For a Happy New Year Chilean* style…

… do the following at midnight:

• wear yellow underwear—you will find love in the new year (in other countries you wear different colors (i.e. red) and inside out and/or backwards—which can’t be comfortable.)

• carry a suitcase around the block—you will travel (here you will look like a fruitcake, but no matter--no public embarrassment--no exotic travel destinations [lady luck is strict that way])

• eat lentils—for good luck

• eat 12 grapes—for good luck
  
  
• do something or other with money—for economic prosperity. (I can’t remember what to do with it—you don’t eat it, this I know… you put it in your shoe or under your bed or something—I’ll let you choose.)

Whatever you eat, whatever you wear, may you have a lovely 2009 full of good love, good luck, and good fortune (travel is optional).



*Disclaimer: Most of these traditions do not originate in Chile, and similar versions are practiced in other Spanish-speaking countries.

Realization

In a recent conversation with my husband, he (jokingly) implied that he had been duped into thinking it would only take me 5 years to complete my Ph.D. (MA included) and then we could talk about going back to Chile. Here we are, 7.5 years later.

Believe me when I say that I feel the pressure. I want to finish and get on with "life"--whatever that means. It sucks to be a perpetual student. I have so often, especially now with kids, thought about just dropping it and remaining ABD forever (that's not so bad right? What is so great about a dissertation?) But I am so close, that it would be a travesty of colossal proportions (ok maybe not colossal) to quit.

My own internal pressure is compounded by the constant (ok, maybe not constant, but it feels that way sometimes) questions: When are you going to finish? How long do you have left? When are you going to finish? When are you going to finish? When are you going to finish? ....... ad nauseam.

Oh, and please don't tell me that your neighbor's son or your friend's husband completed a Ph.D. in under three years. If his Ph.D. does not require a minimum of 3 years of coursework and then an 8-hour written comprehensive exam with a 2-hour oral follow-up before even being considered for candidacy which then allows you the pleasure of beginning the dissertation, don't even talk to me about it.

It is not like it has been an easy road. I was sick for a year. I had two pregnancies, two c-sections, two newborns, and now two little kiddos that require constant attention. I also have a husband and a house. I do NOT have money for a nanny, a housekeeper, or a personal chef.

In the midst of this conversation with hubby, I realized exactly what I need to finish my Ph.D.: I need a wife.

.

It reminded me of an essay that I read in college (UG) written in 1971 by Judith Sayers. You can read it here.

On a much much much sweeter, nicer, juicier note, baby boy turned 10 months this weekend.

Lazy Holidays

You may think that I have been neglecting my blog because I have been busy entertaining visiting family members or cooking a gourmet seven-course meal.

But, no. I am just plain lazy. I have hardly touched the computer. Plus I caught a nasty cold (or I have allergies--or both) so it took all I had to even get out of my jammies today.

I have been so lazy about Christmas this year, we didn't send Christmas cards or even a Christmas email--nothing. If I didn't feel like such a slug, I might even feel ashamed about it. But it never helps to beat yourself up, right?

Besides, we are pretty much holiday orphans--hubby's family lives in Chile. My family is crazy and I refuse to ruin one more holiday with them. So we are pretty much home alone... but nothing like the movie. (I don't know why I said that. Note to self: please control stupid references to lame kids' movies.)

We did talk to my husband's family on Christmas Eve though, as they prepared for the festivities. In Chile they have the big family dinner on Christmas Eve, usually around 10:00 pm. And Santa (el Viejito Pascuero) comes at midnight. I guess it makes sense--it is another part of the world; Santa obviously visits different countries at different times. But all the kids stay up waiting for him. That's craziness!

As a youngin' when my husband and I were dating in Chile, that was fine. However, as a mother, I honestly can't even imagine that horror of watching that "meltdown til midnight." I really like MY version of Santa who only comes if you are sleeping and leaves presents for you to open in the morning.

I kind of dread the first time we spend Christmas there with the kids--for that reason alone.

On a somewhat random note: I went to my first Catholic Mass the first Christmas I spent with hubby and fam. Mass on Christmas Eve there is called "Misa del Gallo" (Rooster Mass). We call it Midnight Mass in English--I think Rooster Mass sounds much more fun. For those of you who don't know: Mass is a lot of standing up and sitting down, crossing yourself (genuflecting?) and then at the end you hug your neighbors and say something about "Peace."

That's it... that's all I got...

...oh and Tropic Thunder is the stupidest movie of all time. I think it was meant to be clever and controversial. But I know clever and controversial, and that is not it.

ok, that is definitely all

Sweet Anticipation

This year we are poor. Which is kind of sad around Christmas--because it means you have to have the "we can't spend a lot of money so don't get me anything" talk.

We got small gifts for the kids, though--luckily they are young enough that they don't have any demands and will be thrilled with any new toy.

Of course, it almost goes without saying, that I got my husband a little gift anyway, but he doesn't know.

So last night, cleaning up in the kitchen and talking about Christmas, my husband turns to me and says: "You know I haven't done any shopping, right? You know, so you aren't disappointed on Christmas."

Me: "Well, when you say it like THAT it sounds kind of sucky. Now I will be disappointed. In fact, I am going to start feeling disappointed right now. You know how I like to get a head start on things."


Really? Nothing? not even my favorite coffee creamer? not even a creative coupon book? a love letter?


Maybe someone can send him a memo, for future reference, that "don't get me anything" NEVER REALLY means "get me (absolutely-freaking) NOTHING." There must be a slight semantic difference there, right?

Holiday spirit

I'm just going to come out and say it... I detest crowds, I abhor standing in line unless absolutely necessary, and I hate shopping during the holidays... because it inevitably involves lots of crowds and endless standing in line.

(It should go without saying, then, that I never even dream of getting in on the discount action on Black Friday or the day after Christmas--waking up--or not even going to sleep at all--to stand in line for hours in order to trample the poor doorman and scratch and scramble to get the last Play Station--I'd rather break my own knee-caps, thankyouverykindly.)

Needless to say, you may have guessed that I have never taken my daughter to the mall to get her picture with Santa. Actually, the mere idea of taking her to the mall, standing in line, paying some exorbitant fee, and then trying to coax her onto Santa's lap sounds like one of my numerous definitions of Hell.

Yet, tonight, there we were... not at the mall, but a nearby shopping center. I had to buy some things at Target and I had promised her we could go see the light show at the plaza-playground-amphitheater of sorts.

And there he was, SANTA!

G: "I wanna see Santa!"

Me: "OK" (What the hell... let's do it for posterity's sake... and no line--bonus!)

So we approached the set and got ready to pay for the $8 photo. I overheard the woman in front of me asking what payments they accepted. Cash or check. Naturally, I hardly ever carry cash, because you hardly ever need it anymore. And when in the name of all that is holy was the last time anyone carried around a checkbook, for crying out loud! So I turned sadly to G and said: "I am sorry G, we'll have to catch Santa later, we can't see him today."

(now, obviously I am thinking to myself: "well, that sucks, the first and only time she is ever going to see Santa and he doesn't accept debit. I guess I'll have to add THAT to my wish list--"Dear Santa, I know you are old and all, but this is the 21st century and cash is so 1900's, so could you invest in the technology of plastic cards?")

Then, the sweetest thing happened. A woman, who had overheard me talking to G as she picked up her picture and saw the look of desperation in G's face as she longed for her turn on Santa's lap, touched my arm and slipped a $10 bill into my hand and said "Merry Christmas."

Of course, I ran to the nearest coffee shop and grabbed myself a latte--Santa-Schmanta!


RELAX!! Not really. What kind of mother would I be if I denied G this once in a lifetime experience, this rite of passage?

So we got her a picture with Santa and we didn't even have to stand in line. HA! (I know that will make some of you envious.)


So here, as proof, that even at the most hectic time of year, in the worst economic crisis since the Great Depression, kindness and generosity and the Christmas spirit are still to be found in the simplest of good deeds, I offer you, the only picture (probably) the world will ever see of G and Mr. Claus.

Now that G knows she has visitation rights with Santa, what are the chances that I will get out of the Santa visit next year?

P.S. Can you tell she is scared stiff? The best part is that she still has no idea she can actually ASK for things. We ran into our neighbor with a daughter the same age (3) who saw Santa and asked for an IPod. I am so glad G is simple that way: doesn't ask for anything--happy with anything she gets--how long will that last?

Dear Santa

All I Want For Christmas...

...is a daughter who doesn't say no... to everything, but who accepts no as an answer to an unreasonable request (where the definition of "unreasonable" is anything I deem so at any given moment).


My daughter is three and don't get me wrong, I love her independence and spunk... to a point. The infamous "terrible-twos?" --were not so terrible. But, the not-so-famous-though-undeservedly-so "attitude-threes" are living up to their name in the worst way (some days).

What could have brought on such an unconventional wish-list?

Listening to G crying and screaming "I want my banana" for the last 15 minutes after I tossed (escorted) her into the dungeon (her room) without the rest of her lunch. What was her crime? Throwing a fit at the dining table when the "wicked witch" (mama) informed her that there would be no more yogurt until she had finished her banana. Upon hearing that, G threw her banana across the table and the tantrum began.

Such crimes at the lunch table are punishable by early onset of the dreaded NAP. I think this is a fair punishment given that shaking her into submission was the only other alternative I could think of, if I had to listen to the screaming one more freaking second.

Naturally, the minute I removed her from the table and shut her door, her desperate pleas for the banished banana began.

So, don't give me chic apparel that will be soon be stained with pureed carrots and French perfume is a waste since it cannot compete with baby vomit. And please, please don't waste your time on stocking stuffers--I still have that life-saver book from last year.

I want SUBMISSION and OBEDIENCE! Is that too much to ask?

So, Santa, Baby

let's see

if you can leave this

under the tree

for

lil' ol' me

A Note of Appreciation

Thanks, Hon, for bringing your friend home between your two (yes 2) indoor soccer games tonight. I love that sense of panic when I have to look down to see if I am wearing pants. Ah yes, my white yoga pants, the ones I may have been wearing for three days straight (or not, who can remember?) the ones that make my butt look extra jiggly. Now I see that they are splattered with baby food, because baby likes to sneeze while eating purees.

I really appreciated that your friend noticed me: “You look tired.” All I could say was, “Hmm, yeah, well…” Because the rest of that phrase might have sounded hostile (Yeah, well why don’t YOU try staying home ALL day with two tots, one of which has a runny nose and the other a penchant for saying (or screaming) “No” every time she is asked to do something. When (or if) you make it to 8 o’clock, which means, finishing the bath-dinner-bedtime rush, let’s see how refreshed YOU look!)

Next time, you could give me a head’s up so I could at least make myself presentable. Or better yet, you could not bring him at all, because “presentable” actually sounds like a lot of work at that time of evening.

You are lucky, by the way, that I was not crying into a pint (or gallon) of ice cream while I watched the heart-warming transformations in the “Biggest Loser” finale.

Yeah? Who’s the biggest loser now?

I am not your ordinary girl…

… in fact, it might be more appropriate to call me a grrrrl (with lots of grrr).

You don’t believe me? Consider these facts:

You will never see me with a designer purse or ever hear me talk about wanting a designer purse, or any purse. I do not understand women who carry diaper-bag sized purses--WTH do they have in there? I have one (not designer—just a purse.) I bought it over 10 years ago. It is very small. I only carry it when I have to. Actually, this is a small lie. I have 3. The one that I use, mentioned here. One that I bought to carry my gargantuan camera and one that my MIL gave me that reminds me a little of those wiener dogs(without the legs).

You will not hear me talk about shoes. . . and you will not see me wearing stiletto heels (even though maybe I should, because I am quite short.)

I never wear make-up…well, hardly ever. Occasionally I do, if I go out—and by out I do not mean to the grocery store or the park, but maybe to a birthday party or a girls’ night out or if I host a social gathering.

I do not paint my nails or dream of a good mani/pedi.

Don’t give me flowers as a gift. That is a gift that requires virtually no thought… and they die!

(By this time I have lost most women, I am sure you don’t relate… but there is more!)

I do not own or desire expensive jewelry. My wedding ring is just a gold band. I didn’t want a diamond. (I saw a documentary once about 1) how diamonds had been so successfully linked to love and sentiment through aggressive propaganda and 2) how diamond companies have vaults of diamonds so that they can control the price—sorry De Beers (I had sworn it was de Biers), I don’t like to be manipulated by marketing.)

I do not believe in marriage proposals… you know where the girls waits and waits, pretending she doesn’t care… and waits some more, crossing her fingers, hoping the guy will pop the question… and then she bites into the ring that he slipped into her chocolate mousse when she went to powder her nose. Tears spring to her eyes, she can’t believe her luck. She says “yes! yes! a million times yes” and then calls all of her friends and family to share the good news: “He finally proposed!” One word: “GAG.”

I was not a little girl who dreamed of the perfect wedding. In fact, for a long time I didn’t think I wanted to get married. When it finally became clear that, yes, I would be marrying, I had ZERO interest in browsing wedding magazines, choosing wedding colors, floral centerpieces, dinner entrees, bridesmaid dresses, etc. An open bar would have been nice, however. My husband and I got married at the Justice of the Peace and then had lunch at Olive Garden, because my mom thinks that OG is the perfect end to every social event.

My dress? red velvet. I did not want to wear a white dress symbolizing purity.

Who gave me away? Are you freaking kidding me? I will not be “given away”—
passed from one man’s possession to another's.

(These are traditions that should have died with the dowry [no, I did not come with sheep, pigs, cows, or linens of any kind] and the hanging of the sheets after the wedding night as proof to your back-a$$ward neighbors that your beloved son married a virgin.)

Thanks, but no thanks!


I can never decide if all this makes me low maintenance or super-duper high maintenance.

Metablogging (blogging about blogs)

Do you ever feel that blogging has taken over your life?

If you said no, good, me neither (you may now move on to the next blog).

If you said yes, scroll down…


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…Fwhew! Me too! I am so glad I am not alone.

Three months ago, I had rarely even seen a blog, much less written a blog post on my very own blog.

I really have no idea how it started. Well I do really… it started during a moment of boredom (isn’t that how everything bad (and by bad I mean good) starts.

I was looking at my msn homepage and clicked on a video story about a young couple who had been in an airplane accident and had sustained massive burns. (I am sure you all knew about that story long before I did.) Because of this woman’s well-loved blog, their story had been made famous all over the world. So I thought to my wee self: “Let’s see what all the fuss is about her blog.” And I did. I read it ALL, all 3+ years of it in a few sittings. Then I moved on to her sister’s blog… and then I started looking at the blogs of bloggers who left comments on her blog… and then looking at the blogs on the “blog roll” of some of these bloggers…

… and then I had a minor breakdown, after reading so many posts about bloggers with perfectly decorated homes, time and energy for gourmet cooking and homeschooling, perfect husbands, their absolute delight at staying home with their perfect kids… I couldn’t take it any longer…

… I had to find my way out of mormonmommyblogdom.

Now, I have nothing against mormonmommybloggers, I actually have some of their blogs in my favorites, but I used to be Mormon and I left it… happily, so it is kind of like looking back in time, at a me, in a totally different life.

Anyway, it was time to move on… so I finally found a blogsite about a city slicker-turned cowgirl rancher. I LOVE her! I read her true-love-romance-saga in one sitting and I drooled over her whisky-glazed carrots. If you haven’t read her, you MUST. (Of course you have read her, why would you have seen my blog and not know this legendary blogger?)

Through her page I linked on to lots of other blogs and through their blogs onto other blogs. I found mommybloggers who drink and cuss and occasionally yell at their kids and perhaps more than occasionally at their husbands.

And I thought: “Now THAT is what I’m talking about!”

I now have a long list of blogs that I look at on a regular basis and I feel like I have just barely scratched the surface of the blogging netherworld. It took ALL of my willpower today to make a few changes to my dissertation proposal without taking just the quickest of peeks at my beloved blog list.

It has totally, I mean, like, TOTALLY taken over my life.

Just last night I found some of the most hilarious blogs yet, and by funny I mean LOL, ROTFLMAO funny (and if there is one thing you should know about me, it's that I have an impeccable sense of humor). I stayed up way too late stifling my laughter so as to not wakey-wakey my sleeping husband.

I can’t wait to read the blogs that they read…


(all referenced blogs available upon request... until I finally decide how I feel about linking on to other blogs)

Ethics Schmethics

I am writing (and I use the term "writing" very loosely) my dissertation for my Ph.D. (yes, that is generally what dissertations are written for). I am going to be a doctor... but not the kind that helps people* (or is really qualified to do much of anything... many years well spent, methinks).

*Someone's proud mother said this. I heard it somewhere. I can't remember where, but I just wanted to make it clear that I didn't make this phrase up.

I am set to collect data in February of 2009. In order to collect data from human subjects, a researcher must submit a proposal detailing the study, research methods, data collection procedures, and upload consent forms and instruments to be used to an Internal Review Board. This committee reviews said proposal and determines whether it is ethically sound (and that the univ's a$$ will not be sued for any reason).

I did this about 2 weeks ago. I was so proud of myself for finally getting it done. Stumbling over the last hurdle before actually collecting data and beginning what I hope to be the downhill slide to doctoral bliss.

but, alas... there has been a glitch... wouldn't you know it?

**Disclaimer: this scenario is ficticious. My dissertation topic is really quite boring so I have invented an "interesting" (and I use this adjective loosely) topic to illustrate my little problem. This is also the "nutshell" view... it is slightly more complicated than would be tolerated in a blog post.

I am researching my hypothesis that brunettes really have more fun. So I have made a questionnaire to try to... not prove... you can't prove anything really... to support my claim.

But, I am going to administer my questionnaire to people of all hair colors. Rather than give my participants the real title to my study (i.e. Brunettes have more fun) I titled my study "Who has more fun?" on the consent form. I rationalized this by saying that, though I am focusing on the responses of brunettes, I am going to analyze all data, even if only for sake of comparison and I don't want participants to change their responses thinking I am looking for certain answers... if that makes sense.

Well, apparently, it is "deceptive" to withhold the real intentions of the study from participants. So I have several options. The first is to make a few changes, including the title to something more "innocuous." (IRB's word)-- (I think I'll go with this option--innocuous is always good, right?)

Of course, it is suggested that I discuss the issue with my committee... uh the only problem there, is that my committee is always m.i.a. ... can't get an answer to an email to save my life.

To run the study as is, I would have to give my participants a "debriefing" after they turned in the questionnaires to tell them what I am really looking at...

... something about being straighforward and transparent... blah blah blah...


dammit that's irritating!

I've been waiting for you...

Yesterday, the city where I live, dropped this baby off on my curb...




... that's right, a recycling bin the size of a garabage can!

We have been anxiously waiting..... a LONG time for her arrival... and she is beautifully breathtaking... isn't she?

We love recycling... we love that our garbage can is rarely more than half full... we love that it's one of the free things we poor people can do to save the planet.

We take recycling very seriously...

We recycle everything that is recyclable--which is interesting............ because until now, our city did NOT. Our city only has the capacity to recycle one kind of plastic--I, however, recycle all plastics. Our city only has the capacity to recycle certain kinds of paper/cardboard--I, on the other hand, recycle all paper products. I figure that I have to at least do my part--I put everything that is recyclable in the recycling bin. If the city doesn't have capacity to actually recycle it, they can either throw it away (and let it be on their conscience- I CAN NOT DO IT) or they can find another way.

So thanks to me (not really, I can take no credit) the city, so tired of dealing with my recyclables that they cannot recycle, found another way. It has struck a deal with another nearby city, with recycling plants galore, apparently, to send them anything we cannot recycle ourselves. Hence our new bins that can take all recyclables--we don't even have to sort. (aren't you jealous?)

We try to be "green" in other ways too... that we can afford...

We try to buy organic when possible--but always organic milk--after seeing what they give to non-organic cows I can't bear the idea of my kids or me drinking it. I would love to buy more organic fruits and vegetables--knowing that most produce carries up to 40-50+ DIFFERENT pesticides and chemicals (did you know that?... it is mindboggling!)

We can't afford to buy a new hybrid car... but I leave the house as little as possible (and NO, not just because leaving the house with two small children is absolutely exhausting)

We compost...

Here is a before picture...

and here is an after picture... it turns into DIRT... it is amazing!

look there is even an avocado sprout!

Yes, it looks kind of gross at first, but it is immensely satisfying at some primitive level. I love that we compost... (my neighbors might not, though)

We use mostly green cleaning supplies (except for the toilet--call me old-fashioned, but I just think toilets require something really strong).

The only thing I just can't bring myself to give up... is................

(ahhh... the shame!) ............disposable diapers...

Partly because of the tremendous upfront cost--one decent cloth diaper costs about the same as a box of diapers... but you can't get away with buying one diaper a month.

Partly because disposable diapers are just so gosh-darn convenient. (I am so pathetic, I know!)

But mainly because my mom used cloth diapers with 6 of her 7 kids... and since I was one of the oldest, I remember having to clean out the diapers in the toilet... it was so gross as a 7-8 year old that I was traumatized for life as far as cloth diapers are concerned. I am sure they have come a long way since then and I feel such astounding guilt everytime I throw away a bag of dirty diapers... but I just can't make that leap.

I am sorry Earth... I'll find a way to make it up to you.

Sisters... a rant

I have sisters. Four of them. Generally speaking, I love them, but many times I want to shake them... really really hard (and say "What the hell are you thinking?")

The youngest lives near me. I rarely see her. We talk on the phone every few weeks and inevitably end up arguing. She is probably the second most infuriating human being in my life, right after my mother.

She is so irrational and very little she says makes sense...

One day she'll say: "You were practically my mom, you raised me" (I wasn't, even practically, and I didn't--though I did babysit a lot, and pick her up from daycare)

The next day she'll say: "You weren't even around when I was little, I don't even remember you when I was growing up."

...and she argues with everything I say, even when I am talking about my own life (an area in which I am undeniably an expert).

She: "You always got straight As"

Me: "No, not really"

She: "Yes, you did"

Me: "No, REALLY, I didn't"

She: "Whatever, you SO did."

and on and on, it doesn't matter what it is about...

I talked to her this morning and I am still furious. No one, besides my mom, can push my bottons like that... all of them, all at once, and repeatedly.

I called my husband to vent...


He said: "Man, they have that power over you."


Yes, they do. I hate it. How do I make it stop?

Sweet manipulation

My daughter, G, 3 years old, has a funny little imagination. I don't remember when she started this kind of pretend play, about 4 months ago, maybe. I really don't know what goes on in her little head, but it usually involves a lion or a tiger in an imaginary pursuit of her.

Lately, I have started trying to use it to my benefit:

When G is taking FOREVER (literally) to eat half a PB&J sandwich...

G: "Uh-oh, here comes the tiger. He's gonna get you."

Me: (dramatically) "Oh No! He looks hungry, you better eat your sandwich before he eats it."

and we make a little progress with the sandwich...

Or when it is nap time and she is singing to herself (or screetching, what ever you want to call it) ...

G: "Here comes the lion, you better hide"

Me: "You better get in bed under the blanket and be quiet so he can't find you."

Is that cruel? ... am I in the process of creating a real fear of lions and tigers? a fear of something taking her lunch?

The only act I can't really work with is her little doggie act. She now greets people on all fours, with her tongue hanging out, panting like a puppy. She has even started licking me. But she is not an obedient puppy. If I say: "come," she doesn't.

The other day at the park, she crawled up to 2 teenage boys like that... and just sat there panting for a long time, watching them, barking softly... and no amount of fun playground suggestions would move her.

What do I do with that?

Lab Rats

I pre-paid my (soon-to-be) debt to the research community today. (This is important because I have to collect data for my dissertation research in February, so I need good Karma).

I took my son to participate in an infant perception study at the Infant Cognition Laboratory. Yes, he became a little guinea pig.

(sorry if this is a little disturbing, it is meant to be funny----- and yes, I realize that there is a fine line between disturbing and funny and I am not sure which side this ends up on--the real problem is that I don't know how to use photoshop..... which makes sense, because I don't have photoshop)

***

It was a study to determine at what age infants can perceive number. On a screen, they showed a long series of objects in pairs (two red cars, two rabbits, two watches, two boats, two trees) randomly ordered, repeated etc. Then towards the end (it all took about 3 minutes) they showed objects in threes. They videotaped the session to see if he looked longer at three objects than at two objects.

I am no infant cognition specialist, but my own intuition, after watching Nico watch the screen, is that he was much more interested in objects with bright colors (i.e. the red cars) than the watches (YAWN!) or the brown trees (BO---RING!)

I think we can safely say that, as fascinating as numbers are, THREE brown trees are NOT more interesting than TWO brown trees.

They’ll have to shake it up a little more, if you ask me.

Should it stay or should it go?

Let me start out by saying that, like most women on the planet, after having a baby, (or two in this case).... I am..... shall we say.... hmmm...... unhappy with my post-partem body (can I still say post-partem, 9 months later? I can, right?).

I think a lot of women who have had kids would be very annoyed with me for complaining, because, I know, from an objective standpoint, I don't have it all that bad--I am small to begin with, I didn't gain that much weight--in fact the "recommended" 30-35 pounds (though you wouldn't have thought that to see me preggers--because I am so small, I looked HUGE--in fact one Mexican acquaintance we have, kept asking me: "WOW, how much have you gained? Were you this big with G?--I kid you not, he said this, or a variation of it, to my face, on more than one occasion--finally I threatened to cry and make him look like the A$$ that he is (cry or go for the jugular with my bare hands)

Anyway... After G, my first one, I looked virtually the same, but the second one has been different. I lost MOST of the weight, except maybe..... the last "few" (that is such a vaguely relative quantity) pounds that have just refused to budge and then for some reason, after the second one, my body is just NOT the same, and it is, to put it lightly, DEPRESSING AS ALL F-ING HELL!

So, I try not to gripe about it too much, because if there is anything I have learned as a petite woman, it's that no one else wants to hear a petite person complain about weight or body issues etc.

So, I was complaining a while back to my sweet sensitive husband who has to listen to me (can you feel what is coming next?) about my disdain for the post-baby body.......

He: You're not fat, but... Have you seen your butt?

(I kid you not, you think I could make this stuff up?
I told you Spanish-speakers were blunt about body stuff)

Me: (grrrrr) ummmm..... YEEEEESSSSS!?!?!?............... yes, as a matter of fact I have. Yes! That's an affirmative!


(he hears the murderous tone in my voice--hard to miss)


He: No, I mean, it's just rounder.

Me: you mean "round" like FAT?

He: No, you're not fat (doesn't hurt to repeat that, right?), it's just rounder... It's cute. I like it.

(hmm, Dilemma: do I still kill him?)

So, should I still try to lose it, or should I keep it--you know, because I am selfless and I want to make him happy? (HaHa! I act like I have even have a choice... can you say DENIAL?)

I could, of course, go ON and ON. . . but no one likes a whiner....

Ahhh... Life is funny