irony at 4am

I’m totally snickering at myself, and also dreading how exhausted I will be tomorrow.

(Oh wait, I mean today.)

Why is it that when Rainbow wakes every four hours or so for a bottle, or at least a paci-reinsert and a mobile restart, I think that surely he’ll be sleeping through the night soon and won’t that be great?!

And then when he does sleep all night long – seriously, from about 8:30 until 5:30 – I am a wreck. I woke up about 2:30 and didn’t sleep after that. I couldn’t stop going to his cradle to make sure he was breathing, that he was comfy, that he wasn’t in distress.

(OMG! Why has he been sleeping for the past two hours with his head over to the side like that??!)

(Perhaps because it’s the ideal way to sleep, dumbass – on baby’s back, with his head to the side. GO TO SLEEP.)

All of which would be fine (HELLO, afternoon nap!) except I have a mama doctor’s checkup this morning and we are out of important grocery items (like all bread products, including tortillas and crackers) and errands tend to mess up the whole nap thing.


The finalization, by the way, was short and easy and, most importantly, completed.

The judge asked us various questions to make sure that we understood what we were doing, the funniest of which was:

When he takes the car out in the middle of the night when he’s sixteen and bangs it up, you understand that he’s still your child, the same as if he had been born to you?



So, tomorrow we finalize Rainbow’s adoption.

I vascillate (can I just confess nerdily that that is one of my favorite words? vaseline + oscillate = AWESOME) between wanting to hoot with joy and give Rainbow a hug, and wanting to go throw up in the corner and wash the taste away with a tequila shot.

Good Lord Amighty, it’s been a wild almost-four-years since Ward’s accident. We got on the baby train a few months after that, and now, several surgeries, three miscarried babies, one IVF cycle, and innumerable tears later, we have this amazing, beautiful, funny baby.

I found a book I had bought, probably during the first post-Ward’s-transition pregnancy.

(Sigh. It’s something that the miscarried babies’ dates blend into the background of loss, dwarfed by the immensity of Ward’s accident and its repurcussions. I don’t really remember when they happened.

The babies have names, though. Special, sweet talisman names, not names you would christen a baby born alive and kicking: angel names.

And they are buried in our backyard garden.

I have heard the theory that pregnancies that end in miscarriage are the result of an angel who, for whatever reason, is not going to be born into the world at that particular time, but who wants to visit and be close to the pregnant woman, to commune with her and lend strength and hope. This makes me smile, because it sounds like the sort of logic *I* would have in angel form: It’ll be GREAT! Let’s soothe the grieving woman by letting an angel visit in her womb for just a few days/weeks/months! The other angels would glance sideways at each other and murmur that they’re not so sure that would actually HELP the grieving woman and hopeful parent feel BETTER, but Clueless MJ Angel is emphatic: She’ll Love It!!)

It was the sequel (or prequel) to one of my favorite nursery rhyme books that the big boys and Ward had, before the house burned.

I’m sure I thought that that pregnancy would be a breeze, since I had never experienced a miscarriage and had no reason to think I would.

I love reading it to Rainbow (and he likes it well enough now, although he’s still a fan of the black-and-white image books) and I plan to buy the partner book, probably right after I post this.

I bought it used, so there are two inscriptions. One is a Happy 1st Birthday wish to Rachael from March 23, 2000.

The other is:

May 31, 2006

Given with love to new baby Anderson. We can’t wait to meet you.

Love, Mama


We’ve met you, and you’re all that we dreamed of, and more.

skin care product review

So, I’ve done my share of tanning, especially from age 13-21 or so. Although, now that I think about it, I don’t think I ever wore sunscreen as a kid, either. I just got really brown and that took care of that. I didn’t sunburn.

But I was a big fan of tanning beds as a teenager. (It didn’t help that I got free tanning bed usage when I worked as the juice bar girl in a health club.) I’ve been pretty careful the last ten years or so, though, and I am a big summer hat person, but if I weren’t afraid of skin cancer, dark spots, and wrinkles, I would be brown as a berry right now.

A tan makes me feel leaner, more energetic, and just prettier. People with a nice, medium-darkish tan just make me want to sidle up to them like a crackling fire and feel the stored sun warmth coming off of their skin.

Cut to my dream spot: my secluded white stucco villa on the mediterranean. I live in a macrame bikini and sarong and subsist on coffee, pain au chocolat, fresh fruit, and white wine. I lounge on the tiled deck, overhung with vines dripping with messy red flowers that stain my feet. The family of whiskered monkeys snickers down from the branches to snatch bits of fruit from me with perfect little doll hands, and my enormous pet macaw follows me with heavy wings when I go to dip my feet in the waves that roll up on round white stones.

(Hm, my dream spot is a lot like where Daddy J and I honeymooned. Go figure.)

When I get bored, interesting people come visit and we have elaborate feasts and listen to string musicians play languid, slow, intricate songs. And the people leave just before I get sick of them.

Lapping turqoise water; peaches, pears, mango, and sauvignon blanc; nuzzles from my macaw. My skin is as warm, brown, and smooth as the tiles under my feet.

I soak in the sun like a lizard.

(When I am 103 and all I do is stare out the window with a faint smile, THIS is where I will be.)

I digress.

The cosmetically ugly side of sun-worshipping, for me, anyway, is blotchy brown patches and fine wrinkles, which have been bothering me more and more over the last couple of years. (I think pregnancy hormones are to blame for the spots, too.) I had looked into getting lasering done, which kind of scared me because of the whole invasive, burned-looking, painful aspect. I talked with an aesthetician (and R.N.) about it, and she said that Yes, lasering would get rid of the brown spots, but another option that I might prefer was a skin care regimen with hydroquinone and retin A.

After talking with her and then researching on teh webs, I was sold and bought the starter pack of Obaji. I’ve never done a fancy skin care system before, just bits and pieces from this or that brand, so this is a new thing. They call the first 4-6 weeks the “hate it” period, when your skin is red and peeling and itchy and dry, as it gets rid of the old skin you don’t want. I’m in the middle of that. It was kind of kicking my booty for the first couple of weeks, but I think I’m on the upswing.

Anyhoo, right now I am resoundingly pro. I can already see reduction in brown spots, and the idea is that if you stay with the maintenance program, you won’t get any more brown spots and your skin will be much fresher and dewier. Buying it from the medspa was quite pricey, but it’s been nice to have an office to call with questions when I looked like I’d been scrubbing my face with a cheese grater and acetone. When I get on the maintenance program and feel like I don’t need a doctor/aesthetician on call to deal with me, I’ll buy the stuff online here, where it’s much cheaper.

Which brings me to the question of the day:

Are you on a skin care regimen? Are you a big fan of any certain brand of skin product, or do you try whatever sounds good at the time? Or do you have a minimalist approach (like just soap and moisturizer) because it’s not that big a deal for you?

this and that

I love this quiet morning time. It only lasts for maybe half an hour, forty-five minutes if I’m VERY lucky, but it’s so pleasant when everyone is asleep and the house is quiet. Were I more of an ant, I’d be in the shower and aggressively doing chores after grooming myself for the day, but my grasshopper self is contentendly drinking hazelnut Celestial Seasonings coffee (yum) and having a lil’ internet time.

First, a bathtime haiku: (already shared on facebook, so disregard if you’ve already read it)

Rainbow’s neck crease and
Beneath the sofa cushions:
Lots in common there.


He is just such a dadgummed sweetie-pie. I was musing on it this morning, how it’s really not even a bummer to wake up and feed him the 1-2 times per night he normally requires, because he just smiles and cuddles and goes right back to sleep almost every time. It’s just a pleasant little nighttime interlude.

And even when he’s unhappy about something during the day, it’s never full-on wailing of horrendous displeasure, but just kind of escalated vocalizing of disapproval. Wah, wah, work it out Mama, make me happy, as opposed to Gah!! The sky is falling! I am in agony! Wahhgrumpshriekaaaahhh!!! His brand of fussing is not really a bummer to deal with; it’s sometimes even funny the way he just grumps a little when he’s tired. He reminds me of the teacher from Charlie Brown, who you can tell is talking about something that will get you in trouble, but can’t recognize the words.

Anyway, it’s really fun to take care of a happy baby who loves to eat. Nom, nom, nom. Three meals a day, at least.


After Rainbow’s 4am bottle, I got back in bed and was pounced on by the Fear Monster again. ugggghhhhh… Just awful: imagining him toddling into the road in front of a car or being snatched from a restaurant by normal-looking psychopaths. I couldn’t get my stupid mind to shut up, so I listened to a couple of meditations, which eventually knocked me out. I guess that will just happen now and again, huh.


In other news: You should totally come to this event if you are in the area. Daddy J sings many of the songs and voices a main character (the soundtrack and lines are pre-recorded) and the Fishmaster and Rockinrolla have major roles.

And *I* am branching out like a fearless woman with a small role that requires dancing a pretty complicated (for me) and fast dance with five other teenagers/women who are actually good at dancing. I think I’ve finally learned the dance (which is short, but tricky for someone with few dance skills) so at least I should be kicking and turning at the right time.

I love participating in these plays. I’m usually a backstage helper-person and child wrangler, although in 2007 I had a cameo as Vanna White. (Last year we were in Mexico and missed it.) It’s an awesome activity for the boys, too. Anyhoo, we’ve had plenty of practices lately and the need to perfect it all is becoming more pressing. Today I have some costume work to do for some kids and need to get my own costume together before practice this afternoon.

thoughts from another mama

This post, from sweetsalty kate, made me cry this morning. One of her twin baby sons passed not long after his birth, and she writes about the ongoing pain and healing process after his transition along with other aspects of her life ~ I think you’ll enjoy her blog.

Anyway, if you have a moment, check it out. It’s kind of a photo essay. You may need tissues, especially if you love a little one who is no longer in this world.

off his feed

(note: this post actually happened yesterday.)
Rainbow slept from about 9:30 last night until 6:30 this morning, solidly.  And then didn’t want much to do with a bottle this morning.  (He did have a pretty good breakfast of cereal, prunes, sweet potatoes, and applesauce, though.)  He’s napping contentedly now, sans bottle.

Somehow, I’m not so worried that he’ll shrivel up and blow away.

leo post bath
um, are you mocking me?
face shot of leo on towel
Check it, lady, it’s all in the angles. I look almost skinny here:
leo with shaking toy
leo smiling at toy
In other news: The Fishmaster is 13 going on, like, 27.
Gray smiling on front porch
AND my impatiens are not only still alive, but blooming!
Gray on front porch
Note the carefully angled shot that encompasses maximum bloomage and minimal weeds and dead clay zone. I am an ARTIST.

Tuesday morning poem

Coffee’s brewing,
Baby’s pooping,
Honey’s sleeping,
So are boys.

House is a
Plastic jungle now
With beeping, flashing,
Baby toys.

Endless electro
Lullaby jazz
With baby grunts:
Joyful noise.

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