Tales from the Crib...and Beyond

Tales from the Crib...and Beyond: Keep Calm and Carry On: Lessons from my first real...

2012-01-25T22:53:00.000-05:00

Keep Calm and Carry On: Lessons from my first real...: It all happened because I rear-ended Sarah's car in the Junior parking lot. She certainly didn't deserve it, not her or her pretty whit...

Keep Calm and Carry On: Lessons from my first real job

2012-01-25T22:35:00.001-05:00

It all happened because I rear-ended Sarah's car in the Junior parking lot. She certainly didn't deserve it, not her or her pretty white 90's-model Honda with the painted white bumper. (I still don't get why cars are made with painted bumpers. Can any good really come of that? What is the purpose of a bumper, if not to protect? Painted bumpers are just asking to show off scars....I digress.) But I was newly licensed, poking along in school dismissal traffic, and yelling to friends out the side of the car instead of paying better attention to the stop-and-go action in front of me. Now not only was I legally authorized to drive a vehicle, but I had bills to pay (or a father to repay for car repairs, rather). It was time to start earning my keep. Necessity is the mother of invention, yes. And payback is a mother....

My BFF, "Beffy" let's call her, talked me into applying where she worked. It was definitely a Misery-Loves-Company suggestion. If I had to work, at least I could do it standing alongside a friend, making snarky comments about whatever we were doing. So I skipped off to apply at a fast food restaurant in the mall. Let's call it "Everybody's Favorite Chicken" or EFC. I think part of me naively romanticized EFC, since I had some strong, fond memories of eating there with my mom on shopping expeditions while growing up. How cute that I could work on the other side of the white counter! Also, given the make-up of its current employees, it was a high school cult of sorts. I would definitely be with familiar company, which I hoped would be good company, if I got hired. Given my sum total of zero experiences in a paid job beyond babysitting, I'd gladly take a few familiar faces as Chicken Compadres.

Oh, and what an education it was. And in so many ways...Since I've had a long, long time to reflect, I have come up with these little life lesson that I figure - even if somewhere bogged down and semi-repressed in my unconscious - stay with me today.

Keep Calm and Carry On

Every job has its hazards, obvious or not: Gossipy colleagues, crazy bosses, rude customers, snake pits disguised as assignments. EFC had the fry machine.

So it is a lot like what you see if ever you have been in a fast food joint: There are metal baskets full of starchy goodness pressed into fry shapes. The baskets are dropped into hot oil (peanut oil, if I recall correctly), and after a few minutes, a migraine-inducing shrill beep sounds when the fries have had enough of their hot oil bath.

For a long while, I had some lovely scars from fry grease and/or some clumsiness of mine that ended with branding my flesh on the sizzling metal basket. But the greater hazard was the oil that persistently dripped from the baskets and/or the fry machine. It would be a rookie move to wear any kind of good shoe to work, because the side effects of the job included all sorts of stains, gunk, and ruined clothing and shoes.

My mom's old Reeboks, retired from her aerobics class, were what I wore to work. Ugly and unfashionable in my opinion, or in other words: Perfect for the job! The problem was that there are few shoes out there except maybe metal cleats or ice clamps that could protect someone from the treachery of the oily floor. While those super-slippery rubber Reebok soles helped me to do some rad dance moves (on purpose or not) - a little Axel Rose side to side shuffle, or a Michael Jackson moonwalk - I also ended up doing some crazy acrobatics to stop myself from completely wiping out. I wasn't always successful, though. And if you've ever been to an EFC, it's rare for there to be a time during opening hours when a customer is not around. It's the perfect set-up for public humiliation.

Oh, and how! One minute, I was taking my next customer and having a very rote discussion about the specifics of her EFC order, and the next...I was in mid-air, feet above head for that split-second, until gravity had me pinned to the floor. My customer (nice lady that she was) leaned over the counter, eyes bugging out in horror: "Are you okay?" I quickly peeled myself up off of the floor and, without missing a beat, assumed the position of cashier, put that bored teenager look back on my face, and said, "Yeah. Happens all the time. Would you like a drink with that?"

No wonder the place was teeming with teenage and college-age kids as employees... Young whipper-snappers tend to have fresh, healthy backs and physical elasticity - and a likelihood of recovering (and not suing) when injured.

More of these little (chicken) nuggets to come...

Tales from the Crib...and Beyond: Crayon-Bit Hearts

2012-01-24T22:27:00.000-05:00

Tales from the Crib...and Beyond: Crayon-Bit Hearts: In keeping with my ever-present theme of pursuing my "tragic craftiness," as my friend Neely calls it, I passed the time away with my kids o...

Crayon-Bit Hearts

2012-01-24T22:24:00.000-05:00

In keeping with my ever-present theme of pursuing my "tragic craftiness," as my friend Neely calls it, I passed the time away with my kids on a rainy weekend by making something I found on pinterest: Crayon Hearts. It's a project that answers the question: "What ever shall I do with all of these broken, semi-worthless crayon bits that are taking up space in the crayon box, lest they get ground into the carpet by little hands and feet, making me resent them even more?"

Here is the link to the original post I read on Pinterest -
http://www.flickr.com/photos/61951289@N08/5672821563/sizes/l/in/photostream/

Basically, it involves this:

1. Round up crayons and free them from their papery confines.

2. Slice 'em and dice 'em. (Adults only - Knives involved!)

3. Throw them in a bowl or container.

4. Get one of those lovely floppy silicone baking molds, for ease of popping those suckers out. (I got mine from JoAnn Crafts. On sale! Woo-hoo!) Fill the cavities with different colors.

5. Preheat oven & bake at 230 degrees (F) for 15-ish minutes.

6. Take them out, let them cool, and work them out of the mold.

Note: They look better on the rounded side than the flat side, in my opinion.

It really was pretty stinkin' easy. I recommend it! And for the record, you can still color with them in rainbow-crayon form once you bake them. Niiiiice!

Here's the proof that we really did it:

Chop, chop!

A virtual kaleidescope of color. Wowie!

Evenly distributing the crayon bits.

Still a bit melted from the oven.

Nice and dry. Popped out the first one.

What becomes of the broken-hearted? I don't know, but I can say this...These little guys don't make good fast-pitch baseballs.

Sukie Iron-Ons + Left-Over Onesies = FUN!

2012-01-22T21:38:00.000-05:00

I bought a book of Sukie iron-on graphics from the San Francisco MOMA. I figured I'd find someone to give it to as a souvenir. A few months later, I came across a ba-zillion left-over onesies from my two boys' infancies. (Seriously. You would have thought they were disposable, with the quantity in which I bought them...Like, they might need 5 a day for the first year of their little lives. Sheesh. If only a new mother's love was measured by the number of onesies she bought her baby...)

Inspiration struck at the intersection of Hurricane Irene Path and Eastern Seaboard Way...So while we hunkered down and waited for the power to go out - which took a surprisingly long time, but also stayed off for nearly a week once we lost it - I got busy, ironing and patting myself on the back for my crafty geniusness. If you know me and you're having a baby in the future (or past), don't be surprised if you see one (or more) of these littled decal-icious masterpieces heading your way. And a word to your babies: These are not the ones(ies) upon which you may to spit up or poo.

Oh, Sukie, Sukie!....(Scandalous what other things turn up when you google "Sukie.")

Prep work: Fancy ironing board (tray table), fancy board cover (pillow case), iron, bodysuit, cut-out decals.

Iron those suckers for a few seconds, then give it a break for a few seconds. After a few minutes - Viola!

One for Baby Eliza.

Portlandia fans? "I put a bird on it!" (Well, two.)

Hedgehogs and mushrooms! Mushaboom!

I can't decide if this strikes me as feminine or masculine. The flower border says feminine, but the lion figure looks a bit masculine. Maybe it's androgynous? We'll go with that.

Squirrel-Nut-Treehouse. (There were no Zippers in the decals...So close!)

Who? Who? Who? Who...should this one be for?

Puttin' a bird on it (or a few) for a newborn.

Cat wearing a scarf...on a motor scooter?! I'm in love!

Cityscape.

Tales from the Crib...and Beyond: Office Redux

2012-01-16T20:59:00.000-05:00

Office Redux: I'm probably the only one who remembers my "Make Over My Office" Contest, and that's just because I have to look at those cubicle and cinder...

Office Redux

2012-01-16T20:56:00.000-05:00

I'm probably the only one who remembers my "Make Over My Office" Contest, and that's just because I have to look at those cubicle and cinder block walls day after day to remind me... So to refresh you:

[Insert wavy flashback television scene and dream sequence music]

CONTEST: MAKE OVER MY NEW OFFICE'S UGLY WALL!! While I'm getting over the fact that I'm working in a flimsy cubicle (for reals), I can't get past this sludge-green wall. It's leading me to suicidal thoughts, and that irony isn't lost of me, given my profession. I'm not allowed to paint it, cut out a window or tear it down, but I can hang stuff. Seriously, I will pay you money, albeit meager, if you can come up with a good idea. HELP!!!

BEFORE...In all its glory. It took me a good 6-7 months to unpack, I was so paralyzed by Fugly.

Since I am slowly, begrudgingly accepting that no one is going to pay me to quit my job and complete all of my Pinterest pin projects, then I shall have to take matters into my own hands by turning my current job site into a Pinterest project. In doing so, I'm really just procrastinating (as usual), but who doesn't wait until the 11.5th hour to get the real work done?

BEHOLD..."AFTER"

I bought some fabric I liked and had my mother-in-law sew them together. (Thanks, Coco!) Added heavy-duty velcro to the back side of the tapestry and the accompanying side to the uuuuuugly cinderblock wall, and I now *almost* forget how hideous that wall really is.

Like my new big-girl "How Am I Feeling?" flip chart? "Subversive," indeed.
(My former feelings chart was made of monkey faces. This is a step up. Sorta.)

Zen Garden! Dollar Store score! It really is soothing.

Just to prove I'm really no Maaaaahtha Stewart, here's the "imperfect" side of the room, still cluttered, and with my tapestry starting to fall off of the wall. This is good news -- More excuses and projects to foster procrastination!

It's the kind of place where you want to sit back and tell me all of your confidential details, right? That is, until you notice that it's a cubicle with walls that don't extend to the ceiling and absolutely no sound-proofing...Good thing that I usually spend my days in school buildings instead of my main office. : /

Crafty Geniusness

2012-01-10T20:38:00.000-05:00

Metal Washer and Satin Ribbon Necklace

Follow this link for the How-To:

http://www.cutoutandkeep.net/projects/washer-ribbon-necklace

Tales from the Crib...and Beyond: A Brief History of My Preoccupation with Clothes

2012-01-04T17:08:00.001-05:00

A Brief History of My Preoccupation with Clothes:

TODDLERHOOD
My parents kept me entertained with the glossy images in catalogs and Sunday's advertisements in honest attempt to build my vocabulary. I...

A Brief History of My Preoccupation with Clothes

2012-01-04T16:52:00.002-05:00

My parents kept me entertained with the glossy images in catalogs and Sunday's advertisements in honest attempt to build my vocabulary. I suspect that these materials included all of the latest in men and women's fashion. Thus begins a life-long (?) love affair (?) with clothes.

CHILDHOOD:

AGE 4: I began to thwart my mom's efforts to dress me, complaining that the clothes she wanted me to wear were "too plain" and "didn't have a toy [appliqué] on them."

AGES 4 - 14: The Age of Tacky-ness (now that I was dressing myself) meetsThe Age of Self-Consciousness. Spoiler-Alert: The outcome is not pretty...

AGE 7: I have a vivid memory of wearing THIS on picture day:
Brown and orange Brownies uniform (blouse, brown vest, brown skirt, orange accents)
Red stockings
Black patent leather Mary Jane's
God knows what in my hair

ALSO AGE 7: I remember attempting to impress my grade-school crush (a fourth grader, whereas I was only a third grader! Scandalous!) by donning a light blue Care Bears sweat suit. Who can resist? (My crush went unnoticed - or, more likely, ignored. Shocker.)

MIDDLE SCHOOL
As a late-bloomer, and also young in actual age compared to my grade-mates, and genetically pre-disposed to being short anyway, I remember the shame and disappointment that I couldn't wear the clothes from The Limited, etc., because they dwarfed my already dwarfish frame. (This was before the children's versions of these stores were prominent.) No, I would have to continue shopping in the Size 10/12 range within the Children's Department at Belk. I would squat and duck beneath or between the racks to hide whenever I saw someone I knew walking through the store nearby, for the shame of being "found out" as someone who still wore children's-sized clothes.

I also spent HOURS (and I do not exaggerate - just ask my folks) planning out what to wear for the day or week, in effort to not repeat an outfit within two or three weeks. I kept a weekly planner into which I carefully wrote out my potential outfits. I can still hear my Dad's eyes roll to the back of his head as he pounded on my door, only to learn that I was still trying on clothes in front of my mirror.

I was desperate to wear uber-cool Benetton clothes (in spite of the fact that they remained out of an appropriate size-range). I set my sights on a sweatshirt. Oversized sweat shirts were in style, anyway! I could get away with it! I still remember the price tag: $50.00. Back in the early 1990's, that was even more money than it is now. My Dad saw the foolishness in this and tried to talk me out of it, but I was determined. I bought a cream-colored sweatshirt with the rainbow of letters spelling "Benetton" embroidered across the chest...And lo and behold, the damn thing shrunk, leaving me (for once) in clothing that was too small! I wore it in denial of my terrible judgment and my discontent, tugging at the sleeves to stretch them out to a "normal" length, since it would be many years before 3/4-sleeve shirts were en vogue.

Memories of my clothing preoccupation at this point included my "favorite outfit": an oversized purple men's-style button down emblazoned with yellow lightning bolts and even a skinny, hot pink elastic-necked men's tie. This was worn with (close to) fluorescent yellow shorts (to match the lightning bolts in the shirt, of course) and fluorescent yellow high-top Chuck Taylor's. (I forgive myself for the shoes, which were kinda cool, at least.) I fell for 80's tween fashion hook, line, and sinker.

MIDDLE SCHOOL & HIGH SCHOOL: THE MALL

So there wasn't much to do for a tween/teen in her spare time (or so I remember), except to go to the mall (like, duh!...). I was finally able to wear some clothes from the popular stores where all of the teens shopped, even though I could rarely afford them. So in awe was I that I had finally grown into something vaguely reminiscent of a "normal size" (five feet, barely), that I'd spend hours in the stores' changing rooms, verifying again and again that things did fit (or did not, depending). And in those rare instances when I was able to con my Mom into buying clothes for me or the even rarer instances when I was able to save enough allowance money to buy my own duds, I basked in the warm-fuzzy glow of a coveted clothing purchase. It was so wrong, this love, but it felt so right. And wearing things that the other kids were wearing, shopping in the same stores where they shopped, it was all so validating!

COLLEGE:

I lived footsteps away from the GAP, and I was introduced to Old Navy and Barree Station (an outlet for J. Crew) as a college student. This only fueled my appetite for clothes. When I wasn't making my own money working at a music store, I was threatening my parents that I might sell my plasma, I was so broke (which I did consider at times). I could hear the tone of "Good Lord, our baby girl shouldn't have to sell her own plasma, communing with the homeless people of Chapel Hill, NC!" in their voices as they begged me not to do it and asked how much money I needed, thereby enabling my cycle of spending money on clothes. (Sorry Mom and Dad...Yeah, I just threw you under the bus.)

GRAD SCHOOL THROUGH D.I.N.K. (Dual Income, No Kids) Era:

This was a nice chunk of time during which I could afford my clothing habit. I surely overspent my money and and my time in clothing stores, just the same.

Fast Forward to the "HAVING KIDS" Era:

A rapidly expanding belly necessitates a whole new wardrobe. Then there are the post-baby clothes, or transitional sizes, as I prayed to deflate to something closer to pre-baby width. And then there's the part where I'd get back to something near my pre-baby size and I'd feel wholly unfashionable about the state of affairs of clothes that I was wearing two years prior.

Oh, and then there's all that shopping I loved to do for baby clothes. (And to think I didn't even have girls for whom to buy!) I still managed to buy about one outfit for every day of the year (per size worn, really) for my little guys. This, combined with store credit cards offering in-store rewards and discounts for spending on said cards, really sent me into a shopping spiral that I haven't quite been able to extinguish. (Yet, anyway...)

So, there...It's more than anyone needs to know - or probably took the time to read - about my generally unhealthy relationship with and, at times, full-fledged obsession with clothes. I thought I'd lay out the past to understand the present. Plus, thinking about it so throughly is like a smack in the face: It's a necessary evil to recount this history, if only wake you up every so often. It also allows me to basically condemn my parents as the fault of whatever bad habits I have maintained. (See "Toddlerhood," above.) Freud would like that, I think. (Uh, just kidding, Mom and Dad. Kinda.)

A BRIEF HISTORY IN PICTURES

"C'mon, Mom...Only clothes with appliques will do!"

Sixth or seventh grade, with a dangerous mix of accessories - Gold and silver, leather and plastic.I am way in over my head...

For once, I wasn't the one wearing the Girl Scout costume (er, uniform) in the school picture. But I was wearing athletic socks with dress shoes.

Dreaming of a world free of tacky shirts and couches and carpets.

That coveted Benetton sweatshirt...It was dreadfully, unfashionably "too small" (fitted?) rather than oversized, by early 1990's standards. Let's not even "go there" with the statement my hair is making...

TODDLERHOOD:

Tales from the Crib...and Beyond: 'Clothed Case' for a New Year's Resolution

2012-01-01T23:20:00.000-05:00

Tales from the Crib...and Beyond: 'Clothed Case' for a New Year's Resolution: And to think that this is only about 1/8th of my clothes. (Greg wanted me to show how I color-code everything - which I do, and I'm pro...

'Clothed Case' for a New Year's Resolution

2012-01-01T23:12:00.000-05:00

And to think that this is only about 1/8th of my clothes.
(Greg wanted me to show how I color-code everything - which I do, and I'm proud of it, thank you.)

Well, hello there, New Year! Here I go:

I resolve to not buy new clothes (including, but not limited to, shoes). I am nothing if not ambitious....And perhaps crazed.

In the never-ceasing pursuit called "Spend Less Money," I have faced the facts about myself: Damn, I'd save a lot of dough (hopefully) if I could just stop being a slave to the allure of buying clothes! Everyone has their vices. Some people over-eat, others drink or abuse substances/pastimes. Me? I go shopping.

I don't even think I'm particularly cutting-edge in what I wear. I'm not trying to out-style anyone but myself. And it's not lost on me (a.k.a. psychologist by trade) that I am probably compensating for some lack of something or perhaps trying to fill a void. While I work on these larger issues with my therapist, I'm going to do a little experiment this year in deprivation to see if I can kick a bad habit.

I know enough from my behavioral theory background that I am going to need a "replacement behavior": Something to do instead of pine away for the LOFT and Banana Republic's sale-o-rama. Something to counteract that craving when it hits me. Something that gives me some sort of outlet (but not the outlet mall) or positive direction in which to channel my energy.

In spite of being a member of a book club (that is named "Reading Between the Wines," which may tell you a little more about what we're about anyway), I don't think I read a complete book all year last year. Case-in-point: After raving on and on to people about The Hunger Games series, I have yet to finish the last book in the trilogy(!). Oh, the hypocrisy... (Side Bar: I have a theory about why that's taking me so long, and I think it's that I don't want the series to end, so this keeps it from being "over" for me... Same reason why I'm having such trouble wrapping up my blog series on my trip to Iceland. I don't want it to end. So if I don't conclude it, it doesn't.... But I digress.) My point is this: I need to read that damn book, because the Hunger Games movie is coming out in March of this year. I now have a deadline.

I have a ba-zillion crafty ideas just waiting in the wings (or in the recesses and corners of my room, gathering dust) for me to remember them and set aside some time to actually do them. Cork Wreath? You're next on my list. I got your number.

So there we have them - Two ideas for replacement behaviors that are fully legitimate. Oh, and I could devote more time to playing with my kids, though part of my desire to shop has to do with escapism, usually meaning escaping the house, kids, husband (Sorry, Greg), and all that reminds me of domestic responsibility. We all need a break; I just choose to run up my credit card bill during mine by escaping on "errands."

I wish I could say that my inspiration to conduct this experiment of will power is about the plight of America's dependence on material possessions (oh, so true) and accumulation of things we don't need ("Hoarders," anyone?) and how we should reduce our purchase of resources such as textiles, or at least recycle them. Yes, these are all very good points, but really, um, it's about me. Me, trying to not be so shallow in my interests, and me, trying to change a bad habit.

So here are the Rules of Play:

1. I will NOT buy new clothes this year (2012).

2. I CAN borrow from others.

3. I CAN re-sale my clothes at consignment stores/sales and potentially have the credit to use towards other things...But only necessities. (So if all of my underwear falls apart this very year, I will have the ability to buy new undies, but something else in my closet has to be traded for it; thus, I must use credit earned for re-sold items.)

4. I CAN continue to consign my sons' clothes for store credit as well.* However, all purchases for their clothes must be approved by Greg, my husband, who himself buys new clothes once every ten years or so, and not even that often if he doesn't "need them" - a very liberal definition. Yellow pit-stains and holes in his underwear? Not a problem. He's still rockin' the 90's grunge look (or whatever someone gave him for Christmas in 1992) without shame. He plays hard-ball.

*Note: I am adding my sons' clothes to this list because my habit of buying clothes often transforms itself into buying clothes for the boys. This affliction of mine that bleeds into their closets, too.

Wish me luck, and please, for God's sake, don't invite me to go shopping with you any time this year. Lead me not into the Valley of Temptation, y'all!

Skirts and pants and sweatshirts, oh my! It shouldn't be hard to stop accumulating these, right??

Tales from the Crib...and Beyond: Iceland: Living the Dream, Days 6 & 7

2011-09-21T22:03:00.000-04:00

Tales from the Crib...and Beyond: Iceland: Living the Dream, Days 6 & 7: DAY 6 Finally! Both of us got a decent night's sleep - plus, there was the bonus afternoon nap on the previous day- and Viola! We both fel...

Iceland: Living the Dream, Days 6 & 7

2011-09-21T21:49:00.000-04:00

DAY 6

Finally! Both of us got a decent night's sleep - plus, there was the bonus afternoon nap on the previous day- and Viola! We both felt well-rested! We slept in, even, and we were the last guests there to leave our Stong lodging. Our breakfast was the usual, minus Nutella, plus farm-made goat pate that I wasn't brave enough to try. Oh, and the juice was like really poorly mixed Tang. The food here failed to impress all-around.

We explored the nearby Lake Myvatn on yet another soggy day socked in by clouds. My mission was to find a cozy coffee shop with Internet access. We found it in the form of The Cowshed, a coffee shop I had read about where twice a day you can watch the cows get milked through an adjoining window. In between milkings, you can also watch them hang out and chew their food (cud?). The Internet cost us 200 IKR (about $2 USD) for 30 minutes, but we figured it was worth it. We both had cappuccinos to keep us company.

We traveled on through Lake Myvatn. The landscape was other-worldly, to say the least. in fact, we compared it to being on another planet. The clouds, fog, and rain added to the effect. Mountains of colorful minerals and sediments from volcanic activity, boiling mud pits, steaming rock formations, what looked like splats of dried alien blood in some places, craters partially shrouded by clouds, and the garish futuristic metal of the hydrothermal plants juxtaposed with the landscape.... It was wild. It was also annoyingly rainy, so much of our ventures to explore sights outside of the car were brief.

Scenes from Lake Myvatn

Driving on, we headed to our next sight-seeing spot: Godafoss waterfall, among the most impressive and beautiful waterfalls. No shortage of "foss" around this island...Multiple streams of water flow from the falls. It is something beautiful to behold, even in the rain. We again were amazed at how you could just walk all around the rocks on the ledge of the falls or throw yourself off easily, if you so wished.

Of course, like all other interesting natural landforms, there is a legend or two surrounding this waterfall - one that involves the gods, a Viking king, and/or elves or trolls. A law speaker threw all of the pagan idols into the water along with deciding everyone should convert to Christianity around 1000. You know someone means business when he gives his idols a burial at sea...

Godafoss

Next, we drove through a beautiful valley area on our way to the "Capital of the North," Akureyri. En route, I did my usual hang-out-the-side-of-the-window to get photos of our surroundings along the way and tried to avoid saturating our fancy new camera.

Akureyri, the other big city in Iceland (besides Reykjavik), from across the water.

We checked out the Akureyri Visitor's Center for a while, trying to figure out what we could do with ourselves whilst here. Not much sounded good, given the rain and chill in the air...Horse back riding? Nah. Whale watching? Not a great day to be on the water. Hikes? No thanks. Walk around the town? It was downright cold outside, so maybe not. Make the best of the weather, go inside somewhere, and play like it's the most wonderful time of the year? Sure, okay!

So what we ended up doing was visiting the Christmas Shop, just outside of town. There are some wild (from our perspective, anyway) traditions and folklore in Iceland. There are the 13 Yule Lads (all of whom resembled our Santa Claus except with more casual Santa-wear) who visit at Christmas time and bring gifts, and the terrible mother (a witch-like figure - how sweet. Sorry, Jesus...), and also something about a Christmas Cat. The place was cozy, in spite of the horrific folklore. Smells of Christmas spices, a fire going in the entrance fire place, lots of families with children, warmth and Christmas clutter...The visit there seemed wholly appropriate on such a dreary, cold day. We debated about gifts to buy for others or an ornament for our own family, but in the end, the task was overwhelming, and we left empty-handed...But with warm memories in our heart. (Of course....Ha!)

Really, what Christmas story (and Christmas shopping destination) is complete without an evil mother who eats children if they are naughty!? Move over, Elf-upon-the-Shelf! She's hard to see here, but she can be seen within that crack in the wall.

We left the Akureyri area and headed on toward our night's lodging through more beautiful countryside. Our farm lodging was different in that we stayed in the main family home, and the place was decorated with family pictures, books, and nick nacks. It truly felt "homey." it also seemed to accommodate fewer patrons, which now made me feel a bit squirmy - I had quickly grown accustomed to sharing space and similar situations with other traveler,s and now I felt a bit naked at the thought of being without them...Even if we didn't interact except for brief meal time conversations, hallway greetings, and negotiating use of the bathroom if it so happened that we needed to go at the same time.

Good thing I'm not one to steal things...except for souls (via camera).

Instead of napping, today we went driving further on to check out a historic site - an early church - that Greg was keen on visiting. He threw in the idea of looking for Icelandic horses, and one that appealed to me. They're so little and cute and very friendly, I had heard. Plus, I was getting "into" playing the role National Geographic photographer, even if the natives were farm animals. So we did some of that, and I said a silent prayer that the farmers didn't mind me stealing the souls of their livestock. I expected to be asked to leave at any moment; there was something that felt oddly wrong or guilt-provoking about taking pictures of someone's property without their permission in this day and age...Or maybe that is just my twisted and paranoid interpretation. And Greg, for his part, had fun checking out the site of a historic church, though the adjoining museum was unfortunately closed for the day.

"...My little ponies, pretty ponies..."

We returned to the township of Blonduos, where I wondered in bad-joke form if everyone in town was blonde or a blonde duo? Uh, no... As always, I took my job as Guidebook Reader very seriously in order to find good dinner options. I am a bit proud that we have yet resorted to eating at a gas station for lunch or dinner. Though in fairness, it is more accepted to eat at a petrol station here compared to the States.

We ate at a restaurant called "The Pot and Pan" (titled in Icelandic, though). According to my guidebook, in addition to decent fish, burgers, and other usual dinner fare, there was a portion of the menu devoted to Indian food. Well, call me Tandoori and sign me up for that! The Indian fare, complete with yogurt sauce and a sweet chutney, was fantastic! Greg was surprised that his trout came with the skin still on, which probably led to his indigestion shortly thereafter. Or maybe it was the heaping portions of unusual salad bar ingredients that he downed.

After dinner, went back to our place. In spite of the chill in the air, I roamed around a little, taking pictures of scenic and sometimes dramatic landscapes. I also troubled the farm's horses to pose for some pictures for me as well, from the comfortable distance of my zoom lens.

Scenes from the farm stay residence, Day 6.

DAY 7

After a night of getting my internet fix (thanks to an unexpected open and working network available at the farm), and being pretty much wired from a great night of sleep the previous night, plus waking up multiple times in the night when anyone opened and closed any door (since we now apparently had guests in the neighboring rooms)... I backslid into my previously exhausted state.

This day marked the last day of our tour, and then it was back to the metropolitan life of Iceland's capital, Reykjavik. I was kind of relieved and excited at the though of getting back to the city. Greg and I had also discovered that we had one extra day of car rental by some error, and this made our planning a bit more convenient; we would have a car at our disposal for another day, and there was no rush to get it back to the rental agency.

We ate breakfast with four other travel mates of German nationality in the cozy kitchen (who had arrived sometime in the previous evening while we were out having dinner), more or less smooshed around the kitchen table. Greg took on his role as the unofficially-designated conversation starter, as usual. These two couples had been through Iceland's interior, the Highlands. On this morning, they were very excited about going to some island (nearby-ish, we gathered) to see animal life - seals, maybe puffins, and other creatures - in wild, uninhabited terrain. One man insisted on showing us a map of the place of which he spoke, and he became determined that we should visit it, also. Greg, ever polite, listened and responded enthusiastically and then tried to dig ourselves out by saying we didn't know if we would have time today.

We managed to get out of there with our original day's plan in tact, and after a coffee and gas stop, we were on our way, meandering our way back to Reykjavik. Again, in spite of the Reykjavik forecast of nothin' but sunshine and blue skies, we were trudging forward in misty rain and grey skies. Four days now of this sort of weather confirmed that I could never live in the Northwest U.S. I had begun resorting the day before to taking pictures from the car of patches of blue sky, when these made a rare appearance. It was getting desperate!

Upon Greg's request, we made our way to a place where Leif Ericson (son of Eric the Red; also the first European man to discover America, pre-dating even Chris Columbus) lived as a child. When we read about it in brochures and guidebooks, it sounded like the Colonial Williamsburg version of a place, complete with costume-wearing, sword-brandishing characters. I kid not...This was not an idea of a fun time for me, but what the hell? Greg had been driving us everywhere, and marriage is about compromise. Oh, yeah...and he's the one who actually suggested that we should travel here after hearing of my persistent dreams. I figured I should throw him one or two along the way.

We made our way through the hills and valleys surrounded by mountains (or the kind that they have around the exterior of Iceland; the kind that look flattened, like their peaks have been cut off or worn down into flattened nubs). After a couple of hours, we made it to a dirt road that was occupied by a scatter of small farm homes. There was one, um, "dwelling" I guess you could call it - a crude house, more like a mound of dirt with a door, next to a parking area that was deserted (but with WC facilities, yay!). We also stopped by to read the information sign (of which there are many along the roads we traveled); this one telling the story about Eric the Red and Leif Ericson. I was thinking we weren't yet at the "fun" historical site for which we were aiming. We stopped to admire a statue of Leif Ericson and then the little hut-home. I attempted to enter, but Greg noted that we probably couldn't go in because we hadn't bought tickets, and he wasn't planning on buying tickets. And then we realized....this was it: We were looking at all there was to this historic site. No costumed characters, no museum, not even other cars in the lot. Maybe we hadn't gotten the memo that this place was closed on Tuesdays? Who knows. It was anti-climactic and (shortly thereafter) pretty funny as well, the more we think about it. So much fuss over a mound of dirt, a sign, and a statue. I guess we missed the party!

Behold the grandeur! Leif Ericson's childhood Iceland home.

A little gnomen-culture... Gnomes on the country roadside.

We continued our journey down the west coast toward Reykjavik to a lunch destination I had scoped out in the tour guide. It was described as an experience that visitors "would remember for long," (I suppose that means "a long...time?") involving music and a movie called "Acoustic Iceland." (I confess: I can't remember for the life of me what the name of it was, but if anyone ever wants to go there, I'll look harder.) It was challenging to find. We almost gave up and turned around, except that a local map I got from a restaurant actuallly had the place on the map, though the bartender with whom I spoke had never heard of it.

It was a pretty amazing place, once we made it. It was located on a glorified camp ground; maybe that's why locals didn't seem to know about it. There was a little shop when you walked in (this is not the amazing part - this was common), and then there was a cafe that overlooked a river with small but picturesque falls that tumbled down under a bridge view, as well as the incredible view of the mountain panorama. Inside the cafe, there was a large stereo system with a record player, and two walls that held shelves for hundreds and hundreds of albums. Also, gold records of (what I presume was) Icelandic bands or artists and pictures of the albums hung on the walls.

Funsies! I could spend a few days here.

The food that went along with the inner and outer view wasn't bad, either. Greg had stew, and I had a burger, and we each had a piece of cake. (Thank God there's an appreciation for cake in Iceland!) After enjoying the food and scenery, Greg and I ventured outside. There were lots of unique games and things to do...A life-sized chess set (kind of reminiscent of the first Harry Potter movie), shuffle board, bowling with wood pins and all. Most importantly, of course, there was a Troll Walk -- a path with troll sculptures and excerpts from a book that appears to be popular from an Icelandic artist. We clowned around, taking pictures and playing the games/activities that accompanied information about trolls and excerpts from the books. It was freezing outside (well, probably not really, but to speak in hyperbole) and a damp drizzle often fell, but we made the most out of it.

I have troll hands. My hand fits perfectly in the imprint. This explains so much...

Gryla, ready to stew up some naughty children.

Gryla's a real charmer.

Balance check = Point deduction. No Olympic Gold in gymnastics for me.

Greg wanted to check out a Settlement Museum in the nearby town, so we went on to see what it was all about. We took an audio-visual tour of an exhibit that covered the Icelandic Settlement, up until the time of the first Althing or government as formed. It was a nicely-done exhibit, and we blew through some dough in the gift shop. Troll books, anyone?

We took the scenic route around the peninsula, where the weather thankfully improved. Wow, what a difference the sun makes! I took loads of pictures with new eyes thanks to the re-emerging appearance of sunshine. It made the water we passed especially stunning.

Giant marshmallows? They're on every farm in Iceland, and they are actually bales of hay.

Fly-fishing.

Eventually, we did make it to our hotel...just as a tour group was pulling up to check in a bus load of visitors. It was mayhem, with the line of people spilling out of the lobby door. I had half a mind to just walk around and come back, but we stuck it out and eventually got checked into our room. I missed good ol' Hotel Floki, the first place we stayed on our first night in Reykavik. It was so cute and so close to the parts of town where we wanted to go. Other than that, I was so excited to have a private bathroom again, as was Greg. (Even the hardcore camper among us liked that luxury.) We also had small cooking quarters; nothing great, but totally useable. That pretty much aptly describes where we were staying - not fancy, but certainly practical and functional. The cost-savvy people in us were excited about saving money by making our own breakfast, lunch, and possibly even dinner.

Back in the city, checking out a block-long wall mural.

One place we won't be eating while here.

My first priority was to find a laundry facility and wash all of our well-worn clothes. Greg is way more laid-back about this issue of clean clothes, being a camper - and probably also due to being a guy. The options were quite limited in town to get your laundry done without going to a laundry service (a.k.a., dry cleaners). The solution was quite pleasing to me: Head over to the Laundromat Cafe, back in town. We had passed this hip place earlier during our first visit to Reykjavik, and I had pointed it out as a place where I'd like to visit upon our return, so wish fulfilled!... And there we went, dirty laundry in tow. We brought our big, rolling bag of dirty clothes inside and told them that we had "actual laundry" to do. The bar and restaurant were on the entry level, and the hostess got us our change for the machine and pointed us downstairs to the laundry area.

Not a clue...Guesses?

Downstairs, a small room off of a larger kiddie-play room (awesome idea!) housed three washers and three dryers. There was a guy down there speaking another language on his iphone, talking to another girl (pictured on his screen), who appeared to be helping him operate the machine via the video phone capabilities. Greg and I struggled greatly ourselves to make the machines work properly, and neither of us had a clue what the symbols on the machine meant. After getting assistance from the bartender/hostess yet again (for the third time, once more after I left our cup of laundry change on the bar - Oopsies!), we figured out the problem and got it working. We also chatted up a guy who was attempting to help us with the machines. He was going through a graduate program there in Reykjavik, and he also spoke German as a second (well, third) language. He laughed, saying that he always tried to speak in Icelandic but people often weren't patient enough to let him struggle though it all and tended to lapse into English. He also said that he spoke Icelandic with a German accent....Like his brain was now interpreting every other language through a German filter. Funny, and I can see how that would happen! I found myself wanting to speak in Spanish or even Italian at times, as though that would somehow be more comprehensible, since it is a different language from my native one.

Scenes from a pimped-out playroom...At a bar-staurant with a laundromat.

We had beers and split some nachos for dinner while we waited for our laundry. I also caught up on my email. Greg left briefly to buy more groceries, and I took a break to look for souvenirs from a book store. We headed home after that and called it a night.

Check out the book spines arranged by color. That tickles my inner aesthetics.

A little (?) gluttony at The Laundromat.

Tales from the Crib...and Beyond: Living the Dream, Day Five

2011-09-11T21:58:00.000-04:00

Living the Dream, Day Five: At last, Greg found a good night's sleep! That silly satin sleep mask I bought him prior to the trip actually proved useful! I also tried we...

Living the Dream, Day Five

2011-09-11T21:49:00.001-04:00

At last, Greg found a good night's sleep! That silly satin sleep mask I bought him prior to the trip actually proved useful! I also tried wearing mine, though I must have taken it off at some point during the night. With the ever-present light in our room, in spite of the curtains (which were usually not black-out shades, surprisingly), sleeping was difficult for unmasked people. Crazy midnight sun!

Showered, breakfasted, and napkins pilfered from the dining room (for our lunch later), we packed up and headed out of town. Today we had a long drive that included views of lava fields that were mostly barren except for clouds and waterfalls. ("Foss!" we would shout when we saw one, both to alert and annoy each other. This was the suffix used in Icelandic for the names of waterfalls.) Our final destination today would be a Stong, a little town with our farm stay lodging in Southern Iceland. Greg said that this part of the drive reminded him of driving through the lava fields of Hawaii on the Big Island. I will have to take his word on that, since I've never been, though I hope Hawaii will be my next vacation destination. Note to self: Start dreaming about Hawaii.

Road side cairns on a pull-off in a vast area of lava, moutain, and little else.

We passed people all over the Ring Road on bicycles. I did not envy them. Greg (the cyclist among us) reassured me that there is joy to be found in this sort of travel. It was hard for me to imagine it, as gusts of windy rain blew even our car (tiny thing it was) around a bit.

On the well-traveled (?) road to Dettifoss. Note that this is the busy season for tourism.

We continued on a gravel road. If these roads are suitable for all vehicle types, I would hate to see the F roads (named "F" for "forbidden" to many kinds of transport, we imagine. Or F for a worthy expletive for jarring terrain). We finally arrived to Dettifoss, the most powerful waterfall in Europe. What was almost as impressive as the falls themselves is the lack of traffic or hype around the amazingness of this waterfall. It was tourist season, and we passed a grand total of three other cars on the drive to the waterfalls. The parking lot seemed was surprisingly deserted, but that's just how it goes here, even for landmarks.

Massive Dettifoss, the most powerful waterfall in Europe.

The way to get the best view of the waterfall is to walk down to it from the parking lot, first on a path and then by rock scrambling. Surreally, the mist from Europe's biggest waterfall precedes it for kilometers. There is some irony in the signs in the bathroom to conserve water, as this area has a shortage of water - while massive tons of water from the falls crash down the mountainside. Oh, and as it rained on us! We will have to trust this is accurate. Both Greg and I independently determined that this request meant that maybe we should refrain from washing our hands while using the facilities save water. When we compared notes and realized that we had come to the same conclusion, we laughed in disgust about how those WC doors most be the germiest in the whole of Iceland!

Unlike the U.S., in which most dangerous forms of nature are often well-secured from idiots and litigious-minded folks by a "You are signing your life away by entering here" statement that is surely approved by attorneys, there is one itty-bitty cord (or was it dental floss? a spider's web?) and one simple statement about the dangers of falling from the rocks. Heck, there are rarely even guard rails on treacherous roads in this country. In fact, when we see one it is laughable, because it is hard to distinguish "Why here of all places? What makes this so worthy of a guard rail as opposed to the other forty suicide cliffs we just passed?"

The power of Dettifoss was indeed massive - and impressive. We did more rock scrambling to get our workout for the day as well as to see other views of the falls and then headed back up to our car.

We made our way up the gravel road a bit more until, with great relief, we came back to Paved Road Land. Our next stop was Asbyrgi, which we renamed "Aspergers," though only because it was so close in what we assumed to be the pronunciation, and we were happy to be able to come close to pronouncing something here. We stopped in at an Information Center with yet another ridiculously beautiful Icelandic woman behind the counter. Seriously, Iceladies! You don't ever quit being breath-taking, do you?

In the gloomy haze, we walked around the Asbyrgi area, a massive horseshoe-shaped rock formation that of course has a number of legends as to why it is horseshoe-shaped...Something about one of the god's horses leaving a hoof print when it landed (of course). It was a beautiful and efficient thing to view (take a short walk, ooooh and ahhh, and then a short walk back to the car) and at the end of the day, Greg decided it was his favorite.

The walk to Asybergi.

So our next stop was a "Really, how could we not stop to check this out!?" experience that I suggested, based on travel guide recommendations (and my questionable taste): the Icelandic Phallological
Museum. The "world's only Phallological Museum" (one can only hope, anyway), it boasts. Yes, really...A whole museum dedicated to phallus. This ultimately led to the quote of the day from Greg: "Should I bring the zoom lens?"

Marvelling at the statues outside of the museum. Ah, the wonderment!

The place was both fascinating and disgusting (pickled or dried up penises are a bit gross, unless you are a Biology major, maybe), and it was definitely a unique roadside attraction. It made us wonder how the curator got interested in the topic, aside from being a male himself....Weird fetish? Did he find a unique specimen, and then people started giving him others? I am glad that he welcomed photography, though mainly to prove this place exists. I can't wait to drop that one on someone in a game of "I Never."

Some of the highlights included whale penises, the silver casts of the Icelandic Handball Team (insert joke), and in the folklore section, my personal favorite: the penis of a merman and the penis of an elf. Uh huh... Also, there was no shortage of phallic art and decor. So much comic material in one little building! A side affect was that, inevitably, after visiting, we couldn't stop finding phalluses everywhere we went and in everything we saw. I was looking at a world map later, and I whispered to Greg, "Scandinavia looks like a penis!" (In my defense, it kind of does...Check it out sometime.)

Whale specimen.

Silver casts of the Icelandic Handball Team. (No one claims the one front-and-center.)

If I may, it is too good to pass up: "Match the member to his member (above) - or vice-versa."

Allegedly that of a merman...

...and that of an elf.

Sadly, I can't remember if this is a sculpture or an (alleged) specimen from the folklore area of the museum.

Look what's coming up in the garden!

Some people carve little boats. And others. . .

When we got to our farm stay lodging in Stong, there seemed to be an international cast of females running the show there. Because of the driving rain, we decided to stay close and eat at the guesthouse restaurant instead of venturing out again. (Many of the guesthouses along the way had smallish restaurants as well.) After a nap in our room, I was so out of it that things seemed even more surreal than usual. It didn't help that the young woman behind the desk who checked us into our room a couple of hours earlier was now transformed into one of the waitstaff who served our dinner. She never acknowledged us meeting before, and treated us as if we were entirely new to her. It was a little bizarre to me: "And SHA-ZAM! Now I'm your waitress!" Or maybe she was an identical twin?

The farm lodging in Stong.

What is the meaning of this, outside of our room? It's not a native species.

Our meal was nothing to write home about. It made me depressed, or maybe I was just a little bewildered from my nap and under the influence of the rainy weather: Cream of vegetable soup with pieces of (non-creamed) veggies in it, lamb and potatoes with a mushroom gravy (just "eh"), and cooked veggies (the same ones from the soup, not coincidentally, I'm sure. Ah, frugality). Dessert was chocolate-glazed chocolate ("eh" again - and I am usually generous with praise for anything with sugar) and whipped cream. I had a glass of wine (or two), and Greg had a dark beer. Overcompensating for our food by looking to the drink, I suppose.

Tales from the Crib...and Beyond: Living the Dream, Day Four

2011-09-03T22:32:00.000-04:00

Living the Dream, Day Four: Greg slept poorly again due to light entering the room through the edges of the curtains. I slept well, but then had to endure Well-...

Living the Dream, Day Four

2011-09-03T22:14:00.000-04:00

DAY 4

Greg slept poorly again due to light entering the room through the edges of the curtains. I slept well, but then had to endure Well-Sleeper's Guilt, which led me to be quite fatigued from it all by the time we ate and got in the car.

Speaking of eating, the crowded conditions of the dining room resulted us sharing a table and sitting in close quarters with another youngish Swiss couple who were traveling through as well, though in the opposite direction. I was not alert or sociable enough to make great conversation, but that's what Greg is for; he is nothing if not friendly and sociable.

The female of the duo was the one of their couple who did most of the talking back to Greg. She reminded me in appearance of Stephanie Carlile. They had traveled through the Westfjords before making their way east. They mentioned a couple of points of interest in Myvatn, where they had recently visited. It was comforting to hear both of them struggle also to pronounce places and things in Icelandic, describing one such place as "nearly unpronounceable." So we weren't the only ones with this affliction!

This day, a Sunday, was particularly grey and dreary, but it made for dramatic, cloud-enshrouded mountainous landscape. We drove along the eastern fjords (Austurland), traversing windy, narrow roads that swept along the often rocky and dramatic sea shore. Plenty of farms and lumbering, fluffy sheep were noted along the way, as usual. Maybe that's why Greg couldn't sleep: The sheep to count were busy playing in the traffic or on some steep, sloping mountainside. We have no idea how their owners are able to collect them from some of those perilous cliffs and remote mountainsides.

Something that added an element of suspense to our trip was the rural nature of our surroundings combined with the scarcity of petrol stations that were actually open. For a country with a lot of churches, this country is also known to be "not especially religious" these days. However, Icelandic folks must take their day of rest quite seriously, given how everything seems to be shut down and locked up tightly. This didn't bode well for my aching bladder, with the N1 stations and other facilities closed all along our route.
We continued driving through dramatic coastlines and small fishing towns. Along these roads, Greg summed it up nicely: "Driving around Iceland is like driving through a national park... in the off-season (due to the lack of crowds)." Eventually, we were able to find that elusive N1 that was open, just as our bladders were about to explode. Greg learned the advantages of having N1 station cards on hand, which were good for when the stations were closed but still would allow us to gas up.

The main stop of interest on this rainy day - a day in which most photos were taken from the security of our car - was a museum in a family home that consisted of a private collection of rocks, Petra's Rock Collection. It was nothing short of amazing, and I am not being facetious here: Beautiful rocks, 70% of which were from Iceland. The woman whose collection it was also collected pens, key chains, shells, and other small items, but rocks were clearly the favored theme. The residence had an amazing garden, which was also part of the rock exhibit. Flowers of every hue, garden gnomes and nick-knacks a-plenty. We would have liked to have had lunch out there, but it was misty and sprinkling. We had the place to ourselves until a tour bus full of Italian travelers arrived.

Petra's Rocks

Jeepers creepers - a little doll nativity scene inside a stone.

We journeyed on, having lunch in yet another fishing town along the coast from the comfort of our car. We were spending a lot in USD on dinners; restaurant-eating was expensive. With drinks and all, it usually totaled $65-90. But, considering the complimentary breakfasts that came with our lodging and the make-our-own/bring our own sandwich lunches, we figured we were off-setting our costs and rationalized the expenses of dinner.

We checked in to our next farm stay in the 4:00 hour, again avoiding potential embarrassment by arriving early. This place was newer and appeared as though it was designed to primarily be lodging, instead of hastily converted lodging. In other words, it was nicer; more like a motel with shared bathrooms in a dorm-like feel. We were greeted by a young, friendly Scandinavian sort of fellow who was very personable. In spite of the dreary weather, this was my favorite lodging so far.

We went out again to check out a highly-recommended little town. This involved driving over and through snow-capped mountains. We watched the thermostat in our car go from 6 degrees C to 2 C. Dressed in many layers due to the rain and chill in the air, the coziness of the car inevitably led to me nodding off.

We arrived at the little town to find, like most things on a Sunday, that the Visitor's Center was closed. However, the town's highly-lauded coffee shop/bistro/art gallery, Skaftfell, was both well-marked (yay for good signage) and open! It was both a hipster haven and a friendly place. We were greeted by a (what else?) bohemian transplanted French guy who offered suggestions to us as far as what to have, including just to sit and have some water if we'd like. We settled on coffee and a caramel latte for me. Sitting by the window, Greg read travel guides and I surfed the web. We stayed on to dine there as well, eating what Greg pronounced to be his best dinner yet, while watching the mist and rain outside.

Skaftfell, the Little Eutopian Coffeehouse in the Clouds

Our dinner was curried lamb, barley, a surprisingly good salad of beets and pistachios, and a mini-bottle of chardonnay. The alcohol served in Icelandic restaurants (the ones we experienced, any) was interesting. Wine selection was often offered with a "whatever we have around here today" ambivalence, and instead of an emphasis on presentation and expertise, the wine was often served from mini-bottles.

Greg tells it better, but there is also the "Pilsner Loophole." Iceland (understandably) has very strict no "drink-driving" (as they call it) standards; sometimes all it takes would be one drink to put you over the legal limit. This made Greg quite wary whenever we stopped for dinner, since he was always the driver. Greg also noticed that there were 'pilsners' listed on the drink menus with the sodas (and separate from the beer/wine list, which was also on the menu). He asked a waitress what that meant, and she confirmed that a pilsner is a lighter beer, in that it contains less alcohol than those listed as "beer." It also costs less, so Greg was all about the pilsner! We were out another night, and Greg asked the waitress if they had any lite beer (meaning pilsner), and she told us "yes." She brought Greg a couple of glasses of the (assumed) pilsner over the course of dinner, and when we got the bill, he noticed he had been overcharged for his drinks. When the waitress went over the receipt with him, he reminded her that he had had light beer, which was cheaper. As it turned out, there was a true beer that was actually named "Lite," so when he ordered a light beer, that was what he got -- more alcohol by volume than he meant to have and more money than he meant to spend.

But back to the little coffee shop/bistro/art gallery: We took a look around in the upstairs art gallery before we left. The current exhibit was a project that featured stories of the residents of the small local town. The exhibit curators posted videos of the citizens sharing stories and responding to interviews. The participants' pictures were posted on a large wall, and clearly there was room for more residents. Much of the information posted was written in Icelandic, to our loss.

Scenes from the Skaftfell gallery

Tales from the Crib...and Beyond: Living the Dream, Day 3

2011-08-21T21:37:00.000-04:00

Tales from the Crib...and Beyond: Living the Dream, Day 3: DAY 3 I slept well, but Greg did not.... Something about a rooster making a lot of noise. Oh, yeah.... Welcome to the farm . We ate a quiet...

Living the Dream, Day 3

2011-08-21T21:22:00.000-04:00

DAY 3

I slept well, but Greg did not.... Something about a rooster making a lot of noise. Oh, yeah....Welcome to the farm. We ate a quiet breakfast (insert breakfast protocol fare), all too aware that our hosts seemed pissed off at our late arrival the night before. The same woman who showed us to our room seemed to be having a better morning, and greeted us cheerfully. After we ate, we walked around the farm, getting pictures of scenery and animals before heading on our way.

It's hard out there for a dog.

I just wanna cuddle this little one!

The farm that appreciates people who observe the check-in hours. I suppose that's a fair request.

We stopped back in Vik i Myrdal, where we had eaten dinner last night. This was a southern coastal town, and there were some beautiful places to check out the ocean. One of those places was conveniently located near our N1 station stop. It was called "Troll Rocks," and I am certain there is a legend involving trolls, faeries, or gnomes that goes along with it. Troll Rocks had the advantage of being on a beautiful beach shore. Greg had read that it was apparently rated as one of the Top 10 beaches at some point, even though it was tiny and secluded and not a warm beach destination by any stretch. Amidst all of this tranquility, in a lot next to the beach, there was some sort of track meet going on, with a PA system blaring. I got a record-breaking two (!) cups of coffee from the N1 station; I had lost my good-sleep momentum.

Troll Rocks

More scenes of Vik i Myrdal. A close-up front door view of this church is the cover of the Frommer's edition for Iceland.

Greg pulled over at one point to find an area of land he had been reading about, Hjörleifshöfði. It was a nondescript entrance, in spite of being the home of one of two of the first settlers on the whole darn island. We couldn't believer that the historic site did not even have a t-shirt shack, because from where we hail, someone would fervently be trying to capitalize on such history. Plus, the area of land and cliffs on the land overlooking the ocean were allegedly haunted! Where was the ghost tour or the hiking tour? Imagine the "I survived Hjörleifshöfði !" t-shirt possibilities!

Hjörleifshöfði. Say that five times fast! Or say it accurately just once.

Waterfall at Hjörleifshöfði.

Anyway, while there, we drove through dark, ash-colored gravel to the shore, off-roading it in our little VW. We saw three other people, apparently from the other car that was also parked there. These folks were leaning over a box, but we couldn't see for sure what they were doing. Greg proposed that maybe they were either geocaching or scattering someone's ashes. I liked the first theory, myself. I voted him family spokesperson, and he asked them what they were doing. Sadly, it was nothing nearly as exciting as what we had conjured up; they were trying to start the grill to cook food for a picnic. How boring and tame...
Our drive today included fewer official places to stop and get out for walks. We drove through areas that had been flooded out during volcanic eruptions in recent history; dried up lava fields. Kind of a wasteland, kind of monotonous, but still quite interesting. Different from what we are accustomed, for sure. There was overall a lack of trees in Iceland, it appears, so trees were something that we weren't seeing along our drive. We also saw the rise of mountains increase around us on our left or to the west as we headed north. We had seen glaciers the day before, but we were now passing through a greater region of glaciers, which were amazing once I got over the fact that yeah, they just sit there, those glaciers! Kinda beautiful in their simplicity. They peeked out from between mountains like the frozen ooze that they are.

More glacier views.

We made a couple of stops along the way. One was to admire gnarled bridge remnants from a bridge that was once flooded out from a volcanic eruption. Then we stopped at a park station to make our lunch and take a break. We checked out the 10-minute video there of the 1996 eruption and its effects. In the video, we could actually see lightning in the fire, the power of the eruption was so forceful! Take that, CGI!

Volcanic-eruption-mangled bridge remnants, plus Greg.

Today would be different: We were determined to make it to our lodging earlier after feeling scorned upon our late arrival on the previous night. On the way there, we got to admire the icebergs that had broken from the glacier. These icebergs got a cameo in part of the opening scenes of a James Bond movie - or so I was told, since I am not a huge Bond watcher. Parts of the bergs are black from the ashes of erupted volcanoes these days, though. Not shockingly, there was an incredibly cold breeze coming off of those bergs. We could have taken an amphibious boat ride tour of the glaciers, but after standing around in the frigid breeze, we had no desire to be even colder from the wind shear of the boat ride. We put our camera tripod to good use and played photographers.

Ashen icebergs. Fire and ice.

Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!

Ice, ice baby. (Couldn't resist.)

Indeed, we made it to the farm lodging much earlier on this day. Our weather for the past two days as quite bipolar: sometimes sunny and lovely, sometimes hail, rain, and wind. This could change in a matter of seconds. It did allow me to get a great picture of a rainbow, though sometimes photographs can't do reality justice.

Rainbow! Knowing Iceland, I bet a troll put it there.

Our farm was quaint, and the grandfatherly gentleman who sat at Reception was sweet. Our room was small but had a sink this time (bonus)! We were still sharing a bathroom, and I gathered this wasn't likely to change. So I just pretended to be cool and European as I waited my turn for the WC and listened to others tinkle through our shared, thin wall. Isn't sharing a joy? On the other hand, the little farm in the middle of nowhere had wifi (really a sad commentary on my addiction to the interweb), and this offset having to share a bathroom.

The goat that greeted us at the farm's entrance.

Horses outside of our bedroom window. Makes it hard to miss a street view!

We ate dinner in Hofn, at a log cabin restaurant that also displayed and sold local art. Love that!...Greg and I had burgers "glacier-style," and we are still scratching our heads as to what that actually means. Greg thinks it is the onion fries on the burgers, and my guess is the mayo that came on it, much to my great disgust. There's a great way to ruin a perfectly good burger. Otherwise, not too shabby a meal.

Tales from the Crib...and Beyond: Living the Dream, Day 2

2011-08-18T23:31:00.000-04:00

Living the Dream, Day 2: The next morning, we ate the complimentary breakfast at the guesthouse. There is definitely a breakfast food protocol at the guestho...

Living the Dream, Day 2

2011-08-18T23:20:00.002-04:00

DAY 2

The next morning, we ate the complimentary breakfast at the guesthouse. There is definitely a breakfast food protocol at the guesthouses in Iceland, as we would come to find. It went very much like this: Three cereals, one of which was muesli; plus toast, a couple of jellies, and butter. To drink, there was orange juice, apple juice and coffee. Then there was a tray of meats and cheeses and a tray of veggies (sliced cucumber and sliced tomatoes). Sometimes there was yogurt and/or granola. If I was lucky, there was hazelnut spread. That's the sign of a good day if I ever saw one.

So our plan for the day was to get our rental car and get started on our tour around Iceland. There is one main road that circles the country, aptly named the "Ring Road." (There are other roads that lead into the mountainous interior, called the "Highlands," but trying to be budget travelers, we didn't allow ourselves to rent the grade of car we needed to traverse this territory, so we kept to the main roads.) While reading my travel guides, I came across the option of using Icelandic Farm Holidays. This company maps out different self-driving itineraries, based on what sort of trip you want and how many days of travel you can swing. There is a network of farms that has space on its grounds (either in the main farm house or in a separate building) for lodging. This is a clever way to help farmers make a livelihood beyond their crops and livestock. So our car rental, travel itinerary, and lodging for our trip around Iceland was literally all mapped out and waiting for us. For a fee, of course.

After breakfast, we waited out front for our pick-up service to take us to the car rental place. It was chilly, but tolerable when we stood in the sun. A young twenty-something was our driver. He told us that he was going on his first trip to New York City with his girlfriend soon, primarily to go shopping. On his shopping list was Nikes, which are apparently much cheaper in the U.S. than they are once they are imported to Iceland. He also told us about a friend who goes to New York every so often. The guy first throws away all of the clothes in his closet, and then he brings back an entire new wardrobe when he returns.

We got the rental car rundown at Europcar, including a vouchers for three free cups of coffee if we should get tired. I was about to learn that N1 petrol stations were my friend, and would be quite beloved on our journey. After getting turned around a couple of times, getting acquainted with our VW Polo (which was stick shift, and that meant I'd never be driving), and stopping for my first N1 cup of coffee, we were on our way and off to a late start.

My view to the left for most of the trip. Good thing I like him.

We spent the better part of the day touring the Golden Circle route, a very popular day tour for travelers, seeing Geysir (which is, yes, a geyser, like Old Faithful in Yellowstone) and the Gulfoss waterfall. I bought yet another wool hat (my second), much to Greg's chagrin ("Didn't you just buy a hat!?"). I rationalized it by noting that I wouldn't be buying a $200 Icelandic wool sweater, the fair isle style that was in all of the stores. Of course, now I really want one.

at Geysir - Or the nearby geysir that actually has some activity these days.

Gulfoss waterfall

We also checked out the site of Iceland's first government meet-up, Thingvellir (loosely spelled, since like most words in the native Icelandic language, it contains letters that don't exist in English). This is the part where I admit the unfortunate -- especially since I live in steps away from Colonial Williamsburg, of all places: I am NOT a history person. Greg still laughs about how he and I went on an audio car tour of the Gettysburg battlefields with his parents, and I slept soundly throughout the whole tour...Even the "exciting parts." (In my defense, it was the perfect sleep sabotage: We had just eaten a diner-style breakfast and it was cold outside, but the car was so comfortably warm...) So I got as excited about this sort of thing as I could get. If nothing else, it was pretty, scenic, and had some interesting geography going on, so picture-taking made it worth the trip.

Thingvellir thingie thing thingerton.

More of the same Thing(vellir.)

We stopped at a number of waterfalls on the way to our farm lodging. These served as nice breaks to stretch our legs and check the temperature. It was not warm, and it was not un-cold, so that made it "pleasantly not cold," an endearing term Icelanders apparently use to describe summer weather.

...Just stretching my legs. And arms.

We accidentally passed by our farm stay lodging and went on to the next town, Vik i Myrdal, where our travel guidebook promised restaurants. And then we had trouble finding the restaurant we were looking for, in spite of the town being extremely small. We thought we found it, but we ended up eating at the town's other restaurant next door. It was tasty, even at the wrong place. I had cod fried in a delicious sauce, a darn good salad, and roasted new potatoes. I was corrected on my pronunciation of "Viking" when I ordered the popular brand of beer (and a popular brand of people, around these parts); apparently it should be "VICK-eeng." As in, the short /i/ vowel, I think. I love that the waitress who corrected me wasn't from Iceland, either. Double-whammy.

Our first glacier sighting!

We arrived late to our farm. Way-late, apparently, but this whole sun-out-at-all-hours issue makes it confusing to comprehend what time it is. (Why, it's sun o'clock, still!) We were greeted by a grandmotherly woman, and we were most apologetic about our tardiness. Grandma seemed okay or at least outwardly polite about it, but the younger woman who showed us to our room was giving off some vibes that she was annoyed with us and our late-arriving selves. We sensed hostility.

We did some mingling with our housemates (Greg's idea; I would have been content to keep to ourselves. Plus, I was seriously tired and, thus, the weak link in the conversation.) We chatted up the other European travelers staying with us, and one man tried to convince us that Albania is a surprisingly great travel destination. Not long after that, we excused ourselves and went to bed. In the daylight. Again. Still weird!

Living the Dream

2011-08-16T22:37:00.002-04:00

BACK STORY

In early 2010, well before any volcanic eruptions from Iceland began changing the flight plans of air transportation, I began dreaming of going to Iceland. This is a place to which I have no known connection, ancestry, or even a conscious interest. Sometimes in my dreams I would be navigating an airport, trying to make a flight, or on the plane (with Iceland natives using Americans as the butt of jokes). As I kept dreaming of Iceland, sometimes I even arrived to the country in my dreams (driving around in a Smart Car in one dream, or crusing around on a boat for a Eutopian tour of Iceland in another dream). Other odd - or perhaps unusually coincidental - things began happening: A promotional DVD for Iceland Tourism showed up next to my bag at a friend's house who knew nothing about my interest in this topic. A flier to run the first annual (local) Icelandic Seafood 8K was stuck on my windshield. Iceland started coming up in coversations with people who knew nothing of my dreams or my new interest in this place. Sure, it could be a series of coincidences and me being unconsciously aware of references to Iceland once I began dreaming about it, but it was something I couldn't seem to shake. In August 2010, my husband said, "I think we are supposed to go to Iceland," and in June 2011, we did. Maybe it was a tremendous leap of faith, maybe I was being "called" by unknown forces, or maybe it was just a very convenient excuse to get a vacation and see something new. I believe in time I will know what it is I am supposed to "take away" from this trip (other than taking away from our bank accounts!), but for now, I will relish the great memories.

I kept a journal and we took pictures all along the way. I seem to become inarticulate when someone asks me about our trip, so I thought I'd put it out there for all to see and read, and maybe to answer some questions you never knew you had. Feel free to travel vicariously!

DAY 1

The plane ride to Iceland took about 6 hours on a red-eye flight out of JFK. There was little if any sleep for me in spite of multiple airplane pillows, blankets, and impulse-purchase inflatable neck pillows. I had to face it: I just don't sleep on planes. My head bobs as I nod off, and then I am awake. Maybe for my next long flight, I should check out sleepy pills.

Delta's 757's are tricked out with individual tv, music stations, movies on demand, etc. So, really, there were no tears shed over not flying Jet Blue or Virgin Airlines, as I thought there might be. Another perk of international flying is that meals are still provided as part of the cost of your ticket. In this case, dinner and breakfast were served two hours apart. Also, beer and wine were on the house (plane?)! No wonder there was no chance of me sleeping on the plane!

We flew into the international airport in Keflavik, about 45 minutes away from Reykjavik. Prior to the trip, we booked a self-guided driving tour, and included with that was someone to drive us to our hotel when we arrived. Our driver stood amongst other drivers, only he was holding a sign with *our* name on it. (Yeah, that's right. We have a driver. We are important. Or so we'd like to pretend.) We nerdily took photos through the window of, well, not much. But it was new to us, so... On either side of the road, it was pretty much an ailen-looking dark grey terrain with these pretty purple flowers that were everywhere in Iceland (as we would learn). We also saw the Blue Lagoon's power station, or plumes of steam rising from it in the distance. Just as I was thinking to myself how calm and composed I was in spite of the excitement of the trip and the fatigue of no sleep, I had a panic attack and nearly threw up on the ride there. I managed to hold it off. Phew.

We checked in to our guesthouse, Hotel Floki. What should we see when we entered the foyer, but a massive, framed picture of Bjork in the hallway. No joke. Sadly for my weary mind and body, our room wasn't ready yet and we were early for check-in, seeing how it was noon and all. So we fought fatigue, stored our luggage, and went to walk around the city with our new maps.

Massive church of which I speak/write.

The ladies at the hotel front desk had pointed us to a popular (albeit tourist-oriented) downtown shopping area near the water. Greg and I walked up a hill to a massive church that we saw from miles away on the drive into the city. It was a short walk from where we were staying, as dumb luck (as in, blindly booking a hotel) would have it. We took lots of pictures, practicing with our new camera and its lenses. Greg became a photographic enthusiast at that very moment while I ate a smooshed muffin that I hoarded from the flight, since I had not been hungry for breakfast after having just had dinner.

Our journey continued on through the downtown shopping district. I bought some postcards. We checked out a small grocery store and confirmed that they carried skyr, something popular in Iceland that I had heard is something between yogurt and cheese. This was something that I had some interest in trying, unlike the other Icelandic delicacies of putrified shark or lamb's head.

Grafitti art.

There was also no shortage of what appeared to be "condoned graffiti" in the city streets and parks. Also, I spotted condoms and sexual pleasure items in the impulse isle at a grocery store. Then, we spied the Laundromat Cafe, a bar-staurant that posted a sign on a sandwich board outside, encouraging patrons to breastfeed if they so wish. (I am assuming they are encouraging mothers of babies to breastfeed, not everyone else.) WOW. How un-repressed! I want to live in a place that is unrepressed!

The Laundromat Cafe...So, so much to love there.

Greg and I finally checked in to our room once check-in time rolled around. I got a cat nap, and Greg read through brochures. We ventured out a little more into the shopping areas of the city. After souvenir shopping, window shopping, checking out restaurant options, learning that krap in Iceland translates to "slurpee" based on the sign in the store, we picked a gastropub for dinner. I spent most of the time being envious of Icelandic women's beauty. (All of the waitstaff and Icelandic folks in general are ridiculously beautiful, it seems. Sigh... What's that saying? "The hair is always fairer on the other side of the ocean?" Or something.)

This is krap! Really!

There was a store of some sort across the street from our lodging looked like a 7-11 from the outside, especially since it was next to a petrol station. Upon closer inspection, it was actually a fro-yo place like our hometown's Sweetfrog. We caught some dessert there and booked it back over to our guesthouse to meet Greg's friend's friend, Vithar, who is from Iceland and agreed to show us around.

Even Icelanders cannot resist the allure of self-serve frozen yogurt and toppings.

Vithar was a character, and apparently a socially progressive one, even by Icelandic standards. One of his time constraints, he explained, was that he had to drive his 16-year-old daughter to spend the night at her 16-year-old boyfriend's house. Also, he was happy to show us around, but he needed to stop into a grocery store because his wife called and reported a toilet paper emergency at their home. Oh, and he had to pick up a toothbrush (and "a good one,"as per his daughter's request), so that his daughter could take it to her boyfriend's place.

Vithar was certainly kind to take us on a car tour of the area. We rewarded him by inadvertently nodding off in the car...both of us, in fact. (Cringe.) I vaguely remember through the haze of heavy eyelids seeing the suburbs of Reykjavik and what Vithar described as the the closest thing they have to slums. These structures looked like regular apartments by comparison to our country's slums. In all, everyone in the Reykjavik area seemed to live in apartment or duplex-like homes, or at least in multiple-storied structures. We ended our driving tour by hanging out in the coffee shop of a bookstore and chatting a bit more. Vithar dropped us off at the guest house around 10:30 pm, and still looked like what we consider about 7:30 pm in terms of outside light. I was sure to make Greg take photos to prove it.

Yep. 11:00 p.m., and it's still light out.

Our mod/euro-style guesthouse room suited with bunk beds (I suspected Ikea-brand). Greg slept well, dropping off immediately. I had to shake him awake to have him roll over and stop snoring, since he didn't hear me calling his name. I woke up a couple of times and was confused at what time it was, given the amount of light outside. The time was 1:00 am. Unreal!

Our little room at Hotel Floki. I'm still captivated by that light fixture.

Summer: A User's Guide

2011-08-09T14:57:00.000-04:00

When it's oppressively hot outside, it's easy to forget why summertime is my favorite season...Which is why I then refer to Suzanne Brown's book, "Summer: A User's Guide." The joy of summer comes rushing back to me, including nostalgia for things I never actually experienced. It's more of a reference guide with a very Real Simple layout and format, with clean lines and beautiful photography. Thanks to this book, I have a handy list of all of the 2-letter words that I can play in Scrabble. (Take note, all of my "Words with Friends" competitors! I've just revealed my secret weapon.) Besides that, I can brush up on my underwater handstand techniques, fill up a rainy afternoon with suggested movies,tie-dye a t-shirt, learn how to build a campfire in four easy (?) steps, and finally discover how to shape fabric into a sarong. Not to be missed are the food and beverage recipes the book includes (crab salad-stuffed tomatoes, anyone!?). It's a great beach or when-you-have-a-minute-here-and-there read, since most topics span about a page in length. Some might say this also makes it a great bathroom reader.

A Consumer Review in Haiku

2011-08-07T20:43:00.000-04:00

Purex Complete 3-in-1 Laundry Sheets

Let me save you some time...If I can't say it in haiku-brevity, it's probably too wordy of a review.

Perfect for travels

Clean, dry clothes smell heavenly

Pricey cost per load

The End

Bye, Bye Baby (Clothes)

2011-08-04T17:20:00.001-04:00

I've been going through my boys' old clothes to see what is consignable, what should be given/passed on to friends, what is donation-worthy, and what is an abomination in the name of clothed babies (i.e., the Category of "Why did I keep the onesie with the massive poop stain that couldn't be Oxy-Cleaned out!?") It's a tough pill to swallow, parting with all of these itty bitty freakin' adorable duds. Alas, I checked etsy.com for an idea I thunk up to salvage the things that are really too dear to part with. I'd do it myself if I didn't have an irrational fear of taking my sewing machine out of it's box. http://www.etsy.com/listing/73430929/custom-orders-crib-size-quilt-made-from

Down-Dog and Corpse Poses

2011-08-04T16:50:00.000-04:00

The "downward dog" pose in yoga is often considered a resting pose. I always thought that seemed like a bunch of crap, because keeping yourself suspended from head to toe like that is a lot of work if you are doing it the right way.

Parenthood gives me a whole new perspective on this pose. It makes me think of how the times that I am often working are my new "rest." Anything I do by myself - even if I'm busy being productive while I do it - suddenly counts as a kind of rest. Driving the car is meaningful in that it gets me there, but it is also relaxation (and when I'm alone, the volume can be full blast). Washing the dishes? A break for a moment to think. One-upping the washing of dishes is the washing of clothes, because I can close the door behind me and take even more of a break by leaving the kids inside, albeit momentarily. Going to work? My chance to get a break by feeling productive and cavort with other adults and leave behind the typical "one step forward, two steps back" that happens with the seeming endlessness of house chores and parenthood duties.

Speaking of yoga: I really pay $5 to $10 a class to be able to lay down with my eyes closed at the end for five minutes during Savasana and enjoy the peace. $10 is a small price to pay for guaranteed time to relax without being hounded by one of my children. :)

I'm Not The Parent I Thought I'd Be, and I've Grown Comfortable with That

2008-01-06T01:30:00.000-05:00

What kind of parent lets their child play with dirty, dangerous keys?

I thought I was finished buying or borrowing books related to early parenthood, but I found a title I couldn't resist... A book called I Was a Really Good Mom Before I Had Kids, by Trisha Ashworth and Amy Nobile. I haven't read it yet, but I feel like I could write this book myself, though perhaps not as well as Ms. Ashworth and Ms. Nobile.

It's funny how your expectations and standards change as you envision yourself before you have the baby, and then as you try to live up to your own expectations after you have one. Frankly, I've gone from standing with mouth agape in horror while watching some families go about their daily lives, thinking, "I would never do that! Who does that?" to thinking, "Yup, that's pretty much how it goes down when it happens to us, only that parent makes it look better than me!" Here is an example.

I was waiting to check out some books at the library a few weeks ago when I paused to watch a mother with her two young children as they checked out their books. The older boy was about three, certainly showing a typical three-year-old energy level. The younger boy was probably about a year old, squirming in a stroller. I marveled at how anyone gets anything done as a parent multi-tasker, while this mother 1) talked to the librarian, 2) handed over books and a library card, 3) responded to her eldest child, 4) redirected her eldest child, 5) handed things to her youngest child, pretty much simultaneously. It really made me wonder if someone like me could handle anything beyond one child.

There was a woman, late sixties or early seventies, standing in front of me, watching the whole scene like I was. She seemed pleasantly absorbed in her thoughts, with a little smile on her face. She turned to me, still smiling, and said, "That woman just handed her car keys to that little boy, and now he is sucking on them. They must be so dirty! Can you believe that?"

I remember when I would have had the same thought. I even started to think it a little myself. Then, the Real Mom in me got defensive.

I'm an agreeable person who generally doesn't like to rock the boat. My normal course of action typically would be to nod and smile, even if I disagreed. But as a parent, I have noticed and grown tired of this sort of judgment. Like when I went to an outdoor concert in blazing heat, and after coating my baby in sunscreen only minutes before, a woman nearby pointed out that my son's legs and feet were in the sun. She looked at me skeptically when I assured her that he had on plenty of sunscreen. She continued to offer her blanket to cover him up. Another example: My friend told me about a time when a woman in front of her at the pharmacy turned to her and scolded her for letting her daughter, whom my friend was watching closely, play with a plastic bag.

So on this day, my response to the woman with the offending remarks about the dirty keys was, "Yeah...but he'll have a really great immune system!" She paused, and said, "Hmmm?" I repeated myself, and she changed the subject, saying, "He sure is cute!" I don't know if she got what I was saying, but mentally I chalked one on the board for parents who are sick of feeling the Eyes of Judgment and Stone Throwers (even if these parents used to judge others at one time, too).

Here are some further examples of Fantasy (pre-baby ideal) vs. Reality (how it's playing out these days.

I Once Thought: "I doubt I'll want to go back to work, but I gotta help pay a mortgage."

Now: "I have got to get out of this house and feel productive in a way that doesn't involve changing a diaper or baby talk. I need the world of work to keep me sane!"

I Once Thought: "I want to breastfeed exclusively until my child's first birthday."

Now: Well, if you read my last blog, you know how that turned out! I have a long way to go in terms of convincing myself to breast feed my next child, despite my fully functional mammaries.

I Once Thought: "Oh my goodness, that is one whiny child! Who reinforced this child's behavior? Make him stop!"

Now: Yeah, that's my child who speaks only in Whine. And I still look forward to the day when he has words, but apparently that day has not arrived.

I Once Thought: "Only the top-rated Consumer Reports Everything for my baby!"

Now: There is no Britax car seat, despite tear-jerking YouTube videos about kids in car accidents who didn't have one. My child's high chair is the cheapest one I could find at Wal-Mart after two others didn't suit him. We have all kinds of tension-mounted gates up. And.... my child is still alive! Though, we aim to get that Britax one of these days when someone gives us $250. If that day ever comes!

I Once Thought: "Who are these people who let their cars become littered with crumbs and smeared food everywhere? Who can live like that?"

Now: When rushing from the sitter's to music class, if I want a happy baby, he has to eat some goldfish in the car. So what? It's a small price to pay, even if I find a leftover goldfish every time I put him in the car seat.

I Once Thought: "Yuck! Who lets their kids pick up food off the ground and eat it?!"

Now: Well, I just read dirt is supposed to be good for kids. And, better he eat it than it get ground into the carpet. Plus, there are starving children in Darfur (and that's not funny).

I Once Thought: "Jeez Louise! Does that kid's nose ever stop running? Disgusting!"

Now: I just sent out a Christmas card photo to the world (or so it felt like, when I paid for postage) that had the glisten of a wet nose/upper lip pictured on my son. But I hope people will overlook that and focus instead on his smile, as I tend to do. However, snot is still yucky and must be wiped at once!

I Once Thought: "For the love of Pete, please take that crying baby out of the store/restaurant/public place now!"

Now: "My baby is not crying, he's just expressing himself in the only way he can at this age - a very loud whine with tears! And I'm going to be crying even louder if I don't go ahead and buy this (blank) or eat this food real quick, and then we'll leave, I promise!"

I Once Thought: "Who in our neighborhood keeps setting off their car alarm? I'm trying to take a nap!"

Now: "Oh, crap, that's our car alarm! Someone get the keys from Rowan; he just hit the panic button again!"

I Once Thought: "What could be better than having a child to raise and adore?"

Now: "Man, remember when I could do whatever the heck I pleased and spend my days in blissful, self-absorbed splendor? Now I can only do that during nap time. Remember spontaneous dates with my husband? Remember sleeping in? I miss my pre-baby days."

I think if we all did what we are supposed to do to be the Ideal Mother or Ideal Parent -- the parent you envision yourself to be before you have a child -- we would have to be fictional characters. Like June Cleaver. Or a Stepford Wife. Or Britney Spears. (Ha ha, Gotcha!) In reality, we would be so miserable being perfect that we might even run out for milk one night and never come home. That kind of pressure is overwhelming, because like perfection, it's just beyond our grasp; unattainable. We are human. All we can do is our best in the given moment. So join me, won't you, in giving myself a break from my neuroses and my guilt and even my judgment of others (though we all do it at times) and just try to enjoy it, for what it is.

Please save this child from his parents, who allow him to play with choking and strangulation hazards!

The Early Days: How Mommy Found Her Groove

2007-09-03T10:29:00.000-04:00

These postpartum pictures of me, even if they illustrate the point, are hard to swallow.

Now that you know the Fourth Trimester was not a pretty picture for me, I thought I'd share how I "made it through the wilderness," to quote Madonna. There is no guarantee that what worked for me works for everyone else, but I felt kind of wrong about explaining the symptoms without giving the antidote.

A friend of mine gave me this wonderful little book written in a way that is easy to digest for new moms: short (one-paragraph, one-page) chapters, to-the-point, and humorous. It is called The Fourth Trimester by Amy Einhorn. One can read this while nursing a baby, which was a necessity for me. If you've had a baby since I have, there's a chance you've received this as a gift from me. If you go through amazon.com or any other online bookstore that sells used copies, you can find it for a penny, plus shipping and handling. Best four bucks you'll spend to realize that other people go through this strange postpartum land much like you do, but for whatever reason, they may not be talking about it.

Once I felt reassured that what was going on inside our house was not a scene from the Twilight Zone, I had to get out of the house. About 7 or 8 p.m., when I was exhausted (as usual) and feeling completely stir-crazy, I asked my husband to come with me for a breather while we strolled Baby R around the 'hood. Freedom! Fresh air! Other people walking by! Time for my husband and I to talk without being overheard by our in-laws! Time to vent about about... everything! Lucky for us, we have one of those children that conks out the second the wheels start to roll. And rumor has it that fresh air makes babies sleep better during the night - Bonus! That little fifteen minute walk made me feel so much better. Henry (my husband) and I still take those walks every night. And I continued taking them whenever I could - in between feedings - those early days. They gave us something to do, something to break up the monotony. Plus, my poor ole post-baby body benefited from the exercise, I'm sure.

Probably the best thing I was able to do was to find support in other new mothers. Thank goodness for Jane, my pregnancy-buddy-turned-new-mom-buddy. We called each other frequently to check in and try to muddle through this new existence together. It was reassuring to know that she was up all night at roughly the same time I was up all night. From deciphering breast pump terminology to comparing baby gear, we were somewhat like Thelma and Louise, on the adventure of our lives (though often not exactly what we had expected as far as "adventure" goes). However, in this case, we tried to keep each other from driving off the cliff.

Jane and I both went to a breastfeeding support group (pretty much a "new moms support group"), which is how I came to realize that she and I weren't just going crazy together; other new moms had zombie swirls for eyes, too! What relief it was to know this! And what was better was getting to meet moms who were slightly more experienced to reassure us, both with their words and their beautifully chubby babies, that things do get better. The first time I went to the support group, I was so tired and feeling so incompetent. I barely knew how to change a diaper. I watched all the other mothers looking so confident and doubted that could ever be me. I went to the support group all three days of the week it was offered. Most people went only once or twice a week, but that group was my lifeline. Also, it got me out of the house and gave me purpose. And, in those first few months, it made the intolerably long days at home go by faster. Another mother with a younger baby who went to the support group told me recently that she remembered how confident and competent I seemed when she was a "new arrival" to the group. This is both amusing and reassuring to hear... and I'm sure the cycle continues.

It took me a while to realize that people weren't kidding when they urge you to "sleep when the baby sleeps." Letting go of my need to do everything around the house was not easy for me, but neither was having no "me time," which is what it came down to, if I got stuff done around the house. Those naps in the early days are all too short! So finally around month two, I adopted a new policy. It was called "Mandatory Nap Time - for ME, too." Every afternoon, when Baby R was showing signs of drowsiness or hadn't slept in a couple hours, I took him upstairs with me, threw back all the covers, pushed away all other pillows, and curled up with him on our bed. (Sorry to those of you who adopt a strict "no co-sleeping" policy. You might want to skip this part.) We both surrendered to Dreamland for however long Baby R would sleep. It was wonderful. These are the sweetest memories I have of the first few months. Not breastfeeding, but cuddled up together, Zzz-ing it away. It didn't matter if Matt Damon (or insert celebrity here) himself wanted to have tea at 3 p.m. or the best sale EVER was going on in the afternoon only! I was having a nap, by God, and it was sacred! I scheduled all the rest of my life around it, and I think I added at least a year to my life for it! Not to mention the benefits for the rest of that day itself.

Take a nap? Great idea! (Don't worry -- I rolled him onto his back after making this photo.)

Henry and I had cancelled our cable television service to save money for the baby. It didn't take many days into maternity leave before I realized what an irrational idea this was. Once the Today Show was over, what a wasteland the rest of the day was for someone who doesn't enjoy soap operas. And there was little else I could do while breastfeeding for hours at a time, but sit there and veg out to something on the tube was perfect! So we reinstalled cable TV. This enabled me to structure my day no matter when a feeding occurred:

5:30 a.m. to 7 a.m. - Local news

7 a.m. to 10 a.m. (if necessary) - Today Show

9 a.m. to 10 a.m. - Ellen

10 a.m. to 11 a.m. - TLC's Bringing Home Baby -- which I watched obsessively to see if any of the new moms showed the same signs of depression or baby blues that I was going through

11 a.m. to 12 p.m. - Cable music channel or VH1

12 p.m. to 2 p.m.- news or more music or whatever is on VH1

2 p.m. to 4 p.m. - Nap time, remember?

4 p.m. to 5 p.m. - Oprah!

5:00 - 6:30 p.m. - Local News or Cable Music

6:30 p.m. to 8:00 - nightly news & Hollywood news

8:00 - Prime Time!

You see? Even if we couldn't get out of the house that day, there was something to look forward to or some semblance of a schedule we could follow when I was craving some consistency and familiarity in my postpartum life.

My next tip is... Accept help. If someone or a whole lot of someones want to bring you a meal, let 'em. Better yet, if they offer to clean your house, thank them profusely, and let 'em if they insist. If your well-meaning relatives want to come and help out, and you know they really will, (and you are on good meds anyway and can tolerate about anything) don't say "no." You don't get a medal for doing it all by yourself your whole first year. I had a whole new appreciation for my mom as she cleaned our house from top to bottom and kept checking on me every five seconds to see if I needed anything. I thought it would get old, but it did not. I wasn't quite sure I wanted to live a "maternity leave life" without her there once she had to leave... Figuring out how to get things myself while a baby was latched on to me and managing to do everything one-handed is a daunting challenge.

Set a goal each day, keep it small and simple, and don't beat yourself up if it doesn't happen. Examples: Today I am going to play photo studio and dress up Baby R in hopes of capturing the perfect announcement photo.... Or, today for our "get out of the house" time, we are going to Target so I can pick up a prescription for The Pill so that I don't have to go through this again soon.... Or, today I will (drum roll)... unload the dishwasher! (That dishwasher goal almost never happened.) What's really wild is that, little goals like these still exist and are still more challenging than they were pre-baby, but they sometimes get accomplished!

Okay, the days were still eternally long for me most of the time. I was still cranky, moody and sleep deprived, but over time, especially once Baby R was able to sit up, things got progressively better. It's true what they say... "It gets better." Click your heels and say it repeatedly. It makes a great mantra.

The Early Days: The Fourth Trimester

2007-08-17T20:59:00.000-04:00

Within the first 48 hours of being home from the hospital with my newborn, I called my dear friend from my hometown, Beth. I'm pretty sure Beth would like to have kids one day, so what I told her now feels selfish, but I really needed to confide in someone. "It's (sob) so (sob, pause for emphasis)... HAAAAAAAAAAARD...." I went on to attempt to put into words what a smack in the face having a newborn had been so far. I did mention, I'm sure, that he was an exceedingly cute infant, and I did love him, but damn! I was miserable. Why?

I think there are four primary things that make those first days at home exceedingly difficult -- regardless if you have a colicky baby (God bless you, if you do) or an easy baby. Even in the midst of my new mother crisis, I paused every so often to realize with amazement that our boy as a good baby. I can't even fathom how people with colicky babies manage to get through it. I think they should wear a special badge, have premium parking spots, be allowed first in any line, and so forth for having lived through the colic days and made it to the Other Side. Really.

Here are those four things that make the first days (or first three to five months) so difficult, in my opinion:

1. Recovery from childbirth and/or surgery. Maybe you've read The Good Earth or have heard about how women used to give birth while working in the fields and then resume their work right after. These women must be made of something I'm not. I wasn't even allowed to flex my calf muscle to drive a car for a week after surgery, doctor's orders. Seriously, surgery or no, recovery from getting that child outta you, especially after carrying your baby around for nine months, earns some well-deserved exhaustion. Not all of us make good patients or do well in "recovery mode," especially if we like to be up and active and around the house. Of course, going on and coming off of the drugs in the hospital and at home takes its toll. I was starting to see how someone could easily become addicted to pain killers, though I am glad I escaped that fate. Don't think I didn't notice how a little Mother's Helper took the edge off around 4:00 when I was dying for my husband to come home and take over. (And I know not everyone always has the luxury of a husband coming home to take over... I am very humbled by how single or pseudo-single parents do it!)

2. Hormones. So, in addition to physical exhaustion and possible recovery from surgery, "Hello, hormones!" I've already told you about the roller coaster ride on which I found myself. While I expected to be happy, and found glimmers of happiness, I generally spent a lot of time crying. I'd say "scattered showers" was an accurate description. It didn't take much... Granted, a lot of it was due to exhaustion as well as hormones, but my outbursts were so unpredictable and unlike me. At my wedding, when my husband broke down into tears while reading his vows, I got a little misty, but it felt so surreal. Contrast that to my hormonal post-partum self: My uncle, who has no children and had to ask friends what to get someone when they have a baby, sent a large package of diapers as a gift. When my mom (his sister) showed me what he had given us, I wept. "That... is... the... nicest... thing (sniff!)... anyone... has... ever... done!" Sheesh. I was a blubbering mess.

3. Sleep deprivation. I see why sleep deprivation is used as a form of torture. I am so amazed and impressed with what the human body does during pregnancy by producing a child. On the other hand, I am disgusted how this human design treats a hormonal, recovering post-partum woman by giving her an infant that sleeps all day and cries all night. Or sleeps very sporadically -- not enough to cobble into "quality chunks" of sleep for Mom or Dad. After "going to bed," -- a funny concept in those first days when, every time I started to drift off to Slumberland, cries would erupt from my baby -- and spending more of the night awake and nursing my child than asleep, I was a bitter, zombie-like shell of a person. In the morning, up pops my husband, gazing into the co-sleeper beside the bed. "Isn't he just the cutest?" he cooed, all chipper and reasonably well-rested. I glared at him through cracked eyes. "What?!" he asked, defensively. I replied, "Yes. He is cute. But he'd be a lot cuter to me right now if I hadn't been feeding him and trying to put him to bed all night instead of sleeping."

And then there are those miraculous times when I'd get a good chunk, say three or four consecutive hours, of sleep and I'd feel a whole hell of a lot better about life in general. I remember listening to my friend Jane, who had a baby about the same time I did. She was also in a state of misery on her new motherhood experiences after a night or three of terrible sleep. I could see so much of my poor-sleep self in her.... It was hard for either of us to see how we were going to make it through the day, much less all of motherhood, on poor-sleep days. When we got poor sleep, both of us were convinced we needed an anti-depressant. Then, when we got a reasonable amount (relative to parents of newborns), we thought we'd be fine. Suffice it to say, I completely "get" why sleep maintenance medications are frequently prescribed with anti-depressants. I work with children in a mental-health capacity, and I now find myself very interested in the quality of sleep children are getting when they have difficulty with emotions, behavior or learning.

4. Major culture shock to life with a baby (a.k.a. Baby Shock). I was talking with a mother the other day about her life pre-kids. She worked, she had an agenda, she went about her day with purpose, checking things off her to-do list, and that was pleasing to her. She and I both had a lot of adjusting to do once Baby came.

It's too bad you can't gradually live with your baby. Say, start out with an hour, then send him back to a womb-like place for safe keeping, then work up to two hours, then back, and so forth. While certainly I had a purpose with Baby R around, I didn't realize how challenging it would be for me to put aside my own to-do list, filled with all the things I hope to get accomplished with this "maternity leave break." Funny! Used to flitting about the house all day pre-baby, I now had to sit for long stretches (hours at a time) to nurse my son. There was no real agenda anymore; any notion of a plan I had could easily vanish into thin air if there was a diaper emergency or a feeding problem or a baby who either slept or didn't sleep. I never appreciated my mother and mother-in-law more, because when they left, our household pretty much fell apart. I certainly couldn't both a) take naps and b) clean up or get things ready while the baby slept; if the choice had to be made, eventually I realized the Person Who Wanted to Stay Sane should go to bed, already! Thank God for those kind people who come bearing meals, because otherwise it would've been some slapdash bowl of cereal or sandwich for dinner every night for five to six months. I have stacks and stacks of baby and parenting magazines that I meant to read in my "spare time" during maternity leave, still unread.

One of my first nights home, the baby was asleep and I joined my mom, husband and brother-in-law for a meal at the dining room table, where we typically ate. I was so hungry. As soon as I sat down, though, Baby R began crying, and it became clear that it was dinner time for him, too. Being new at breastfeeding, I decided to set up camp at a tray table in the family room and leave my family to dine without fear of being flashed. I assured everyone, tiredly, that it was fine. I got Baby R all set up for him to eat, but try as I might, I couldn't figure out how to lean over my plate and eat while I nursed. (This skill came later.) I sat there, hungry, tired and trying to please at least one of us, while listening to the laughter and conversation from the dining room. Baby R was with me, but I felt so... alone. I missed my old life, the one where I got to sit at the dining room table with my family and actually eat when I was hungry.

For those of you who are experiencing this, it's true that things do get better. I'm not posting this to be a Debbie Downer, but what I really needed when I was going through this was to know that someone else felt this way, too. I needed validation. That's why I am being so frank about my experiences -- so that if you feel or felt this way, you can know that you are not (or were not) alone.

Yes, those are zombie-swirls in my bloodshot eyes.

The Early Days: Happiness Hijacked by Hormones

2007-08-10T20:42:00.000-04:00

Unbeknownst to me, those tears of joy (shown here) would soon be replaced by a different sort of tears.

Hormones are definitely one thing I underestimated or didn't expect -- at least to the extent of their actual impact. What I had experienced of hormones prior to post-partum was mild. I can think of only one time I got super-teary during my pregnancy. It was during an HBO Sports story on Bill Johnson, the former Olympic downhill skier. Let me tell you, what happened to him after his head injury is some seriously sad stuff. I get a little misty just thinking about it, even now!... During my monthly cycles, I rarely had what anyone would consider an stereotypical episode of PMS. I was given to occasional bouts of crying during Hallmark commercials, but that was about it. Maybe that's why I was seriously blindsided by the impact of post-partum hormones.

Right after I had my baby, life was perfect. My child was perfect. The pain meds were perfect. Without the exhaustion of labor *, we were on the phone within an hour, calling everyone we knew to tell them about the birth of our son. Nurses and doctors came and went. My baby was too busy trying to sleep to be interested in learning how to eat. I was patient, though, and accepted logically that my baby would lose weight because of this. No worries! Nearly all babies lose weight. When I wasn't staring until I was cross-eyed at my new son, I focused on trying to get some sleep.

I can remember the moment this blissful bubble burst. It was in the wee hours of the morning, my third (and coming upon my last) day of the hospital. The nurse brought my baby from the nursery to try to eat. She told me in a warning tone that he had lost nearly 10% of his body weight -- the magic number when some nurses start to freak you out and try to convince you to give your baby a bottle of formula (which elicits the fear in wannabe-breastfeeding mothers that your baby will never look back, preferring only bottle/formula thereafter). Before, I knew that 10% was the magic number, but I wasn't worried. Now, though, I had this overwhelming sense of panic and dread. Truly, it was like a blanket of paranoia. I sent my baby back to the nursery like I always had, only this time, I was ensconced in fear. As I pushed the button to get the nurse to take my baby, I was gripped with the feeling that I was a bad mother for sending him to the cold and desolate nursery with scary nurses who clucked their tongues over babies who didn't gain weight. Only the worst mother in the world could be so heartless as to send her baby back to the nursery!

The daylight hours of the morning brought no relief. The morning nurse confirmed that my baby was going to die, and it was my fault: He had lost 10% of his body weight! (This is extremely comical in retrospect because by the time he was three months old, he was gi-normous even in clinical terms.) When she left the room, I dissolved into tears. My Rational Self knew that my Emotional Self must be "in charge" now. My hormones had staged a coup and ousted my Sanity. My mother and husband were concerned and supportive, and I explained to them my suspicion that I was no longer steering this boat.

A friend of mine had just given birth as well and was a few doors down from my hospital room. I went to visit her and meet her family, including her newborn daughter. I hadn't met her family before, and they all asked about my baby as I met theirs. I'm sure I made a great first impression!... What I told them meant to come out matter-of-factly. However, my sunny disposition cracked, of course. Instead, the information came out choked and sputtering, as I told them about Rowan's tragic weight loss. I followed up, still teary-eyed, that I knew he would be fine and all babies lose weight and please excuse the hormonal outburst.

When the nurse came back to attend to me, again I burst into tears upon sight of her. Her eyes grew wide and she became sweetly maternal, confessing to me that she didn't think it was a big deal when the night nurse told her that he had lost ten percent. She even gave a little eye roll in response to that news, saying, "I thought to myself, how many times have I heard that before? He'll be fine." I also told the nurse my rational explanation about my hormone-induced reaction.

It continued like that for the rest of the morning, as the pediatrician came in to give our baby one last check up and give us one last lecture about newborns before we all left the hospital. He quickly confessed, as tears streamed down my face, that he couldn't imagine exactly what I was going through, and his specialty was the babies. (Fine, then, doctor, you're off the hook.) Then, the OBGYN on duty came and spoke kind, knowing, grandfatherly words to me as he passed me a brochure on post-partum depression.

It would go something like that for a long time, even after I was home. Well, especially after I was home. (There are many blogs to come about those first days.) I felt like I was doing a lot of bad acting when people showed up to visit and meet our new little person. I overcompensated with happiness, I am sure, because that's what I figured people expect of a new mother, and I didn't want someone to "come and take me away" if you know what I mean. Having never spent lots of time around a new mother, I thought maybe I was freakishly hormonal. Thank God that during this time I was able to spend time around other new mothers, when I was able to witness for myself that other people fall apart, too. Oh, how misery does love company. I also had a supportive OBGYN who said the minute I said "Go," she would write the script for anti-depressants.

This is how I knew I was going to be okay: One day, I was able to sing "You Are My Sunshine" to my baby without collapsing into tears. Seriously. When I could listen to all of a bittersweet song without losing it, that's also when I knew. (For me, it was Shawn Colvin's "Fill Me Up," if you care to know.) It took a while, certainly the whole fourth trimester, but eventually I made it back to the other side.

*See my post In Defense of Modern Medicine

Maternity wear shoppers, rejoice!

2007-08-07T21:35:00.000-04:00

It appears, for those of you seeking maternity wear in the Summer/Fall 2007, that your day has come! You have hit the fashion jackpot at a time when what everyone else is wearing appears to be maternity wear (if merchandisers have their way with us). Congratulations! You won the fashion lottery!

I stopped by Old Navy today (read: spent close to two hours there, making about twenty trips to the fitting room) and picked up a few things (read: about twenty). They were having a sale. And they're always having a sale. But I digress... The thing I was struck by is that every shirt or dress --and even some skirts offered --touted the "trapeze" fashion. Oh, fun, breezy, swingy clothing! How cute!

Then I tried on some of these lovely garments. Laughter ensued after my first trapeze dress fitting. My first impression of myself was "I'm wearing a mumu! Who decided mumus should be in style?" and my second impression was "When are the troupe of little people going to run out from the bottom of my dress? That would make a great circus act!" My third thought was, "Only pregnant women and little girls could pull this off." Finally, I decided I should just pull out all my maternity clothes I've packed away and forgotten, and call them this season's must-haves and save myself some money. You should know that these trapeze clothes are very comfortable, though not especially flattering. Much like maternity wear, in fact.

In Defense of Modern Medicine

2007-08-06T20:11:00.000-04:00

C-sections get a bad rap. I remember reading in magazines and childbirth books about having a Caesarian section, or C-section, and thinking it sounded horrible, and much unlike what childbirth should be. It is not sold as a desirable option. Critics contend that doctors like to perform these “births,” if you will, because it is easy money, it makes for an easy delivery, and it helps them to avoid the dreaded malpractice lawsuit.

Talking to friends, I have heard their stories of how disappointed they were when their long labors were punctuated by the doctor’s decision to wheel them off to a surgery room to perform a C-section. It sounds like there is a sense of mourning that came with their birthing experience. And, after all that labor and assuming you were going to deliver a baby like women have for thousands of years, I am sure that change of plans is hard to swallow. That wasn’t part of their “Birthing Vision.”

In my case, my C-section was scheduled. Oh, I tried to avoid having a C-section, though the thought of scheduling my baby’s birth date (since I am, by nature, a planner) was right up my alley. “Hmmm, what’s that saying about a Wednesday’s Child?... Well, let's see, if we have the baby on a Friday, my mom only has to take one day off work and then we’ll have her for the weekend, too…” What's not to love about picking your child's day and date of birth?

The reason for my scheduled C-section was that my baby was sitting comfortably in the breech position, meaning he was sitting upright, head below (or between?) my lungs and feet near my bladder (that I believe).

I explored alternatives, such as going to a chiropractor and having them do some sort of trickery to get my baby to flip. In the end, I didn't think this idea was so prudent. So I opted to have an “external version” a few weeks before, which is a polite way of saying “Pregnant Lady Torture,” since that’s basically what it is. The doctors (two OBGYNs, in my case) pushed on my abdomen (externally) and tried to physically turn the baby from the outside. Better from the outside than from the inside, I’ll bet you are thinking. I suppose. It was excruciating. Afterwards, the nurse let me know that I did well, considering the muscle relaxant given to me hadn’t had time to take effect yet (!), so I felt much pain. However, despite those 60 seconds of extreme discomfort, our baby wasn’t going anywhere. So, I feigned disappointment that now we would have to select a date – a week prior to the baby’s due date – to pull him out of me. What? I don’t have to go days or even weeks beyond my due date to wait for my labor to start? Or, better yet, I don’t have to even go into labor!? Where do I sign up!?

Some people like to speak of their labor as their War Story, their Badge of Honor. If I had a Labor Story, I sure would, too. Right on! Tell me about how many hours, the blood, the sweat, the tears, the yelling at your husband for getting you into this in the first place. I saw enough videos in Lamaze class to know that birthing ain’t easy and it ain’t fun, and if anyone says it is, they probably had an epidural or some other really good drugs, or they are extremely masochistic. I can know this without having to go through it.

I like to think I got away with such an easy child-birthing set-up because I have suffered at the whims of my body (or my free will, at times) in other ways. First, there were the teeth pulled from my mouth, and then the many years of orthodontics. This includes the piece of metal referred to as an “appliance” (how domestic-like) that was also much like a device of torture and ridicule, since it created a speech impediment while I wore it. When I turned 18, I got a tattoo (but it is small, so I almost considered leaving this off the list). Then, in college, I passed kidney stones, which has often been compared to the pain of childbirth. That was pain unimaginable. I also had appendicitis following childbirth. And who knows what is in store for me hereafter.

This I can tell you: Having a C-section was a piece of cake. Step 1: Get your epidural or spinal. Step 2: Have your OBGYN/surgeon make an incision and Step 3: Pull the baby out. Very quick and relatively easy. Sure, the recovery from a C-section sucks, but so does the recovery from vaginal delivery, I hear. Either way, you have to heal. Either way, there is lots of blood involved. Either way, you almost always get your baby at the end.

I can also say this: C-sections save lives. They spare mothers from unnecessary (now unnecessary, in our age of modern medicine) suffering. They save babies from extra stress and possible umbilical cord strangulation and whatever other horrible things can happen when a baby stays in a birth canal for too long or labor does not progress as it should.

I would have my C-section a million times over. Since having my baby and telling my story, I have had women say, “Oh, but I bet you were disappointed that you didn’t get to go through labor and deliver that way…” in a pitying tone. Ha! While it is easy to nod and agree, for me, I am perfectly happy never really knowing the agony of labor (and I hear they do call it “labor” for a reason). I’m okay with having a scar where I have a scar instead of where ever else I could have a scar. And I’m pretty sure I am just as much a woman – or, rather, a mother – as those who delivered the traditional way.