LA Moms Blog

Intervention with my OB

My Beverly Hills Intervention

I’d seen my OB probably 10 times by my 36^th week of pregnancy, yet he still would ask me “if I knew what I was having” or “how much did my first baby weigh?” Not only had he delivered the first but I’d found out, with him, about the gender of the second. Now, I’m not saying he should remember every single patients entire medical history but hey buddy, that’s what a chart is for.

Large and In Charge

It came as a teeny surprise (and when I say 'teeny' what I really mean is teeny in size but massive in scope) to find out I was pregnant with our second baby when the first was just learning to stand. My husband, being the athlete that he is, took it with the “game on!” attitude he always adopts when faced with an exciting but insanely surprising challenge. He did the same thing when I went into labor. Suddenly he was sprinting around the house prepping for what we thought might be a home birth, with the requisite trip to Home Depot (it’s true).

But this time around, as happy and grateful as we are to be pregnant and building our family, the wifey (that’s me) has had some strange leanings that I share merely in hopes that I’m not alone. If any of these speak to you, can you please comment? I need to know I’m not alone in the rabbit hole.

Twisted And Tortured: The H1N1 Dilemma

This Swine Flu thing is really getting complicated. Normally I don’t get a flu vaccine – in fact I barely take aspirin. But now that I’m pregnant again, I have to think seriously about the pro’s and cons of getting injected with a potentially toxic chemical cocktail that could protect me and mine from getting deathly ill or dying, or conversely, have side effects that may negatively effect us both in unknown ways. A self-proclaimed “naturalist,” it weighs heavily on my mind – considering we have so little evidence to support the assertion that there are no serious side effects to unborn children or their mother ships.

What is even more frustrating is that Swine Flu isn't supposed to even be as bad as regular flu! It's a strain. It's been named something ominous. It's been segregated out as something nightmarish. But this is sort of a marketing problem more than a real problem, in my mind. Or at least that's what I'm hoping.

My doc doesn’t seem to have a major position either; he’s as on the fence as I am. My friends, everyone from Harvard Med School by-the-book party liners to more liberal and equally legitimate physicians,  have such opposing views that I almost have to shut both of them out to even hear myself think. And this doesn’t even begin to consider what to do about my 1-year old! Our pediatrician says no way (likely with some exceptions for kids with respiratory issues). StrollerTraffic has a good article with a basic overview that was insightful. 

Lamest Wife Award

Last Tuesday, 4 days before my husbands 35th birthday, he asked me the following: “So honey, what’s the plan for my big day? You haven’t said much…you got a big surprise brewing or what?” His wry, suspicious grin said it all: I know you’re planning something oh wife of mine ‘cause you haven’t said two words about my biggest birthday to date. Poor guy. How wrong he was.

My silence has not, in fact, been a strategic distraction from some epic, roll-out-the-red-carpet-surprise. Its not because I don’t want to celebrate or make a big whoop for him; he deserves it. And 35 IS a big birthday. No longer a puppy, it’s a sign of grown-manhood, of mid-thirties right-of-passage-you’ve-seen-enough-of-life-to-understand-the-meaning-of-it, of the characters ages on the television show Thirty Something who seemed dually oppressed and seduced by their familial responsibilities. There are no more excuses. You better have stopped ordering drinks with silly names like Chocotini in favor of standby's like Scotch Rocks or Vodka Gimlet. No putting up posters of Laird Hamilton shredding a sick wave or using your storage unit as a Man Den. You better be sorted out, dude. And he is.

I had originally used this paragraph as an homage to all he has accomplished in 35 years...successful entrepreneur, Ironman, ranked triathlete...but what does it matter? I married him. I had his baby. He's a stellar, exemplary human being who deserves a party.

SO what the hell is my problem?

Tales from a Married Single Parent

My husband is gone for work for two weeks and my appreciation for singleparents is at epic heights. I haven't finished more than a few bites of a meal in 7 days. I haven't gone to the bathroom by myself or without jumping off the john in just as long, to say nothing of showering or teeth brushing. At night I lie awake, despite being desperate for sleep, imagining all the things that could happen while I'm alone at home with an 8-month old. I play out scenarios where I get my husbands baseball bat out of the closet. I make sure my phone is by the bed, just in case. I rehearse earthquake procedures. I think I hear things. I set the alarm at 6pm. I leave lights on. I eat dinner while catching up on email and work, doing dishes, picking up toys, watering plants, medicating the cat, folding laundry and changing the litter box. I make decisions on my own about whether to pick her up when she cries at night even though I just fed her an hour before. I assess her head bumps and listen to her breathing and make sure she hasn't put plant soil in her mouth.  Protecting, managing, feeding and wiping this little creature is one full time jobber.

On Monday, my dam broke.

A Love Letter to Blanca

A Love Letter to BlancaSince we had a baby, we’ve never had regular help. My husband and I are both entrepreneurs working from home offices, so we have thus far taken turns caring for our daughter. Except Saturdays, which have become my favorite day of the week, because Blanca is here, which seems to make the chaos of everyday so much more manageable. At the risk of sounding bougie, I don't know what I'd do without her.

Here are my top Ten Reasons that I love Blanca:

1. She is the size of an 11 year-old with feet so tiny she has to shop at Gymboree. When I see her shoes on the landing, sometimes I wonder if a friend stopped by with her little girl. Ah, but then a calm comes over me because I know that my house will soon be under control, that I will shower that day and likely sit down for breakfast. How can someone this tiny make such a giant difference?

Please Tell Me I'm Still Interesting

The other day, two friends stopped by our house for quick visit en route back to New York. They’re the kind of couple you see walking down Abbot Kinney or through the lobby of the Thompson Hotel and wonder…who are they? They must be “someone.” He is a super-smarty-pants branding consultant who happens to have just directed his first movie. Bookish, ironic, Jewish (do I need to say he’s hilarious after that positioning?), he sports Japanese denim and single ply cashmere sweaters, sometimes with a scarf around the neck. The girlfriend is a tall glass of water in Michael Kors wedges and Stella McCartney waist-high jeans.  Her skin is the color of café con leche; literally, it begs to be touched – and I’m a happily married heterosexual. English isn’t her first language so it pretty much doesn’t matter what she says—it all sounds fascinating. They’d just come back from somewhere exotic (Brazil? South Africa?)…with film festivals to attend in the coming months.

Standing next to them in my husbands Levi’s (my real pants still don’t quite fit since I gave birth) and mustard speckled wife-beater (no excuses but breastfeeding makes for shameless hunger and by default, a sloppy eater) I found myself contemplating their interesting-ness. And let’s face facts; you only ponder something like that when you’re in question about your own.

A Sexual Recession: When Cash Flow Parallels Sex Drive

I have one of the most fail safe reasons to avoid sex right now. Although my husband is a world-class athlete and moonlights as a Ford Model, his adorableness is no match for post-partum hormones. It was only 6 weeks ago, mind you, that I got the green light to even do “it” after having my daughter. I could use the breastfeeding excuse as well; they say it chucks you straight into menopause (dry and moody do not an aroused woman make). But in my case, I’m not convinced it’s my post-pregnant body that has my sex drive held hostage. I think, in fact, the Dow has snuck in between my sheets.

With market news making every major headline, I’ve more than once put down my Vogue (yes it turns me on) to hear to Suze Ormand predict the future (leave it to Suze to kill your animal urges.)  People are tense. Friends are getting laid off. Houses aren’t selling. Loans are harder to get. Retailers are hurting. People are eating out less. Analysis is rampant on what the market is doing, where it’s going, what kind of collateral damage our 401K’s will weather. I can’t speak for everyone, but personally I’d rather spoon than do doggie style right now. And I can’t just chalk it up to hormones. I think I just want to feel safe.

Was that really me?

Was that really me?

Last week my husband and I were in New York City, my home base until 3 years ago. We found ourselves strolling, our two month old in her bassinet, through my old neighborhoods. There is some irony in walking down streets you remember from your past--almost as another person, especially when the present is so radically different than last time you were there.

Was it really me, I thought, who stumbled home at 3am through this park, nearly ruining Giuseppe Vinotti heels with a smashed cupcake in my purse? Was it really me who sipped gin and tonics on the roof of Soho House, watching Nicole Kidman and Naomi Watts hang out? Was it really me who met a date on this corner and feigned a stomach ache when I realized he was a friend's ex? Was it really me who ate lunch with George Soros at the Four Seasons and chatted non-chalantly with Hilary Clinton on our right, Barbara Walters on the left? And was it really me who woke up on certain mornings, wondering if I would ever get married, have a family or live in a house with a yard? Could I ...or would I...ever leave this mercurial New York existence behind? No amount of excitement or glamour could ever compensate for the cozy, belonging feeling one's own family creates. But somehow, day after day, fabulous party after even more fabulous outfit, it never seemed much closer.

At the risk of channeling Carrie Bradshaw, here is my story.