Near Mrs.

As a little girl, I never dreamed of my wedding day. As a hardcore Barbie addict, I often dreamed of my wedding dress -- the puffed sleeves, the satin bows, the beaded bodice straining against my huge full-grown-lady boobs -- but never about the groom or the heartfelt vows or, as it turned out, my drunk wedding guests screaming "Go have sex" at my husband and me as we turned in for the night. I had a thing for sweetheart necklines; everything else felt like a necessary evil.

Even as a middle schooler, I recoiled at the thought of becoming Mrs. somebody else. I'd come to really enjoy my percussive Sicilian last name -- Rapisarda. It's not an easy name exactly, but it's got rhythm. My last name sounds like jazz hands and chorus line high kicks. My last name feels like one glass too many of jug wine. But most importantly, it's my last name.

When Shelby proposed in 2010, I told him matter-of-factly that he'd have to take me for richer, for poorer, and for Rapisarda-er. My last name would stay.

He asked only once: "But don't you like the sound of Dr. and Mrs. Shelby Highsmith?"

Hmm, did I like being referred to by my husband's name? It's a great name. I love his name; it sounds like the love child of Steel Magnolias and The Sound and the Fury. But it's not my name. And I'm not his livestock. So, no, I did not like the sound of it, I replied, totally calmly, I swear.

And Shelby left it at that. He literally gave a shrug and said, "Okay." He had bigger fish to fry, I suppose, like living with my hair-trigger feminism for the rest of his life.

For richer, for poor, in sickness, and in mental health

Certain family members, however, were baffled.

When I explained to my dad that I would be keeping my last name, he asked, "Can you do that? I mean, can you do that and still get married in a church?"

"Yes," I responded, "I can do that. And still get married in a church." I added that women can also vote and even own property. But my dad was unimpressed.

"What does Shelby think about all this?"

"Well, Dad, Shelby is fine with all this. Not that I need Shelby's permission to keep my own damn name."

"I don't know, Jess. What are people gonna think?"

"Which people, Dad?"

"You know what I'm talking about."

At that point, I just changed the subject, because there is no good outcome once a conversation with my father turns to the mysterious, ever-present "people who think things."

My mother-in-law was much more politic about her response. She's poised and impossibly stylish and exudes decorum. When Shelby explained that I wouldn't be taking his name, he said that she was quiet a moment and then piped, "How modern!"

Our families are wonderful. They are fun and funny and deeply caring. But they are also traditionalists, and my rumpus of a last name perhaps threw that tradition into a bit of chaos.

But here's the thing: I don't need my husband's last name to feel married to him. I don't need his last name to feel like we're a family. We are a team. We're Team Shelbicca or Team Jesselby, which is like Team Brangelina but with less money and thinner lips.

At our wedding reception, after a tender slow dance, the music took a sudden turn toward something more energetic. My brand-new husband plucked up the DJ's microphone. Then, in front of our parents, our siblings, elderly great-aunts and distant cousins, Shelby serenaded me with that classic love anthem, "Baby Got Back."

And because I love Shelby and didn't want to ruin the touching moment by literally dying of embarrassment, I delicately twerked across the dance floor until I ripped the bustle on my wedding gown.

See? Teamwork!

A few days ago, Shelby and I were loading Pork Chop into his car seat for a trip to the grocery store.

"Aw damn it," I said, "his face is still covered in peanut butter."

"If anyone gives us a dirty look," Shelby instructed, "I'll just say, 'Like your kid's never been covered in dog shit before.'"

"Boom! And I can add, 'What? Everyone knows that dogs' buttholes are cleaner than ours.'"

Then we high-fived and went to the store, because, well, teamwork!

And even last night, when Shelby was miserably sick, shivering through a fever of 103, he had my back. He lay under a pile of blankets in the bedroom, his face turned toward the humidifier. I knelt next to the tub in the adjacent bathroom, scrubbing mac and cheese from Pork Chop's scalp.

"No, wait! No, no, no, no, no! Don't move. Dear god, don't move!" Then, maniacal baby laughter. That's all my husband heard.

And despite his sore throat and aching head, despite the cough syrup delirium, Shelby croaked, "Poop in the tub?"

"Yes! Help!"

And he came stumbling and hacking out of the bedroom, searching for a poo retrieval device as I held our soaking kid under the armpits above the murky waters.

That, my friends, is some beautiful damn teamwork!

So, no, my husband and I do not share a name. But we do share the same dubious taste in music. We do share the same love of a good poop joke. We share a child, and all of the disgusting wonder that comes with being a parent. We inevitably share every virus brewed in the bowels of daycare. And sometimes we get to share a quiet hour at the end of the day, a little time to linger over a strong drink, to wonder how we got here, and to lean against each other like we always do.

FBW: Hosting a Play Group or Running a Fight Club in 10 Easy Steps

Now that I live in the honest-to-gosh 'burbs, I joined my local chapter of MOMS Club International. For a $25-per-year membership fee, other mamas in my neighborhood are obligated to invite my kid and me to picnics and story time and holiday parties and weekly play groups. It's the only club I know of where whipping out a boob mid-conversation is considered normal. Except for strip clubs maybe. At least at MOMS Club no one is expected to pick up money with her butt cheeks. Then again, strippers aren't expected to sing "Yankee Doodle Dandy" in an endless loop while tiny lunatics bounce in their laps. (Unless they're working the VIP room. In which case, someone's for sure sticking a feather in her cap and calling it "macaroni.")

For me, the best part of MOMS Club is the weekly play groups, which are organized by birth year. My son is part of the 2013 play group. Most weeks, there is a respectable turnout of about 6 or 7 moms and at least as many kids. That's a dozen or more people per play group. Usually in one room. And not just regular people -- toddlers!

And until this past Tuesday, I had weaseled out of hosting a play group. Despite my naturally luxurious guilt, I just couldn't bring myself to do it. What if someone got hurt? What if someone was allergic to our dog? What if no one came? What if everyone came? What if all the kids started screaming and crying at once and I accidentally yelled, "I hate you. I hate you. I hate every single one of you!"?

But guilt did, eventually, prevail. I signed up to host a play group and, lo, I lived to tell about it. In fact, I'd even go so far as to say I nailed it. Blood loss was minor and the carpet is free of diarrhea. So, as a public service to those moms wondering what it takes, I give to you:

Hosting a Play Group or Running a Fight Club in Ten Easy Steps

1. Buy snacks. If their mouths are crammed with store-bought sandwich cookies, the moms can't tell you that your house looks like the Barbie Hoarder Dream Hovel.
2. Enlist your husband to help erase all evidence of your child from the home: Scrub oatmeal from the highchair, milk from the floor, pee from the walls, boogers from the carpet, whiskey from the mugs.
3. Brew a pot of coffee to mask the smell of the Diaper Genie's corpse.
4. Hide all of the stuffed animals, or, as they're called in our house, "the Kleenex." 
5. Stick a note on the door, reading, "Moms, join us in the basement for play group. Don't mind the barking dog; she's been corralled in the bedroom." Another option might read: "Want to burgle my home? Act now!"
6. Welcome your visitors. Offer them cookies right away. Jokingly offer them whiskey in a mug. "Jokingly." Wink-wink. But seriously, offer them whiskey in a mug. Jokingly.
7. Watch as the children swarm the VTech activity table. Watch as the children bash the VTech activity table with a xylophone hammer. Watch as the children bash each other with a xylophone hammer. Watch as hair is pulled. Watch as a cheek is scratched. Watch as Cheerios are stolen. Watch as baby gates are scaled. Watch as tears are shed. Watch as snot flows like a deep, slow-moving river of toddler grief. Simply watch. Because this is the natural order of things. Because this is the jungle.
8. Kick everyone the hell out.
9. Pluck your dazed child from a heap of alphabet blocks. Settle him into his crib for nap, even as you wonder -- Why is he sticky? Why is he missing a clump of hair? And whose tooth is he clutching in his sweaty fist? 
10. Pile all of the toys in the backyard. Douse the pile liberally with Lysol. Burn it to the ground.

Hooray! If you followed the above steps, then you just hosted fight club and/or play group! Enjoy having the flu, pink eye, or fleas within the next 2 days.

My Writing Process (or How the Sausage Is Made)

I met Callie Feyen thanks to Listen to Your Mother DC. Both Callie and I are part of the 2014 cast, and after blog-stalking each other, we founded a mutual admiration society. Callie's writing is meditative and layered and funny. You don't have to take my word for it, either. Check her out at the helpfully titled Callie's Blog. And if you don't think she's the cat's meow, then you can go to hell and die. And let me just tell you, there are no good writers in hell. It's gonna be nothing but Nicholas Sparks and saccharine-drenched first-base erotica for the rest of eternity.

By comparison, my writing is less meditative. It's more, I don't know, shout-y.

To parse out the subtleties of our writing styles, Callie invited me to participate in a blog tour of writers discussing their writing process. So if you've ever wondered how the sausage was made, folks, here goes:

1. What am I working on?

Besides this post? Well, my blog is still in its infancy -- not quite 2 months old. I only post twice per week, but I'm working on new posts constantly. As a blog groupie myself, I get very offended when a blogger posts erratically. I need to know that there will be posts waiting for me on Monday and Wednesday, for instance, so that I can plan when to put the batteries back in my kid's musical toys. I can only stomach the Baby Mozart Hellraiser Music Cube while I'm buried in a good blog. With that in mind, I try to post on the regular (emphasis on "try"). I also try to write longer, meatier posts -- something readers can lose themselves in while the Baby Mozart Hellraiser Music Cube opens a portal to the underworld.

Welcome to the Bundle is pretty lowbrow most of the time, and I'm okay with that. Poop stories are kind of my jam, which is helpful when you're the mom of a toddler. But I also try to find time to coddle my uppity, authoress side too. I'm working on a piece of creative nonfiction about the summer after I graduated from college, when I worked on an archaeological dig in the high desert of Arizona. It's still what I would call a humor piece, but I steer clear of mentioning bodily fluids, so it's pretty classy. Except for the part where a guy at a bus stop tries to buy an hour of "my time" with a six pack of beer. That part is just pure filth.

2. How does my work differ from others in its genre?

Okay, it's about to get confessional, you guys. You've been reading this blog, thinking I'm just a salt-of-the-earth mama with aspirations of selling out her kid for Internet fame. But the truth is (deep breath) I write poetry. I actually have an MFA in poetry. It's not that I don't want to sell my kid out for Internet fame, because I really, really do. It's just that I also like rhyming couplets and rousing sestinas and metaphors. Oh god, the metaphors. Fact: I'm not really telling you how to make sausage; I'm using a metaphor.

Stop judging me!

It took me years before I came out of the closet as a humorist, but I can't quit you, poetry. So, if you look closely, every once in a paragraph or two, you'll find that I lapse into language that aspires to rise above the poop/puke/pee-pee story I've been telling.

3. Why do I write what I do?

I come from a long line of story tellers. Back in the day, all of the neighborhood kids would pile onto my family's front stoop to listen to my dad tell stories. His ghost stories, in particular, were a big hit at slumber parties. I felt proud and awed when my dad got going: embellishing here, adding sound effects there, frequently laughing at himself. Now I'm just chasing that dream of, um, being idolized by middle-schoolers, I guess. So, what I'm saying is that I want to be the Justin Beiber of mommy blogs. Do middle-schoolers still like him? He's a pretty big asshole. What else do tweens like? Too much eyeliner and those Monster energy drinks, maybe? Okay, then that. I want to be the slutty makeup and go-go juice of mommy blogs.

Ugh. Fine. I also just like telling stories, okay? I like that story telling is a communal act, that really good story telling is a game you play with your audience. You need to decipher where the funny bones are, where the soft spots are, and when to hit them and in what order. It's a pretty violent game, but if you play it right, you'll get in a few good belly laughs before anyone bleeds out.

4. How does my writing process work?

Haha. Process. Yeeeeah.

I work part-time and I also have a toddler and a dog and aspirations of resuming an adult relationship with my husband. (An "adult relationship," by the way, means having conversations about the news or about work, not about how Mum Mums taste pretty good dipped in hummus. (Mum Mums, by the way, taste pretty good dipped in hummus.)) Occasionally, I'll pick up a freelance writing or editing gig. I stay busy. My writing process is less a process than a mad scramble.

Sometimes I set my alarm for 5 a.m. I throw on my super-sexy grey velour robe, creep down to the kitchen, make some coffee, and tap out a few paragraphs on my laptop before the kid wakes at 6:30. Sometimes I try to write while Pork Chop is napping. More often, I write after my son has gone to bed, while Shelby whips up dinner.

I keep a notebook on my nightstand, but I found that if I wait until I crawl into bed to write, then I just write about how tired I am or about how I need to be a more disciplined writer. And no one wants to read a story about how I meant to write for an hour but instead fell asleep on the couch while my husband watched Sabado Gigante on Univision. Although, I probably should write a story about my husband's obsession with Sabado Gigante and its amazing mix of near-nudity, awkward product placement, and little people.

The truth is, if I think about my writing, I won't write. I worry that my writing won't be funny or moving or relevant or syntactically coherent. I write before I can talk myself out of it. I write by the seat of my pants. I'm basically having a blackout right now. It's like Zen psychosis.

And that's it, folks. That's the "process." Maybe one day I'll be one of those respectable types who goes to the gym and writes for 2 hours every day (cough, cough, Callie Feyen, cough), but in the meantime, I've made peace with being respectable-curious. I'm one of those types who begrudgingly hunkers down in her cold, dark kitchen; who slugs coffee; who prays her kid will sleep for 30 more minutes; who writes and writes and writes against her own better judgement.

FBW: Florence Nightinfail

Flogger Blogger Wednesday (henceforth "FBW" in blog titles, because I say so) makes its triumphant return after a 1-week hiatus -- that is, if Flogger Blogger can ever really be considered triumphant. So, yeah, enjoy the schadenfreude, you jerks.

Last week, I wrote a post called "It Got Better" (check out Part 1 and Part 2). Granted, I was talking about mothering newborns when I wrote that post, but my timing was poor at best, because this month has (if you'll pardon my technical jargon) sucked a big fat one.

Between my son, my husband, and I, we have been to the doctor's office six times in the last 4 weeks. Here's the tally: torrents of diarrhea, pink eye, bronchitis, more pink eye, an ear infection, and a throat infection. For the record, Pork Chop did not get pink eye because I farted into his eye, as my sister, a nurse, suspects. However, I can say with absolute certainty that Pork Chop gave me pink eye because he likes to use my face as his personal Kleenex. Frankly, if the kid wipes snot on my cheek one more time, I will definitely be farting into his eye and also possible into an ear. I'm pretty sure this is how you get the bubonic plague or maybe dropsy. But I'm willing to let CPS sort that out.

Every time I put my hand in a pocket, I discover an impossibly damp wad of tissues. There are antibiotic drops, pills, and liquid suspensions fighting for space in our medicine cabinet next to the mentholated cough drops and economy-sized Tylenol PM. I had to wash my favorite sweat shirt three times in a week thanks to three different bodily fluids -- two of which weren't even my fluids. If it doesn't smell like poop, puke, or bleach, then don't worry, you're not at my house.

I don't care that spring has finally arrived and that the tree in our front yard is bustling with pink blooms and bumble bees. I don't care that the breeze is warm and carries the scent of rich, teeming earth. I don't care about the giddy kids on bikes or the dads loping after them. I do, however, care about the cardinal in the tree outside of Pork Chop's nursery; if that little asshole starts chirping at 5 a.m. one more time, if it wakes my sick kid up one more time, I will grab it by it's cheery red neck and I will fart in both of its stupid bird eyes.

I cannot deal. The dog cannot deal.

Just bring us our hot toddies and go away.

I am over it. All of it. Mostly.

Being sick on and off for a month would make the best of us cranky. But toddlers, as we all know, are not the best of us. And, as such, my son has been a screaming, whining, tantrum-throwing mess. He's 14 months old. He feels terrible. We have to pour medicine down his throat or drop medicine into his eyes several times per day. I can't blame him for flinging his oatmeal at the wall or for trying to throw himself from the changing table. I can't blame him, but I don't like it either.

Except, there's this thing that he does when he's really miserable, when he's so sick that the fight has just gone out of him -- he wants me to hold him. Just hold him. He curls into my lap, drops his hot little head against my chest, and sighs like the enormous weight of his toddler life has been lifted. And I like that. A lot.

My boy is already so independent. He's assertive. He's adventurous. He'd sooner scream than laugh when he's happy. He rarely sits still. He hasn't quite mastered "gentle touch." He smacks what he loves. He smacks what he doesn't love. Today he smacked a kitchen cabinet because, I don't know, maybe it was spreading rumors about him. He also smacked me when I stopped singing "You Are My Sunshine." My mama friends have assured me that this is a typical toddler phase, but that's hard to explain to the infant my son nearly (nearly) walloped upside the fontanelle. In short: Pork Chop is not what you'd call a "cuddler." He's a bruiser and a tiny beastie and force of nature and more fearless than I have ever been in my whole life. He awes me. But he won't hug me.

So here I am, on the Internet, confessing that I take a small pleasure in my son's misery. If I could wave my magic Lysol wand and make his stuffy nose and aching ear and itchy eyes go away, I would. Lord knows I've tried. And it's not as though I enjoy waking to the sound of Pork Chop's hoarse cries at midnight. And I don't like lifting him from the crib to find that he's spiked a fever again. And I hate feeling him shiver against me as we settle into the rocker. And I'm no fan of the humidifier, humming and burbling, making it impossible for me to nod off, even as my son settles into the crook of my arm, petting my fuzzy robe, relaxing into a snore.  I hate this whole month. I hate all of this sickness and discomfort. But, I'll be damned if my boy, cradled in my lap, isn't some of the best medicine I've ever had.

It Got Better: Part 2

Welcome to Part 2 of "It Got Better." You can check out Part 1 here. 

When last we parted ways, we were discussing new motherhood and infant airplane pilots and crying and a mysterious link sent to me by my longtime friend, Gina.  But let me back up just a little. 

I've known Gina since elementary school. I don't recall what bonded us precisely, but I do have a vivid memory of first being dazzled by Gina during recess. She was ice skating. And, this being Baltimore, we had neither ice rink nor frozen pond behind our school. The Winter Olympics were in full swing, and Gina, inspired, would choreograph intricate skating routines to be performed in the alley. Because, this being Baltimore, recess was in an alley.

She would swoop about the asphalt, leaping with graceful, extended arms. She would twirl, arching her back, holding her hands prayerfully skyward. She would run in figure eights around the boys playing WWE Cage Match and around the gaggle of girls who, in utter confusion, were watching the boys. Even as a dorky kid, I found her skating routines kind of bizarre, but I was impressed. She just didn't give a damn. And her triple Lutz was stunning. Eventually, I was swooping around next to her.

And that's how our friendship has sailed along for almost 30 years so far: Gina, the intrepid adventurer, and I, her awed and slightly terrified fan girl. By the time college rolled around, Gina was stomping about the woods in Outward Bound or hiking through a canyon once she had moved away to Northern Arizona. She went rappelling and rafting and generally trekking through places that sounded beautiful and remote and full of super-big bugs.

When we were still in our early twenties, she took me on a hike through Sedona and on another through the Grand Canyon. For my benefit, both were novice-level excursions, but I was still awed by her competence. Her confidence. Years later, when Gina married and became a mom of two boys, I imagined her just as she had always been: Competent. Confident. In hiking boots. But now with a kid tethered to her backpack by a bungee cord. And thanks to Facebook, I got to see just that (almost) -- a photo of Gina in a wide-brimmed hat and hiking boots, making her way up a steep trail with her youngest strapped to her back in an Ergo.

Gina and the boys looking pretty happy about being in nature,
even though nature is where the bugs live.

My life took a decidedly more cautious turn than did Gina's. I've never once felt the urge to rappel from anything. I can barely ride in the elevator without hyperventilating. My weekends were spent doing brunch and recovering from doing brunch. Then, at 36 (weeks shy of 37), I became a first-time mom, and I suddenly felt crushing fear, despair, and vertigo. For years, I'd been hunkered down in a cubicle, correcting a comma splice here, adding a sentence there -- thinking that, somehow, I was building a desperation-proof bunker around my life. But motherhood flattened my bunker like it would, eventually, flatten my boobs.

My son had jaundice and then he wouldn't latch and then he had reflux. When he finally starting nursing with gusto, he clamped down for an hour at a clip; I would hum or flex my feet to keep my mind off of the shooting pain. To help with his reflux, my OB suggested I cut out dairy then soy then nuts then wheat. I wandered around the apartment topless, eating corn chips, while my son screamed in his sling. It was February. It was cold. It was wet. I was stuck. Forever. With a baby who hated me.

Let me tell you what I think about your problems, mom.

It's nothing that millions of moms haven't been through before. But I hadn't been through it. I didn't know. My plane was in a nose dive. So on a murky afternoon, I put Pork Chop in his crib and let him cry while I tapped out an email to Gina. "I feel so clueless that it's a wonder my kid has survived this long with me for a mother," I said.

Then Gina sent me this link: http://www.momscape.com/articles/easier.htm

More importantly, she told me that, when her second son was born, she had to read the article in the link every day (every day for many weeks) just to keep a grip on sanity. I did not understand. Gina had a grip on everything. She was, and is, one of the most sure-footed people I know. But colic, as it turns out, can make the ground beneath any mom's feet just fall away.

I read the article, and it was comforting. More than that, I felt like less of a loser for being scared and sad. Because my friend had felt the same way. But I also felt hope. Gina wasn't still reading that article on the daily. Things really had gotten better for her. If I could just hang in there long enough, I reasoned, things might get better for Pork Chop and me too. I still wanted someone to hose down the runway with flame-retardant foam, just in case, but I was starting to suspect our little plane might touchdown safely after all.

Unlike Gina, I didn't read the article ever day, but I referred to it a lot, especially in the middle of the night, when my son would wake for his regular 4 hours of inconsolable crying practice. I also started taking long walks with Pork Chop, despite the cold. I swaddled him layers of fleece and circled my block, letting the chilly air calm my nerves as it calmed my fussy boy. I finally invited friends over, praying that they could still love me even if I smelled liked B.O. and baby puke. And they did. Or were too polite to say otherwise. And their company made me feel better.

Better. Yes. It really happened. At about 3 months, Pork Chop started sleeping. More than that, I stopped feeling perpetually panicked and was able to sleep too. We finally got the hang of breastfeeding; I actually began to enjoy the time just being close to my son. (Fourteen months in, and he's still nursing.) Pork Chop started smiling and then giggling and then full-tilt belly-laughing. He finally noticed our dog and his mobile and his stuffed animals, and he found them all wildly entertaining. I could put him in his crib, turn on his mobile, and 15 minutes later, he'd still be staring at it so intently that I suspected the mobile was sending him secret messages. But as long as the messages were friendly, I didn't care; 15 minutes was long enough for me to shower or to eat a sandwich. And when you've been wandering around your apartment topless, eating nothing but Tostitos, while a screaming baby is strapped to your body, a shower and a sandwich are gifts. In fact, a shower and a sandwich were the collective sound of my landing gear being lowered as we made our final decent.

How 'bout I do the flying from now on, kid? 

As Pork Chop enters his toddlerhood, we are exploring new terrain. There are tantrums to navigate and baby gates to install and food to be scrubbed from the floor, walls, ceiling, tables, couches, toys, and dog. And, yes, when it snows until April and my family is stuck in a perpetual illness loop, motherhood doesn't feel easy. But it still feels easier than those early days. It's still better. I'm more competent, more confident, more rested. I put on sturdy shoes with ankle support. I took a shower. I ate a sandwich.

But I couldn't have gotten to this place of easier and better without the support of friends and family who sent me links, ignored my B.O., listened to me bitch, suffered through my mixed metaphors and confusing analogies, and who, it turns out, were waiting to greet me with three cheers and a stiff drink in the airport lounge. 

It Got Better: Part 1

This will be Part 1 of a two-part post. I'm preempting this upcoming Flogger Blogger Wednesday to bring you the rest of this story. But don't worry. I feel really bad about it.

In the last edition of Flogger Blogger Wednesday (which happened to fall on Thursday), I bemoaned my general lack of alone time. Frankly, I bemoan a lot of things, but I put special effort into bemoaning how motherhood has robbed me of my precious sloth, of time not so much well spent, as time purchased on impulse. It seems a small thing, to quietly spoon a bag of Tostitos while watching TV in one's basement, until parenthood comes along and eats the corn chips and puts new batteries in all of the musical toys.

But my hardest days as the mother of a 14-month-old (the baby-Giardia-with-a-side-of-mama-migraine days) don't even compare to those days as the mother of a newborn. 

I've heard that landing a plane is sometimes referred to as a "controlled crash," in that the plane must plummet from tens of thousands of feet in the air and yet, after a bounce or two, come to a stop on the runway in one shiny piece. New motherhood is a lot like a controlled crash, except you're never sure whether you're going to touch down lightly and taxi to Terminal B or whether you're going to do a flaming cartwheel into Baggage Claim.

You have no flying experience! It's not even clear in this analogy whether mom is the pilot or baby is the pilot, and a baby pilot sounds pretty bad for your chances of survival. Newborns can't even support their own heads, and they need at least another 3 months before they figure out computers. And if the baby is the pilot and you, the mom, are the passenger, why did you buy the damn ticket and where in the hell did you think you were going?

As a new mom, you just don't know how you're going to land until you land. And until you land, there's a lot of screaming and praying and bonding with strangers.

You've logged how many flight hours, exactly?

But this post isn't going to be about the terrifying decent. Several of my friends are about to become or have recently become new moms. Google "newborns" and "does it get easier." About 2.9 million results later, you might have an answer. You will also have an idea of how many desperate moms are out there, asking Google for parenting advice in the middle of the long, screamy night. Those moms don't need another list, describing how tough it's going to be. They don't need someone giving a play-by-play as the plane hurtles toward Earth.

Instead, I want to tell them that it does get better. That it does get easier. It's never easy, but it is easier. 

When Pork Chop was all freshly birthed and I was getting an average of 3 hours of sleep per day and crying into my decaf and asking the Internet how -- seriously, how? -- our species could be convinced to perpetuate itself, many mamas came to my rescue. Some brought food. Some called to talk me off of the ledge. Some rocked my son to sleep while I showered. Some IM'd with me in the grey February afternoons while I was tethered to a breast pump.

And I needed it. All of it. But there was this one thing, a seemingly little thing, that my oldest friend in all the world did for me that got me through to the better part, the easier part. Gina sent me a link.

Tune in on Wednesday to read more about the mysterious link. Maybe this should just say "Fin" or something. But I stink at brevity and I just took codeine cough syrup. So, I'll see you back here on Wednesday for Part 2. I'll be less medicated by then probably. 

Flogger Blogger "Wednesday": Party of One

Yeah, it's Thursday, not Wednesday. I've been sick. Let's just flog already, m'kay?

As I type, I am penned up in The Octagon, which is what my husband and I dubbed Pork Chop's gated play area. The Octagon is crammed with books and with blocks and with VTech toys that blink and sing, "It's great to see you. I'm glad to see you too!" It's a funny little song, in that the only time I was ever glad to see a VTech toy was when its battery ran out: "It's great to see you . . . finally die."

Both Pork Chop and I have been battling a nasty cold that's left us feverish, congested, and with a hacking cough. We are two very disgusting, very unhappy campers.

Before I had my son, I confess that I sometimes relished a bad cold: they aren't terminal; they are made significantly less unpleasant with a little Tylenol and hot tea; and they present an opportunity to spend the day in pajamas, napping, catching up on Judge Judy, and garnering sympathy. When you only have to care for yourself, a cold can feel like a Get Out of Work Free card. But when you have kids, having a cold can feel like a Suck It Up Because That Diaper Won't Hold for Much Longer card. Or a Sorry About Your Chills But the Groceries Aren't Going to Shop for Themselves card. Or a Just Put Some Vaseline on Your Nose and Make Lunch Already card.

Early this morning, as I lay shivering atop a heating pad, I had a fever dream in which I was hospitalized. It was an awesome dream: Clean sheets. Trays of food that I didn't prepare. Strict visiting hours. Maybe a sponge bath. And the sweet lullaby of beeping machines pumping me full of medicine. But even as I reveled in my sanitized fantasyland, I could hear my son begin to stir in the next room. It was time to put on the coffee, do a shot of Robitussin, and stuff my pockets with Kleenex.

Mmmmmedication

The truth is (and here's where the guilt gets legit), if pressed to describe my perfect day -- not my perfect sick day, but my perfect day -- I'd be alone. Not just without my son, but without anyone I love or like or am related to or work with or would wish a happy birthday to on Facebook when prompted. To most of my friends and family, I seem like a raving extrovert, but my inability to ever shut up or to ever slow down is hella tiring.

My husband is keenly aware that, come the weekend, I need at least 2 hours on my own to be frivolous -- to get a powder blue pedicure, to try on slutty high heels for a night out at the clubs I don't go to, etc. But 2 hours is, according to my calculations, 22 hours short of a day. And that's all I want -- a day.

But this dream of a perfect, lonely day comes with a latticework of conditions: The house must be clean from top to bottom. No deadlines must loom. All of my family must be out of town, doing something so fun that they never once think to call me and ask if I want to come over for meatballs. My husband must decide that he needs some father-son time with Pork Chop, and thus must speed away with our son in tow to watch the airplanes. Or to sit at a pub and wait for the kid's cheeky grin to make the panties drop. Whatever. As long as I know I'm free of people and obligations.

What? I love my kid! I love my husband! My family! My friends! But, damn, sometimes I want to sleep in. Sometimes I want to, well, here is how it would go:

• Drink coffee while it's hot
• Eat Somoas for breakfast, because no one's there to give me the stink eye about it
• Take a shower so long and so steamy that I look like a boiled hot dog
• Put on makeup. Not zit cream and lip balm. Makeup. To look pretty. Just because
• Wear dangly earrings, because no one's going to try to rip them through my lobes
• Wear a white shirt
• Wear shoes that aren't slippers or sneakers
• Go to a coffee shop to drink more coffee, even though I could have made more coffee at home
• Read a book at the coffee shop. A paperback book. None of that cardboard crap
• Write for an uninterrupted hour at the coffee shop
• Go to some kind of market (Union Market? Eastern Market? the supermarket?) and wander around like a bohemian douche, buying bread and artisan cheese and flowers like I'm going on a picnic date with myself
• Take my loot and go to Wendy's for a Dave's Hot and Juicy and a Frosty
• Go home and take a nap for 3 hours
• Wake up and eat bread and cheese for dinner
• Decide that bread and cheese for dinner is not enough. Crack open some wine
• Sprawl on the couch, spooning a bag of Tostitos
• Watch every episode of The Wire that stars Idris Elba
• Wash my face
• Go to bed
• Sleep through the night
• Miss my family

And I would -- miss my family, that is. The minute my husband leaves for a business trip, I begin to miss him. When I get my nails done on the weekend, I miss my kid while I'm at the salon for Pete's sake. But I also miss myself sometimes. So my perfect day isn't about great adventures or exotic indulgences (unless you count the Somoas). It's about spending time with someone I used to know. Someone I took for granted, but who, it turns out, was pretty good company.