My Cruddy Summer Vacation 2011: Family Staycation* Edition

(* I dislike the term staycation for reasons I can’t quite articulate. Maybe it’s the cutesy Brangelina-ness of the word combo or the implication that one is slumming because they are deigning to not travel the world this year. The economy, you know. But repeated use of stay-at-home vacation feels more like I am standing in an empty room trying to avoid eye contact with staycation while she raises a knowing eyebrow. You win, staycation.)



Mr. Crud and I spent a good part of our winter and spring in search of vacation ideas that fit one main criteria: they would actually be relaxing. Vacationing with an 18-month-old Purvis is the complicating factor. If we went out of town to a sweet cabin in the gorge would we be setting ourselves up for a heart attack-y time chasing her around a new set of hazards? How about child-proofing? Visions of uncovered electrical outlets and steep spiral staircases danced in my head. And sleep. Oh sleep. Last year our foray to Illinois to visit Mr. Crud’s parents marked the beginning of two sleepless months as Purvis’ once trusty sleep schedule was thrown into turmoil. I won’t even mention the slowly deflating air mattress that made our first night chez in-laws into a total hell. Well, I did mention it. Guess I’m still bitter about that one.

The coast? Nope. The tsunami in Japan and my subsequent research on the tsunami-unreadiness of our usual coastal haunts struck this option from the list. After an inventory of ways that the coastal areas are doomed should a tsunami strike, the articles shrug their shoulders: eh, good luck even though your doomed, coastal residents and unlucky visitors. Please, Cannon Beach, build that City Hall on stilts so that I can at least entertain the possibility of visiting your fine hamlet again.

The mountains? We’re not really nature people and minimizing Purvis’ and our chances of falling off something high and cliff-like ranks high on my list of to-do-s.

Family visit? Travelling with Purvis when she couldn’t walk was a challenge. I’m not ready to contemplate the new airplane reality with the up-and-at-em Purvis. More than toys and pizza, she loves running from kitchen to dining room, dragging her baby dolls and blankets. We plan to keep air travel to a minimum until she is old enough to plug into episodes of Dora or whatever is hip with the toddlers.

Then there is the trailer’s worth of baby crap we would have to haul to our destination and the promise of awkward diaper changes and backs sore from schlepping all of it. One of my yoga pals told me about a teacher who took her 1-year-old to India. “So you really can go anywhere with a baby. She doesn’t have to limit you.” So true. My fears and worries do a fine job of that, thank you very much.

So staycation it was.

We swore that we would not let the days slip away from us as in the past. I would skip my morning yoga routine (which to my chagrin seems to have f-ed up my back more than it was before somehow), we would eat out as we wished, and we would see the parts of Portland we normally take for granted. Staycation: here we come!

Magazines read:
No sweet junk food US Weekly, People, and abusive boyfriend O: The Oprah Magazine for me, an oversight on my part. Just the regular magazine subscriptions.

Yoga Journal
How I used to anticipate the arrival of a new YJ. Each page burst with promise of enlightenment and alignment tips. But in the last year I have soured on YJ. In part because it feels like I am reading the same issue over and over again. And maybe its more frustration with my own yoga practice and monkey mind than the contents of the magazine that is harshing my mellow. I am annoyed by the increasing page count full of shameless endorsement of expensive body lotions and shawl wraps with yoga-ey names and the appearance of celebrity yogis dispensing words of overly simplistic wisdom while they direct their personal chef to make the latest aruyvedic curry. We may soon part ways, dear Yoga Journal, but I will never forget the good times. Namaste.

Real Simple
So why does shameless product endorsement in YJ stick in my craw while I don’t bat an eye at pages and pages of “Things to Try This Month” in RS. Good question. I subscribe to RS not so much for the lifestyle tips as the recipes. Plus it’s easy to digest while on the can.

New Yorker
Gone are the days when I read the NY from front to back. Now I am lucky if I complete a Talk of the Town piece. Guess this is what happens when most magazine reading time is relegated to the bathroom. Maybe I should put down the Real Simple.

Madison: The James Madison University Alumni Magazine
Who wed, who died, and who bred sums up my skim of my alumni magazine. I wonder if I’ll ever have anything blurb-worthy to send. Sigh.

Books Read:
A Storm of Swords by George R. R. Martin
In the Crud house George R.R. also goes by the name “Mr. Crud’s Boyfriend” so beloved is he to my husband. For years I have been hearing about the ups and downs of the Song of Ice and Fire fantasy series. Mr. Crud laments pushed-back release dates for new books. He thrills at every new detail of the HBO series. All the while I roll my eyes playfully, “Oh you and your boyfriend.” He hooked his brother and sister-in-law on the series a few years ago. Every visit would include at least one long conversation with names totally foreign to my ears. Here we go again, I silently lamented. After watching the first season of the HBO series, “Game of Thrones,” I decided to give the books a try. I tried to be casual about it. I planned to read one then return to my literary diet of humorous memoirs, Scandinavian thrillers, and literary fiction. But no. I have to know what happens to Arya. What about the dragons? And that little shit, Joffrey? I have a new boyfriend and his name is George R. R. Martin. I look forward to Purvis’ naps because while she sleeps in my arms I read the teensy tiny print by eye-straining dim light. Mr. Crud has been sweet about not rubbing my new addiction in my face. The words “I told you so” have not crossed his lips. He reads over my shoulder. “Can you believe that happened?” No, no I can’t.

Yuks
We kicked off our staycation with the Maria Bamford set at Helium Comedy Club. The week before our big night out I worried over the timing. We had a window of 45 minutes for the babysitter to arrive, Purvis to fall asleep, and to get to the club in time to pick up our tickets. I am a logistical worry wart. I see all the holes in the most simple of plans. All worked out as planned. The babysitter did not get waylaid by my imagined traffic jam, Purvis did not throw a tantrum because she sensed that we were heading out for a night on the town although I did throw Mr. Crud some shade for taking a shower and tipping Purvis off that this night was not like other nights. We found a parking spot and our tickets were waiting for us with time to spare. Because rock shows are now after my bedtime, I’m thinking that comedy will be my new out-and-about activity. I am totally addicted to comedy podcasts—Never Not Funny, Who Charted, How Did This Get Made, WTF to name a few—so why not support my local funny folk? Maria Bamford was amazing. I laughed until I was sobbing and begging her not to make me laugh anymore.

Lions, Tigers, and Cows Oh My!

Oregon State Fair
Tuesday we trucked down to Salem to take in the fine dairy-air of the Oregon State Fair. After a delightfully bouncy ride from car to fairgrounds—“Bumpy! Bumpy! Bumpy!!” Purvis chanted—we headed straight for the blunt yet accurately named Beef Barn. We mooed at cows, bleeted at sheep, neighed at horses, and quacked at ducks. During our two sojourns to the petting zoo, Purvis grazed the back of a deer and swatted at a goat’s tail. Thankfully she did not repeat my young petting zoo experience where a goat nibbled on my fingers as I tried to feed it. The petting zoo had the added excitement of trying to keep Purvis’ hand from jamming into her mouth after she had touched the poo and pee-riffic floor of hay. I didn’t even mind that the soap provided by the fair had the dreaded triclosan as its antibacterial agent. Funny how quickly the hippie mom worries about parabens and pthalates evaporate when possible e-coli is on the menu. As Purvis munched a PB & J, I read the Petting Zoo signs assuring fairgoers that the animals were delighted to be penned up and subjected to the sticky, swiping hands of hundreds of children. I couldn’t help but think to the scene in the recently viewed—thanks to a lovely staycation day minus Purvis during which we saw our first movie in 8 months and ate a leisurely lunch at Nostrana—Rise of the Planet of the Apes where main chimp Caesar bounds into a seemingly wonderful playroom under the watchful eye of his owner, the wary James Franco, and is then crammed into a dismal cage as soon as Franco leaves the building. Yes, I’m sure the petting zoo is a donkey’s dream. A pig slept in the corner during both our visits to the bustling pen. Pigs are smart. I wondered if the pig was depressed, if he was the Caesar that would try to lead the Petting Zoo rebellion. The fair food was disappointing. After all the website hype about the great food, I expected something gourmet-ish, representative of the pride Oregonians take in their grub. The usual parade of oily noodles, corn dogs (the foot-long corn dog named “The Dominator” resembled a soon-to-be-retired dildo), funnel cakes (which are admittedly delicious), elephant ears, mounds of curly fries, and the requisite fried Twinkies crammed the food court. State Fair life lesson: pack a lunch.

Portland Zoo
After my last zoo sojourn in college, I swore never to see another zoo without a tot in attendance. Otherwise, I spend the whole time feeling guilty that animals must be caged so that ding-dong humans can be convinced to not annihilate them from the planet. Alternately, so that animals won’t be annihilated from the planet because their habitat has been destroyed or they are fun to wear or they are tasty. I still had some of these thoughts, especially while huddled behind as mass of teenaged girls who squealed and hollered, “he’s waving at us!” while watching a chimp in the primate house. I can only imagine the parade of humanity that greets him every morning. Sorry, Mr. Chimp Sir, I tried to convey to him telepathically. If you become our overlords and annihilate us from the planet, I totally understand. Purvis dug the swimming sea lions, the grazing giraffes, and the pacing leopards. I am still partial to the primate house and the orangutans. After our zoo visit Purvis’s love of Goodnight, Gorilla (a tale of the most incompetent zookeeper ever) has been rekindled. Each mention of the zoo is met with a bellow of “Mooooo.” No cows at the zoo, but I appreciate her rhyming skills.

Oaks Bottom Wildlife Refuge
We saw exactly 2 ducks on our hike in the aforementioned wildlife refuge, but it was still cool to take a walk in the woods while in the city. Oh sweet Portland. I like to walk and I am a fan of nature (as long as getting lost in the woods and killed by deranged rednecks are not a danger) so it’s odd that I’ve not taken advantage of Portland’s many parks and hiking grounds. Mr. Crud and I vow to pull out our comfortable shoes—maybe even invest in some ugly but practical hiking boots—and start seeing the great outdoors. Purvis is a fan of outside. “Outside”—pronounced “dieee”—was one of her first words. Sometimes I worry that she is becoming too much a fan of outside. I fast forward to theoretical future when she asks to go on a hike in the wilderness or worse she is a young adult venturing into the woods with our without my blessing. Shiver. Maybe I can teach her a lesson a la the Arrested Development way by traumatizing her in a safe way so that the outdoors will not be so enticing. Now that’s some fancy parenting.


Tids and Bits
We bought Purvis a helmet so that she can ride her tricycle—actually be pushed on her tricycle—around the neighborhood with a protected noggin. She likes the helmet—her “helmey”—more than the actual trike-riding. We made a house rule that helmets are only for outside, a rule which as become the latest source of tears second only to the denial of pizza at every meal.

Purvis attended her first wedding and I spent my first wedding in decades not taking advantage of free booze. Are my boozerini days really over? Stay tuned. (A hearty mazel tov to Kelle and David.)

Purvis is an outgoing young lady. Her preferred method of getting to know you is to either holler “hi” or “baby” or swipe her hand at your face. She mistrusts the friendship overtures of other kiddos--she likes to woo her new buddies--and prefers to run with an older crowd. This week she made several temporary buddies. Moxy who shared in the fun of crumpling leaves and throwing them at each other. Anya who we have seen at the park near our house several times and showed Purvis the fun of leaping off high brick walls. The little boy who led Purvis in a “choo choo” parade around the perimeter of the park. While Purvis is working her shouty charm on a future temporary pal, I look to the parent and wonder, “Will you be my parent friend?” I remember how I scanned our childbirth preparation classroom and prenatal pilates class for possible future parent pals. After every conversation I analyzed the couple for compatibility with Mr. Crud and me. (Were they artsy, punky types? Would they want some former artsy, punky types for pals? How did they feel about attachment parenting? Do they mind awkward, dorky jokes possibly involving potty talk?) And after every conversation we stepped away from each other with no future plans to get together over coffee and chat, thus putting the kibosh on our parent friendship. I have my eye on the couple across the street. They fall on the yuppie side of the fence but their son is only a few months younger than Purvis and they have a killer yard. If all else fails I could try the Purvis holler-in-the-face method. Seems to be working out for her.

Podnah’s Pit is delicious. I say that I don’t like meat, but I lie. I like meat. I like it a lot.

Pythons on a Shuttlebus

(Reprinted from Crudbucket 6 on the occasion of Randy "Macho Man" Savage's death. R.I.P. Macho Man.)

The night I began my love affair with WWF wrestling returns with startling clarity. A visit to my mom’s best friend’s house on a Friday night, the best friend whose son happened to be one of the supercoolio boys who made an appearance on every self-respecting 6th grader’s crush list. While Mom chatted it up with her friend, Wes took me to the basement where I watched my first wrestling bout. He jumped on the couch, when Hulk Hogan had his comeback moment, the part of any Hulk bout that made you want to start shrieking his Rick Derringer-penned theme song at the top of your lungs. I’M A REAL AMERICAN/ FIGHT FOR THE RIGHTS OF EVERY MAN.

No matter his opponent Hulk always found himself on the verge of going down, usually due to some illegal folding chair incident. (What good were those referees anyway?) He’d be sprawled on the mat, an equally muscled, oiled many laying across him. The good-for-nothing ref pounded the floor, “1-2-3-“ As he neared 10 that’s when you’d see it, the shaking fist that signaled Hulk wasn’t as out as he seemed. He could gut it through, at least enough to tear his t-shirt. During the Hulk comeback Wes jumped on the couch. “He did it again!” Wes’ younger sister, Brande, curled her lip. “It’s all fake anyway.” Wes jumped off the couch and onto Brande, pinning her to the shag carpet. “Take it back,” he said, rubbing a fresh noogie on her head. We were all laughing. I was almost doubled over. Man, this is great, I thought. Were girls allowed to love wrestling?

I decided my favorite was Randy “Macho Man” Savage for reasons that make me want to kiss the feet of Gloria Steinem for rescuing me from my fucked up gender conditioning. Randy ruled his lovely Elizabeth—always referred to by announcers as Lovely Elizabeth—with an iron fist. Sometimes he actually pushed her to the ground if she got in trouble. She always came back, somehow unable to resist the way he stuck his pinky finger straight in the air and through clenched teeth—how DOES one describe that fucked up gravelly whine? Laryngital?—curse his rivals without raising his voice. He was a bad boy, an abusive bad boy so tough that the name Randy Savage was not sufficient to express his hypermasculinity. He added Macho Man for good measure. I slobbered at the thought that someday I could show him the right way to treat a lady. He hadn’t met anyone who could stand up to him. Pathetic Elizabeth, it was all her fault. Or maybe it was the tight tiger-striped fluorescent pants, the perma-tan, the cowboy hat. That voice.

And then he took off his sunglasses. Shiver. Please don’t ever take off your sunglasses, Mr. Macho Man.

My wrestling love stuck around long enough for Dad to haul my brother and I to two WWF extravaganzas at the Capital Center. I saw the Hulkster, the Junkyard Dog, and the British Bulldogs who I decided were my favorite tag-team wrestlers because I liked the accents, which lent them a modicum of sophistication in a decidedly unsophisticated world. I had a trapper keeper folder emblazoned with the Macho Man; I liked the Slim Jim commercials but then middle school hit and I abandoned my WWF, leaving my brother and Dad to carry the torch.

Fast forward to a few years ago when my husband-to-be and I boarded the Avis shuttle bus, exhausted from our flight to Detroit where we would be visiting his grandma. The bus was packed with other weary travelers, mainly business suit guys, their eyes glazing at the sun-baked pavement beyond the windows.

We were about to depart when the doors shushed open and the widest muscleman I’d ever lay eyes on boarded. Skintight acid-washed jeans strained against his thighs. A white muscle t-shirt hugged the ridges and valleys of his torso. The tell-tale wraparound sunglasses perched atop his bumpy nose. Fake tan was everywhere. He mumbled something about a car to the driver in that laryngital strain. His voice was the sound of shredded vocal chords, a walking cautionary tale to chorus classes everywhere of the importance of singing from the diaphragm. (I understand now, Ms. Watkins.) He loomed over the driver, his hands on the luggage bar behind him.

“Sorry Mr. Savage, they haven’t found your car but you should come along.”

With both hands, he hit the bar with a force that shook the bus. The businessmen were awakened from their daze as we all exchanged nervous glances that wondered if the combined power of the businessmen and me could take out this monster man should he go insane between the Wayne County Airport and the Avis. The driver kept his cool, gripping his glorified walkie-talkie.

“I’ve been doing this all day, man,” Macho Man whined through his strained vocal chords.

“Sorry Mr. Savage.”

Lucky me, my former idol slumped into the seat beside me. I stared at the meatiest paw hands I’d ever seen, marveled at the veins crisscrossing his thigh-circumferenced biceps. The urge to pinch his leg was overwhelming. Could I actually get a fingertip-ful of denim or was it actually as sprayed on as it looked? I squeezed husband-to-be’s hand. He knew of my Macho Man love. No secrets in this relationship.

I weighed the consequences of me blurting out, “You were my favorite wrestler when I was 12.” I tried to soften the obvious jerkitude of that statement, “I used to love you. Whatever happened to Elizabeth? I like your Slim Jim commercials. You were on my English folder.” All left me fearful that after a day of rental car frustration, I would be the final straw to break the Macho Man’s back. Being so close to him I felt like I could touch history. I imagined the excitement of the 12-year-old me running up to tell Wes, “Hey I sat next to Randy Savage on a shuttle bus.” Or rather I will 15 years in the future. Maybe he would have gone with me then.

The bus ride was silent. The nervous glances continued until we reached the Avis. When the doors shushed open, all remained seated as Macho Man, who stands just over 5 feet tall (not Prince short, but shorter than you’d expect), clomped to the front of the bus. “Take it easy, Macho Man,” the driver said. He grunted. We all exhaled. No heroics necessary on this ride. The pythons exited without incident.

The Mostly Bearable Heaviness of Morning Coffee

Fellow with glasses a beard and snazzy brown loafers stands behind chubby lady sagging beneath an overloaded backpack. The distance between the counter and the line is Grand Canyon wide. Had I not known this was the line to order our mediocre name brand lattes, I would wonder what these people were waiting for in their orderly single file. The next register is available. Chubby lady advances. Now he’ll move closer, right? Things are bunching up in the back. The line is practically out the door. No movement. I almost stumble into him. Come on, dude. Shuffle those fancy loafers closer to the counter. Have you never waited in a line before?
“Next.” Coffee lady calls to Loafers.

I take three large steps into the proper line position. Ah, that’s the ticket. My brow un-furrows. I’ll lead by example. I feel the coffee army behind me relax. No need to crowd together by the door. I will give you the space. You’re welcome.

“Next.”

I step to the counter. They know my order by heart—double, non-fat, extra hot latte. I can’t believe that I added the obnoxious extra hot to my order a few months ago. 2 years ago Me would roll my eyes at Extra Hot Me.

I wish the coffee slinger a nice day and silently thank him for not trying to upsell me on a Danish. I feel simultaneously annoyed and guilty when the new kid in the coffee shop asks me if I’d like a bagel or muffin with that. I envision the meetings where the managers, plastered grins on their fake tanned faces, toss required scripts at the new employees. “Be sure to call it a fresh muffin.”

I turn to move sheep-like to the waiting area near the other end of the counter but Loafers has taken up residence in the slim corridor between the counter and a rack of coffee. He is blocking the corral. Not only is he unaware of how lines work; he also needs training in the etiquette of waiting for your order. Fan-fucking-tastic.

I hit play on my iPod. I am forced to back track through the line. “Excuse me, sorry.”

I pick a spot near the rack. I stare at the back of his head.

“Tyler,” calls the coffee lady.

He steps to the counter and grabs his frothy, whipped cream-topped drink.

Oh Tyler. It’s not his fault. With a name like that he never had a chance.

I wonder who is staring at the back of my head, marveling at the oddly aggro energy emanating from iPod lady with the overloaded messenger bag. (Who I should mention just came from yoga class thus should be oozing love and compassion for all beings, even those who are named Tyler.)

My Cruddy Spring Break 2011: Crud Family Edition

(Fiona, Purvis, and Monkey Boy all pirated up and ready to go)



Last year we missed our yearly trip to visit JADE—the power quartet of my bro/sis-in-laws, Dan and Anna, nephew, Monkey Boy, and niece, Fiona*—in Pompano Beach, Florida due to the recent arrival of Purvis in January. Traveling with a 2-month-old sounds easy now—What’s the problem? She’ll sleep the whole time—but to rookie parents, the trip sounded impossible.

Although I was nervous for this year’s trip, and had the pre-trip insomnia to show it, we were raring to make what would be our final visit to the spring break appropriate, Florida. (JADE will be relocating to Connecticut this summer. I looked at the spring break weather in their future neck o’ the woods. Rain, partly cloudy with a few hints o’ sun. Basically like Portland but 10 degrees colder. Spring break Connecticut! Woohoo?) Lazy days by the pool? Check. Walks on the beach? Check! No to-do list albatross around my neck? Yes, please.

Magazines Read:

US Weekly and half of People: My typical magazine intake per flight is 4: 2 of them fast-flipping rags like the aforementioned; an O to empower and enrage me; and an Utne Reader to cleanse the palate. Traveling with Purvis significantly reduces my magazine time. On our first flight I had to stroke her head and whisper sweet nothings for 30 minutes to lull her to sleep in her car seat so that I could steal a few minutes of hating on the Kardashian clan. In denial, I purchased 2 more magazines, Glamour and Rolling Stone, at our next stop. If I bought them then Purvis would know that she had to give me a few minutes to read them, right?

During our stay, I nibbled here and there from my magazines while trying to shield my 8-year-old niece, Fiona, from the Japan tsunami coverage in People. I was impressed that she chose tsunami over the latest Bieber news. Sometime between her visit to Portland for Purvis’ naming ceremony and now, her Bieber Fever had been cured. I asked her, sounding like the out-of-touch grandma I am fast becoming, “Do you still have Bieber Fever, dear?”

She shook her head and gave a half-roll of her eyes, “No.”

If she had still been under the influence of the flippy-haired one, I would have directed her to the Rolling Stone interview that I read in bits and pieces whilst logging time on the JADE toilet. Not that I expected much from a teenager who has rocketed to worldwide fame so quickly, but sheesh, what a little shithead.

The Snooki Rolling Stone, Glamour, and O await my nonexistent free time on the table next to my side of the couch. For now I skim the Do’s and Don’ts while Purvis nurses.

Books Read:

Half of Faceless Killers by Henning Mankell
When a supposed page-turning thriller starts to feel like a slog through a Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak article (please pardon the Dennis Miller moment, but I did slog through a Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak article in my grad school days so the reference feels earned), is it really suitable vacation reading? Since Purvis burst on the scene, my reading list has become almost exclusively humorous memoirs and thrillers, especially thrillers by chilly Scandinavians. Literary fiction is too difficult to digest in the 1-2 page increments that have become my reading style. In past years our spring breaks were filled with delicious stretches of free time in which I devoured the latest voices of our generation. Alas. (I hope you have not yet grown tired of the many references to how life has changed since Purvis came along. Can be summed up with: I ain’t got no more time to myself.) I’m still on the fence as to whether I’ll push forward through the Mankell. He comes highly recommended by reliable sources. I do appreciate that the main character has diarrhea not once but twice for no apparent narrative reason. Diarrhea is random. Mankell speaks the truth.

Goodnight, Baby
An instant classic, Purvis requests that I read this picture book detailing one sleepy baby’s march towards bedtime 5 times in a row while seated in my lap on the plane.

Noisy Farm
Another instant favorite with Purvis. All the baa-ing and moo-ing and maa-ing leads up to her current favorite animal noise in the world: cock-a-doodle-doo! I hear the man behind us on the plane sigh after I’ve cock-a-doodle-doo-ed for the tenth time. Would you rather listen to a screaming baby, sir?

I Am A Bunny
The more I read about the spring-summer-fall-winter antics of Nicholas the bunny, the more I feel like there is an untold dark underbelly to his tales of chasing butterflies, observing frogs, and hiding under toadstools during rainstorms. Where is Nicholas’ family? Were they killed by hunters? Snatched by evil pet store owners? Do they not approve of his decadent lifestyle? (“Enough of this pansy butterfly shit,” Nicholas' father snorts. “Get a real job.”) The story teems with families of birds, squirrels, and raccoons. I imagine the poor little bunny watching on with envy as the mother bird regurgitates worms into her babies’ gawping mouths. So much pain in his cute, furry face.

Books Not Read
Pat the Bunny
Purvis white knuckles this book as she cruises around the coffee table in the Florida room, her favorite toddling path chez JADE, but gets angry if anyone attempts to read it to her. No, she will not pat the bunny.

Swamplandia
A pre-spring break gift from a former colleague, this book remains zipped away in my suitcase. My hopes for a return to literary fiction are deferred. May they not shrivel like a raisin in the sun.

Witch Business Conducted
My niece Fiona and I are witches so when we get together we get down to witch business. Our business has been curtailed since the birth of Purvis. No chance to ride our brooms, cast spells, or craft fiendish plots while intertwining our knobby fingers over a bubbling brew. Purvis goes to bed an hour before lights-out for Fiona so we have a few chances to TCB.

After kicking her mom out of her makeshift room (Fiona sacrifices her room to visitors and nests down in the family office.), she said, “So, like, do you know any other potential witches aside from Purvis?” (Fiona has coached me in how I will turn Purvis into a witch after a certain mandated waiting period. It involves spells and dances that make me jerk and twitch like a crazy person, which is sadly not so different from my usual jerky robot dance style.)

“My other niece Lyla. She’s too young right now but maybe in a few years.”

Fiona scribbled Lyla’s name on a piece of paper. She leaned closer. The air mattress belched below her shifting weight. “What is her witch name?”

My witch name is Missy; my niece is Fiona. Our names came from our source witch, Miss Fiona, the protagonist of a book I read to Fiona years ago when our witch world was sparkly and new.

Fiona told me that Lyla means night in Hebrew. I did not know that. Could a witch’s name be any more perfect? We brainstormed night-related words.

“How about Luna?” I asked.

“That means moon.” She said.

“Or how about Stella-Luna for star-moon and Luna is her nickname?”

“Witch nicknames are extremely rare,” she corrected.

“Oh.”

Fiona had given Purvis the witch nickname of Dibbie, short for Dibba-Dibba-Dibba-Dibba, which is one of Purvis’ babbles du jour.

“So, what else?” Fiona asked, pen poised over paper.

“Spirit animal?” I asked.

She considered. “I’m a panda because I’m sweet but violent, but I’m not violent like I would kill someone without a reason.”

“That’s good.”

“I’m a poodle because I’m smart and fashionable.” I said.

She scrunched up her face. “A poodle?!?”

“A standard poodle, not one of the yippy miniature kind.” I clarified.

“Okay,” she said with raised eyebrows.

Lyla will be a lioness. Purvis remains spirit animal-less for the time being. Her excitement over Zooey, the 18-year-old JADE family cat, leads me to believe that she will be the witch-appropriate cat.

Before every visit, I wonder if Fiona will have outgrown our playtime together. She is so much like a teenager at times—kids they really do grow up so fast, I blame Bieber—that I get a sinking feeling that she won’t want to play witches anymore, that she’ll shrug off my talk of spirit animals and power stones as childish things. I know that day will come. I remember my older cousin, Elizabeth, shunning my wish to play Barbies and feeling like a fun part of my world had been crushed beneath her newly acquired kitten heels. Elizabeth traded Barbie’s Corvette for the redneck trucks of the boys who lived in the surrounding hamlets of rural Virginia where she lived. She shoved her box of Barbies at me and then locked herself in her room to talk on the phone.

I hope Fiona will let me down easy when the time comes or maybe find some liberation from adolescent strictures in playing with Purvis. For now I relish the twinkle in her eye when talk turns to witches and her shushing me when I try to talk business in front of outsiders (like her mother).

(Note to Dan and Anna—please do not tell Fiona I wrote about this. I hear that she has a violent side and I don’t want to see the vicious panda in her awakened. )

Baby Steps
Purvis walked! She walked at least 4 steps back and forth between Mr. Crud and me. Even though I am not officially worried that she hadn’t started walking by the time she turned one, I occasionally fret that she is delayed in some way. Or maybe it’s just that the first question on everyone’s lips is “Is she walking yet?” I feel like I have to make excuses. “She’s taken a few steps here and there. Oh sure, she walks around holding our hands all the time. Not yet, but she’s getting there.” Part of me looks forward to seeing her totter around hands-free. Of course I want her to walk. Then again our house is barely baby-proofed for her as a crawler.



In other exciting development news Purvis now knows the location of her head, her eyes, her nose and her feet as well as the heads, eyes, and noses of her doting parents. Sure, we get poked in the eye a few times a day, but it’s so worth it to see the pride on her face.

Food Eaten
When I made my list of things to do on our final trip to Florida, two of those things were food. The third was the beach, but I could have done without the beach if push came to shove.

Las Vegas
While I am no big fan of south Florida, I am a huge fan of the delicious Cuban food that dots the landscape inside and out of Little Havana. A few trips ago we checked out Versailles, the Cubanest of the Cuban restaurants that has hosted Bill Clinton and a number of visiting dignitaries. I drooled over the colorful treats in the bakery case and snooped around the old men drinking strong coffee out front. So wonderfully old world.

Sadly a trip to Miami was not in the cards. So we settled for the equally tasty, but not as fashionable restaurant, Las Vegas, in the heart of Fort Lauderdale. The hostess pointed at a table and before we could even buckle Purvis into her highchair, a basket of buttery garlic bread appeared. Immediately Purvis pointed. My girl is a carb fiend like her mama. Be it cornbread, garlic bread, baguette, waffle or slice of whole wheat, she devours her bread by the fistful.

I ripped tiny pieces from the slices of garlic butter-slathered baguette while we perused the menu. Everything came with black beans and fried plantains so the entrée was almost beside the point. Soon our chow arrived. Purvis’ grunts of bread satisfaction were redirected to the black beans she was now shoving in her mouth. I am terrified of the prospect of a choking Purvis. She has a super sensitive gag reflex so coughing fits can easily transform into puking fits. As a result, I cut her food into dollhouse miniature sized pieces. I carefully sliced each bean in half and smooshed it between my fingers before depositing it on the table in front of her. She hoovered them up as fast as I could make them. I’m still not sure if my care is necessary since she eats my tiny pieces by the handful, but I’m not taking any chances.

We snatched minutes of adult conversation between feeding Purvis beans and bread. My mealtime conversations with Mr. Crud and anyone else who shares table time with Purvis consist of me asking a question, Mr. Crud starting to answer, our attention getting called to Purvis, whining over not getting enough beans fast enough averted, and then we both lock eyes, “What were we talking about?”

Eventually we were stuffed and gestured to our server that we were done. He reached to clear the plate with two cups of half-empty beans left. Had she not been belted into her high chair, Purvis would have leaped from her seat.

“Nuh-nuh-nuh!” She cried, grabbing at the plate as the server lifted it over her head.

We pried her fingers from the plate, leading to a baleful wail. I freed her from her high chair, a cascade of bean pieces and bread sprinkled to the floor, and walked her around the restaurant, pointing out the old-timey pictures of little kids that lined the walls. Thankfully the images of the kids made her forget all about the travesty of black beans gone uneaten.

Cypress Nook
There is nothing exactly special about this tiny German-ish breakfast-lunch joint a 20-minute walk from JADE’s house, but it is my one must-do meal while spending time in Pompano Beach. Maybe I love it for the memories of past visits to Florida. When we step through the door images of Fiona, her round cheeks smeared with chocolate from her M & M pancakes and my nephew, Monkey Boy, ripping pieces from his pancake flood my mind’s eye. I remember the year when Fiona was three and buzzing around the outside patio while we took a family portrait that still hangs on our refrigerator. So many low-key yet sweet breakfasts in our nook of the Nook. Vegetable omelets and hash browns and ladies scribbling our orders on their pads while calling us “hon.” I ordered Purvis a pancake and ripped her miniscule pieces while she fumbled with the crayons our waitress had given her to pass the time. My vegetable omelet and hash browns were the platonic ideal of down home breakfast. Cypress Nook, I will miss you most of all.

Vacation-y Activities Partaken
Putting the Beach in Pompano Beach
We settled on Tuesday afternoon for our big beach outing so as to avoid the spring break crowds and midday sun. Purvis, resplendent in the hot pink poodle tankini I picked up for the trip, and I and Mr. Crud in our saggy 5-year-old swimsuits packed into the JADE-mobile with Anna, Fiona, and canvas bags overflowing with beachy necessities. In 10 minutes we were there. The waves ebbed and flowed, seagulls cawed, Purvis soaked through her swim diaper before our toes touched sand. We schlepped our goods to a spot by the water and unfurled the beach blanket. I set Purvis down. The second her toes touched sand she whimpered and lifted her arms. I obliged, letting her soak the hip of my capris with her pee. Ah motherhood: pee is as benign as water to me. Anna offered to take Purvis on a jaunt down the pier while Mr. Crud and I relaxed the rays of the fading sun and bathed in the glory of the crashing waves.

The moment they were out of sight, I panicked.

“I’m just going to say this out loud because it’s ridiculous: I’m suddenly afraid that Anna will drop Purvis into the ocean.” I said. So remarkable how quickly my mind origami-s a new fear from mental scraps.

Mr. Crud grabbed my hand. “I know. Me too. It’s okay.”

“It’s not that I don’t trust Anna.” Anna is one of my parental spirit guides. Her handling of parenthood with grace and bad assed-ness was one of the reasons that I thought I could venture into the murky waters of mothering. Her kids have made it to age 8 and 4 without being dropped into the ocean, I reminded myself.

“No need to explain. I get it,” he said.

“I’m also terrified that I will drop her in the ocean.”

“That one has crossed my mind as well.”

A short and incomplete list of Purvis-related things that have made me shiver with fear in the past week:
• I will let Purvis walk on the Hawthorne Bridge and she will slither beneath the guardrail and fall into the Willamette.
• I will forget I am holding her and just drop her (sometimes this fear is compounded by standing atop the Eiffel Tower or near an elevator shaft).
• Purvis is somehow sleeping in our bed and I am lying on top of her, smothering her (I still wake up in a panic some nights convinced that she jumped out of her crib and climbed into bed with us).

I’ll stop there. You get the picture. My fear is malleable. It bends and twists to fit whatever situation hooks my overactive imagination. Were it not for yoga, I would be a walking panic attack. Sometimes I wonder I will ever trust the world with my sweet Purvis. How did my parents ever let me walk out of the door and into my high school boyfriend’s pea green Mustang without hyperventilating? I guess there is no trust about it. You protect them from what you can, attempt to protect them from what you can’t, and hope for the best. A little prayer here and there helps too. (Even the hippie dippy post-yoga-not really-to-any-particular-G-d prayers that are my stock and trade.)

After a few minutes I saw Purvis’s hot pink hat bobbing along the pier en route to our patch of sand. She survived the completely non-harrowing walk among the fishermen and pelicans waiting to snap up any discarded fish. Huzzah.

Anna handed her off to me. “Yep, she’s wet all right.”

Fiona, Mr. Crud, and Anna filed into the water. I hefted Purvis onto my hip and stood at the line of sand where the waves became moving puddles of foam. The water licked at my toes. A little cold, but doable. I dipped her into the next round of water, letting it wash over her feet. Instantly she recoiled and curled her legs as tightly as she could into her body. “N-nuh-nuh-nuh,” she whined.

“Okay, okay,” I said.

I set her back on my hip and took a few steps into the water. The prickly band of broken shells and rocks that separates beach from ocean cracked under my feet. The waves started to hit my knees. The sand turned smooth again. Purvis’ grip around my neck grew tighter and tighter in direct proportion to the urgency of her whines. The ocean was not on her vacation agenda.

I backed out and stood on the packed sand. I remembered my childhood visits to Fenwick Island where I spent as much of my day body surfing and diving under waves as I could without my skin peeling off due to sunburn. How did my mom let go then? She always insisted that we play in her view and that my dad be on duty. He had been a lifeguard and knew how to swim. That was the deal she cut with the universe. As long as my former lifeguard dad was around, we were safe. I was the former lifeguard in this equation and I did not feel up to the protector task. For a moment I rejoiced that we would not be returning to Florida. The waves in Oregon are too strong and the water too cold for kids. (Well, actually for adults. You see kids splashing around the shallow water even when the temperatures hover around 70.) Still the Pacific is not a body-surfing kind of ocean. Maybe the JADE relocation to Connecticut would help me to dodge this one tiny bullet. I await the new Connecticut-related fear that will pop up in its place. (That Purvis develops a love of penny loafers?)

Our afternoon at the beach came to an end with the promise of take-out sushi pulling us back to the homestead. During our brief stay Fiona had created a lovely bit of sand art from seaweed and rocks. She is my beloved niece, but I know talent when I see it.



Purim Carnival
What? Doesn’t every vacation include some sort of Jewish festival? While I am somewhat well-versed in the ways of Hanukkah, Rosh Hashanah, and Passover, I’ve never participated in Purim. Mr. Crud assured me that it was the fun holiday, the one where people are commanded to drink wine by no less a force than G-d, G-d-self. Fantastic. Where was this holiday 2 years ago when I was still full force in my boozerini ways?

My bro-in-law Dan, Purvis, and I headed over to the temple to meet up with Fiona and Monkey Boy who had gone earlier for the kids’ Purim service. Mr. Crud, who was battling a gnarly cold, and Anna took the opportunity for a few hours of quiet. I put on makeup for the first and final time of the trip. Even though I have heard only positive, accepting things about the congregation, I still wanted to feel confident, and my confidence is always enhanced by a swipe of mascara.

When we arrived, the children’s service was still in full effect. I spied Fiona in her kick-ass Vashti costume, ready to read a section from the Purim story. She alternates between Esther and Vashti each year because Esther, the hero of the story gets all the attention. Later that day on our way to the car, a woman complimented her Esther costume.

“I’m Vashti,” Fiona said over her shoulder.



That’s my righteous niece, sticking up for poor Vashti whose refusal to parade herself naked in front of King Achashverosh (spell check does not look kindly on that name) set the Purim action in motion, but gets no respect.

The rabbi stood in front of the costumed congregants in a dread-locked rasta hat-wig and rotated the gragger, the Purim noisemaker, at the mention of Haman, the story’s bad guy. The kids joyfully boo-hissed and rattled their graggers along with him. Purvis quickly got excited about all the kids in costumes and started making smiley eyes at a tanned lady a few rows back. My usual default at Jewish gatherings is nervously optimistic, but I felt at ease almost instantly. Purvis is a wonderful social lubricant—much better than wine—and if I don’t feel comfortable, I can always take her to a patch of grass to work on her walking skills.

The service ended. Dan and Monkey Boy hit the snack table. I lingered by the craft station while Fiona made a shaker out of a folded paper plate, black beans, and staples. She handed it to Purvis who rattled it around and smiled. She probably would have loved anything Fiona handed her, but she joyfully shook it while Fiona ran to another station.

My stomach growled. The rabbi had mentioned hot dogs (first pass at typing this hot gods appeared, Freudian slip?), hamburgers, veggie burgers would be served at the carnival. I headed over to the table where hot dogs and burgers were spread on platters. Nary a veggie burger in sight. Dan went for a hot dog while Monkey Boy filled up another bag of popcorn. I decided that a hamantaschen would be my temporary hunger-sater. My rules about eating meat are random and haphazardly enforced, but I stick by my plan to avoid hot dogs and hamburgers of unknown origin. I slipped Purvis a few crumbs. As my stomach got growlier, I kept my head. I did not start cursing the Jewish holidays for not letting me eat. I watched the kids zip around and breathed in the moment. I understood why Dan and Anna did not want to leave this congregation. The members were smiley and accepting. Several people commented on Purvis’ cuteness. I wondered if Mr. Crud and I would ever find a congregation that made sense for us, i.e. one that reminded Mr. Crud of his childhood yet didn’t activate my feelings of outsider-ness. We have a few years. But Passover, the holiday that starves and tortures me, looms on the horizon.

Home Again, Home Again
The flight home took us through Midway where Mr. Crud successfully resisted the urge to gorge on a hot beef sandwich. Airport restaurants never properly sate cravings unless such cravings are for tomato-pastey pizza with oil-puddled dry cheese. We boarded the plane. The people around us gave us the now-familiar wary baby-eye which can be summed up with: Is your baby going to make this flight miserable for me? On our first flight out of Portland, a man sat behind us. While Mr. Crud hustled to install the baby seat and get our many bags situated, the man said, “I have tinnitus. Is that going to be a problem?” He nodded in Purvis’ direction.

Mr. Crud kept his sarcastic responses in check and ignored the man. The man’s wife slapped him on the shoulder from her seat across the aisle, “It’s a baby. If you need to move, you move.” Thank you wife of clueless Tinnitus man.

Once in the air, Purvis did not satisfy my craving for some uninterrupted Us Weekly time by falling asleep in her seat, but she did nap for some good time stretched across my lap. Heavy but cute. I can’t imagine how the lap-baby parents do it.

For the first time in our air travels with Purvis, we found our car in the long-term parking lot at PDX without too much cursing and trudging. We shivered in the damp air as Mr. Crud installed the car seat base and I jammed luggage into the back of our Subaru station wagon. Purvis vacillated between faraway stares and crying. Although it was 6:00 Pacific Standard Time, it was 9:00 by our east coast internal clocks. Yawn.

We pulled into our driveway. A tow truck driver was hooking up his truck to the port-a-potty that had been parked in front of our house for almost a month. The backhoe that had been its partner-in-illegal-parking was already gone. In the last two months I had grown into my crotchety old lady-hood with ease. I had learned to use (and love) the City of Portland’s online complaint form. To date the power of my complaints have cleaned up the trash littering the front yard of the twenty-something flophouse across the street and now the backhoe and port-a-potty would be an abandoned auto memory.

“It worked! My complaint worked!” I said.

“Dang, I was hoping to watch them tow the backhoe,” Mr. Crud said.

Even though the cold air was a slap in the face after the long days of sunshine in Florida, at least the view from my window wouldn’t be eclipsed by a mud-caked backhoe. Now if only I could find a way to keep Purvis from waking up at 3:00 the next morning, the spring break miracle would be complete.

* Names have been changed to protect the young and innocent, thus rendering the JADE family nickname not as self-explanatory.

Motherhood: The First 6 Months

July 16, 2010


Purvis’s cries crackle through the baby monitor. I pull the pillow off of my head, hesitate for a second before I look at the clock. 2:38. Not bad. Better than when she starts to peep 15 minutes before my alarm is set to go off. This way I can sleepwalk through her feeding then get some more z’s before the cruel beep of the alarm rips me from whatever dream is creeping around the edges of my subconscious this night.

New recurring dream: Mr. Crud and I have sold our house for some unknown reason and now we must find a new house, but we can only afford to rent. And all the new houses have leaky basements or crazy landlords who spit orders at us to mow our lawn. Why oh why did we sell our funky yet loveable house? We can’t afford a new one in our neighborhood, not in this market.

“That’s not at all symbolic,” Mr. Crud says.

“It’s almost disappointing in its obviousness,” I say.

The motherhood experience is not known for its subtlety.

Back in bed I wait a few more moments. Don’t go to her too soon, advise the parenting books. She may just be between sleep cycles. If you go to her too soon, she’ll never learn to sleep through the night. Nothing strikes more fear in the new parent or parent-to-be than the phrase “never learn to sleep through the night.” I’m actually getting more sleep now that Purvis’s out of my belly than when she was in. In part I am too exhausted to lie awake all night, letting my fears drag me hither and thither. Before she arrived six months ago, I didn’t know what it would be like to live in this new unstable house. I knew that my beloved sleeping schedule was fucked. I knew that I’d be a hormonal ball of goo. I knew that I would love my baby, but I didn’t know-know.

Was I fit to be a mother? I am a pretty fantastic aunt—an awesome aunt according to my favorite mug given to me by my niece as a Hanukkah gift—but did my auntie skills translate to mothering? Was sacrifice in my vocabulary? I got a preview of sacrifice during pregnancy. I had to give up two of my favorite foods—sushi and martinis for 9 long months. (Boo hoo.) I had to dial back my yoga practice, which wasn’t as hard as it once would have been since I’d been contending with injury the last couple of years. But still. No more jump-backs, no more headstand. I had a front seat to my yoga compatriots advancing in their asana practice, looking elastic and free, while I rolled up blankets so that I could prop myself into a restorative pose. But really, these were small potatoes. Tater tot sacrifices. (And now that I’m finding myself blocked after this paragraph, let’s go to a list.)

Sacrifices: The Early Months
• Where are you keeping my pre-pregnancy body and can I have it back now, please?
I believed the hype: Don’t worry about the pregnancy weight gain, you’ll burn it off no problem when you breastfeed. When I read that not every woman experiences the year of magical weight loss, I averted my eyes. No, I won’t be one of those poor souls. I’m joining the eat-what-you-want-without-consequences club. I actually couldn’t wait to reach my breastfeeding culinary free-for-all. Not like I denied myself much food-wise when I was pregnant (aside from the tsk tsk tsk list of cold cuts, smoked fish, sushi, et al), but I didn’t consider myself overindulgent. I was holding back, biding my time for breastfeeding when I was assured by articles in the NY Times and mother friends that I could go wild with gluttony. Yet 6 months later and I am still wearing, actually barely fitting into, the size up wardrobe that I’d saved during my last round of weight loss 5 years ago. I feel like I actually gained weight after Purvis was born. Maybe my daily walks with her were a little too heavily focused on visiting the fine local bakeries in our neighborhood (Damn you, Little T and your delicious chocolate chip cookies!), but I was supposed to be burning off those calories feeding the baby.

The cruel truth: some ladies—apparently I am one of them—actually find it more difficult to lose weight while breastfeeding because our bodies hold on to extra fat in case of famine. Although I have promised my stomach, hips, and thighs that there is no way that I will let them go hungry, they refuse to give up the ghost. It’s not like I’m sitting on my duff waiting for the pounds to melt away (even though it was promised that this scenario was in my future, NY Times Article of Lies). I go to yoga 6 times a week. I sweat my ass off. Before I returned to work, I went for at least 3 walks a day toting Purvis around in the Ergo baby carrier because the little darling refuses to nap unless she is nestled against a human chest. My weight loss pattern has always started with losing poundage in the boob area. Damn you, cruel weight loss fate. Looks like the ladies are continuing in their gatekeeper role. As long as I am a Double D, the hips (and stomach and wide ass) stay in the picture. Thus I have added a new silent affirmation to my post-yoga meditation: I am patient, loving, accepting, and compassionate with my body. Well, at least I am not loathing it, but me and mirrors are still keeping our distance.

• The Redefinition of Sleeping In
Pre-Purvis: sleeping in = waking up at 8:00 or 9:00
With Purvis: sleeping in = waking up at 5:30 or 6:00
The morning that I was thrilled to have slept in until 6:00 a.m., I knew that I had turned a corner. Purvis actually will sleep in until 8:00, but because of my breast pumping schedule I must awake by 6:00 or not have enough bottles of milk for her evening feedings. These bottles allow me to go to bed early—before the sun sets—since I have to wake up in the middle of the night to feed her.

• Wine? Beer? No, thanks. Sigh.
I can count on one hand the number of drinks I’ve had since Purvis was born. Well, make that two hands, but definitely not three. Drinking while breastfeeding is tricky. I have to wait until she eats, guzzle my drink, and then wait for the effects to subside before I can feed her. She eats every 2-3 hours so these perfect windows of opportunity are few and far between. Not to mention that a drink puts me right to sleep. Last week, Mr. Crud and I ordered barbecue. A beer sounded perfect.

“Maybe we should split it. A whole beer sounds like too much,” he says.

“Yeah, you’re right. I’d pass right out.”

I don’t think that I’ve split a beer with someone since I was a teenager trying to spread the intoxication around with limited supplies.

On the plus side, I’ve regained an appreciation for beer for some reason. I theorize it’s the handiwork of my boobs who are trying to plump me up with beer calories for the famine they think looms on the horizon.

• Is that a breast pump in your saddlebag or are you happy to see me?
I have some variation of this conversation everyday when encountering an acquaintance with my bike gear in tow.

“Wow! That’s a lot of stuff. What you got there?” asks Random Acquaintance.

“My clothes.” I hold up big-ass bag #1. “And a breast pump.” I nod to big-ass bag #2 and hope Random Acquaintance is not forced to fend off images of me hooked up to the hated milk machine. .

“Oh wow.”

“Yeah, it’s a pain in the ass, but whatcha gonna do?”

The conversation then veers into one of two directions—good for you for keeping up with the breastfeeding or an inquiry into the cost of breast pumps. “Why don’t you just buy another one?”

Oh Random Acquaintance, I considered it. I was thisclose to plunking down another 200 smackeroos to save myself the added weight to my commute, but then Purvis’s childcare came into question and purchases that weren’t 100% necessary (like the cute zebra print hat from Baby Gap) seemed unwise on the chance that I have to quit my job to become a full-time momma.

Someday I will regale Purvis with tales of lugging a breast pump to and from work on the back of my bike all so that she could be healthy, happy, and strong. And she will shrug and say, “Whatever, Mom.”

• Hard Assana* (see also Where are you keeping my pre-pregnancy body)
I returned to a take-it-easy yoga practice 6 weeks after Purvis’s birth. I took it way easy during the first month, opting to keep ashtanga on hold for the time being. I felt pretty good about my decision until I met a woman who told me she returned to her practice two weeks after she had her child. Oh, wow, well that’s, uh, great. (I know I should not be comparing myself to other yogis and that doing so is about the opposite of practicing yoga. Yeah, yeah, yeah.)

“I felt stronger than I ever have before,” she added.

And that was the opposite of how I felt when I did return to my ashtanga practice a couple of months later. My chaturanga dandasana was non-existent. My warrior pose wobbled. My shoulders howled in poses that once felt breezy and light. Hadn’t I lost weight (at least 7 pounds of baby) since the last time I practiced? Wasn’t this supposed to get easier now that I was no longer toting a fetus around in my belly? So much for second series, which I had been working on before becoming pregnant. It’s back to primary for me. Poses I had taken for granted are now difficult. Now you’re really practicing yoga, says my inner guru. Yeah, thanks for that.

• Tough Titties
Nursing did not come easily to me or my sensitive boobs. Thankfully Purvis was a natural with a strong sucking reflex. The fresh young lady had already given me two hickies before she was an hour old. But even when the latch looked perfect, it still hurt.

“If it hurts, then it’s not a good latch,” said the nurses, my doula, the internet, the breastfeeding book.

We tried and tried again. I let more people manhandle my ladies than during my college years (a time of a very liberal boob-touching policy). Still, ouch. I came to dread the nursing sessions. I yoga breathed my way through each latch and prayed that there was a purpose to my pain, that she was getting nourishment.

The day of my lactation counseling appointment, my nipples were raw and bleeding. I broke down in tears. I felt embarrassed. I was supposed to be good at this. I had believed it would come naturally even as the nurse who led our breastfeeding class warned that it’s harder than it looks.

After 2 lactation consultations, many hours logged on the internet in search of tips, and a truckload of gel nipple pads, it stopped hurting. I felt triumphant and proud that I stuck with this first of many parenting challenges. To be honest, I don’t think I was ever doing anything that wrong, my nipples just needed to toughen up. The day I nursed Purvis while walking around the house, I knew I had come, seen, and kicked breastfeeding’s ass.

I hear tell that after I’m done breastfeeding that my current Double Ds will return to their itty bitty starting size. Alas, they don’t really feel like instruments of seduction anymore, more like an appendage that feeds my baby. About as erotic as a knuckle. Purvis hasn’t gotten a cold yet—knock on wood—so the trials and tribulations have been worth it.

• Who Likes to Rock the Party? I like to rock the party
I miss the days when the main factors to consider when receiving an invitation were if Mr. Crud and I felt like it, the distance between the party destination and our humble abode, and if I should tote along a bottle of wine or take my chances with a keg. As we grew older, we grew lamer for sure, but now there’s the baby factor. Where will the event fall in her eating-sleeping-napping schedule? Can we get her to take a nap so as not to break down into a howling heap once we reach the party? Will I be able to drink one precious beer?

Yesterday was our first party attempt and, all things considered, it went well. She screamed bloody murder in the car while we were stalled in some freak Sunday afternoon traffic jam. She was not able to sneak in a nap while at the party because, upon arriving at our friend’s house, a dog peed on the baby carrier I had so wisely stashed on the ground. Thus our stay was cut short by a couple hours, but all in all we ate, we laughed, and I drank a beer. I also let a record 5 people who weren’t me or Mr. Crud hold our precious child.

Each time I handed her over, I nervously smiled. “You got her? She’ll probably start crying in a minute or two. She’s going through a phase where she’ll only let me or her daddy hold her.”

Meanwhile inside I was mentally willing her to stay aloft in my friend’s arms with the same powers I once used to keep airplanes in the sky while I white knuckled the armrest. Please, please let her start crying so I can swoop in and carry her and not get a rep as overprotective mother. She didn’t make a peep. She kicked, she grabbed at eyeglasses, and she seemed to be over her phobia of strangers in an instant to my silent chagrin. Thank goodness for that beer or things might have gotten ugly.

Evening outings are still out. Our one trip out to see Aziz Ansari (Hilarious!) was a good time all around for us. Our babysitter on the other hand was trapped with one pissed off baby. We can’t stay out late anyway because—and this is the big neon lesson of parenthood—there is never a day off. I always have to wake up early, always have to be ready for a peeping baby at all hours of the night. Always, always, always. (Unless it’s Mr. Crud’s shift when I can sleep through the baby crying bloody murder.)

Most of our conversations with friends revolve around Purvis now. I am trying not to become one of those people who can only talk about their babies. I try to keep up on the pop culture, the movies that I won’t be able to see until they are released on DVD, books that I must read in 5-minute installments. There is always TV. During my multitude of hours logged breastfeeding, I watched an ass-load of TV. And now for a list within a list…

Top Breastfeeding Entertainment Picks
o True Blood
Pre-Purvis, Mr. Crud and I were slowly wading through season one, both still skeptical as to whether we would finish.

“It’s so cheesy,” he said before going on to enumerate its many shortcomings—a seeming ignorance of the vampire oeuvre, terrible accents, and lame plot twists.

I shrugged. “You’re right, but I’m willing to give it another chance.”

It was no Sopranos, but certainly better than John in Cincinnati.

Then into our lives fell Purvis and mindless entertainment became of premium importance. I sprinted through the season one DVDs, finding myself almost looking forward to the marathon nursing sessions, which came every 2 hours (yes, even in the middle of the night.) I developed a kinship with the vampires and their prey as I felt like Purvis was sucking the life from me on the reg. Now I’m a True Blood true believer. The theme song instantly brings me back to those first bleary-eyed weeks when a baby in my arms was a strange novelty.
o Sex and the City
I HATE Sex and the City. The obsession with fashion, shoes, celebrity, and the characters which purport to be archetypes of the modern single woman are only the start of my issues with SATC. Somehow in the haze of nursing, I succumbed to its saccharine pleasures. Maybe it was the episode where Miranda struggled to breastfeed her new baby that sucked me in, but after a few tentative I-can’t-watch-another-episode-of-The Cosby Show DVR-ing of the last season of SATC, I got hooked. I actually let the DVDs take up precious room on my library reserve list. I watched every last shiny, shrill episode and the movie too. Officially I was watching because I enjoy hating on this modern TV institution, but I also came to like it. Just a teensy little bit. I am totally a Miranda. (Who the fuck would want to be a Carrie? She is a horrible writer and is always so full of wist that I want to shake her.)
o The Cosby Show
To be truly appreciated must be watched at 3:30 a.m. when the only other entertainment options are cable news talking heads and Everybody Loves Raymond.
o The Sopranos
Still one of my favorite TV shows of all time (tied with The Wire).
o The Wire
I was so sad to see this series end again. Bye, Omar. Mr. Crud and I were tempted to name Purvis after Omar, but decided that we might be asking for trouble. I also imagined Purvis sharing the source of his name, “Yeah, Omar was a character in this TV show who robbed drug dealers. He loved his grandma though.”
o United States of Tara
Awards are bullshit, but Toni Collette totally deserved her Emmy for her portrayal of the multiple personality-ed Tara. I was slightly distracted by the presence of John Corbett as her husband because he had transformed into Aidan due to my SATC intensive.
o Nurse Jackie
Yay—Edie Falco and the priest from The Sopranos finally get to explore their romantic chemistry in another universe. It’s like Nurse Jackie is one of the infinite alternate universes for these two souls.
o Everybody Hates Chris
So much better than Everybody Loves Raymond, and on right before The Cosby Show.


Of course, it hasn’t all been sacrifice and TV watching. As Mr. Crud frequently says, “All the clichés are true.” Parenthood is wonderful and intense and frightening and fascinating in all its mundane joy. I feel like I am living in capital letters. IT’S GREAT! I LOVE HER!! I NEVER KNEW WATCHING SOMEONE TAKE A DUMP WOULD BE SO ENTERTAINING!! I’m also exhausted. Life has taken on the sheen of an altered reality. Everything is centered around this tiny being. Her whims, her needs, her smiles, the tangle of the three of us feeling around in the dark for the shape of this family we’ve become. (You see, in my altered reality, that last sentence makes total sense. And it’s also soooo deep, man.) I both can’t believe I’m finally a mom and don’t believe that I haven’t always been one, which is probably another one of those true parenthood clichés.


* Please pardon this horrid yoga pun.

The Karma of Stink

I call him Senor Stinky. The first day he attended yoga class a pungent B.O. cloud took up residence in the yoga room along with us 10 yogis. The stench whooshed up my nostrils as he passed my mat and unfurled his own at the opposite end of the room. If I could have made eye contact with my yoga buddy, I would have been rolling my eyes the whole time. Who does this guy think he is? “Wanna know why you don’t have a girlfriend?” I’d ask him after class then wrinkle my nose. Fantasies about how I’d break the news that he stinks, really stinks trailed me through every vinyasa. How dare him? There is an unspoken agreement to keep our personal aroma at a level that doesn’t escape the confines of our airspace. Senor Stinky with his hair hanging in greasy brown clumps and gag-worthy wafts of armpit had crossed a line.

I emailed my yoga buddy later that day. What was UP with that guy?

I know. He was pretty smelly.

I saved my longer rants for Mr. Crud who I knew would be sympathetic to my outrage and also wouldn’t call me on my non-yogic behavior. (So he’s stinky, let it go, shrugged my inner and much wiser yoga voice.)

“I mean it’s hostile coming to a class that ripe. It smelled like he hadn’t showered in days. I was across the room and it was still choking me. I couldn’t think of anything else.” I said.

“What did he look like?”

“A dude. 20 or 30-something. Brown hair, skinny.”

“Hipster?”

“Could be. It’s hard to tell with yoga clothes. It’s a definite possibility.”

My mind spun out some more. Is this a hipster thing? For some kids of today it’s hip to to be stinky. I should know. I went through a stinky phase myself my junior year of college at the height of my railing-against-the-bourgeoisie phase. (I think this phase is actually a stage in the life cycle of the college age bourgeoisie as much a requirement as 3 credits of Bio.) My cadre of punk fucking rock friends and I showered rarely and shunned toxic deodorant.

“That shit probably causes Alzheimers or something,” we sniffed.

We secretly smiled at all the upturned noses we left in our rank wake. Fuck all y’all shrieked our body odor. My ill-advised dreadlock phase happened during my smelly period to emphasize my dedication to dirty cool.

Sadly the youth of today did not grow out of this phase along with me. (How dare them!) In fact they’ve upped the ante, letting their hair sop with grease and flaky scalp and their armpits go untouched by deodorant. (Those crystals that claim to control stink do not count. Nor do they work.)

The next time Senor Stinky stepped in the yoga room, I could barely contain my groan. Oh shit. I had hoped he was a one-timer, a fluke instead of a potential regular attendee. A BO-dorific wind wafted up my nose as his arms swooped skyward in his first surya namaskar A. I scowled. I contemplated playing the pregnancy card with my teacher.

“Uh, I hate to be a jerk, but my super smell powers are making class severely unpleasant when that new guy comes.” Not true. Super smell powers decreased—thank g-d—months ago.

I spent most of the class phrasing and rephrasing possible complaints to my teacher. I could couch it in yoga speak: “What about saucha (cleanliness)? Shouldn’t we be somewhat clean before practicing?”

Or myself as spokeswoman for the silent majority: “I know this is bugging everyone, but they’re too polite to say anything.” Or just keeping it real:

“C’mon man, that guy REEKS!”

I walked out of class in a pleasant all-one-or-none savasana haze, almost forgetting the stinky boulder I’d been rolling up my personal hill for the past 2 hours.

“How’s it going?” My teacher asked.

“Good,” I said, packing up my mat. Tell him, tell him, TELL HIM. “How are you?”

I ducked into chitchat. I wussed. I flashed back to the day when a past yoga teacher, Moira, pulled me aside.

“So Kt, your mat is emitting an odorific smell,” she said.

“Oh yeah, uh,” I stuttered. Who knew that yoga mat + dripping sweat - laundering = odorific smell?

I knew it had been emitting a vaguely hair-dye chemical/body funk smell for some time now, but thought that I was the only sad soul who was being subjected to the nose hair singing odor. Guess not. Tears sprung to my eyes as I tried to make small talk with Moira and let her know that it was no biggie. I was cool. Yeah, I knew my mat stunk and I would fix it. I wondered if my fellow yogis had been whispering about me behind my back.

“Someone should tell her. It’s nasty,” I imagined them whispering.

“Oh I know. I try to stay as far away as possible.”

From Moira’s sentence an entire world of paranoid, bitchy mat-related cut-downs sprung to life. I eyed my yoga compatriots warily. I wished there was a way to apologize for stinking up my corner of the room without making a scene, to let folks know that it was safe to unroll their mats beside me once again.

I bunched up my offending Mysore rug into a ball and shoved it in my saddlebag. Even though it barely fit, I was determined to not be the stinky one come tomorrow. Thus was born my policy of washing the mat once a week to keep the funky hair dye smell away. Over the past few months I have grown more lax on the once-a-week-washing rule since my practice is so pregnancy modified that I barely break a sweat. I actually wish it were stinkier to overpower Senor Stinky.

“So have you said anything to your teacher yet?” Mr. Crud asked after another round of complaints.

“No. I wimped out. I’m kind of afraid he’ll give me a look-who’s-talking look. I don’t exactly smell like roses.”

“No, but you don’t smell up the entire room with your B.O. either.”

“I think I figured out the problem. He wears the same yoga clothes for a whole week. He seems to have more than one set, but just wears the one outfit all freaking week. What the H?”

“You should say something,” Mr. Crud said.

“Yeah yeah.”

“Or do you like having a new bete noir more?”

“Touche.”

Yesterday Senor Stinky walked through the front door. There was only one spot left in the room. Next to me. Cracker please, I thought. Not today.

He unrolled his mat. The smell was distinctly him, a mixture of armpit, earwax, and wet dog smell, but not as overpowering as that first day. A small relief. Like the noisy neighbors Mr. Crud and I had to endure at our first apartment together, I wondered if this was my payback for past stinky offenses. Immediately I shifted into retribution mode. Someday Senor Stinky will be a showered, laundry freshened member of the citizenry. And on that future someday he will be minding his own business when he is almost knocked out of his tadasana by a powerful stench. Someday, Senor Stinky, someday.

I, Bete Noir

Her name is Alice.* She works at the pita sandwich booth at the Wednesday Farmer’s Market. Sometimes she takes the same Sunday yoga class as me. She has shoulder length brown hair, a face that settles nicely around her large-ish nose, and wears her Old Navy tanks inside out to class. Also, she hates me.

Well, I dramatize. Hate is a very strong word and should only be applied to white Hummers and groups of richie rich white people who commandeer a tiny, struggling breakfast place and order off-the-menu like it is their divine right. (I’m looking at you Surfsand Resort a-holes.) Alice probably doesn’t lie awake at night biting pillows at the thought of me. In fact she likely rarely thinks of me at all—unless she shares my unfortunate penchant for obsessing over the minor bete noirish characters of everyday life—but when I stand before her, all 6 feet 200 (or close now that my body has been colonized by the growing alien-dinosaur-fetus-baby we call Purvis**), her lip curls in disgust.

Last Sunday, yoga class. Mr. Crud and I stand in the doorway that opens from the airy orange and pink yoga room to the foyer. I turn to step through. Alice approaches. I immediately swing into appeasement mode. Alice’s silent hostility towards me has been building for at least a year. We only see each other occasionally, but on every occasion she is all ice and averted eyes. I don’t know why I continue my quest to try and make her reconsider her opinion of me. The injustice that someone who doesn’t even know me, who I haven’t even had the chance to fuck over, dislikes me roils my blood. I’m nice, goddamnit. Then why does she breeze by me, not even a smile or acknowledgement that I demurred to allow her to pass through the door to the yoga studio before me? I step into the foyer, followed by Mr. Crud.

“Did you see that? She’s here. The woman who hates me,” I whisper.

“Who?”

“The woman in the green shirt. The one who just passed us.”

He makes a move towards the yoga room. I pull him back. “Don’t look,” I hiss.

He shrugs. “Whatever.”

Mr. Crud knows of Alice a.k.a. The Woman Who Seems to Dislike Me For No Apparent Reason. (Need to come up with a snappier name, I do.) But not unsurprisingly, he does not keep track of her like I do. He humors me when I toss around my theories:

• Alice hates non-tippers. I tip semi-regularly at the pita sandwich booth. The sandwiches alone are $7. I’m not made of money.
• I once confirmed with Alice that my sandwich had chickpeas on it. The previous time I ended up chickpea-less and, needless to say, quite bereft and cursing the hand of the sandwich-maker who f-ed up my precious lunch. After I said “These have chick peas, right?” I notice she slipped me a side-eye. Should I have apologized for questioning her sandwich-making prowess?
• I have been known to perhaps flirt the tiniest bit with the owner of the sandwich cart. Are they married or something? (Note to Mr. Crud—I’m only doing it for the extra roasted shitakes!)
• Alice is one of those competitive yoginis who doesn’t like it when another student displays more yoga prowess than she. In that case she should love me now as my prowess has nosedived in the days of Purvis.

In the yoga studio Mr. Crud heads back to the room while I use the bathroom. I return to my mat and discover that Alice has chosen the spot next to mine. I detect a silent groan as I squat down on the mat and start with my pre-class twists. I turn to Mr. Crud who has claimed a spot behind me and nod my head ever so subtly in her direction. He gives me a puzzled look. We really need to work on this couple mind-reading thing.

The teacher enters. We breathe. We chant. We vinyasa. I try to ignore Alice, but as tends to happen I feel my ire rising with each sun salutation. Who the hell does she think she is to dislike me? What exactly did I do to her? So I questioned her sandwich…ONCE. I am a nice and respectful customer. I tip when I can. I can’t be the only person who doesn’t tip. What. The. Fuck.

After a few times through the thigh-burn-tastic vinyasa our teacher cuts us free to do our own thing. I breathe and flow from asana to asana, letting my Alice ponderings go for a few precious moments until we are somehow face-to-face in a semi-squat torture called horse pose. I review my vinyasa: did I mess up and do everything on the same leg twice? Why else would we end up facing each other unless one of us is off. I review the last minute. Nope, solid. Alice is the double-leg doer. Silly Alice. She looks past me. I look past her. Into yogic infinity or rather over each other’s shoulders. My inner Nelson awakens—HA ha. (And in this moment I am certainly NOT doing yoga, but rather what my first teacher labeled ego or what I label yoga jackassery.) I fight the urge to send myself into some difficult pose to show Alice who’s yoga boss. I release the moment, laughing at myself and the silly games my mind plays. (Now that’s yoga.) Oh Alice.

I don’t remember when I first felt the heat of Alice’s hostility. It may have been the sandwich stand where I noticed her purposefully slowing down her transaction when I was next in line in order to not be stuck making my sandwich. Or in yoga class when I gave her a smile of recognition—just a little “Hey you, I know you, I know you”—and she stared intentionally past me.

We move to the floor poses. We sit tall on our sitz bones, bringing our right leg in close to our bodies bent in an upside down V. “Marichyasana 3” (or C as us ashtangis call it), the teacher says. I twist gently into the traditional pose, but don’t get far before the Purvis region says an emphatic no. Twists are generally the first poses to go in the second trimester. So, I do as another teacher suggested and twist the opposite way, putting me face-to-face a second time with Alice. Out of the corner of my eye I catch hers. She looks at me and, I swear to G-d, rolls her eyes at me. You bitch! A teacher trainee approaches. She’s about to tell me I’m doing it wrong. I know how to do a goddamned Marichyasana C, I want to scream. The trainee bends over as my teacher approaches her. Seconds before the teacher can tap her shoulder and explain why I am twisting the opposite way, I say, “I’m pregnant. That’s why—“ The trainee nods. “I’m glad you told me.”

I want to look at Alice and say, “And also fuck you and your rolled eyes.” Instead I feel my eyes tearing up. I can’t discern if I’m upset at Alice’s rolled eyes or the insinuation by the trainee that I didn’t know what I was doing. I already feel awkward enough in yoga class modifying poses while others give me puzzled looks. While I look mildly pregnant, I’m still not obviously pregnant so my fellow yogis may mistake me for a chubby lady who doesn’t know her ass from her asana.

I breathe. I let this latest indignity go. Thank you, yoga.

After class Mr. Crud and I ponder my options.

• I could get all gangsta on Alice and get up in her grill as they say. “What?” I’d bellow fluffing up my chest in her face. “You got a problem, bee-yatch?”
• I could go overly sensitive hippie: “Hi, um yeah. I seem to have noticed some bad vibes coming from you where I am concerned. Did I do anything to offend you? Was it the sandwich because really, you are a terrific sandwich artist.”
• I could be aggressively friendly with Alice, melt her heart of stone or further solidify her conviction that I am an a-hole.

Or I could let the whole thing go and embrace my bete noir status. Consider it the circle of life. I have plenty of my own, a collection of people who have irked me for passing me at stop signs on my bicycle or breathing too loud in yoga class or a hundred other minor offenses that make me feel sheepish for even admitting how much they get to me. I could chalk this up to a fine opportunity to walk around in the shoes of the people who annoy me, to see how it does hurt just a little bit when someone seems to dislike you for no apparent reason. Wouldn’t that be mature?

I suspect that I will continue to oscillate between tamped down outrage, laughing at the ridiculousness of the situation, and, every now and then, a tug of hurt feelings. I will try be yoga about things and not intentionally fuck with Alice by putting my mat next to hers or accosting her with forced good cheer. Maybe I’ll get so yoga that I include her in my silent blessings every morning, sending her peace and ease and wishes for a good day. Or not.


* Names have been changed to protect the annoyed.
** To read more about our adventures with Purvis check out the Peabody Project Chronicles 2.