Baby Poop and Business Suits

Buttermilk Pancakes

Usually, during the week, I have to drop Kyra off at preschool at 8:15 a.m. - and so even on my days I don't have to go to work, we are up and rush-rush-rushing around in the morning. But, today, preschool was canceled due to foggy driving conditions... and so, standing there in the kitchen, I looked around, and realized, my god, we actually have time on our hands today. We can wear our pajamas until noon and leisurely go about our morning simply going about our morning!

This is rare.

And you see, it's little things in life like this that just make me downright giddy. This is what it's all about. And so, I opened up the refrigerator. And there it was. A leftover pint of buttermilk from a recipe I made last Sunday. A ha. Today, we shall have real, home made, buttermilk pancakes. I've never made them before, but today, we've got all the time in the world. Bliss!

No need for a super-speed breakfast of rice crispies and yogurt today... No, no, no. I am going to make a real breakfast. We are going to feed our souls.

Now, this simple thought process about a warm, fuzzy, leisurely breakfast leads me to ponder a few things. Do other normal people crave cooking things from scratch and "feeding their souls" like I do? Have I truly gone batty? It seems that many of my friends and moms my age claim they hate to cook; that it's a waste of time. Am I the only one left on this planet that things there is something therapeutic about getting out the kitchen aid mixer, hauling the flour and baking soda from the back of the pantry, cracking some nice brown eggs and goin' to town? Am I alone in my craving to slow the hell down once in a while, and on a cold, snowy, wintry Michigan day just take the time to create something wonderful and basic in the kitchen and feed my family?

Call me crazy, I guess. You wouldn't be the first!

And so we did it. The little munchkins wanted to be part of the project, so we proceeded to fight over counter space and who was going to pour what... and the magic began happening.

I bent over to get a mixing bowl out of a lower cabinet, and Niko, who was standing at the counter, dropped a pancake-mix-laden spatula on my head... Kyra fell off her step-stool and cried... Niko fell off HIS step stool and cried... both kids have colds, so while I cooked the pancakes and yelled "GODDAMMIT, I SAID KEEP YOUR HANDS AWAY FROM THE STOVETOP!!!", I'd wipe their little snotty noses as they cried more and coughed...

... and finally, the pancakes were done. They were PERFECT! We sat down to the table, topped them with butter, blueberry-maple syrup, and sliced bananas. I carefully cut up Niko's whole pancake into baby bite-size pieces, and we were ready to begin!

I took a bite. Better than sex, I tell you. The best damn pancake I've ever had. "Oooooooh, Kyra and Niko! These are so fabulous!!!!" I said, looking from one child to another, waiting for them to experience the orgasm of the mouth that I had.

Niko threw his fork on the floor and said "No no no no no!", picked up a handful of mapley-blueberry-buttery-bite-sized pieces of better-than-sex and also threw them on the floor.

Kyra coughed all over her food, wiped her snot on the back of her hand, and said, "I want yogurt."

So, we sat there, in our snot-smeared pajamas, Kyra eating her yogurt, Niko pitching his food across the room, and me, moaning in therapeutic bliss.

Life is good.

Motherhood makes me do strange things.

Did I mention Niko has the most adorable little curls in the back of his head? And that he is allergic to cats and dogs and dust mites? I cannot cut his hair. I cannot.

I hope you like my new look. I decided it was time for an update.

Why Anti-Depressants Depress Me.

I'd like to take a moment and try to explain the reason why I have gone missing from this blog for the last several months.

My best reason: I have no good reason. I simply cannot explain it.

The fact that I can't explain it frustrates me, because I think about things too much and the more I think about it and can't come up with a good answer, the more frustrated I get.

Which leads me to the reason that may be the right answer. I am, in general, quite a frustrated person. I spend the majority of my life feeling frustrated about various things, because I want everything to be the best it can be and constantly want things to be better, BETTER, BETTER!. These things include (in no particular order) my job, my home, my dinners, my garden, my community, my country, my children, my friends, myself... which therefore includes (also in no particular order) my fingernails, my floors, my carpet, my pores, my zits, my toenails, my children's toenails, my boss, my friend's relationships, my relationship with my friends, my organization of my email address book, my kid's toy room, my flabby stomach, my choice of paint color  on my walls, my dirty refrigerator and crusty stuff spilled inside it, etc. etc.

You get my drift, I'm sure.

On the surface, I appear happy.  And most the time, I do feel happy. It seems like I've got it pretty good compared to so many others... I was raised in a rather normal home - sure, my parents were hippies - and I do remember some naked skinny dipping stories from my childhood, but, geeze, they didn't beat me or anything... I've never gone hungry... always been clothed and loved...

In my adult life I've got a husband that holds a steady job, brings home the bacon, loves me, as well as does laundry, bakes pies, and grocery shops. I've got two adorable kids - a boy and a girl, who are smart, healthy, have all their limbs and all of their brains. I go to yoga class, eat plenty of fiber, drink lots of water. Aren't I doing everything right!? We are the American DREAM!!! What the hell do I have to bitch about, right? Why would a person like me be frustrated, huh? Middle class life is grand! Hooray! Yippee! Zippidy doo dah!!!

Funny thing is, I, Miss America, am labeled as Depressed. I currently take medication for depression, prescribed by a real, live, Psychiatrist, who I also go and talk to once a month, give or take. Last year, I went a bit mental. I stopped sleeping, stopped eating, and started panicking constantly. I just went a bit nutty.

My explanation? I was overwhelmed with life. I wanted everything to be the way it is supposed to be, but I simply couldn't handle it, and my body freaked out.

So the medication helped. Funny thing though - I noticed when on the medication, I had no desire to write - whereas before medication, I wanted to write all the time. I tried to get off of it a few months ago, and the symptoms started all over, so now I'm on it again - although now it's Cymbalta instead of Zoloft. And I have been wanting to write again, when I can find time when the children are away or napping or I'm not at work, or at home staring at my pores or cleaning the crusty stuff in the refrigerator while wishing I was 20 pounds thinner.

Yes, I, am the American Dream: Tall, blonde, college graduate, married to my handsome high school sweetheart, with a house, children, two cars, one television, with a new computer, iphones, with healthy amount of credit card debt, and a pill I must take each morning to get me through my day so that I feel happy, even though for some reason I am not.

Something about this all just doesn't seem right. Am I the only one out there who thinks the thought of taking anti-depressants is, itself, depressing? And maybe we're all trying to live lives that may not be the right kind of lives to live? Is the American Dream really just... a dream?

Oh shit. Gotta go. Forgot to take my anti-depressant today. Hence, the melancholy post.

Toodles.

I won't hold my breath waiting for a reply.

Dear Low Rise Jeans,

We need to talk, because frankly, I've had it with you. I don't know whose idea it was to sell you to women over 105 pounds, but to that person or person(s) who came up with that idea, I must say, THE IDEA WAS BAD. BAD BAD BAD.

Here's the thing: Women are not shaped like men. Okay, the freakishly skinny ones are, but the rest of us, we are a bit more squooshy in the mid-section. Especially those of us that have given birth to human babies, which, last time I checked, was A LOT OF US, since, us women happen to have the uterus.

Maybe you're not familiar with the pregnancy process. I'll explain. What happens is, a women's abdomen grows larger and larger because there is a small person growing in aforementioned uterus. The baby continues to grow and the woman's skin stretches and expands around said baby, until the baby comes out of the woman, and then she is left with a fair amount of extra skin around her mid-section. Yeah, it's kind of gross to think about, and freaked me out at first, (and certainly ain't pretty), but hey, it's a fact of the life of a female. And as long as women continuing having the babies, it's going to be this way.

So where do you get off thinking these kind of women can wear you? I'm begging you - explain yourself! Yes, I can understand the skinny teens looking hot in you, but what about the rest of us? Come ON!

I would suggest to you, to put a large red tag on yourself when hanging on the racks in the department stores that says something like, (preferably in big bold letters, probably including an exclamation mark) "ONLY BUY ME IF YOU LIKE SHOWING OFF YOUR BACK FAT AND BUTT CRACK!" because, you see, that's what happens when normal women with hips wear you. I don't know why consumers can't figure it out on their own... You would think they could connect the dots... But apparently they can't, so, that's why I'm suggesting the red tag.   

It's just not fair to the general public. I don't think a person should have to look at butt crack unless they really really want to. Hence, I'm a bit frustrated with you, because when women wear you, innocent bystanders get flashed with crack and underwear right and left. There they are minding their own business, maybe having a conversation or whatnot, and WHAM! Butt crack shot! They didn't ask for it, and it's just not fair! And let's think about the meaning of the name "Underwear".

Under. Wear.

Meant for under.

To wear under.

Under clothing.

You're ruined the whole concept.

I hope I've made myself clear; I do feel much better now. I hope you can grasp where I'm coming from. Really. It's not YOU. It's me. Sometimes you're great - seriously - you look awesome in a size 0, 2, or maybe 4, but pretty much anything beyond that is offensive.

Let's remain friends, if possible. Of course I'll never ever ever ever ever ever ever ever be wearing you because I was stretched and deflated and then stretched and deflated again, plus, I am the poster child for Pear Shaped.

Thanks for your time, and thanks for listening. I know you've got a busy schedule, holding up all that back fat and airing out all those butt cracks all day long...

Sincerely,

Gerah

P.S. - Tell your friends Express and The Limited if they'd bring back their size 14's I'll be visiting them again. Until then, I think they are jerks and I don't like them, either.

The Moment I Realized My Three Year Old Daughter Is Much Smarter Than I Am.

Me: Jeremy, would you mind watching the kids for an hour or so while I "run downtown? " (Giving Jeremy the "I am going to go buy some presents" look...)

Kyra: ARE YOU GOING TO BUY PRESENTS, MOM!?

Me: Presents? No. Oh, no nonononono. I'm going to, er, um, I'm going to a meeting. Downtown.

Kyra: You're buying presents, aren't you? I want a little mermaid mirror and a yo yo!

Me: Presents! No. Of course not. I told you - I have to go to a meeting.

(And so I go downtown and buy presents.)

When I return:

Kyra: "How was your meeting mom? Where are the presents?"

Me: I didn't get any presents. I went to a meeting. Santa brings presents, not me.

Kyra: Are you going to hide them in the closet? You know, where you hide daddy's presents?

This Christmas stuff is tough. I owe my parents each a high-five for being super sneaky, because even up until the age of eighteen, I used to scour the house for any traces of presents BUT NEVER found a thing. I'd also lay awake in bed as late as I could trying to hear presents being placed in the living room but never got anywhere with that either. Maybe my parents are magical. Maybe they are part elf. (The big kind of elf.)

My three year old is already onto me and I fear the baby's not far behind. Kyra's gone this afternoon and I'm wondering if it's safe to wrap presents in front of Niko. Sure, he's just a baby, but isn't it just plain sick and wrong to wrap his own gifts in front of him? He's a smart baby, damn it! Am I over-estimating my baby's smartness? Is there any way possible he's going to see his present on Christmas morning and think to himself,

"Hey, man, I just saw these Peek-A-Blocks and Linkin' Logs last Friday! My mom wrapped all this loot right in front of me! These aren't from Santa. Who the hell does she think she's foolin? Liars! My parents are evil liars!"

or should I stop the worrying cause what's really going on in his baby brain is,

"Ooooooooh, crunchy paper noises. Bright Lights! Shiny things! Grab colorful crunchy paper and put in mouth! Also put fingers in mouth! Toes are good too for putting in mouth! Where are my toes? Toes!? Speaking of toes, I'm hungry. Is there a boob around here somewhere?"

You get the point. Okay, I'm convinced. I AM smarter than my children. Plus, I just remembered Kyra was counting the other day and when she got to thirteen she continued:

fifteen, sixteen, eighteen, tweven.

Tweven? That's not even a real number! And she totally forgot seventeen and nineteen. See? I'm smarter than she is. Although, I kind of like the way her version sounds better than the real one...

And I'll bet Moses Bruce Anthony Martin never gets constipated, either.

Lately I've been running into a lot of people I know who have newborns.

After the usual courteous "Hi" and "Hello", my next question immediately is,

"ARE YOU GETTING ANY SLEEP!?"

I'm always dying to know if they are getting any sleep.

Because, still, at 6 months of age, mister Niko wakes up at least two times at night. Sometimes six. Sometimes four. Sometimes five. Never none.

On the nights when he actually sleeps for a long stretch, then of course our dearest Kyra decides to pee the bed.

Some nights at our house are less like sleeping and more like a three ring circus.

Except for the seven month old baby of my dear friend Pe(ahem)lope, almost every damn single one of these friends newborns is sleeping through the night. At least Pe(ahem)lope and I have each other to complain to.

Sleeping through the night! Two month old babies! Three month old babies! GAR!

These mothers tell me this and I think I growl at them. I definitely clench my teeth and say something under my breath like "Fricken-sleeping-frick-not-fricken-fair", but I'm pretty sure I also growl.

Yes, I feed the kid solids before bed. We stuff him full of oatmeal, and yummy homemade fruits and veggies, but NOT BANANAS AND RICE CEREAL, which I've decided are the devil. If you've ever had to do poop-finger-surgery on your baby, you'll know why I call them the devil.

Yes, we have a bedtime routine, including a bath, nursing, rocking, etc. etc. etc.

Yes, I put him in his crib while he's still awake, and even sometimes let him cry for ten minutes till he falls asleep. (By the way, my heart no longer breaks when I have to do this. I love this little baby dearly, but, I just don't feel sorry for him anymore. Those days are over.)

When I wake up in the morning with bags under my eyes and take the pickles out of the fridge to pour Kyra a glass of juice, I can't help but think, "I'll bet Gwyneth Paltrow doesn't pour pickles in her toddler's morning drink. Stupid Gwyneth Paltrow. She probably never has baggy eyes either."

Sometimes it's rough being a mere mortal.

But the continued sleep-deprivation aside, I feel like the luckiest momma in the world. Lately I keep having those "holding the baby and he lays his head on your shoulder, snuggles in, and you never want to forget that feeling" moments. I'm afraid I'm going to blink and the kids will be all grown and won't give me the time of day unless they need the car for a hot date.

Right now my children think I am totally the coolest (okay, okay, second to Dora) and I am the best dancer to the Wiggles and singer of Christmas songs on the planet. It's like I'm a baggy-eyed prom queen every day at my house. And although Kyra tells me I have a big butt, she also tells me once in a while that "Mom, I fink you are beautiful", and "I like your big boobies". If she only knew they come much bigger than mine. And I think Niko likes me even more when I haven't showered.

I need to cherish this wonderful time in our lives. This sweet, tired, memorable, constipated, wonderful time.

Oh. By the way, there is NOTHING CUTER than a naked baby butt.

 

On Having A Therapist

"So. I'll see you in two weeks?"

"Yeah." I replied to my doctor as I rose from the couch with a grunt, due to my left arm being loaded down with the weight of a purse and diaper bag, my right arm lifting a 20 pound baby in his car seat...

"But," I continued, "I've been wondering - am I supposed to enjoy these therapy sessions so much? I mean, I guess I always assumed there should be more crying going on or something."

"Yeah, and gnashing of the teeth?" he said while chuckling.

They are kind of fun, the appointments.

I mean, come on - where else could I find an amazingly well-dressed man with an impressive vocabulary who will calmly listen to me talk about every detail of my oh-so-fascinating life (I'm rolling my eyes) for 45 minutes straight and sometimes even laugh at my jokes? With no drinks involved? This man does not exist other than in a psychiatrists office.

Speaking of mental health, I am happy to report that I'm doing grrrrrrrrrrrreat, besides occasionally not being able to fall asleep at night. But I'm otherwise good as new. I'm even back to work! Only two full days a week! Dream job! And I feel like a good mom! Kinda! Most of the time! When I'm not drunk! Kidding.

During my past weeks of therapy we've concluded,

A) It's hard for me to believe, but, I am in fact, NOT crazy.

B) I'm actually quite normal and together. (For a crazy person.)

C) I used to think postpartum depression stories and cases were beginning to get a bit annoying and trendy - Lapdogs, Branjolina and TomKat Babies, large sunglasses, postpartum depression.

Brooke Shields this and that, blah blah blah. Yada yada yada. Drown your kids in a bathtub, sure. Yep. Everybody's doin' it. In fact, I used to side with Mr. Cruise a bit and think drugs were for sissies.

Well, I used to think WRONG, and now I've changed my mind. No, not about Branjolina and TomKat babies being sick and wrong, but about the fact that depression is damn frightening, and while in the thick of it I would have eaten my way through a sea of drugs as long as they'd make me feel like me again.

Even if they'd make me feel remotely close to me.

D) It's more interesting to talk about my husband Jeremy with a psychiatrist than it is to talk about me.

In fact, in today's appointment, my doctor suggested I include the following story on the blog:

To preface, most of you know that Jeremy is a man of few words. He only says what is necessary. Most people love Jeremy for many reasons and I believe his tendency to hold his tongue is one of the main reasons.

He is he introvert, and yes, you guessed it, I am the extrovert. On one hand, his lack of communication seems like a blessing - we balance each other out, of course, which makes for a good couple - and then, when Jeremy finally does talk, people listen.

But on the other hand, the lack of communication can be a problem, because, well, it's a lack of communication. So recently I've begun to think to myself - maybe Jeremy's so quiet because, duh! He never has a chance to speak when I'm around! I do all the talking!

So last Saturday we were having breakfast with the children and my sister, Hillary, at a local restaurant.

"Oh, Hillary!" I exclaimed. "You should see the juicer that the neighbors just got. It is sooooo coool! It's the greatest. It's like -

Wait a minute, Gerah, I thought. Jeremy. Let JEREMY have his chance. Let Jeremy tell Hillary about the fabulous juicer...

"Jeremy?" I asked, "Would you like to tell Hillary about the juicer? Go on, hon. Tell Hillary about the juicer! Go on, you tell her."

I look across the table at Jeremy. Hillary sips her coffee and turns to Jeremy. Kyra glances up at her daddy, and the baby gurgles at Jeremy.

And he said, "IT MAKES JUICE." 

Sleep, Interrupted.

The fact that I have not posted in the last month is not because I haven't wanted to, it's that I just simply couldn't. I didn't have it in me. I didn't even know what to say.

In my last post I mentioned how I was feeling a bit sad, anxious, guilty, even nauseous about leaving my new baby. Of course this is to be expected, returning to work being a big adjustment and all... Obviously "to work or not to work" has always been a constant struggle for me and I go round and round about it with myself and on this blog.

Due to the fact that I was personally unable to come to a happy conclusion about my working, by week three of work, I was still going round and round about it. Constantly. From morning till' night I was listing in my head the pros and cons of working. Why I worked. Why I shouldn't. What I am gaining. What I am losing. If my children will be okay, or if they won't.

And on, and on, and on. It became so bad that finally one night I couldn't sleep because I let these thoughts consume me. Then, the next night, as I went to bed completely physically and mentally exhausted, sleep refused to come again.

As you can guess, by the day after that I was a wreck.

I couldn't think straight. My vision was blurred. I couldn't eat. I was shaking. I was crying constantly. I was afraid to go anywhere or drive or be alone. I was not my "Happy Gerah Self" anymore and was horribly, terribly scared.

I went to the doctor and they gave me some sleeping pills, which knocked me out, but made me feel like even more crap the next day, and more guilty for not being able to get up at night with my baby. The next week or so continued like this, and I'd say I didn't improve much. Finally, I made an appointment with a psychiatrist recommended by my sister-in-law - (she went through something similar a couple years back, and knew I needed to talk to someone.)

And so I went. And things are getting much better. And I officially need to change the subtitle of my blog, because I've filled more drug prescriptions in the last few weeks than I have in my WHOLE LIFE. Zoloft and I now have a date every morning.

I am taking some more time off work. I will return, in some capacity, when I get my (ahem) SHIT together.

My children are fine. I won't lie - for a while I was worried that I couldn't even take care of them properly, but they are happy and fine. They're fantastic. Wonderful. Huggable, and Squeezable.

And thank the Lord above I've got people around me that love me and can come when I call. I don't know what I'd do if I didn't have support. I shudder to think what might have happened if I'd tried to get through this alone.

Because I have a new baby, I think people want to blame this on post-partum hormones, which, probably do have a role. I simply blame a combination of exhaustion, guilt, sorrow, and worry of a mother who was trying to do everything and realized she couldn't.

"How awful it is that you feel guilty for wanting to be with your baby," a friend and a mother of three said to me recently. "That proves to me that something is seriously wrong with our culture when we put money and things above raising our children. Taking care of our little ones should be the most important thing a mother could do."

 

I think she has a point.

So. That is why I haven't blogged in a month. Please don't feel sorry for me. The fog is lifting. Those of you who know me or who have been reading my blog for a while know who I really am, and that I am not a sad, nervous, depressed person, and that I am still my "Happy Gerah Self"... It's just that happy Gerah has hit a rough patch recently and now takes drugs and talks to a therapist each week.

And now for some kiddie pics. Cheers.

The House of Crusty Eyelashes

Not much exciting to report here. Weather has been cloudy, cold, and raining since last week. Kyra woke up yesterday morning with a red right eye and crusty goo coming out of it, as well as goo coming out of her nose. Took her to the doc, and yes, she's got pink eye. The CRUD.

So, I stayed home from work with her - can't take a sick kid to daycare (although every sickness she gets is FROM daycare.) Which is annoying to me because I still have to pay for daycare, but I will not get paid for not going to work. Thank god for my dependable husband who pays the bills.

But, besides -  what mom wants to hand their sick little one off to someone else? It just kills me to have a child that is not feeling well. I just want to keep her home and pamper her.

Naptime for Kyra is usually around 1 p.m. At 10:30 this morning she told me she was ready for her nap.

"Honey, you can't nap already! Naptime's not for another two and a half hours!" I told her.

Again, at 11:45 she requested a nap.

"Let's eat lunch first, Kyra. Then you can take an early nap."

As I was doing something in the kitchen I noticed it got quiet in the other room. I walked in to check on her, and she was asleep on the sofa. Poor little honey.

(Working moms out there, I have a question: What do you do when your kids get sick? Do you have to call into work all the time? If so, don't your bosses get pissed?)

.  .  .

I'm now 37 weeks pregnant - had my weekly doctor's appointment this morning and she said, "Any time, now...".

Kyra was a week overdue. I'm not expecting any early labor, but darn it would be nice. I've been doing squats and jumping up and down a lot lately, hoping to move things along... And then, of course, there's the other typical things - walking, sex, spicy foods... My personal favorite bit of labor inducing advice came from a friend who just had her second baby last month. (You know who you are!) Her first baby was three weeks early and born in the back of their SUV on the way to the hospital. The most recent baby was two weeks early, born at the hospital this time. I emailed her yesterday to ask her what her secret was.

Her reply:

"My secret for going into labor was screaming at my husband while totally naked the first time. The nurses joked I should try it at the hospital.  Towards the end I was screaming and naked again.  Thank goodness it is not recorded on video or film!  I read spicy food is good and pineapple (not together).  I was going to buy a few pineapples the day I had Cole."

(Maybe I should call Jeremy at work and suggest he not come home directly after work, rather, attempt to piss me off by staying out drinking late and not call to let me know where he is. Then buy some pineapple on the way home from the bar. I'll be at the door, naked, waiting to scream at the drunk jerk. Then I'll eat some pineapple.)

Now that just sounds like a lot of work.

.  .  .

Baby's room is finished, almost. I'll post some pictures once the DAMN CURTAINS come in. Stupid Pottery Barn. The room is adorable, if I do say so myself. It's been fun to fix up. Stay tuned.

What else - I've been having so many thoughts on politics brewing in my head these last few months. Some time I'll make sense of it all and compose my "Why I Find George W. Bush More Fucking Terrifying Than The Fucking Terrorists" post, which will be sure to piss off many of my readers. That's all I'll say for now about that.

So that's all folks! Nothing interesting! Just waiting, squatting, waiting some more, and hopping up and down while doing dishes and laundry, blowing noses and wrestling down a small girl to apply eye drops!

Oh, and I have a sore throat.

In MY Humble Opinion...

...People who drive a car while having a two-way conversation with somebody on a Nextel phone with one hand and smoke a cigarette with the other should be sent to Abu Ghraib prison. No trial. No jury. Simply sent to a prison in Iraq to be tortured with no plans of release.

I am not a hateful person. I am actually very nice. In fact, as a child, I used to let my little sister (who was four years younger and much smaller than me) beat me up, simply because I don't like hurting anyone or inflicting pain on others, even when they are sitting on my chest giving me Chinese Torture or yanking my underwear up out of the back of my pants...

...But people. You can NOT operate a vehicle while one hand is pushing a button on a phone and the other is holding a cigarette. Here's a suggestion: If you're driving a car, just drive the effing car. Otherwise, you are a danger to society and make me fear for my life and the life of my unborn child.

When the light turns green, that means go, NOT puff your stogie and pretend you're a trucker. Like I said, I'm all about peace and love and karma and whatnot, but honestly, I hope somebody puts a hood over your head and electrocutes your privates.

Delivering Frankly Pregnant

Last Monday marked the official publication date of the new book, Frankly Pregnant, a Candid Week-by-Week Guide to the Unexpected Joys, Raging Hormones, & Common Experiences of Pregnancy. I discovered this book after the author, Stacy Quarty, commented on one of my blog posts, and I clicked through to her website, www.franklypregnant.com. On her site, I read that she was offering free advance copies of her soon-to-be-published book about pregnancy to real women across the country, with the goal of getting some honest feedback... So I asked her if I could be one of those women, because I, Gerah, of Baby Poop and Business Suits, am 100% real.

The first thing I thought when I started reading this book was, "MY GOD! I've never read anything written by anyone that reminded me so much of myself! Damn it, Gerah. Why didn't YOU think of this!?"

This book reads like a weekly journal by the author about her personal pregnancy experiences, interjected with factual stuff by a Dr. Miriam Greene, who happens to be MIRANDA'S DR. GREENE FROM SEX AND THE CITY. Dr. Greene on the show, Dr. Greene in real life. Cooooool.

What I love most about this book, is that the author tells the good, the bad, and the ugly. She doesn't hide the gross stuff - she talks about hemorrhoids, referring to them as "Cauliflower Butt." She discusses her fear of being spread eagle in the delivery room with un-manicured pubic hair.

Again, she reminds me so much of myself. Ahhhh.

When reading the book, I felt like I was having a conversation with a girlfriend. Usually, for me, this kind of candid "crotch talk" only happens when I'm alone with a friend or two who is either pregnant or who has been through the pregnancy/childbirth experience. Throughout the book, Stacy Quarty mentions many of her friends' experiences with pregnancy, which again, gives the book this "girl talk" vibe. I've read, re-read, and read again books like What To Expect When You're Expecting - which are nice and all - but seem to read more like manuals or reference guides to pregnancy than a real-life account of it.

I feel pretty confident to say that people who enjoy reading this blog would enjoy Frankly Pregnant. Because she organized the book into weekly chapters, I thought it was fun to be pregnant while reading the book each corresponding week at a time and giggle about all the stuff Stacy Quarty experiences and compare/relate it to my own experiences.

Frankly Pregnant would make a great gift for a friend who just found out she's expecting. Although, it'd have to be the right kind of friend. This book ain't for prissy girls who act like every bit of being pregnant is bliss and perfection. (Sorry, princesses. You must be able to admit you fart before you should read this book.)

The only thing about the book that annoyed me was in the end - there's a Q & A section that gives brutally honest answers to questions most of us are usually afraid to ask. I love the Q & A's, but there were a series of answers, one right after another, that referred to hormones as "horror-mones". It was cute the first time, but then we kept talking about "horror-mones" this, "horror-mones" that. Kind of lost it's cute/funniness.

So, if you're a gal who wants the REAL SCOOP on pregnancy, this book is for you. If you're pregnant, or considering becoming pregnant, and not sure what you're in for, go ahead and read this book along with What To Expect. It'll be like having a wise, matter-of-fact, experienced buddy giving you the lowdown on what to REALLY expect when you're expecting.

After my daughter was born, I glanced around the room and was horrified at the amount of blood everywhere. It looked like a chicken had been slaughtered in there. I ready fifty pregnancy books before giving birth, and NONE of them mentioned anything about a delivery room being covered in bloody spew. I was horrified. Shocked. Disgusted!

If only I had known Stacy Quarty. SHE would have prepared me.