Rafa was two and a half months old, Marilyn, my sister's oldest friend (by years not age) stopped by with clothes for Rafa. Her daughter, Mia, was soon to turn one and I benefitted Rafa benefitted from the mother-load of cute outfits, headbands, and onesies. Marilyn said something that I had heard before but in a way that I understood - if only for a moment before I went back to feeling like the overwhelmed new mom that I was.

She didn't say to seize every moment, like I had too often heard from other mothers and couldn't understand through my exhaustion. Because when you're a new mom you can't seize every moment, love every moment, hug & kiss every moment, cherish every moment. You can barely remember every moment. You can only try to get through every moment. Seizing the moment comes when you look back on the moment, after your kids have grown up and you wish you could rewind all the times you didn't seize. See how that works?

So she didn't say that. What she said was that with Mia, she is really present about taking in every moment because it will be the last time. That there's something about knowing that this is the last time she will get to do this. So when Little Mia gets a cold Marilyn's all Oh poor baby. Let me wipe those gross boogers from your face. When Mia is fussing about her teeth coming in, Marilyn is extra nurturing and mothering because she won't have another baby that she will go through this with. This is it. The last time she will be raising a baby.

When Meeks and I became pregnant with this baby, Little Brother, first came the excitement of having another baby, of planting and growing our little family. When we found out that we were having Little B instead of Little G, we were excited to stay on the road of BabyLand but take a different scenic route. And then, as quickly as it came, a little sadness entered in.

What would we do with all the wee clothes that I had saved from Rafa?
Who would wear her headbands?
Who would I dress in her little bootie diaper covers (that are to die for adorable)?

I had organized and stored everything so neatly into bins separated by months for the next baby. I knew there would be a next one I just hadn't realized I would have to let go of these clothes for the next one.

I wasn't sad that the next one was going to be a boy. I was sad that the era of Little G was over. There's a difference. I was sad at the finality of it. Would this be the last time I would have pink Converse baby sneakers? Would I never get to use another tutu as part of the ensemble? No more headbands, really?

I realize now that my adverse reaction to boy clothes actually had to do less with liking them and more with losing the girl clothes.

Tomorrow I turn 33 weeks. And these weeks are just flying right past me. I am no longer growing sad that I can't dress Little B in headbands (especially since I have recently been refighting the Headbow Battle with Rafa and I am proud to say that I am - at the moment - winning. I clip on, she pulls out. I immediately clip back on, she waits a few minutes and rips out. I clip. She tugs. Until eventually she grows tired or forgets. I win!).

The sadness is grander than the difference between pink and blue, girl and boy, clip-on headbows and clip-on ties. The sadness grows in the same Marilyn idea... that this might be it. This might be the last pregnancy, the last baby I grow in my belly.

With all of the pains and aches and amusing ideas of what I must look like at 3am when I rock back and forth in bed to gain enough momentum just to roll out of bed and get to the bathroom it hits me that this might be the last time that I sneeze and pee my pants and there is a sadness about that.

How many more TUMS will I chew to get rid of heartburn?
How many more back rubs will Meeks give me for pregnancy related back spasms?
How many more kicks will I feel on the inside of my belly?
How many more times will I feel a Little Anything moving and swimming and growing and becoming what it will become inside of me?

How many more?

And with those sad thoughts that this time is fleeting and moving on, whether I want it it or not, I think of how fast our time with Rafaella has already gone.

I wake up with her every morning and feed her her bottle. We sit on our rocking chair and for a few minutes she is peaceful and still in my arms... drinking her bottle. Drinking the Whole Bottle. But gone are the days when she would finish the bottle and let me hold her and entertain her with songs and whispers. Now, she finishes her bottle and recaps it before walking it out to the kitchen. Even farther gone are the days when she would finish the bottle and I would nestle her in my neck and listen for her to burp out that little breath of relief. When did that happen? When was the last day I nestled her close like that? I couldn't tell you. I don't know - because how would I have known? She never said:

Mom, this will be the last day you hold me after my morning bottle for a few moments of just you and me-ness, ok? From this day forward I will drink my bottle and then jump out of your arms and begin my day. No more snuggles, got it? 

She didn't warn me that that day was the last day. She didn't discuss it with me. She just did it. As I suspect she will do the rest of her life. She will just grow up.

And while with pregnancy it is a little easier to foresee the last days, I still don't know when the last kick, the last back spasm, the last pee my pants will be or if it will be my very last.

I guess that's why I wanted to write it down today. So that decades from now when I can barely remember the year, let alone how bad my pelvic floor hurt, or that I went swimming this morning in hopes to turn this breached baby right side down, I can remember a little more that I loved being pregnant. I loved it so much that the thought of getting to do it for possibly only another 7 weeks made me incredibly sad.

With each phase and age will come different milestones and different happiness. I know. But for right now I want to remember and feel the very pregnant that I am.

REPOST: The Pregnant Sadist

Last night when I asked Husband for a back rub and he said Sure in the most non enthusiastic way, I responded teasingly by saying, "You know... you could be a little more enthusiastic about this back rub considering what I'm carrying for us" Then I laughed. I laughed because I had just read this post that I am going to share with you and understood it all over again.

Until you are pregnant, and for men this day will never come, you will never truly understand what discomfort is. As I wrote yesterday, my pregnancies have been on the easy side so my heart goes out to those women who have had difficult ones. I have only gained 14 pounds in the course of this second pregnancy. Some women gain 40 or 50 pounds... or more! Imagine how uncomfortable it is to share a twin size bed with a squirmy person who is laying on top of you. Now imagine that instead of a bed you have to share your body with that squirmy person who takes every last inch of space they can, ramming an elbow into your rib while kicking your pelvic floor out... from the inside.

I love being pregnant but my friend Gina speaks utter truth when she says about the last number of weeks that "This is nature's way of getting you over pregnancy." You become so uncomfortable that you just can't wait to push this little creature out, out, OUT!

Because there is no way in which I could say this any better, I am reposting this from a blogger that I love to read. Kate Conner writes a blog called Lily Pads. Her link is on my list of blogs below that I am currently drinking. She is witty, honest, and imperfect and I love reading her writing. This particular post made me laugh hard, the kind of laughing that if I had chocolate milk in my mouth would come out of my nose... funny.

I've included my own two cents in purple.

Without further ado...

The Pregnant Sadist (click on title to read directly from her page)

Next week I enter “the home stretch.” I wish

For those of you who have not been 36 (32) weeks pregnant before, the “home stretch” is the time when kind, nurturing mothers turn into sadists.

At 36 weeks, it is not enough for my husband to be kind to me.  It is not enough for him to be patient and “understanding.”  It is not even enough for him to bring me dinner and rub my back (back rub - haha).  No,

I want him to KNOW. 

When Dan tells me that I’m awesome for carrying this baby, I want him to know just exactly how right he is.

It would bring me great, immeasurable joy for Dan to feel my pain.

(Did you think I was kidding? Because I’m talking about actual sadism here.)

Now – I don’t want him to experience the home stretch symptoms all at once – that’s too easy, like diving into the deep end of a cold pool.  I want to introduce each malady separately, to give him a minute to “appreciate” each one. ( I get it. I totally get it.)

I would start with fatigue.  Third trimester fatigue.  A fatigue that no long day at work, no string of sleepless nights could ever match.  A fatigue that clouds your head and your eyes so thickly that you have to lean on the walls to remain upright – flopping back and forth (I call this the pregnant waddle) between furniture and major appliances just to keep from breaking your nose when you do a narcoleptic face-plant into the living room floor.  And mid-yawn, just when he’s thinking, “Sweet Lord,  I’ve never been this tired in my life…,” BAM!  I’m going to hit him with the pelvic pressure.

You know, the hip-widening. (Here we go!) When you feel like your hip bones are grinding against each other as if they are being forced apart by an unyielding foreign object – which they are.  When his hazy brain wraps itself around the sensation of grinding bones and the suspicion that all his organs are about to fall out of his pelvic floor, I’ll add the back pain.

The lower back pain that aches whether you sit, stand, squat, lie down, or hang by your toes.  The kind that is only alleviated by floating in a large body of water, because that is the only way to lighten the 30lb load hanging off the front of your torso, dangling by your back muscles all day long.

Once he’s wrapped his mind around the fatigue, the hip-widening, and the lower back ache, I would like for his sciatic nerve to shoot a lightning bolt down his leg once every hour or so (and again when he's sleeping. A shooting pain to wake him out of his not that deep slumber) – just to keep him on his toes. I would also introduce intermittent punches to his bladder and imaginary cervix at this time.  I would be even happier if he peed himself a little bit. Happier yet if every time he had to pee, he'd hunker down, concentrating on only this sneeze, tightening his who-ha just to try and avoid peeing himself.

Now that all of that is going on, I would like for the lower right quadrant of his abdomen to become completely numb, like a dead foot that won’t wake up no matter how creatively he tries to contort himself to restore circulation.  This way his entire torso, back-to-front, top-to-bottom, would be in a total state of disaster.

You see how much he would miss if I just flipped a “symptoms on” switch?  He would just think his abdomen was wigging out.  Yes, it is much better this way.

Next, I would like for him to experience one minute of false labor.  I think a single, 60-second contraction should do it.  I want him to feel like everything from his ribs down to his man-parts is seizing up.  A strange sensation at first, then uncomfortable, then worrisome, then “WHAT THE…I CAN’T WALK!”

At this point he’s probably forgotten about the fatigue, but is very confused about what is happening to his body.  With all the leg/pelvic/lower back/abdominal pain he probably suspects he has a large tumor growing right between his hips (interestingly, right about where a uterus would be).

Next I would like to introduce swelling. I would like for his hands and feet to become white-hot and itchy, and for his skin to feel so tight that he is actually afraid that it might split open – like in that disturbing scene from Seven.

After the swelling,  I would introduce the heartburn (ah, my old friend Heartburn).  It should be incessant, as if his stomach were being forced back up his esophagus by an unyielding foreign object, which it is.  I would like for a little bit of lunch/gastric acid to make it all the way into his mouth every time he leans forward or bends over, angering the foreign object.

Okay, so we have fatigue, hip-widening, lower back pain, shooting sciatic nerve, bladder punches, numb torso, a mild contraction, swelling in the extremities, and persistent heartburn.  I think all we’re missing is a wicked, wicked Charlie Horse.

One so fierce that he can SEE THE MUSCLE crumpling up underneath his skin like a fleshy sink hole.  I would like for him to claw the sheets and scream a little bit, and I would like his calf to be sore for at least 3 days.  It should be the worst muscle contraction ever – except for uterine contractions, which won’t  arrive for another 4 weeks.

At this point I’d like for him to be crying, and when he tries to explain his frustration to someone, I hope they tell him,

“Poor thing, you’re so emotional right now.”

I hope this ENRAGES HIM.  Unfortunately he’ll be so emotional that he won’t be able to punch them, he’ll just burst into tears afresh.

I think that should about cover it!

Pregnant women in the home stretch, does that not sound like your wildest dream come true?!?

Here’s the best part.  Right as he’s maneuvering himself onto the couch to turn on ESPN – as he’s trying to figure out a way to lie on his left side and simultaneously prop up his heartburn-y chest and his swollen feet (didn't I just do this Friday night as we were watching our movie?) – right as he’s beginning to close his exhausted eyes, wishing he could take something stronger than a Tylenol, I would like to come into the room and say,

“Hey, honey!  Here are the kids!  They’re really excited to play with you ALL DAY LONG.  Madeline (Rafaella) wants you to get out her play-doh, but you have to make sure Sam (Olive) doesn’t get it and carry it into the living room because that will make Madeline (Rafa) scream, plus the play-doh will get smushed into the carpet and won’t ever come out.  They’re both a little grumpy because they need to eat, but there’s plenty of stuff in the fridge for lunch! You’ll figure something out!  There’s a load of laundry that needs to move from the washer to the dryer, but you’ll have to fold the stuff in the dryer first. Welp, I’m off to work!  Oh, and don’t forget to make tea for our small group tonight! (Note: our life in DR does not include some of the chore type things.)

Okay, bye!”

I am smiling a big Grinch-smile just thinking about it.

You all pray for my husband over the next 4 weeks, he’s living with a pregnant sadist.

 (This disclaimer, word for word, it true about Meeks also.)

**I would like to be clear:  Dan (Meeks) has never spoken the above paragraph to me.  In fact, he LEFT DURING THE SUPERBOWL to go bring me a milkshake (pizza).  This post isn’t about a state of affairs, it’s about the crazy sadism that sneaks into every single mother in the history of ever at 36 weeks pregnant.  It’s about the common experience – the phenomenon.  Also, my husband rocks (and is really cute).  Thanks, Mgmt.**

I truly hope you enjoyed that as much as I did!