Desperate & Seeking (OR Wanted: Blog Content from my Fair Readers Who are Kind and Lovely Humans, I Hope)

Writer’s block has me.

Yup, its got me good since I can’t even come up with a witty follow up quip to that sentence. Damn. I’m sure it would’ve been good, too.

This is where I need your help: what on earth do you want me to write about? Really, door’s open. Ask away. I promise to answer all questions honestly. And hopefully (with fingers crossed, eyes squeezed shut) in an amusing manner.

And listen, I know we have some new readers out there—yes, ones I actually don’t know in real life—so this is no time to be shy. Momma needs some new blog topics. And a few extra hours of sleep. And another foot rub. Or rubs.

See what happens when I try this on my own? I'll quit while I'm ahead (well, at least not behind) and you let those fingers do they typin'.

Deal?

Deal.

Video Killed the Writer's Blog

Okay, I have about two minutes before the kiddo awakens and starts demanding some grub. (And before you make an Oliver "please sir, I want some more" joke, don't.) I promise I will return to dazzling you all with my wit soon enough. Until then, enjoy some more video of our twinkling little star.

Oliver learning to hug @ 13 weeks old

Oliver laughs @ 13 weeks old

Quick, While He's Napping...

Yikes. Having a kid has been detrimental to this blog. Over the last few months I've had to choose between feeding my kid, showering, sneaking in a quick nap or blogging. I hope you'll forgive that I chose anything but the latter every single time.

Though I left the blog to collect virtual spiderwebs, I was able to stifle my Catholic guilt by remembering my (three) readers also stalk me on Facebook so they would get their fix as needed. Also, it couldn't hurt that I tossed my first born son into a vat of holy water.

I'm still on borrowed time (I mean, a nanny ain't gonna hire him/herself) so I'll leave you with a few videos of our dear, sweet, perfect, handsome, occasionally-fussy-even-though-he's-fed-changed-burped-and-rested, amazing son.

He's a bit camera shy. I'm secretly hoping this means he won't grow up to be a tween who vlogs about what he had for lunch.

Trying to get a smile at 6.5 weeks

Oliver learning to "talk" at 7 weeks

Working on crawling at almost 12 weeks

Oh. Please forgive my annoying voice in all the videos. Moreover, pray for Oliver as he's the one that has to listen to it all day long and for the rest of his life. Kid's got it rough.

Going to Hell Really Isn't a Question for Me Anymore

For the record, I never claimed I was a good Catholic. I haven’t been to mass since my grandfather used his magic and effective Catholic guilt powers while visiting one weekend a few years ago. And I deemed the entire experience a miserable waste of time as the homily was all about how the church needed more money for their sacristy. Not exactly an enticing sermon to charm a lost member of the flock back to the herd. Big fail on Padre’s part.

But, the hubs is all about saving our son from the clutches of hell and wants to get our kiddo baptized. Being the good mom/wife I am, (and with no real reason other than, “I don’t feel like it,”) I figured we should splash some holy water on the kid and call him saved.

So we recently took a baptism class at our cathedral. A few hours in the house of our Lord to learn all about the sacrament, baptism ceremony, paperwork, and (ahem) donation. As you can tell, it was a hella fun evening.

Here’s one interesting fact about our cathedral: they do “full immersion” baptisms. Yup. It’s exactly what it sounds like. Padre will immerse my 10-week-old child completely into the water. Not sure if this is for grand effect or if us Los Angelinos are just really, really sinful.

Anyway, we still have some paperwork to fill out before the ceremony date can be set. A birth certificate—natch. And a little piece of paper signed and sealed by our local parish that basically says we are Catholic and live within their parish boundaries. Shouldn’t be too hard, right? Just walk right into to the church you never attend and ask them to initial here and there.

Oh so, so wrong.

It reminds me of one of those timeshare sales pitch deals. They pay for your trip and all you have to do is listen to a lecture about timeshare opportunities. Easy? Wrong again. Because once you get into those sales pitches you start to think, “Hey, this isn’t a bad deal at all. Maybe I should…” and you’re right where they wanted you. And now you have a timeshare in ski town for the middle of the summer.

Fork. You. Done.

Remember this: the Church has been in sales for centuries, people. They know all the tricks. They’ve tried force (Crusades), bribery (Kingdom of Heaven), and the infamous guilt I keep bringing up. This timeshare-esque pitch is just another tool in the arsenal.

Here’s how I envision it going down:

“Sure! I’ll sign your paper, but will we be seeing you and the lovely family this coming Sunday?”

Crap. You’re cornered. You have to agree or else they might not sign the paper you need. They have all the power here. So you promise and now you have to show up on Sunday because you promised in church. And you can't lie in church as I'm fairly certain that's a non-stop, all expense paid ticket to hell. And then you show up on Sunday and every Sunday thereafter because the priest strategically places himself by the door as you exit and asks if he’ll see you next Sunday, leading to a viscous never-ending cycle.

Then the day comes where they need volunteers for the bake sale fundraiser. You have to oblige them or else they'll start with the guilt. "Jesus wants you to bake something for our fundraiser. He died for your sins, you know. We're taking dead as a doornail here, bub. Do you think a few dozen cupcakes are too much for you to give to your Lord and savior? We didn't think so."

Then you're at this bake sale and now they need someone to help teach Sunday School. Or look over their books. Or help usher the next mass.

Now, you have to spend your Sundays as an indentured servant (mortal soul hanging in the balance and all) while you listen to some man's interpretation of what Jesus was saying, though you're pretty sure any four-year-old can pick up the whole love-thy-neighbor thing better than most adults in the room, as you nurse a burn you got making Jesus some sugary baked goods.

Then you realize that this was all for a silly piece of paper so your kid could land in a dunk tank of holy water.

…

As you may have surmised, I’m sending the hubs in for that signed and sealed paper. I’ll cover him from the couch. We're all safer that way.

Amen.

I’m So Excited, But Not in the Jessie-Spano-Drugged-Out Sort of Way

(Ten points if you get the title reference.)

I always thought being pregnant would be the most empowering thing a woman could experience. Images of Rosie the Riveter and Superwoman come to mind. I envisioned myself stomping around the house, (even larger) chest puffed out, letting everyone know I had a superpower. I can make and carry life—bow to me mere mortals!

Lucky for the hubs, there has been no such occurrence at the homestead.

Once I realized there would be no superpowers, capes, or grateful citizens, I started to think of pregnancy like a secret club. Once you got in, members tell you all classified information you need to know and show you the secret handshake.

I was sort of right. Pregnancy, and eventually motherhood, is a bit like a club—you have a common experience to bond over complete with jargon, war stories, and scars. But, the club isn’t so secret; the info not so classified.

And a secret handshake? Please, I totally wish.

But there is one little mystery surrounding the Preggo Posse…a comment I’ve gotten over and over again from close friends who are card-carrying members of the Baby Brigade: I’m so excited for you.

Okay, so it’s not a Bermuda Triangle level of a mystery, but it’s got me intrigued. Of course, my Maternity Mob friends are there to offer advice, wisdom, and sympathy, but every once in a while they will look me straight on and say, “I’m so excited for you.”

It’s not the words, per se, that have struck me. I mean, it’s nice that they are excited for me—this is all exciting stuff. No. It’s they way they say it. The glimmer in their eye, the way they smile knowingly and warmly let me know there is something more behind the sentiment.

It kind of reminds me of when the hubs and I were researching our honeymoon in Africa. In quest for knowledge about a place we had no idea about, we came across some folks who had been on safari. We picked their brains for advice on all the normal stuff—the people, weather, bugs—but when we asked them what Africa was like, all they could say was, “Amazing.” If pressed for other words to describe the trip, they would smile and tell us we’d have to see for ourselves.

“You’ll love it, though,” they all assured us.

Once we landed in Africa and made it to our camp in the Mara, I became speechless.

Yes. Me. Speechless.

I could no longer find words to express the beauty, thrill, and sheer awe of it all. Now, when people ask me about the honeymoon, I sound exactly like those who we sought advice from. I provide simple adjectives and a genuine smile.

It feels like my friends with the knowing and warm smiles have that same feeling about motherhood. They’ve been somewhere I’ve never been and there are no words to describe what it’s like. All they can say is, “I’m so excited for you,” and know what’s waiting for me on the other side.

Good. I’m excited for me too.

I’m ready to be speechless again. (And so is the world, I’m sure.)

Work & Pictures Have Been Plotting My Demise (OR Surprise Baby Shower Video)

So, Catholic guilt did win (read: I thought about posting all last week). However, work decided to enter the ring and play dirty. There was hair pulling, some below-the-belt hits, and thus the blog sat without an update.

Stupid work.

Anyway, we've had two baby showers in the last few weeks. Pics from the first one (thrown by mom, the pops and my mother-in-law) will be up soon. The Mac and I just have to learn to work together. This should only take until Oliver is growing facial hair...

In the meantime, enjoy a video of the surprise shower at the hubs' work. (Surprise to him, not me. I was so in cahoots.) The hubs' amazingly prompt, detail-orientated, and incredibly sweet assistant is behind the shower, video and pics. She needs no Catholic guilt—this is just how she rolls.

Surprise shower video.

Please excuse how humongous I look. I'm 32 weeks along and have cravings for ice cream. I'm told double chins go with the territory.

I also was fooled into thinking I looked small. All the ladies in the office said so. They are either incredibly nice, blind folks or terrible liars. Either way, I think I'm hanging at their office more often. I'm okay with blind folks or liars—as long as they tell me I look thin. And don't take anymore pictures. Photographic evidence is a preggo lady's frienemy. It seems all fun and harmless as you pose, but then you look at the pic and see it's been talking some major trash behind your back.

Stupid pictures. You and work should hang out some time. Maybe knock over some old ladies on your way to make fun of babies and kick puppies.

(Shutter)

But go ahead and enjoy the show. I've got an ice cream cake in the freezer with my name on it, literally and figuratively.

How Catholic Guilt Will Save This Blog

Seriously? It's August September? Before you know it, Oliver will be graduating from college and I’ll only be up to 20 blog entries. Maybe.

Really, I blame the pregnancy for my writing laziness. To know me is to know I'm a multi-tasking, overachieving, to-do-list-creating kind of chick. I don't get overwhelmed; I simply kick things into high gear. If I don't do a task (weekend of no dishes, anyone?), it's because slacking off was actually on the agenda.

What? I said I have issues. I believe that one falls around number 243 on the list.

Enter pregnancy. Pregnancy doesn't give a damn about you. It has its own agenda and doesn't care what it does to your emotions, plans, or shoe size. Frankly, it's a disrespectful little turd.

And let’s not forget that pregnancy is a public condition. As you grapple with understanding the tricky beast, you are completely on display. You walk in a room and everyone stares at you. Actually, they stare at your growing belly. The phrase, "Hey, I'm up here," has taken on an entirely new meaning.

As they would say in Fight Club, “I am Oliver’s womb.”

I have become a glorified incubator for a parasite. The smartest, cutest darn parasite there could possibly be, but a parasite nonetheless. Pregnancy takes my energy and eats away at my creative thoughts. I can now only think of doctor’s appointments, child birthing classes, and ice cream. And naps. And foot rubs, glorious foot rubs.

New plan of attack: from now on I’m going to let my Catholic guilt gnaw at me to update this site more often. It should be an even match for the pregnancy—a real Goliath versus Goliath battle. The heavens will tremble; lighting bolts will be thrown.

Just to be extra prepared, I’ll pray and eat ice cream.

Also, I’ll don my mouth guard.

And possibly a helmet.

Stay tuned next week for the results. This is going to be epic, people.