Have you ever wondered if there was more to life, other than being really, really, ridiculously good looking?

(Spoiler Alert: No, There Isn't.)

(Also Known As: Inexplicable Photo Essay Number 7,895: In Which My Children Have Disastrously Short Careers As Male Models)

(Also Also Known As: Wow, Amy, You've Already Used An Ungodly Number Of Colons)

WHERE IS MY VITAMIN WATER?

SERIOUSLY, IF MY ASSISTANT IS NOT BACK HERE IN FIVE MINUTES WITH VITAMIN WATER, I WILL PUNCH SOMEONE IN THE NECK.

I'm sorry I was wack. Now I shall pose.

But have you noticed how insanely long my legs are all of a sudden? You do not want to get into a walk-off with me.

 

And I'm done. Now someone please fire off a press release about my "exhaustion."

(Confidential to Catherine: PET MAH LIZAAAARD!)

Hey. What up?

No Vitamin Water theatrics from me, as I'm new on the scene. Young. Fresh. Hungry.

So....very...hungry.

Haven't...eaten...in...minutes...

NOM NOM NOM AAAHHGRGRAAAASHHLURP.

What? Like it's my fault I'm so good-looking that even my reflection is delicious.

Blogher, Part Three

DAY THREE, SATURDAY

Part One: They Vacuum Carpets, Don't They?

The baby's breakfast consisted of a couple handfuls of swag bag fruit puffs tossed on the floor of the hotel room.

Part Two: It Takes A Village

I once again attempted to attend an actual panel at the actual conference that I had paid actual money for -- this time with the Vaginally Challenged Men of Blogher.  When I walked in, Ezra was asleep, but oh, no, that did not last very long at all. Luckily, there were plenty of women around us willing to offer us various forms of baby-amusement: toys from their swag bags, handfuls of Quaker cereal, their noses.

The first time he squawked an emphatic "EEEEEEEHHHHHHHHAAAAA," it was funny, and all the faces that spun around to stare at us were sympathetic and amused. By the third or fourth time, not so much, and when I caught a definite glare of "ENTITLED MOMMYBLOGGER" from a few rows up, we got up and left. Which was a shame, because it was a good panel, except that apparently NO ONE on that panel was sleeping with ANYONE in the audience, except for like, THEIR WIFE, or whatever. Booooring!

Part Three: Amy Storch, Star Of Such Films As "The Internet" and "Getting Too Big For Her Old Navy Britches"

At lunch, my tablemates and I were approached by a marketing type offering entry into a contest for a new MacBook. As my current MacBook is in need of a new motherfuckingboard (I believe that's the technical term for it, I am pretty sure), I enthusiastically agreed. As she explained the rules, she stopped and mentioned that I looked VERY FAMILIAR and asked my name.

ME: (all smuggish asshole-like) Amy. Amalah.

HER: And your blog name?

ME: (less smuggish asshole-like) Amalah. Dot Com.

HER: (pause)

AMY: (holds up business card, points) Eh?

HER: No.

It turns out that she thought I looked like some local newsperson's daughter, or something. I get that a lot, I told her.

(Actually, despite the fact that I get a good 25 PR pitches A DAY over email, not one single PR or marketing person at the conference had ever heard of me or my blog. Which means there are either 1) waaaaaay too many PR and marketing types out there targeting bloggers, or 2) the ones who send me pitches are not really reading my blog like they claim to. Whichever could it be!!)

Part Four: Stop! Paneltime.

Things I did not bring to our panel on Pop Culture & Gossip & Feminism & What We All Think About Gwyneth Paltrow & Jon & Kate:

1) My notes

2) Something in lieu of notes to serve as a Fidgeting Prop that would keep me from doing weird twisty things with my hands the whole time, as can be seen here.

Ezra tried to participate in the proceedings, first by shrieking, as if to bring to mind the level of discourse in the comments section at Perez Hilton, then by attempting to climb up a microphone stand like a stripper pole, as meta-commentary on the sexualization of young celebs these days, and finally, in a brilliant bit of performance art about the plight of the drunken young starlet, by passing out cold on the stage:

Photo shamelessly swiped from Poobou.

Photos I actually got permission to use, by Suzanne at Twentyfouratheart

As for all the other photos floating around from this panel, and hell, the whole conference, I would just like to ask my chin, which since getting pregnant decided to melt downwards and eat my neck in every photo: WTF, chin?

("In every photo." Ha! Because it can't be that I actually LOOK LIKE THAT, with the double saggy chin. No, there must be something wrong with your camera. You should get a new one. I hear Nikon does good work.)

Part Five: Quality Assurance Standards Are Slipping

The baby's dinner consisted of a lamb lollipop and five mini Beef Wellington hors d'ourves at the official conference cocktail party.

Incompetent mothering? MOI?

(Photo stolen from AngellaD. My word, I am a TERRIBLE example for the children.)

The Beef Wellingtons left a ton of greasy pastry crumbs all over my dress -- my last clean dress, my last clean ANYTHING, really -- but the highlight of my babywearing weekend was looking down at some point and seeing my baby gnawing on a giant hunk of meat. Meat that I did not give him. So I immediately became suspicious of my fellow party-goers, asking them, "Who the hell gave my baby meat? Did someone seriously come up and hand him MEAT?"

That's when I realized that it had fallen out of the last Beef Wellington he'd eaten about 20 minutes before and he'd been saving it in the sling for later. Also that it was probably a good thing that I was leaving him with a babysitter again that night.

Part Six: In Which I Eat A Lot Of Cheeseburgers

And steal MORE PHOTOS from poor Angella (pictured here with me and everybody's favorite person, Isabel from AlphaMom). This is absolutely no way to repay her for stopping me from heading outside the hotel at 1:30 in the morning in search of an ATM so I could pay my sitter after the party.

I kept saying, "There's one in the hotel, right?" And everybody else kept saying, "No, actually, I don't think there is." And then I'd say, "Y'all are drunk. I'm sure there's an ATM in the hotel. Or close by. Probably not more than a couple blocks. I'll go look!"

Angella lent me the money for the babysitter. (AND my chin is behaving in every photo of me in her Flickr stream. Clearly her camera is working just fine. GAH.)

Man, who knew the apple juice from McDonald's could interfere with your thought processes and judgment like that?

I went back to my room, and not to be outdone by CERTAIN ROOMMATES who decided to stay out partying until FIVE IN THE MORNING, MISS CHICKY, I opted to pack instead of sleeping. And dance around the room listening ABBA on my iPod. Because...yeah.

Part Seven: The End

The next morning Ezra woke up with a cold, a slimy disgusting cold that he smeared all over every surface of our room and the back of my shirt while in the Ergo. It was time to go home.

There are so many more people that I should mention, link to, rave about. So, so many. I will say this, though -- I sense some people left Blogher disillusioned, irritated, and concerned about the future of our little corner of the blogosphere. That "community" word, again, imperiled.

I didn't. I left invigorated. Inspired. Pledging to do better and be better. To not show up next year and admit to someone that I've read them for YEARS, despite never commenting or linking to them. (Just like I did last year!) To make sure that if you're in my Google Reader, YOU KNOW IT, either by my comments or your URL on my much-neglected and terribly-out-of-date links page. To not talk to you, but with you. Because you -- collective you, general-sense you -- are all incredible. And you've helped make my life incredible, PR pitches and trips and swaaaaaaaaaaag aside. Jesus Christ, that baby you met this weekend? I get to stay home with him every day, all the time, and write stuff on the Internet because of you.

Thank you. So much. I'm sorry if I don't say that enough, in words or deeds.

Ezra fell asleep in my arms as our plane took off, and didn't wake up until after we landed.

We both had a great time, honest.

Blogher, Part Two

DAY TWO, FRIDAY

Part One: I've Made A Huge Mistake Of Bluthian Proportions

The next morning Jodi texted me and offered to sneak the baby and I into the Club Level for the free breakfast. I wrote back that I wasn't showered yet, but then decided that I didn't really care, and went up anyway, only to immediately bump into a crew of immaculately coiffed and professionally dressed women from MomCentral. Stacy DeBroff fed Ezra a banana while I blearily caffeinated myself and by my third sip my brain suddenly turned on and I realized that I was out in public -- at a professional blogging conference, where people take pictures and blog and stuff --  in pajama bottoms and no makeup and gross oily hair.

And my nipples were showing through my nursing tank. I ate a croissant and fled.

Part Two: All Better

Down at the actual conference, I learned that with Ezra in the Ergo's back-carry position, my hands were truly free to carry both a cup of coffee AND a complimentary bloody mary.

I started meeting people and recognizing people and being recognized by other people, reuniting with Linda, fangirling at Alexa, awkwardly screaming after Kate seconds after she'd stepped on an escalator, like NOOOO COME BACK I LOVE YOU. I met...a lot of people, and I hadn't even retrieved my conference badge yet. (They didn't have it under my real name, the name I registered with, but just my blog name, meaning all weekend people squinted at my badge and said "Ahhhhmala? Who the hell?)

I want to thank everybody who listened to my plea last week and came up and introduced themselves. It was beyond lovely meeting each and every one of you, and I'm glad you got to meet his Mighty Ezness in person. (He seems quite bored of me, now that we're home. He's all, "Where all my aunties at?") I know that feeling -- that panicked deer-in-the-headlights feeling -- of stepping off the elevator and walking into a crowded lobby and suddenly realizing that you know NO ONE THERE and you've left your conference agenda upstairs so you can't even PRETEND to study it while trying to figure out what to do next and the seconds are ticking by and you have NO ONE TO TALK TO AND WILL PROBABLY DIE ALONE MOMENTARILY.

You guys are all awesome, so I didn't die after all. Hooray!

(Photo by Carla Duharte Razura)

(Arm and half a head by Lori of Spinning Yellow)

(Nail biting due to overwhelming anxiety, deflated muffin gut courtesy of THAT KID RIGHT THERE.)

Part Three: In Which I Attempt To Learn Stuff

I made it through oh, about 15 minutes of the Transformational Blogging panel before Ezra decided noisily to work out that banana from breakfast. Good job, son.

Part Four: OMFG I LOST MY iPHONE AGAIN

It fell out of my pocket at lunch and was hidden under somebody's purse. I proceeded to panic for...oh, a good amount of time because I DIDN'T WANT TO TELL THE INTERNET I LOST MY iPHONE AGAIN, and pretty much everybody at the table remembered the time I dropped it in the toilet, which is still one of my top trafficked posts thanks to all the other people out there who turn to Google after dropping their own iPhones in their own toilets.

Part Five: "I Just Think You Need To Keep Things In Perspective"

Ezra and I retreated to the Lactation Lounge (yes, seriously) at some point in the afternoon for some downtime -- I realized I'd left my wipes container in there from the morning's diaper change and was kind of surprised it was still there, what with everybody kind of losing their minds over OMFG A FREE HUGGIES TRAVEL WIPES CONTAINER MINE MINE MINE. I nursed the baby and hummed to him and cuddled, feeling very calm and motherly and proud of what an amazingly good little trooper he'd been all day. He smiled at everybody (except for Mir, who made him cry) (but only one time, and they later bonded), took naps right in the carrier, and patiently indulged the approximately 6,429 people grabbing at his toes. (NOTE: I may have encouraged this. In fact, I believe I told at least one woman to "git in there an' git you sum.") After a rocky start, we were getting this thing down, we were both having fun, and I was cheesily treasuring this trip -- the most uninterrupted one-on-one time I'd had with my second child since our hospital stay.

Two women came in right as we were getting ready to leave. One was there with a four-and-a-half-week old. The other was there with a two-week-old.

I'd entered the room with a BABY and left with a goddamn freaking Godzilla child strapped to my back.

Part Six: Sponsorville

I've read quite a bit about the sponsored bloggers and whether people found them rude or amateurish or whatever. I only met two, and in case they're reading those posts as well and feeling embarrassed or worried that they came off that way: No, you did not. I'm not sure either of them actually knew who I was so they may never read this, but I met a lovely woman who was sponsored by Born Free and who let me get ugly and baby-elbowing over bottles and sippy cups and listening to my long and involved story about how I clogged the hotel room toilet with a gDiaper insert, and another (and I don't remember her name, I'm sorry!!) who simply admired Ezra for a bit before presenting him with an Eric Carle lizard from Kohl's.

I haven't been able to afford Blogher some years either -- this is actually the first time I went on my own dime, having been lucky enough to have employers who sent me in the past, and I've skipped the other years when that didn't happen -- so I totally understand desperately wanting to go but wanting to offset the cost. And I also understand that some sponsored bloggers did not necessarily do this in the most professional manner, or even realize that it was indeed, a professional arrangement and not a lottery ticket. Hell, there's a right and a wrong way to go about everything. As Kristen said, quite aptly: Not all bloggers are like that. Mommy or sponsored or otherwise.

(Also, I stupidly only packed one bottle for Ez and so I was REALLY REALLY GRATEFUL for the free bottle. Yay!)

Part Seven: Sparklecorn 2009

I...

Uh...

Dudes...

That was a ridiculous amount of fun, no?

(Unicorn cake by the CakeGirls. I was a little disappointed that it wasn't red velvet cake, but it was still a really nice piece of ass.)

I have no bragging rights to that party -- Tracey and Catherine planned it all, down to every last geektastic poster on the wall and the stand-up Edward (who vanished mysteriously at some point in the evening...I really earnestly hope someone out there tried to get him through an airport security line). My contribution was writing an entry once upon a time about talking deodorants, and one of those deodorant companies turned out to have an incredibly good sense of humor and agreed to help sponsor our party. The sole swag (besides, uh, booze) was a tube of Dove Clinical Strength, and for the record I did not get one. And I am pissed, because that's what I actually use and last time I went to Target I got so distracted by the new "deodorants as elaborate showpieces" trend in packaging that I FORGOT TO ACTUALLY BUY SOMETHING I WOULD USE.

(If you haven't seen the professional photos of the party, click here. I think I am dancing in that one photo, or possibly threatening to punch someone for not keepin' her hands offa mah damn man.)

After the Mamapop writers arrived but before we started letting people in, I had to take a moment and sit down on the dance floor to compose myself -- my laughing at the cake, the Edward, the posters soon turned to gaspy crying, because it was like the prom planning committee had been taken over by the nerds, by my people, by my friends, read my diary to plan my dream prom, and everybody got crowned prom queen just for showing up.

I kicked off my shoes and danced like a drunken moron to every song, I hugged everybody I could get my arms on and I wondered why I never did stuff like this anymore.

 

I woke up the next morning and was like, "Oh, right."

(Oh my God. Will I ever shut the fuck up about this? One more day to recap, I swear. Trust me, nothing else has happened since I got home, except that Ezra has suddenly become Mr. Professional Cruiser and is spending horrifying amounts of time upright on two legs and RUN IT'S GODZILLA BABY NOOO.)

Blogher, Part One

(Wow. So I originally planned to write about the entire conference in one post. HOURS AGO, I planned that. HOURS, I have been writing this and it really gets away from me at the end and I think I use the word "community" in a totally unironic sense and basically I'm going to publish this and write more tomorrow, because now I have to go punch myself in the neck.)

DAY ONE, THURSDAY

Part One: Not Off To A Real Brain-Trust-Like Start

I woke up at...oh, 4 A.M. in a dread pirate panic over things I had forgotten to pack. I should point out that I was still at home. And had many, many hours left before my flight to pack these things. No matter, I clearly needed to get out of bed and pack them RIGHT THAT SECOND, or ALL WOULD BE LOST. If a blogger goes to Blogher without her business cards, is she really at there? Does she cease to exist? These are the deep thoughts I had at 4:30 A.M. when I found out that not one, but BOTH of my babysitting leads had fallen through, and that I didn't have a confirmed sitter for the Mamapop party after all.

Some people might think: I know! I shall contact a reputable sitting service in the Chicago area! I shall use my SitterCity account! I shall ask the hotel concierge for recommendations!

I thought of none of those things. I contacted Twitter instead.

I...yeah. I know. I KNOW. Very very bad and irresponsible and boneheaded parenting, finding babysitters on Twitter. Except when you find a babysitter like Annabelle. Who was just SO lovely and sweet and Ezra and I both adored her. (I did like, you know, meet with her ahead of time to get a read on the whole "are you going to steal my baby and/or all the hotel room furniture" thing. She passed! I have terrific instincts.)

Anyway, my Twitter babysitter was totally better than your babysitter. I also remembered to pack my business cards.

Part Two: I'm Sick Of These Motherfucking Babies On This Motherfucking Plane

After reading all of your comments and suggestions for airplane-related entertainment for Ezra, I packed a small treasure trove of crappy cheap toys (and toy-like substances) that he'd never seen before. He ended up playing with 1) the laminated emergency procedures pamphlet, 2) plastic cups from the beverage cart, and 3) Jodi.

Jodi warned me that she was a nervous flyer, so our agreement was that in exchange for the baby-wrangling help, I'd do my best to distract her from the fact that we were in a rickety tin can 37,000,000 miles off the ground.

Problem solved!

Part Three: I Went To Blogher & All I Got Was Your Elbow In My Face

After getting to Chicago and to the hotel and into my hotel room and meeting my lovely roommate and eating a burger topped with cheddar cheese AND bacon cheddar cheese sauce and watching my baby sneeze hamburger meat directly into my lovely roommate's face, I was already Hearing Things About Swag. My Twitter stream was full of swag bag descriptions and people were whispering stories about other people getting gross and ugly and grabby and ditching parties as soon they got a bag and pwning wristband systems in order to steal more swag. I mentioned that last year I brought home 1) a tire pressure gauge, 2) a bottle opener keychain and 3) a magic 8 ball. I was informed that this year was PROBABLY going to be a little different.

I stuck Ezra in a sling and decided to check out the People's Party. It was loud. And crowded. Insanely crowded. By the time I filed into the room and realized OH MY GOD, the room was easily three times too small for the number of people crushing through the door, I was kind of stuck. I spent a few bewildered moments shouting at people I knew before I realized what a huge mistake it was, bringing Ezra in there, and that I absolutely had to leave. This realization was cemented when someone abruptly pushed past me towards the swag bags, I saw Ezra's head kind of...jerk to the side, and when I looked down at him his eyes were wide with surprise...and fear...AND PAIN. He dissolved into a wail.

People, someone goddamn elbowed my baby in the face. While rushing for SWAG. At a party sponsored by freaking PBS Sprout.

At the time, I 100% totally and completely blamed myself. I was horrified that I'd unwittingly brought my baby to a party where he wasn't SAFE. I mean, Twitter babysitters aside (which...you know I'm taking a little creative license with that, as I absolutely would never leave him with someone who I didn't believe was responsible and trustworthy), I take my care of my little people very seriously. I felt stupid for even thinking that this was a good idea. And I left, taking my own swag bag only after Jenny insisted I take one. ("But I'm not staying! Is that okay?") I Twittered about being stuck alone in the hotel room feeling sorry for myself, too embarassed to admit that my baby got hurt because I wanted to wear a pretty dress and get a drink ticket.

Part Four: We Used To Blog Uphill In The Snow, Both Ways, Hand-Coding CSS Until Our Fingers Bled, And We Liked It

I still blame myself, in part. The room was crowded and hard to navigate and while Ezra wasn't the only child there, I was asking too much of him, after a long day of travel and super-short naps and a heapload of sensory overload. And really, he's FINE. He's not bruised, he didn't get a black eye, maybe the mystery elbower had to pee, or something. Once we got back to the hotel room he was all smiles.

But as the weekend progressed and the swag thing turned into a Swag Thing (to the point that I commented how nice it was, since I didn't miss Noah as much I thought I would, what with being surrounded by toddlers), the Elbow Incident became oddly emblematic of the whole attitude. People completely disregarding other people's personal space and hard work (seriously, planning those parties takes EFFORT, you guys) and just goddamn common decency. Would let your kid show up at a birthday party, grab a handful of cake and a goodie bag and leave? Would you let him cheat at the games at Chuck E. Cheese, just so he could get more crappy prize tickets? Would you sit by and let her bitch on Christmas about not getting the gift she REALLY wanted, or whine that the gifts she got didn't cost enough?

God. I feel old and finger-waggy, but get a fucking grip, people.

And yet.

I've gone on some nice trips, I've gotten some really nice gifts from companies, I've gotten laughably bad product pitches that I would never in a million years want or use or "review." I've alternated between being delighted by the attention and annoyed by the way it's changed our community, I've struggled to keep that balance between wanting my blog to be "successful" and wanting my blog to be...you know, MY STUPID LITTLE BLOG.

And yet, even I need the occasional dose of perspective.

When I started writing online, signing up for a brand-new service called "Typepad," nobody really liked the word "blog." The people I read wrote journals or diaries. There was a still a wide gap between the two groups, a definite sense of old guard vs. new upstarts. Moveable Type was taking over the old hand-coded clunky sites, your free blogging platforms were Diaryland or livejournal or Blogger and when Diary-X went down, people lost everything because the entire service existed on one dude's hard drive that he'd forgotten to back up. Oh, man. There were A-listers and people who wanted to be the A-listers and people who spent most of their time complaining about the A-listers. People fretted over whether the new generation of "bloggers" were ruining the community, now that it was so easy to start a site. If you had your own site the hosting could cost you a fortune, since there was no Flickr or Vimeo, but there was still endless debate over whether an Amazon Wish List or PayPal Donate button made you a tacky sellout. Are bloggers even writers? Are all web writers bloggers? No! Yes! Sometimes!

When Google text ads started showing up on PERSONAL WEBSITES, the wank level went through the roof.

In summary: six short years on the Web and I'm a freaking dinosaur, apparently, but I guess my point is that there has always been something threatening the community. We have been on the brink of sellout-y destruction for as long as I've been doing this, and I'm pretty sure me and my weirdly-named blog and TWOP-aping writing style were once considered harbingers of literary doom and made fun of on some old-skool message board. Now we all just get to overreact on Twitter.

In other words, it's all going to be okay, as long as we at least stop elbowing each other in the face.

(I promise this entry is the only one where I'll get preachy and philosophical about Blogher. I had a fantastic time and did a shitload of stupid things that did not involve people beating up babies for free pens.)

Quick. And Hurry.

I need ideas for things to keep a nine-month-old baby amused on an airplane that:

1) fit into a small diaper bag
2) do not make a shitload of jangly beepy noise
3) do not resemble some kind of sex toy and/or rudimentary weapon, thus arising suspicion at security, causing me to miss my flight while I explain that no, it's a spork. A SPORK!

So far I've got:

1) food
2) toothbrushes
3) a sippy cup of booze.*

*I may share.

**Probably won't.

***Also, have you have seen my camera?

****Or my phone charger?

*****These footnotes do not actually footnote anything, fail to cite sources, suggest a certain amount of procrastination is going on.

******GAAAAAH

Obligatory Pre-Blogher Freak-Out Post

How is it July? Like, the end-ish of July? What happened to June? And May? And that little squishy baby I had? Did this giant one here eat him, just like he ate the dog kibble last night? Repeatedly? Because my babyproofing knowledge is limited to saying "NO!" and then moving him across the room? Which is surprisingly ineffective?

Anyway, I'm bringing this baby to Blogher. No need to vacuum, Sheraton, he'll take care of it.

Yes, you can hold him. My arms and neck and back would very much like you to hold him.

I will NOT, however, be bringing that drum. Fuck that drum. Vamanos, bebe! Cállate, tambor!

Or that refrigerator, even though...oh, I love our new refrigerator. I do not love that we had to buy it, but now that it is here and I open the door and I can like, find stuff I need RIGHT THERE, RIGHT IN FRONT OF MY EYEBALLS, I am very happy about the new refrigerator. I'm sure I'll eventually be less happy with it, once it gets more full of food and crowded, but right now it's gloriously organized and spacious, mostly because I enjoy opening it and eating everything.

Luckily I still have plenty of time to lose 10 pounds or so before Blogher, right? RIGHT?

Mmmmmmm glorious fingerprint-y magic food box...

(No, still haven't painted the stupid kitchen. There's a reason. Can't tell you why yet. WINK! NUDGE!)

(Hi, I'm deviously transparent!)

Anyway, I'm doing that thing that I do every year, which is to wait until the very last minute to even think about packing for Blogher, and immediately going from, "whatever, just wear what you're COMFORTABLE in, people, it's not LIKE THAT, no one CARES" to "oh my God I hate everything I own hate hate hate!" And I guess I need to pack some onesies or something? Diapers? They sell Cheerios* in Chicago, right?

So. Listen. If you see me at Blogher, and you would like to say hi or something, please say hi, oh dear God. Please don't feel like you need to apologize for wanting to say hi or assure me that you are not a stalker. You read my weblog! That I write! And publish voluntarily, with the hope that people will read said weblog! I promise you that I am not in any way creeped out by the idea that you read my weblog and recognize me or something.

If I read YOUR weblog, well...be prepared for some agressively inappropriate hugging and reckless disregard for your personal space. I am sorry.

This is what I look like these days. No makeup, ponytail, eyebags and lopsided boobs. Boobs you may very well see more than you'd like of, since Ezra has a habit of yanking my shirt down when he's in the sling without me noticing. I'm not sure that cashier at Petsmart has ever recovered. But I believe it's important for teenagers to learn that p0rn movie scenarios never really translate into real-life all that well. I mean, the guy who delivered my fridge didn't use a single sexy double entendre either.

If you ask me to pose for a group picture, this is how I will ruin it:

This is how I look in every candid picture ever:

And if you still aren't entirely sure who I am, here's a surefire identification technique:

I'm speaking for the first time ever this year, another thing on the long list of Things I Am Woefully Unprepared For, along with Tracey and Catherine. We're discussing "Women Writing In The Age Of Britney: Pop Culture & Gossip & Feministy Stuff, Oh My."

I talk with my hands. I should tell you that now.

Okay, so now I need to take a break from packing (HINT: I HAVE NOT PACKED ANYTHING) and go to the store in search of 1) bras, lest we repeat the Petsmart thing, 2) adorable shoes that cost less than $10, 3) lip gloss.

*This is what my baby** ate for breakfast, by the way: a not-insignificant amount of breastmilk, followed with an 8 oz. formula chaser, three grown-up handfuls of cereal, an entire blueberry waffle, one banana, half of a peach and three strawberries.

**This is what my other baby*** ate for breakfast, just like he has eaten for breakfast since the BEGINNING OF TIME: a bowl of dry Cheerios, a milk/yogurt/strawberry/peach smoothie, possibly some residue from the bit of banana that he demanded Ezra give him but then refused to actually eat.

***I eat coffee for breakfast.

Select Book Reviews From the Storch Family Library

FULL DISCLOSURE: I was not paid to do any of these reviews and I paid for all of these books with my own cash money, except for maybe one or two that I received as political campaign hush incentives
Christmas presents from my mom. Also, these are not actually reviews at all, because whatever, like I care about giving you people useful content. I mean, really.

Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What Do You See?

Noah (at age 3 months to like, two years): Awesome! Eric Carle's finest work. A tour de force of meter and rhyme and bright colors and OMFG PURPLE CAT AAAHAAAA HAA HAAAAA.

Ezra (like, always, and still): I hate this book. Stop reading me this book.

Polar Bear, Polar Bear, What Do You Hear?

Noah: *learns a very important lessons about the inevitable disappointment of sequels*

Panda Bear, Panda Bear, What Do You See?

Amy: "And that's how George Lucas and the Wachowski brothers ruined their franchises. The end. Goodnight, sweetie."

Peek-a-Boo Baby Faces!

Noah: Are you kidding me with this nonsense? Photos of stupid babies with one word of text per page? Honestly, Mother, I'm not sure what's worse: that you paid money for this crap, or that you didn't think of it yourself, thus making a fortune and then using that money to buy me MORE INTERESTING BOOKS.

Ezra: Babies! Hi babies! Yay babies! A tour de force of absolutely nothing happening! Two slobbery thumbs up!

Almost Practically Every Book Sandra Boynton Has Ever Written, And Holy Shit, That's a Lot

Noah: Yeah, I'm a little old for these, but MAN, that Blue Hat, Green Hat one gets me EVERY. TIME.

Amy: *is probably a little overly fond of What's Wrong Little Pookie? than she should be*

Guess How Much I Love You

Noah: Ugh.

Ezra: Whatever.

Amy: SOB

The Giving Tree

Noah: What happened to the tree? Where'd the tree go? Mommy, WHAT HAPPENED TO THAT TREE?

Ezra: *poops*

Amy: SOB SOB SOB SOB SOB SOB

Love You Forever

Noah: BOOOORING.

Ezra: I concur.

Amy: You know, this book is kinda creepy, what kind of mother spies on her grown son and...oh...Oh. OH. SOB SOB SOB SOB SOB SOB SOB SOB (breathes) SOB SOB SOB SOB

T-Rex & Friends, aka Some Hand-Me-Down Cloth Busy Book Thing

Noah: It CRINKLES. It MAKES NOISE. It FEELS WEIRD. I HATE IT.

Ezra: *nom nom nom nom delicious busy book nom*

You Can Go To The Potty!

Noah: I liked the part where the boy went to the potty.

Amy: I dunno, but the exclamation point in the title had me thinking this book would be a bit more exciting.

Hands Are Not For Hitting

Amy: Damn skippy.

Make Way For Ducklings

Noah: My favorite book in the entire world, the only one that is remotely acceptable to read before bed, and OMFG DUCKS! LOOK! LOOK! I SEE DUCKS IN A BOOK ABOUT DUCKS WHAT ARE THE ODDS?

Amy: Please let me read you something else Please let me read you something else Please let me read you something else

Jason: *quietly retells the story of a shrewish Mrs. Mallard and her deadbeat husband who abandons the eight ducklings to run off with a slutty swan*

Noah: *totally doesn't notice because OMFG DUCKS DUCKS DUCKS*

The Monster at the End of This Book

Noah: Yay!

Amy: Yay! Something from my childhood that is actually as good as I remember! Take that, stupid ducks.

The Snowy Day, by EZRA Jack Keats, Bitches

Noah: Also yay, although mostly for the page that says: PLOP. Because "PLOP" is apparently the funniest word in the English language.

Amy: This book should be required reading for everybody on earth, just so they'll stop thinking that we 1) made Ezra's name up, 2) gave him a girl's name, or 3) named him after a band that I didn't even think was around anymore, because I guess I suck at fact-checking.

Green Eggs & Ham

Noah: I love this book, I adore this book, I refuse to notice any sort of applicable life lesson from this book.

Amy: Holy crap, does this book ever end? Was this book always this long? My God, it's like if J.K. Rowling wrote The Half-Blood Prince using just 50 words for 800 pages. More, more, Dumbledore said with a roar, just before slamming Snape's hand in the door.

Amy: *totally has a brilliant, not-at-all-copyright-violating idea*

Goodnight, Moon

Noah: Pure board book magic.

Ezra: The greatest book I have read in my entire life, and I'm pretty sure I've read AT LEAST four.

Amy: Why is no one concerned about the fucking mouse? Why don't the kittens kill the mouse? And just who is that quiet old lady? Shouldn't somebody put that leftover mush in some Tupperware? I HAVE SO MANY QUESTIONS.

Nine Months In, Nine Months Out

Ezra had his nine-month well-baby appointment today, where it was brought to my attention that my baby is NINE FUCKING MONTHS OLD. I've now officially had him in my arms for as long as I had him in my womb.

And during those first nine months, Jason would often rub my belly and talk to it, and mention his growing impatience with the whole gestating process (GET IN LINE, BUDDY), and his eagerness to meet "this little guy." Who was he, this new hypothetical boy? What would he be like, once he was here?

We know those answers now, of course. He is our Mighty Ez, our Baby Zee, our Ezzie Man. He is awesome. Truly, honestly, just beyond awesome.

He is a mimic, a charmer, and a flirt. He knows the power of his smile. He will wave and clap and tilt his head coyly to the side until you pay attention to him. If you ask for a kiss he will give you one, along with some tongue and a delighted giggle. Everywhere we go, people stop to stare at him, to talk to him, to delight in his cheerful good nature and marvel at his perfectly round head. Adorable, they exclaim. Cherubic. Angelic. Delicious.

"I know," I say. I don't mean to be obnoxious, but come on. I KNOW.

 

(Do not lend this baby any money.)

 

He can crawl now, I suppose, officially, though it's certainly not a pretty crawl -- a combination tummy scoot with extended leg propulsion sort of maneuver, though occasionally he gets everything working together in a slightly more dignified manner. He can get up and over the step in our living room and is a far more proficient stander-upper.

He loves remote controls, toothbrushes and anything that makes a lot of noise. Drums are particularly thrilling, especially when combined with a toothbrush or two.

He is the happiest, most personable, best behaved baby I have ever met. He is -- I'm so sorry -- easy. Sometimes I wonder if I switched to cloth diapers and shunned the jars of Gerber just because I felt like I needed the challenge.

He loves his big brother more than anything. He thinks his big brother is the coolest. His big brother thinks his baby brother isn't half bad either. When Ezra cries, Noah does everything he can to cheer him up. "Don't cry, Ezra!" he'll say, while gently patting his head. When Ezra inevitably starts getting in Noah's way and grabbing at his toys, Noah will patiently find an alternative toy to offer him. Sometimes they just sit and laugh and laugh and laugh at each other, just happy to be making the other one happy.

During those first nine months, I knew I was having a boy, despite never really quite getting a definitive look during our ultrasounds. I still just knew, somehow. I dreamed of a baby boy mere days after the positive pregnancy test and just knew he could not be anything other than another boy. Though some part of me probably just hoped for another boy because that would mean another Noah, another good baby, another of the exact same thing so I would know what I was doing this time.

Obviously, it doesn't work like that. And I'm so glad, because it's the differences that have made getting to know this little guy such a delight, and have made these last nine months so sweet and full and noisy and chaotic and rich.

Weight: 19 pounds
Height: 28 1/4 inches
Head circumference blah dee blah: 18 inches

Philosophipool

I still remember my little backyard kiddie pool. I'm guessing I had more than one, as this photo shows a square Raggedy Ann pool but I seem to remember a round one with a generic fish pattern on it -- though the designs always faded to nothing by midsummer -- but I remember dragging the hard plastic shells from their spot propped up against the side of our house to the flattest section of our yard. I remember they used to leave wet spots against the brown paint until we had aluminum siding installed. I remember how cold the hose water would be at first, and then how it would slowly warm up to bathwater temperatures as the hours passed.

I remember the disappointment of having to get out of the water -- even though my lips were blue and my nose was running and my eyelids were heavy -- but the disappointment was always tempered by the feeling of a dry towel, fresh clothes, the slow feeling of warmth returning.

I remember licking peanut butter off my pruny fingers, dripping watermelon down my front, using the towel to erase a milk mustache while staring out the window, contemplating the pool and how badly I wished to be back in it.

I remember smelling of sunscreen afterward, and my hair drying in crazy directions because I wouldn't let my mother comb it out, preferring to howl in misery at bathtime, because while I loved the pool, I still hated the bathtub.

I didn't even realize I remembered all this. I never thought about it, until today, while drying Ezra off with a gigantic towel, while watching Noah conquer invisible fires with the garden hose.

I used to assume that I would be a better parent than my own, that my children would have a much easier life than I did, that I would naturally correct all the many mistakes and injustices and teenage-fury-inducing moments. I don't really remember those either, but at one time they seemed so very, very important.

I hope they remember the pool.

No. NO!

About two weeks-ish ago, Kristen H commented that there's nothing like a pregnancy scare to REALLY help you figure out how you feel about having another baby.

When I missed my period this weekend, my feelings were something like: oh hell oh shit oh fuck oh minivan.

When I stopped at a drugstore near by parents' house in Pennsylvania for a pregnancy test, the girl ringing me up gave me a knowing sort of stinkeye, and I stared at my feet and felt awkward and...you know, SHAMEFUL. I shoved the bright pink package into my diaper bag and ignored it for the next several hours while Jason kept looking at me with his eyes bulging out of his head. Who was I and what had I done with the peestick-happy woman he'd married? What was I waiting for, already?

"I don't have to pee yet," I whispered. Even though I did. Kind of. Let's just say I've peed on sticks with less.

Finally I retreated to the bathroom and dug out the package. I opened up a stick -- careful not to destroy the wrapper, since I sure as hell wasn't leaving pregnancy-test debris in my parent's wastebasket -- and whoa, deja vu. So many times -- SO MANY TIMES -- I'd done this, desperately hoping, knowing in my head that I was going to be disappointed, but still. Hoping.

I still wasn't exactly sure what result I was hoping for this time. But when the test result displayed a resoundingly solid negative, I realized that wasn't it.

I wrapped the test up in a tissue and shoved it back in the package and into the bottom of the diaper bag and went back downstairs. I shook my head -- just a tiny bit -- at Jason.

"No?" he asked. I shook my head again. I felt so obvious -- and so very lame, and a little arrogant, for assuming that my body would ever make anything that easy.

"NO?" he asked again. There was obvious disappointment in his voice. I raised my eyebrows at him, like, really? REALLY? You realize we're insane, right? Only one of us is allowed to be insane about stuff like this. And I believe I called dibs on the baby-making insanity years ago. You be the practical one, dammit!

"It's for the best," we later agreed. Definitely for the best. Fun and exciting in theory, certainly wouldn't be the worst thing that could happen but...yes. For the best. Like we said! Give us time to get back above water after a bad year of medical bills and taxes and everything in our house deciding to up and break at the same time. Give Noah some more time to really progress at camp and school.* Give us all some time to really soak up and enjoy Ezra's babyhood.** Give me time to actually not have a baby for awhile before deciding that I cannot live without another one.

(Of course, I did only take one test, and I did buy a two-pack...and...)

(STOP IT, SELF. OH MY GOD.)

So. No. That is that. I am both relieved and disappointed. Mostly relieved. No. Yes. I don't know. Make that relieved, disappointed and conflicted. Three things. Relieved, disappointed, conflicted, and batshit insane. Wait. Amongst my weaponry are such emotions as...eh. Fuck it, I don't know how to end this entry so I'm just going to go with the ol' just-stop-typing method. Right after a couple footnotes and photos.***

* Camp. CAMP! They keep losing our lunchboxes. But they also keep sending home a child who is a million times calmer, more coordinated, more talkative, better behaved and possibly even more adorable than the one I dropped off in the morning. Either Noah is REALLY clicking with this particular approach to occupational therapy or they are slowly turning him into a cyborg. He went on the monkey bars for the first time ever this weekend, and did a damn good job on them. Today he came home and told me everything he learned about whales.

 

** I swear, that child woke up this morning looking two months older than he did when I put him to bed last night, what the HELL.

*** Yes. They match. Sometimes I do this to them, because I am Like That. Look, I have no dresses or bows or adorable little striped tights, so you have to indulge me here.