Hot Zone

I do not handle being sick very well. In fact, I hate to admit this, but I am a bigger baby than Ryan when it comes to illness. He could be bleeding out of both eyes and he would power through, going to work, getting things done, not taking medication, and telling himself he will be better soon. I, on the other hand, like to spend the time that I am sick in a dark room, heavily medicated, just waiting for death to come take me so I can spy on my funeral and hear how much everyone misses me -- even those people who would never admit it.

For instance, right now I have a cold. It is not horrible, but it is enough that it is impacting my mind, body, and spirit. I feel run down, stuffed up, and worn out. If I had gotten this cold six months ago I would have called in sick to work, put a NyQuil drip in my arm and crawled into bed, where I would have stayed until I was well, and (hopefully) five pounds lighter. Of course, now I can't do that, or at least I shouldn't, because, now, I am a mother, and my entire life centers on making sure Meg does not get what I have.

I can't believe I am saying this but all of the cold tablets I have taken have been the "non-drowsy" kind. And I have taken them all without wine. Oh, and I have been drinking tons of water, not because I am thirsty, but because I heard it will push the bug out faster, and I need it gone. I am washing my hands seven thousand times a day, and using hand sanitizer in between. Also, I have been going into work, because, if Meg does get sick, I need to save my leave to take care of her.

I am a little worried that this cold is going to scar Meg for life. You see, in addition to the protective measures above I also have been trying to keep Meg healthy by staying away from her. She has spent a lot of time in her bouncy chair, and on her play mat, and we have spent endless hours in car driving, since she doesn't seem to notice she isn't being held when the world is speeding by. When I do hold her, I face her away from me, so I don't breathe on her. And I say "I'm sorry" to the back of her head just in case she is feeling neglected. I was thinking of wearing a mask, but that is too creepy even for me.

First thing I am doing when I get better is SMOTHERING that baby in kisses. Well, not actual smothering, because that's illegal. Oh, and then? I am taking something that makes me slightly drowsy... Maybe a nice Sav Blanc.

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Welcoming Meg

Ever since Meg was born I have said that if I could I would climb to the top of Mt. Olympus (the one here in Utah), and hold her out "Lion King" style to show her off. This weekend we did the next best thing, and had her christening. We invited all of our friends and family, and, of course, got Meg a completely ridiculously cute dress to wear.

She had some ridiculously cute shoes too... which she tried to kick off every two minutes.

It was really overwhelming how many people came out to help us officially welcome our girl. Ryan and I had stood outside welcoming people as they came in, so we didn't see the church fill up. When we walked in and saw almost all the pews were filled I was so overcome with gratitude and love I was rendered speechless -- and I think we all know how rarely that happens.

The feeling in the church was just one of such intense joy. People who knew what we had gone through to get to this point, and even those who didn't, came together to celebrate this wondrous thing that has happened. This beautiful little girl who has come into our lives. Tara and Kent even flew out from California to serve as her Godparents.

I don't think they realize this means they have to pay for college.

Meg took the ceremony in stride. She loved seeing all of the different faces, and all of the kids who had come to watch. The light shining through the stained glass really caught her eye. And when it was time for the actual baptism she only squawked for a second.
And then she was comforted by her Dad...

The christening was held in the same chapel where we were married, and, just like with that service, at the end we walked up the aisle greeting our guests. When I walked up the aisle at our wedding I didn't see any faces, just a blur. This time though, I saw every face, and I heard every voice, including our friend Katie's daughter Ashlyn asking "why did they wash baby Meg's hair?" I soaked it all in, so one day I can tell Meg all about it, and let her know that, from the moment she was born, she was welcomed and loved not only by us, and by her birth mother, but by a whole community.

We are so blessed.

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An Open Letter to Mackenzie Phillips

Dear Mackenzie,

Before I start this letter I just need to get one thing out of my system.

Ew. Really, ew. Maybe ugh too.

So, you slept with your father. Not just once, but many, many times. In fact, you only stopped sleeping with your father when you became pregnant with a child that was possibly his and had an abortion.

That's it, right?

There isn't any more? Your abortion didn't get up and start walking and become a prop comic did it? Because, really, you have gone so far I think it's best just to get everything out in the open right now.

I mean, that is where you want everything, isn't it? Out in the open? Because , I now know more unsavory details about you than I do about any of my closest friends, and they have plenty of unsavory details about them. In fact, I am kind of amazed at the little tidbits you are willing to drop at the feet of the publishing world and Oprah to get attention. I mean, I know it's hard for a former child star who had substance abuse issues to get a book deal nowadays (thanks Danny Bonaduce), but really, you were willing to go above and beyond. If one of the Cosby kids wants a book deal now they are going to have to prove they were abducted by aliens, impregnated, and gave birth to a lizard creature. Oh, and did drugs, but, really, now that's a given.

I am sure you are hoping that your shocking revelations will lead to book sales, and maybe someone optioning your story for a Lifetime movie of the week, but I think what it really might do it boost the sales of Wilson Phillips CDs. At least, I hope that's what it does. I know I am going out to buy one right now, just to say "I'm sorry" to your sister Chyna. I might even try and figure out what movies your sister Bijou has been in so I can buy one on DVD help her out too. I think they both deserve a little something for the public humiliation you are putting them through in the name of "catharsis."

Now, if you'll excuse me I have to go dip my head in a bucket of bleach to try and remove your story from my brain. Then I am going to get botox to get this expression off my face. Ever since this story leaked last night I have had looked lilke I just smelled stinky cheese, or listened to Glen Beck. It isn't pretty.

Best of luck, and once again, ew.

Libby

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Fair Deals

The Utah State Fair ended yesterday. Yes, it will be another year until the residents of this state can eat deep fried Twinkies and while bargain pricing ninja stars. People go to the fair for all different reasons. Some go to eat all of the various fried, barbecued, and fried barbecued foods to see if they can make their hearts explode. Some like to test fate by going on thrill rides assembled and maintained by nine fingered high school drop outs. Some go to make sure mullets are still in fashion. Oh, yeah, and a couple go for the agricultural exhibits. Those are all excellent reasons to go to the fair. For me though, only one thing keeps me coming back: Christmas shopping.

The fair has gifts that I can't find anywhere else in such abundance. I can't even start to describe the looks of surprise and wonder on the faces of the people who receive them. They always want to know just where I did my shopping. Novelty signs? Check. Spray painted dancing foam birds? Oh, yeah. And who doesn't love a bar mirror with a Corvette on it? No one I know. This year I focused on three booths to do most of my shopping. Now, if you are a person on my Christmas list, you'll want to stop reading... I mean, unless you want to ruin the surprise.

Okay, you've been warned...

This booth was my first stop and where I did the bulk of my shopping. I think you can all see why. I mean, there is something for everyone -- from the lovers or unicorns to the lovers of America. Not only that, but I had the option of getting the shirts in acid wash, for my friends and family who are a bit "fancier." Oh, and none of them are cotton, so they won't shrink. It is no secret that I try to buy the love of the children in my life. That is why this year every one of them is getting a samurai sword. Well, at least the older ones are. I got those littler knives in the corner for the younger ones. After all, safety first. I can't wait to see their little faces on Christmas morning. I have a feeling their lives will never be the same, and it will all be because of "cool" Aunt Libby.

There are two people in my life who are really hard to buy for: Tara and my Mom. So, I think you can understand the glee I felt when I saw this new addition to the fair marketplace. It's art, but it also tells time, so it's perfect for these multi-tasking ladies. Also, both of them have kind of become environmentalists, so the fact that these clocks are made out of wood AND have pictures of bears on them make them the perfect "green" gift. I just wish I hadn't spent most of my money on t-shirts and swords so I could have gotten myself one as well.

I cannot wait until Christmas! Thank you Utah State Fair!

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Say Something Nice

This is something I wrote for Huffington Post. That's why it sounds a little more official, and doesn't have any swearing. It is also my 500th post. So, there.

If you are at all familiar with the world of blogging, which, reading this, I assume you are, then you are most likely familiar with the name Heather Armstrong. She is the "Dooce" of Dooce.com, and, as of this week, "Monetizing the Hate." That's right, she has launched a site made up of all the hate mail that she has received, along with dozens of ads in order to profit off all of the people who have insulted her. I think it's brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. After all, turning hurt and anger into money is a great idea. If everyone could do it I have a couple friends who could make millions off their mothers alone.

I do have one small problem with Armstrong's new site, though not with the idea itself. I just can't believe that blogging has gotten so ugly that a site like this can exist, and make money. It's as if the blogosphere is the new Junior High School. And there is plenty of evidence to support that hypothesis.

There are millions of blogs out there. Among them are a few that have risen to the top as "superstar" blogs. And for every "superstar" there is at least one blog criticizing them, and trying to gain a readership by trying to take them down. It would be bad enough if it stopped there, but it doesn't. Then there are the superstars who have to respond to the critics, and the followers of both who have decided to engage in a of war of words to prove the blogger they like is ultimately right.

Really, all I need are Girbeau jeans and a love of greasy cafeteria peanut butter bars and I am back in 1988.

It isn't that I don't like snark - it is my life's work. However, I started blogging in order to make my voice heard, and to hear other voices. Those voices I don't like, I don' t read, and don't highlight. I like to think that if I don't like them I have better things to do than try to humiliate, or destroy them. Of course, I am writing this...

Of course, I like to think this is less a criticism, and more a call for civility. Please, bloggers, just because you can say something, just because it makes you feel a part of an online "family or "clique" doesn't mean you should say it. And just because you think you can get over your hurt feelings by making money and calling attention to the hate, doesn't mean you should.

Think of it as setting an example. We all have kids. And Congress certainly isn't teaching any lessons about manners. So, let's start a new trend on the Internet. Let's all just at least pretend to get along. Can't we do that?

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Babies and Drunks: A Comparison

In the past two months I have read enough parenting books to make me go blind. I started with "What to Expect the First Year" (which really should be called "Start Comparing Your Child to Others Early") and from there moved on to "The Baby Whisperer," "The Happiest Baby on the Block," "Heading Home With Your Newborn," and "Parenting Means Always Feeling Bad About Yourself." I think I might have made that last one up, I can't be sure. Some of the books were well written, some very poorly, almost all were useless/panic inducing.

It isn't that I am saying I am a super parent. Today, for instance, I put Meg in an outfit that I thought was darling, not realizing that she couldn't straighten her legs in it because it was too small. There have been times I have offered her five bucks just to let me sleep ten more minutes. However, I think that most of the stuff in these books is self explanatory, especially when babies are in the potato phase, as Meg is now. They serve to reaffirm choices parents are making, and let them know they aren't doing a horrible job.

Honestly, the best advice I have received since becoming a parent didn't come from any book. It came from a smart ass friend. He told me just to treat the baby like I would a tiny drunk. No, he didn't mean go through her pockets for loose change (at least, I don't think he did). What he meant was keep her safe, keep her fed, don't let her sit in soiled clothes, and, above all else, keep her happy or things could get ugly.

I have thought a lot about his advice, and not just because it would make the best title of a parenting book EVER. Really, I don't know why anyone has thought of this before. I mean, look at the similarities...

Ways Babies are Like Drunks

• Both are magnets for girls with low self-esteem.
  
• The vomit smell.
  
• Frat boys dress up as both babies and/or drunks for Halloween.
  
• Both wear ridiculous outfits, usually picked out by someone else.
  
• Drooling.
• Both pass out when they have had too much to drink.
  
• It is not unusual for either to greet everyone with a smile, or angry pointless yelling.
  
• Unintentional soiling of the pants is commonplace, and normally not noticed, or thought to be humorous.
  
• Both fight sleep, trying to pretend they aren't tired.
  
• Cross-eyed grins.
• Missing teeth.

I will admit that Meg is cuter than most drunks I know. However, I have known some drunks who are more fun than Meg at 2 in the morning. Once she learns how to tell dirty jokes though, all bets are off. Until then, I will just keep her safe, fed, dry and happy. Oh, and I will use the parenting books to level out the crooked coffee table.

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Do I Stink?

I have not bought deodorant in at least five years. No, it isn't that I don't need it, or that I am one of those people who believes rubbing a crystal on my pits is all the protection I need, it's that the last time I bought deodorant, I bought it at Costco, so I got a 24 pack. Since I only put on deodorant once, maybe twice a day, it has lasted me a while. Last week though, I ran out, scraped the last bit of Secret spring fresh solid out of the container, and decided it was time to explore my options. And, oh, how the options have changed.

I don't know if you all have noticed this, but apparently, over the past five years, people have gotten stinkier. Sweatier. Grosser. Or at least, that is the impression I got after perusing the deodorant options now available. I mean, that's the only explanation for the huge spate of "clinical strength" options now available. Every brand has one, promising to protect you from sweat like lilac scented armor. Oh, that's right, all of the clinical strength options are all for women. I guess it's still okay for men to sweat.

I actually considered buying one of the "super" deodorants. After all, there have been days, especially this past summer, when my pits have been far from Sahara dry. I mean, I don't sweat like a comic flopping in a sauna, but there have been days when small circles have been visible under my arms. I started to worry. Could that mean that I am in the need of "clinical strength"? Has my current deodorant stopped working and I am cluelessly spreading stink? Would Meg end up with the smelly hippie Mom? Was Secret Super Duper Ultra the only thing that could help me?

I was actually starting to sweat over my choice of deodorant.

Luckily, I pulled my head out of my pits. I realized that this was probably just a new marketing technique, and that I have enough time staying hydrated, so I don't need aluminum compounds pulling out what little moisture is present in my body. Also, I just don't have room for another type of crazy. If I start worrying about my pits I will have to stop paying attention to my eyebrows, or my toenails, or that one weird hair that grows out of my nipple. These are crazies that have been cultivated over years, and I can't just toss them aside because Procter and Gamble had a product meeting.

Maybe they'll come up with something by 2014. That's when I will probably need deodorant again. Yep, that's right, I went back to Costco.

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Heigh Ho

Dear Friends,

By the time you read this, I will be back at work.

I would like to say I am in a better place, but I am not. Sure, I love my job, like or tolerate most of my co-workers, and am rarely beaten for insolent behavior, but all of that doesn't matter, because Meg will not be with me. Instead of my day being filled with naps, and baby coos, it will be filled with problem solving and problem making. Instead of warming bottles and wearing sweatpants I will be writing scripts and wearing (gasp) real clothes. Sure, I will still be dealing with shit, and some crying, but it won't be as cute. If only I could give a reporter or an editor a pacifier to make everything better. However, I think doing that would just lead to a meeting with HR.

And poor Meg. Today, for the first time, she won't be spending the morning with her Mother or Father. Yeah, she'll be with her grandmother for most of the time, but she also has to go to daycare -- for two whole hours. The woman caring her is so wonderful she kind of makes Mary Poppins look like a crack whore, but still, she isn't me. I just hope my sweet girl can nap through most of it so that she isn't too scarred later on in life.

Oh friends, if only something could be done to return me to my blissful days of lolling in bed with my daughter, not washing my hair, and having no more knowledge of current events that the average American. Of course, I would also like to be able to pay the light bill, have health insurance, and eventually send Meg to college.

If only I had enough plasma in my body to make my money that way. Or, if Sally were had any other talent other than eating electronics. Or, if the federal government actually mandated paid family leave, even in cases of adoption. Oh, or if I owned a unicorn that pooped gold. Or, maybe I could make money with my blog...

Sigh.

I think the unicorn is the most realistic option.

Somebody better have brought doughnuts to welcome me back.

Don't cry for me,

Libby

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Two Months

From this: To this:
Meg is growing so fast that I fear she will be taller than I am by her second birthday. I was really hoping to be the taller of the two of us until at least the age of three. It will be really awkward to try and comfort a toddler who towers over me. Oh, and she is strong. Her little fists pack a punch already. Unfortunately she hits herself as often as she hits anything else. The other day she bonked herself in the face and then just sat there stunned as if to ask "who did that?" I really felt bad for her. I still laughed, because it was funny, but I still felt bad.

Meg is a really social baby, and loves nothing more than hearing people talk. She also loves family dinners, and always demands to be fed at the same time we are all eating. She can be sound asleep, having just eaten ten minutes before, and, once she hears the sound of silverware and smells food, she is up and sucking on her hands. I guess nurture is as strong as nature after all.

I do worry about what Meg is doing to me. I am a complete wuss now. The other day I went to see "Julie and Julia" and cried at least five times because I was so touched. Yeah, touched, by a stupid movie. Don't get me wrong, I have always been a crier, but usually only when I am angry or crazy. I have never cried happy tears in my life before the arrival of Meg. Now, she smiles, and I cry. She gurgles, and I cry. She falls asleep on her Dad's chest, and I cry. Ryan claims that Meg has just made me a complete person, but I know the truth. She broke me.

Surprisingly, I don't mind. After all, did you see that face?

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Making a Name for Myself

Over the weekend I managed to slip away from the baby to see the movie "Julie and Julia." It's a great film based on the book that launched a thousand blogs. Yes, before Julie Powell plopped herself down at her computer and began cooking her way through Julia Child's cookbook no one really thought a blog could launch someone into stardom. Now, anyone who has ever wanted to write a book, but doesn't have the wherewithal to do it, the people Fran Lebowitz once said should "eat something sweet" to suppress their creative instincts, have flocked to the web to launch a blog in the hopes of being plucked from obscurity, just like Julie Powell. They may not admit it (I don't normally), but it's true.

Julie Powell had something a lot of bloggers, myself included, do not have though. She had a gimmick, and an expiration date. Her readers knew she wouldn't just be rambling on endlessly about her cats, or her baby, or her dog like some of us. They also knew there was a good chance she would fail, so they had the whole "I could be there to watch the car crash" thing to draw them in.

I have been doing this blog now for almost three years, and am approaching five hundred posts, most of which are of the rambling variety. And so, I have decided to step it up a notch. I am going Julie Powell on your asses. I am going to find a gimmick. I just need to decide which one....

Five Blog Gimmicks That Will Draw in Readers and Launch me to Super Stardom

1. The Bob Ross Project Copying Powell almost completely, I will pick a PBS celebrity, Bob Ross of the "Joy of Painting," and attempt to do all of the paintings in his 10 hour instructional DVD set. This will be especially interesting since I can't draw a stick figure. I may, or may not try to grow my hair into a Bob Ross afro as part of the project, I haven't decided yet.

This could be me...

2. The Slowly Killing Myself Project I will take something people love, and prove how horrible it is for them by grossly overusing it. I will also do possibly irrevocable harm to myself while doing it. Oh, and I will document every step of my journey with pictures and videos to show just how devoted, and freakish, I am. I was thinking of eating nothing but fast food, but that's been done. Now I am looking at drinking nothing but wine, or listening to nothing but conservative talk radio and following every directive given. Actually, if I listen to that much talk radio I may need a lot of wine, so I might combine the two.

3. The Downsizing Project Little by little I will get rid of everything I own, until I am down to nothing, living in a one room shack like Thoreau. Along the way I will rage against capitalism, while also talking piously about how much my life sucks, but how it is so worth it. Readers can also check in to see the possible dissolution of my marriage, since I will give away Ryan's stuff too.

4. The Protest Project I will find an esoteric cause and devote myself to it fully. Maybe it could be something like "give me back all of my stuff" after I go through with number 3. Whatever it is, I will be militant about it, and chain myself to something at least once a week.

5. The Tony Curtis Project Since I was 14 years old I have been in love with Tony Curtis. No, I am not kidding. I think the highpoint of my life would be if Tony could play a major role in a big life event. Since it's too late for him to walk me down the aisle, at least for this marriage, I think his attendance at Meg's first birthday would be the next best thing. So, for the next 10 months I could work furiously to secure Mr. Curtis' attendance at the party, by any means necessary, restraining orders be dammed. I will have to put ads on the site if I decide to do this one though, since I will likely need bail money.

I heart him...

Oh my. The possibilities are endless. I think I just need to decide if readers would be more interested in me ruining my own life and reputation, or that of a celebrity... What would Julie Powell do?

Thoughts?

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More Than a Monkey

A wise man once said "everything is funnier with a monkey." It is a maxim that has shaped my life. Most of my pajamas and leisure wear are covered with them. They are scattered all over my house in photos and decorations. There are so many monkeys on my desk at work that it looks like monkey island. On every gift giving holiday I am sure to get one monkey related item. For better or worse I am the "crazy monkey lady."

The other day I sent out a photo album to friends and family that contained this picture:
People sent me back messages telling me how cute Meg is, and how much she is growing. But one friend added a little extra. He wrote: "but seriously, you put a little black girl in a jumper that says 'silly monkey'. Really!?!"And my heart stopped.

I knew the moment was coming. I knew it from the moment that Ryan and I decided we would adopt an African American daughter. I knew that someone would question our racial sensitivity. I knew that it would probably be because of my love of monkeys, and the fact that the word monkey is used by some hateful people as a racial slur against African Americans. However, the fact that I knew all that didn't make it any less hard.

I seriously considered giving up the monkey thing when we learned Meg was coming. Actually, I did more than think about it: I changed everything that I wanted, telling people not to give us monkey items, and changing the bedding on our registry. I also cried a lot. I hated (and still hate) the fact that something that has brought so much joy to me could bring so much hurt to my child. Then I realized that if I decided to turn away from monkeys all my daughter would know of them is a racial slur. So, I took monkeys back.

I know when some people see Meg in a monkey outfit, or see the monkeys in her nursery, they will only see racial slurs. That is something THEY have to deal with. When I see them, and when Meg sees them, we will see the best possible world there is for for her. When the ugly parts of it surfaces, we will deal with them, but we will not hide the wonderful parts of the world just because some assholes have decided they need to have a double meaning. I mean, should we never give her watermelon? Or fried chicken?

Or, I could be wrong. If I am, I will keep the outfit as exhibit A for her therapy...

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