Women Are NOT Stupid

For the past few months I have been gnashing my teeth in anger at the number of ideas being put forth across the nation to "regulate" abortion. The bills that require a woman to have an ultrasound. The bills that require a woman to take a class. The bills that require a woman to undergo counseling. The proposal that a woman be made to watch an abortion before getting one. Each time a new one has come forward, I have shaken my fist, and roared a terrible roar.

Why?

Not because I am pro-abortion.

Not even because I am pro-choice.

Because at the heart of every one of these bills is the belief that women are idiots.

The sponsors of every one of these bills says they aren't trying to stop abortion, but instead are just trying to make women more "aware" of what is happening in their wombs, and what will happen if they undergo an abortion.

Do they really think women who have found themselves with an unwanted pregnancy aren't "aware" of all that?

I would say they are painfully aware.

I would say that almost all, if not all, women seeking abortions understand the physical, mental, and emotional ramifications their actions will have. However, they are also aware of the physical, mental, and emotional ramifications if they carry the pregnancy to term. So, they make a choice. 


Anyone who thinks it's an easy choice are really the ones who need to be made more "aware." 


As if calling women stupid isn't bad enough, some of the backers of these bills are also calling women liars. In Idaho a lawmaker objected to exempting victims of rape from undergoing an ultrasound before an abortion because most women who claim rape as a reason for an abortion are lying. 


You know, because women take rape so lightly. 


Suddenly, being called a "slut" doesn't seem that horrible. It's better than a stupid, lying whore. 


Did I not mention the whore implication in these bills? Oh, I didn't need to? Good. Moving on. 


Abortion is legal. Even if it is outlawed, it will still happen. There will still be women who make the choice to end their pregnancies. The only difference is, then they will have to make very risky choices do to it. Choices that could, and in many cases will, kill them. 

If these lawmakers really want to "protect" women they should make sure those aren't choices they have to make. 


Anything else would be idiotic.  

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An Open Letter to Mariah Carey

Dear Mariah,

Congratulations on your new babies! I am sure you are going to be a very interesting mom to say the very least. And I think that you're first act of parenting, I mean, after playing them your greatest hits tape and introducing them to the Reverend Al Sharpton as he renews your wedding vows, is to change their names.

No, I'm not saying your choices aren't unique. Monroe and Moroccan? Your kids definitely won't have to go by Monroe and Moroccan C to differentiate themselves from the scads of others with the same names in school. Mostly though, that whole uniqueness thing will bite them in the ass.

For instance, they will NEVER be able to find a pencil with their names on them at Disneyland.

Now, I know, that doesn't seem like a big deal. With all of your "Glitter" money you could buy them personalized unicorns with pencils for horns. However, when you're five, and you see all of those pencils, with practically every name in the world on them, and yours isn't there, it makes you feel crappy. Trust me. My name is Libby.

It isn't just pencils, or license plates, or rainbow mugs that are the problem either. You know that saying "kids can be cruel?" Well, guess what? KIDS CAN BE CRUEL. Yes, I know, kids can find a way to make fun of every name, but at least make them work for the payoff. Isn't it bad enough that bullies will already have the ammunition of the fact that you are their Mom and you took these pictures while pregnant? Maybe you should have just named your kids "give me a wedgie" and "really, take my lunch money" to make it easier.

If you don't want to change both names, at least change Moroccan, or let him go by his middle name -- Scott. After all, girls can get away with kooky names most of the time, especially if they are slutty, but boys have no such luxury. Also, Scott (I will always refer to him as that now) really should get to pick his own name, since you named him after a design scheme. Yeah, Mariah, we all know you named him after the decor in your third floor balcony. How do we know this? BECAUSE YOU TOLD US! IT'S LIKE YOU DON'T EVEN WANT THEM TO HAVE A CHANCE!

Sorry, I got a little excited.

Ahem.

Really, though, mazel tov. I hope you have very competent nannies to take care of all three, er two of your children. After all, we don't want you overexerting yourself.

That might lead to decisions you regret later.

Best of luck,

Libby

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Makes a Wipe Warmer Look Essential

Ladies and gentlemen, I have done it.

I have found the most ridiculous, unnecessary, single use baby product on the market. Oh, and of course, it is touted as the one thing no parent should be without.

I give you, the juppy:


No, that is not a reusable shopping bag with holes cut in it. I mean, I'm sure it was at some point, but now it is a revolutionary baby walking system, that can be yours for just 40 dollars! You aren't using that money for something else, are you?

I just don't see why anyone would want to buy something that removes them from really interacting with their child at a key developmental stage. I am well aware that, since becoming a mother, I have become much softer. I mean, I hardly ever put cats in trash cans for no reason any more. So, maybe that's it. Really, though, I think it's that I cannot imagine any greater pleasure right now than holding Meg's pudgy little hands while she tries to walk on her own. I love how that grasp helps me tell where she is getting stronger, and where she still needs help. I love how when my back gets tired I can tell it's probably time to give her little legs a break, since she is working much harder than I am. I love that she still is my baby, and am holding onto that feeling as long as I can.

Why would I trade that for a sack? Even one that is approved by "doctors?"

Also, the name just pisses me off. Juppy? Is is half jumpy half puppy?

I am sure there is someone out there, perhaps even reading this, who recommends the "Juppy" to everyone, telling them it is something no parent should live without. You know, kind of like how other parents say they can't do without those leash things, or how I recommend not living far from a liquor store. And maybe the "Juppy" parents are better off. After all, in the end they can sew up the legs, and make their money back by getting five cents off at the grocery store every time they refuse to use paper or plastic...

Yeah, I'm still not buying one.

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I'm A Little Rusty

Newborn babies are a lot of work.


This beautiful baby is Tara's four day old daughter, Wren. I am currently in California meeting Wren, and helping Tara and Kent get a handle on parenthood. You would think I would be a lot of help, having just recently dealt with a newborn of my own, but it turns out I am not.

It turns out that the skill set needed for a newborn is extremely specific, and goes away almost immediately after your child stops being a newborn, and starts trying to climb the kitchen cabinets. For instance, my swaddle is waaaay off. I used to be able to wrap Meg so tightly it was like she was shrink wrapped, all in under 15 seconds. Now, though, I am all thumbs. I couldn't even remember how deep the top corner needed to be to cover her little hands and keep them snug. Rookie mistake. Oh, and I forgot just how fast a newborn will pee once you take off a diaper, and how wiping sometimes makes them poop more. I hung my head in shame when a simple diaper change turned into a full outfit and blanket change because of my slow hands.

Of course, by the time my newborn skills come back, it will be time to leave, and put my toddler wrangling skills back to work. I hope Meg understands when I try to burp her instead of wipe her face, and when I make soothing ocean noises instead of playing "peek a boo." I also hope she doesn't mind when I call her "Wren." After all, Wren hasn't minded the fact I have repeatedly called her "Meg." Of course, Tara has also been calling her "Molly," which is the dog's name, so I don't feel too bad about that one.

After all, newborns are a lot of work.

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I Feel Petty

I feel like I am surrounded by pregnant women.

Really, it's like I'm in a pod person movie, and the pods are continuously talking about heartburn and hemorrhoids. Sometimes when they get hungry I fear for my fingers. After all, I am sure I look delicious.

There is no way in the world I would want to be pregnant right now. First of all, I have the world's most adorable daughter, and I am enjoying every minute of being her Mom. Another baby would be so unfair to her, as well as to the baby who would just pale in comparison at this point in time. Also, our house is close to bursting with just one baby; I can only imagine it with two. Despite these fact though, I find myself experiencing little pangs of jealousy with every baby announcement.

I think it's just that so many people are seemingly easily doing something I can't do. It isn't the babies they are having, again, none can hold a candle to Meg, but the fact they can have them at all. It's like being in a room filled with people who can whistle, and not being able to make a sound. You might have a flute that makes a much more beautiful sound, a sound you love more that any whistling you can imagine; and you know that even if you could whistle the sound probably wouldn't be as charming, intelligent, easy going, or sleep through the night as well as your flute. Also, everyone loves and admires your flute. Still, part of you still feels bad because you can't whistle.

Yeah, I know, that metaphor sucks.

Oh, and I wish I were taller.

Did I mention Meg is almost half my height? And that she sings the "Tiki Room" song? She's so amazing.

Maybe I'll use her picture to ward off hungry preggos. And if that doesn't work I will just throw pickles and run...

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Put Some Pants on That Kid!

It is getting warmer, which means people are wearing less. In the case of some babies and toddlers, a lot less. After all, we all know that when the weather gets warm there is a certain set of parents who see nothing wrong with dressing their small child in nothing but a diaper and a t-shirt. And this year? Huggies is encouraging them.


Yes, that's right, diapers that look like jeans. Oh, and this isn't just some kitschy "design" like Disney or Muppet characters, meant to be a secret between you and your baby. According to the press release they are meant to make a baby look "fashionable." Yeah, especially if the fashion in questions is "demo derby chic." The only thing that would make these "jeans" more "fashionable" is if they came with a matching disposable bib halter top or wife beater bearing the words "My Mom is a MILF."

Please, Huggies, don't do that. I was only kidding.

I am sure there will be a HUGE market for these jeans. In fact, I wouldn't doubt if there was a line out the door at Wal-Mart of Moms wanting to "multi-task" their child's summer wardrobe. Of course, the really ingenious ones would just buy plain diapers and draw pockets on them. After all, who says all jeans have to be blue? White jeans were quite popular in the 80's.

Again, Huggies, I'm kidding, not coming up with marketing strategies.

I guess on the up side Huggies has just set the bar a lot lower for us Moms who feel their kids aren't always dressed as well as they should be. Just getting them in real pants is now a victory. Yeah, I know that isn't an actual upside, but I'm reaching here, trying to convince myself this isn't another step on the path of the downfall of civilization.

Damn you, Huggies.

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Tara in Ten

Today I have a headache, am slightly depressed, and feel like I am developing the gout and/or cirrhosis of the liver. Yes, that's right, Tara was in town this weekend. Now, I could give you a blow by blow account of her visit, running down the activities of each day, or you could just go bang your head against something hard. Instead, I think I will just give you the top ten high points* of her trip.

1. We ate. Oh, how we ate. We went to all of our favorite haunts and are all of our favorite things. Mexican food. Pizza. Pastry. Pasta. Fried cheese. Crazy bread. As we all know calories do not count if you are pregnant or on vacation. Since Tara was both, I took advantage of her extra immunity.

2. We drank. Well, actually I drank. Tara has this whole thing about "fetal alcohol syndrome" so I had to pick up her slack. I can't be sure, but I am pretty sure at one point she yelled "Drink monkey! Drink and dance for me!" as she elted me with wine bottles. I might have just dreamt that though.

3. We beautified. After all, summer is coming, and no one likes to look at ugly toes. While Tara picked a suitable red, I decided to be a little daring and pick a beautiful blue.


Yeah, it looks like a smurf puked on my toes.

4. We conquered her baby registry. No, I did not get her to brave going into an actual Babies R Us. Let's face it, that is not for the faint of heart, even with a newly minted Mom as a guide. You need someone with at least two years experience and maybe a minivan to help navigate that heart of darkness. We did get on the internet though, and set up a registry with enough items to get her through at least the first five days of the baby's life. Then she can send Kent into the belly of the B.R.U.S beast to get anything else needed.

5. We crafted. We had to. We needed an activity for her baby shower, and it was either decorate onesies or make her eat candy bars of diapers. I value my life, so the choice was clear. This is the one I did:

This is the one Tara did:


Whatever.

10. I was mistaken for her mother. At the airport, as she was leaving on Sunday, I helped Tara get her stuff out of the car and to the skycap. The traffic officer came over to tell me to move my car. I said I would, but that I was helping Tara. The woman said that was fine, adding "you're a good Mom." Now, it was early, and no I was not looking all that great, but I did not look like the mother of a 36 year old woman. I have now decided to start mainlining Botox.

Wow, I think those ten points really paint a full picture of the weekend, don't you? The laughter. The tears. The moments when Tara and I realized we are friends because we know just how insane the other person is, and both respect and fear it. Oh, and that soon we will both be responsible for raising children, and that neither one of us is quite sure how we feel about it.

Good times.

And yes, that is how I count to ten.

*The term "high points" is subjective. You may have had other high points. And yes, I know I am using this footnote thing a lot lately. Deal with it.

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Spawn of Tara

I do not keep secrets well. I am the person who ruins surprise parties, who never gives a gift without asking the recipient if they will like it, and who reads all spoilers available, and then recaps them for people who don't necessarily want to know. However, for the past three months, I have kept a HUGE secret. Tara is totally knocked up.

Yep, that's right. She's got a bun in the oven. She's with child. She's in the family way. She's got a one way ticket to Momville on a placantal pony. In other words, she's pregnant. And I have known the WHOLE time. Since the first pee stick. Since the first panic. Since the moment when her partner said "I don't know what to say. Maybe you should call Libby." Yet, even though I've known, and I am a horrible secret keeper, I haven't said a word.

Okay, maybe that's not entirely true. Maybe I told a few people. I mean, of course I told Ryan, we share a brain. Oh, and I told my Mom. I didn't have to tell my sisters, because my mom told them. Ryan told our friend Lee, who told his wife Julie. I accidentally told our friend Meghan. And our friend Katie. Oh, and our friend Lindsey. Other than that though, I didn't tell anyone, and when you think of the number of people in the world, and how much I like to talk, that's pretty impressive. I mean, she's 17 weeks along by now, and this is the first blog about it. Really, I deserve a secret keeping medal.

If my almost stellar secret keeping ability isn't impressive enough, consider how I got the people who knew the secret to keep the secret that they knew from Tara. She was here over Christmas, and she saw them all. Yet, until this moment, she didn't know that any of them knew. When you think about it, I am really a master of manipulation. I could be a mob boss. I SHOULD be a mob boss. Except, then I would be telling everyone I was in the mob, and that probably wouldn't work out.

So, now you know. Tara is pregnant. Soon, the most sarcastic child ever will be born into the world. You should all be trembling with fear. Oh, and should it not be naturally sarcastic, we will nurture the shit out of it until it is. After all, Meg can't be the only child who learns to roll her eyes before she can walk.

I am so frickin' excited.

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What Comes Around

Believe it or not, I used to be crafty. Not super-crafty, by any means. Ryan is still waiting for a denim jacket decorated with a sparkly embroidered dragon, holding a kitten, and crying a single tear that he requested the second year we were dating. However, there was a time when I dabbled in things like crocheting and embroidery. Most people who have known me at least five years have some piece of my handiwork: a scarf, or a blanket, a tea towel, or a shirt. None of these pieces are spectacular by any means. Most of them are flawed in some way, and I'm sure a few are only used when I come to visit.

Until this week though, Meg had nothing that I had made.

I had thought about embroidering some clothing, or crocheting a blanket for her, but instead I have just been spending time with her. Also, with the speed I finish projects anything I would have started would have been too small by the time I finished.

Thank goodness for hand-me-downs.


I made that onesie. Well, I didn't make it, but I put the little flower on it. And I put a little flower on another onesie. And cherries on a third. And there is even one with a palm tree. I embroidered all of these onesies when our friend Liz had her baby five years ago.

This week Liz brought us more clothes than I think Meg will ever wear, all now too small for her girl. These onesies were in with those clothes. I am so happy to have them. What a great surprise.

It's baby clothes karma. And it's actually inspired me to finally start on that jacket. Only this one will be a 2T.

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Our Baby?

Being an adoptive parent you never know when you are going to have to deal with dumb, and some of the time insulting, questions. I mean everyone has to deal with questions like these, but adoptive parents seem to face more than their fair share. Take for example, my conversation with our plumber this afternoon. We both have daughters around six months, both doing about the same things. We were gabbing about the normal baby stuff when he started to do the subtle turn to adoption questions. You know, like, where was she born, and where is the birth Mom. I am so used to answering those I can do it in my sleep. And then, he hit me with a sucker punch: will the Mom (he dropped the birth) eventually take her back?

I am pretty sure I gave him a scary look, because he stopped talking immediately, and said he heard his mother calling. Or something like that, I didn't really hear him because the rage building in my ears was too loud. I showed him the door, and then went and hugged Meg tight.

Thinking back on it now, though, with a little bit of perspective, it wasn't really a dumb question. Insulting and uneducated, yes, but not necessarily dumb. After all, think of all of the media representations of adoption. I can not think of one book, movie, television show, or news story that casts adoption in a positive light. All of the mass media stories I know of are about parents who were robbed of their children by entitled others with no ethics and bad ovaries. Or about adopted children who want nothing more than to find the REAL parents. There are no popularly known stories about well adjusted adopted children who love their adoptive parents, and who are loved back. And yet, in my life alone, I run out of fingers and toes counting the ones I know.

I am hoping that as the years go on no dumb questions, or poor media representations, will bother me. I am also hoping that as the year's go on I won't feel the need to call Meg's "real" Mom to make her promise that this baby is ours to keep.

I am hoping. And I am getting another plumber.

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Five Months

From this:

To this:

Did you see how she figured out that flippy thing?
I know, she is sooooo brilliant. No state schools for her!

I knew, being married to Ryan, that it was possible to love someone more every day. However, I didn't know it was possible to feel that love growing every day. It took Meg to show me that. It also took Meg to show just how obvious human growth can be from day to day.

Really, every day Meg looks different. Some days she is longer. Some she is wider. Some she just looks wiser. And some days, she is doing something I didn't think she would be able to do for years. She is already sitting up, rolling over, screaming at the top of her lungs, and grabbing for anything she thinks looks interesting. If I didn't find it all so amazing I would be trying to fit her into a shoebox to keep her small.

The best part about this month? One month from today Meg will legally be our daughter. We are already getting the permits for the parade through the streets.

Oh, how we love this girl.

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It's Kind of Hurty

Tara and I have a new favorite game. Like most of our games, it centers on pain and mocking. Unfortunately, most of the pain and mocking is aimed at ourselves. The game is called "guess who's pregnant." I don't think we invented it, I think it has been played by every woman dealing with infertility since, well, since infertility became a concern. However, while it may not be a new game, I think Tara and I have perfected it.

First of all, there is the fact that we can usually guess who, in fact, is pregnant on either the first or second try. Yes, that might have something to do with our small circle of friends, but I like to think it's because we are both actually kind of psychic. Then, there is the fact that we can both instantly come up with at least five reasons why it is unfair said person is pregnant instead of us. You know, because they already have two beautiful children, or we know they will name them something dumb, or because said person is a dude, reasons like that. Further, without even stopping to think, we both can come up with why this person is more deserving of being pregnant, and why both of our wombs will likely stay empty and gathering cobwebs until the end of time. This is where the game gets good. Where we were both united on the last two rounds, now it's every woman for herself, until the last, most pathetic one, is left standing. I have to say that since we have adopted Meg it has been harder for me to win this round, since Tara now has the "you have a baby" card to play, but sometimes, when I am really working it, I can still pull out a win.

Yes, yes , I know this game is not constructive, and possibly hurtful to all involved, but that's how we roll. Also, I hate to tell you all this, but optimism never actually got anyone pregnant. Also, I know that when the answer to the question "guess who's pregnant" is either me or Tara we will both be too overjoyed to play.

But I'm sure there will be other women dealing with infertility willing to play for us.

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Ribbit

Meg reached two big milestones this weekend. First, she laughed, legitimately laughed, out loud. And she did it multiple times. It is the best sound in the world. Oh, and she started rolling over, front to back, repeatedly. Of course, I could tell you she also started singing opera, because I have as much proof of that as I do of the laughing and rolling over. It isn't because we feel that documenting these moments would in some way steal her soul. It isn't that we don't have still, and video cameras within arms reach at ALL TIMES. It is because, you see, our daughter is Michigan J. Frog.

As everyone knows, Michigan J. Frog, before he became a shill for a now defunct television network, was the amphibian who ruined a hapless man's life in "Merrie Melodies." He had a beautiful voice, and great stage presence, but he would only sing when only the man was watching. The minute the man tried to show off his talents, or make money off of them, all Michigan would say was "ribbit." If Meg could say "ribbit" when we pulled out the cameras, she would. Of course, that would be entertaining, so she probably wouldn't. She would say it the minute we put the camera away though.

This morning she was laughing up a storm. Really, you would have thought Ryan and I were the funniest people in the world the way she was cracking up. And all we were doing was making baby noises while tickling her sides. I grabbed the camera. I hid behind Ryan and I turned it on. Ribbit. She couldn't even see me, but she could sense the camera was on, and suddenly, she was off.

Same thing with the rolling over. Three times in a row she pushed herself over from her tummy to her back. The fourth time? While the camera was rolling? She sucked on her hands and then started to cry. I guess she wanted it documented how mean I am to her.

I would love to say she was just having an off weekend, but really, this is how she is. Meg is one of the most smiley babies in the world, though you wouldn't know it from the pictures. We have been able to capture her smiling only twice, and both times were on crappy cell phone cameras. Trying to get her to smile, or keep her smiling, with a good camera up and ready is an impossibility. Oh, wait, she will smile -- if the camera malfunctions.

Maybe I will chisel a picture of Meg smiling. Don't know how I will prove she laughs though...

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What is Your Baby Wearing?

Buying clothes for a baby is not an easy proposition. On one hand, there are clothes everywhere, in every store, all crying out "cute." On the other hand, most of those clothes are either poorly made, feature evil cartoon icons of corporations, or are so "cute" that they make any rational adult want to puke. Oh, and on the third hand the well made, cute, but not too cute, comfortable baby clothes cost more than anyone should pay for an outfit that will be worn maybe twice and vomited on repeatedly -- I mean, unless you're Lindsey Lohan.

I feel like we have really lucked out when it comes to Meg's clothes. We have many, many people who have given us wonderful hand me downs, and we have discovered that, for the most part, clothes by Carter's are economical, well made, and just cutesy enough to be darling without making me need insulin. However, I am starting to notice some nefarious undertones in their garments. Take this one for example:


At first glance it looks like a basic nightgown featuring good animal friends and the words "I love hugs." Really, who doesn't? Well, I don't really, but that's another post. Let's go back to the nightie, and look a little closer...

How many people, or animals do you know that give hugs right under the jawbone, covering the trachea? Unless you know a lot of serial killers, I am betting none. That elephant is not hugging that giraffe, he is trying to kill it. "I love hugs?" More like "I love inter species hate crimes." Oh, and that's not all. I give you, the jacket:

Try to ignore the adorable baby and focus on the ears on the hood. You cannot buy a Carter's jacket without them. It's almost like the CEO of the company has seen "The Island of Doctor Moreau" one too many times and declared all babies must look like genetic experiments. Luckily they look like cute genetic experiments.

I makes me wonder if I should listen to Barney CDs backwards to listen for satanic messages. Wait, you can hear those forwards, can't you?

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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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Babies Are The Answer

Having a baby is awesome. You would not believe how much stuff I can get away with now. I can be late, look horrible, not return phone calls or emails, and mumble incoherently, but no one cares as long as I blame it on the baby. The baby was up all night. The baby has so much stuff it is difficult to get out of the house on time. The baby wanted to go for hot wings and beers. As long as I start my excuse with the words "the baby" no one listens to the rest of the sentence, and if I actually have Meg with me I don't even need to start talking.

Meg is more than just a permanent excuse though., she is also the perfect gift for the person who has everything. No, I am not giving my baby away, then I wouldn't be able to use her as an excuse any more. Rather, I am giving away adorable pictures of her away. I mean, no one is going to say they don't love a picture of this beautiful girl. Relatives? Friends? Ryan? All are getting Meg related gifts. And thanks to Kodak Gallery when I am done with pictures I can move on to Meg key chains, Meg mouse pads, Meg puzzles, and Meg t-shirts -- all of which will have to be updated as Meg gets bigger and changes more. I will never have to set foot in a mall again thanks to this kid. Maybe I'll get her a fleece throw with her face on it to say thank you.

Meg could also be the answer to all of our money worries for the rest of our lives. Well, not just Meg, but babies in general. You see, I think I have found a way to harness their cuteness for my monetary gain. One word: Babycam. Picture it, a web site where people can go day or night, and gaze on adorable babies. No crying babies, no angry babies, just cute, cuddly, smiley babies. I know brilliant. Really, I think the only thing I need to decide is whether or not to make this a subscription site, or if it will make enough money with ads alone. Those LOL cats better watch their backs.

Okay, I gotta go. I would write a better wrap up to this post, but the baby needs me. I'm sure you understand.

Awesome.

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The Baby That Changed Me

I am lying here on the couch with my dog, my laptop, and my daughter. Words cannot express the joy and contentment I am feeling. Really, I think her breath must contain Prozac. All of the cliches are true. The world feels different. Time goes faster. I don't care about eating or sleeping, I just want to be with her. And really, how could I not? Just look at this face...
Her name is Mary Ellen Grace, but we are calling her Meg. She was born on Thursday at 12:36pm and weighed in at 6 pounds exactly. She is 19 inches long and most of that is legs. She has long fingers and toes, and LOTS of hair. She doesn't like to take big feedings, preferring just to "snack" every hour. It is a practice we are trying to change.

So in love. So Mushy. Don't even mind it.

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Update: Update

Papers are signed. We take OUR DAUGHTER home tomorrow.

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Update

We are here at the hospital, waiting to sign papers to make a beautiful baby girl legally ours. I cannot express how hard the last 36 hours have been. First of all, we thought we had two weeks until the birth, and second, we just can't wait until the uncertainty period (will the birth mother sign, won't she) is over. We want to take what we hope is our baby home.

We are not the only adoptive parents here. In fact, most of the rooms on our hall are for mothers placing babies; you can tell because they put a little gift package sign on the door. It's heartbreaking and amazing all at the same time. Here are these women doing the hardest thing they will ever have to do, and here are couples who are getting the gift they have been waiting for, in some cases, their whole lives.

The birth mother is wonderful. I almost feel I have bonded more with her than with the baby. Of course, that may have something to do with the fact Ryan won't put the baby down. The birth mother is smart, talkative, funny, and opinionated. I adore her. Last night we sat and trash talked TV shows until the nurses kicked Ryan and me out. Through all of this I really hope she knows how much we love this baby, and how grateful we are to her. We will always remember her, and not just because the baby has her dimple when she smiles.

Thank you for all your kind words and offers to help. I will post pictures when we get her home. Ryan will be in all of them.

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Panic at the Nursery

I was going to blog today about the absurdity of the Michael Jackson funeral, and how I just can't wrap my head around this absolutely insane outpouring of grief for a man that has been largely ridiculed and villainized by the very people now praising him. I think it's the product of a perfect storm of absolutely no other news and Jackson's ability to sell tickets, no matter what the situation. I was going to write about that, I really was. And it was going to be funny. Really funny. However, those plans are being thrown out, due to the fact I can't really focus on anything else besides the fact that we might be getting a baby, and the fact I am totally panicked about it.

For almost three years we have been working towards this moment. We have spent thousands of dollars on medical treatments and then adoption agencies, and thousands of hours in emotional turmoil over the fact out efforts have not been successful. Now, we are just weeks away from quite possibly becoming parents, and I am freaking out. Oh, and I am not just freaking out because we might not get this baby. I mean, don't get me wrong, that is causing me plenty of grief. The fact that we will not know if this baby is ours until at least 24 hours after her birth, and that at any moment the rug can be pulled out from under us has me constantly hyperventilating. Beyond that though, there is a greater fear -- that we will actually get to bring her home.

What if it turns out I don't really like children? I mean, I do like them, but what if it turns out I only like them in small doses? What if three hours after bringing this baby into our home I am waiting for someone to come and pick her up? What if I don't bond with her? If I always think of her as some kid who came to live with us, and not our own daughter? Worse yet, what if she doesn't bond with me? What if she hates me? I mean, it's hard to believe, but some people don't like me. She could be one of those people.

Oh, and then there is the fact I have gotten exactly NOTHING done that I wanted to do before the baby arrived. I have not lost any weight. I have not cleaned out the room. I haven't socked away near enough money. And now I feel like I don't want to do any of that. I'm kind of in a coma, and it feels like all I can do is think about the fact I am going to die.

I know they say having a child makes you immortal, but really, I feel the most mortal I ever have. The fact I could soon have a child shows I am aging, and reaffirms the fact I will die. Oh, and now I have to worry about this baby dying as well. Not just the big death either, but all the little deaths that we suffer throughout our lives, that this child will have to suffer, that I won't be able to protect her from suffering.

I think you can now see why I am not writing about Michael Jackson.

I am hoping all of these anxieties are only temporary. I am hoping that the joy and excitement of having a child I felt when we first began this process returns, and perhaps intensifies when she becomes a part of our family. That's what I hope. Until that happens I will just be taking deep breaths, and trying to keep calm. Oh, and maybe I'll finally start setting up the nursery. No promises though.

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