From: Chris
Sent: Wednesday, November 23, 2005 10:08 AM
To: Binky
Subject: Don't be a blob, blog!

I think you should start a new blog right away. This is BS that you're not writing just because Tolby turned 3 months. If you act swiftly, you can carry your existing audience with you instead of losing them to the morass of the internet.

My literary life is a void without your musings in it.

-Chris

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The things I do for love.

www.8hours.blogspot.com



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Those with a keen eye for detail are no doubt aware that the swift passage of time carried me out of the fourth trimester several weeks ago. I've held out this long simply because I'm at a total loss for another title. But enough is enough. The Fourth Trimester is hereby disbanded. Now the hiatus. Time will tell if it will be of Soprano-like scope or a shorter vacation. Tune in next time...same bat internet, different bat blogspot.

A SHOUT OUT


















Here's an ode to stain removers and explosive poo,
though it pains me just to write it.
See, I've got to give credit where credit is due,
and it's due to Shoutin' out baby shit.

It's the kind of Shout with the stain lifting brush,
a fine, plastic, bristle-y tool.
It's akin to the magic of a good potty flush
when it comes to getting rid of old stool.

I'm not sure that Tolby's clothes would be wearable,
if I was left to my own devices.
The wreckage left in her ass path is terrible,
and only Shout is worth the rising prices.

Following my advice is easy,
next time your child grunts out a nasty stain.
Plug your nose, put on gloves, don't be queasy--
and Shout it out with this simple refrain:

When these endless diaper days have you flustered,
know that on one thing you can rely--
whether that poop is thick, sticky, or like mustard,
there's no bowel movement that Shout can't defy.



Thanks to www.rhymezone.com for making it all possible. 

THE BIGGEST LIE

Parents are liars. I got ahold of the job description and it was right there:

Incumbent will stretch the truth as necessary to ensure perpetuation and survival of the species.

The biggest lie, to which the title of this post refers, is more of a withholding of information than a blatant falsehood. The lie plays out day after day, from sea to shining sea, as men and women of all ages gaze upon the swollen abdomen of a pregnant woman and smile as if everything is going to be alright. It's the lack of truth inherent when they press their hand to her stomach and heap gifts upon her amidst a barrage of verbal positivity. The lie is all the good stuff they tell her because her pregnant glow can't withstand the bad.

I am pregnancy buzzkill. It's my new mission in life. No longer will a newborn's mother be able to say, in my presence, that "nobody told me it would be like this!" I know perfectly well that noone on the verge of impending motherhood will believe me, but I'm going to say it anyway. And I'm going to say it in allegory, 'cause that's just how I do.

Your life is a puzzle that your baby will not fit. Forget even trying to shove his/her cardboard curves into the 1000 piecer that was your old life. That puzzle is done. There's a blue light special in Fate's aisle five that has a brand new jigsaw with your name on it. No refunds, returns or exchanges.

I'm not sure that you're getting this. What I'm trying to tell you is that the old puzzle might as well be glued together, framed, and hung on the wall. You can't go back. I want you to know this.

You've got a million pieces laid out in front of you now in a puzzle that belongs to your baby, and your next baby, and the babies of your babies. It's not your puzzle anymore, but every time you snap a rounded tip into its matching cranny, you will feel more fulfilled than you ever imagined being. It's not at all easy and it's not always fun. Know this. It is brand new.

For all my talk of honesty, I see now that even I can't spell it out. I can't unleash this truth in the kind of plain terms you will understand. You will still come back here saying that nobody told you it would be like this.

And all I will be able to do is look at you knowingly, the newest perpetrator of the biggest lie.

RANDOM RECOMMENDATIONS

Things that are good:

The new sitcom, How I Met Your Mother:
If you're a twenty-something, whether married, engaged or single, you'll be able to relate. It's filled with hilarious pop culture references and characters boiling over with modern day idiosyncracies. It's well written and well acted.

Edy's Slow Churned Rich & Creamy Light Ice Cream:
It's calorically light, yet rich and creamy. Need I say more?

Things that are bad:

Vonage phone service:
The fact that it's a new technology is very apparent. It will often ring once on the receiving end and then start blowing static into the ear of the caller. When a call actually gets through, reception is iffy. My husband made a few adjustments with the set up that helped a bit, but I am still far from loving it. It might be a good option one day, but not today.

Huggies diapers:
Hate 'em! See below post about the great diaper debacle. That is not the only problem we've had, either. Excrement has been known to escape from the scratchy plastic indiscriminately. However, I realize that diaper preferences are strangely subjective, and that what binds one baby up but good could leave another baby sitting in a brown puddle. Sorry, I call it like I see it...and occasionally feel it.

COMMENTS ON AGING BY THE NEWLY INITIATED

As evidenced by my chin hairs, I am getting old.

I'm not old when compared to octogenarians, or people my parent's age, or even those in their 40s (sorry, guys). I'm on the tail end of being truly, undebatably young, which is a strange place to be. The late 20s and early 30s are filled with wistfullness for the days gone by and nervous anticipation of what's to come. It's when you realize you can actually remember things that happened 20 years ago, and when you begin to see how the landscape 20 years from now will be completely changed. People you can't live without today will be gone, and people you haven't yet met will be fully grown.

My skin used to be smooth, and unencumbered by spiky black outcroppings. Now I need to go in regularly with a magnifying mirror and the tweezers. Some days it's annoying, on others disturbing, and if the hormones are in enough of a tizzy, it can be downright depressing. Like the gradual slackening of the skin and the fine lines that will become wrinkles, your body will remind you of the passage of time even if you manage to disregard all outside indicators.

A NEW ENGLAND NOVEMBER

Today, as I crested Rhode Island's highest peak, I looked up at Connecticut and saw purple mountains hide the fat sun. Only moments before, I had seen a woman walking a rural road with a collection of pine boughs in her arms. Late fall in New England is filled with images made sharper by the cool, clear air, and November is when it's most apparent.

November makes you think of closed doors and well-lit kitchens, where families eat together because a) there's nothing else to do and b) multiple bodies in one room create heat. November is turkey in all its incarnations--from 18 pounder to leftover sandwiches (warmed) to a carcass melting into soup. November is a little calmer than December, a little warmer. Scarves and gloves are still a novelty. School has not yet become old hat.

November's not a bad month, as far as the cold ones go, in New England.

OH, THE EMBARRASSING THINGS I WILL POST ON THIS BLOG

TOLBY AS THE GIRAFFE

MY PUMPKIN

THE ONE WHERE SHE IS A CAT AND HE IS A LITTERBOX







A close-up of Chris's hind quarters in the litterbox.

This Halloween, Chris and I were a litterbox and a cat, respectively. I am really pleased that he was secure enough in his manhood to willingly dress up as something. . .well. . .for me to poop on. The great thing about my husband is that he'll do anything for a laugh. Then there's also the fact that it was a heck of a lot cheaper to saw a hole into a plastic clothes bin than it would have been to purchase one of the ridiculously overpriced costumes made of synthetic fiber guaranteed to go up in flames at the first sight of a match, lighter, candle, or magnifying glass and light source.

The baby stayed with her grandparents on the paternal side while we indulged in Halloween revelry at Sean's house. After four trimesters of estrangement, Jim Beam and I were reunited, courtesy of Diet Coke. It was like old times, which is signficant when you consider that life is really nothing like it used to be.

Alright, I would write more, but there's a baby to be fed and a husband who needs to go replace the brakelights on my Cadillac Craptera. See ya tomorrow.