Birdy got ejected from church for the second Sunday in a row. Only this time, we were at my in-laws’ church, and we had to go to the “cry room,” (It’s a Catholic thing, a little soundproofed cage so that you can let your children wail and still not miss even one second of the mass just because you have a child or twenty that are having total meltdowns and need just a little attention from you) which I did not especially mind considering that mass always makes me uncomfortable and itchy anyway. I’m not a Catholic, and I’m not planning on becoming one (no matter what anyone expects), so I’m fine to sit in the glassed-off baby cage. Oh, and if you have a child that is anywhere in age from six months to two years or maybe more, you should pack up those wrap dresses right now and put them in the attic. All of St. Luke’s parish saw my boobies and big chunks of my fish-belly-white thighs throughout the mass, as I tried to contain my climbing Birdy while she untied the belt that holds the whole thing together, giving the cry-room folks a crotch-shot while I crawled around to pick up the toys that she threw on the ground. It was totally hot.
In an effort to keep up with the times, we listened to the weekly top 40 countdown on our five-plus-hour drive back to the Mid-South. It’s hosted by Ryan Seacrest now, did you know that? I mean, I guess I didn’t think Dick Clark was doing the countdown from his deathbed (is Dick Clark still alive?), but I was a little shocked about the Seacrest. Some thoughts on the top forty:
- We were posed this question, on a commercial break: “What do Hootie and the Blowfish and Superman have in common?” To which A. replied, “They both suck. Except Superman.”
- Um, what is a Hollaback Girl? And who let Gwen Stefani pout and whine her way so far into the cultural consciousness? Wasn’t she some kind of ska-pop girl at one time? Her singing voice sounds like something I would make up to annoy my brother during afternoon carpool.
- And finally, a skater-pop song with the chorus, “You are my dirty little secret,” which of course, was sung “Dirty little Seacrest” while we made up scenarios about him singing the song to himself in the mirror while he checks out his new Botox and stubble extensions. I bet Ryan Seacrest is someone’s dirty little secret. Ooh la la.
And Birdy had a serious meltdown complete with coughing and gagging as a result of out-of-control crying while we were completely stopped in traffic and I had to pee. We finally pulled over at the river exit, and passed the Ramada Inn where we spent Christmas Eve 2004 during the Longest Trip to Indiana, Ever. It was the Christmas where a 5 hour trip turned into a 16.5 hour trip, spread over two days, and involved getting two dogs on an elevator, eating Feliz Navidad burritos, drinking beer, and smoking cigarettes in bed while watching cable (ok, that part was pretty nice), and leaving the credit card at the hotel, all due to icy weather and our pit-bull attitude toward making it to every family event and making sure it’s special, dammit. What I mean to say about all of this is that I hate feeling helpless when Birdy’s in crisis, even though we’ve weathered storms greater than this pissed-off baby at the Louisville Ramada. But this going home/ having visitors thing– the frequency of it and the discomfort inflicted– is starting to seem totally nuts.
If you want to go to massage school, take it from me:
A good class partner makes all the difference. We’re nearing the end of the term, and I have my handful of go-to people when it’s time to partner up. Girl who hasn’t been here half the term? No thanks. Girl who is still uncomfortable touching others? Moving along. Know-it-all hypochondriac and general irritant? I don’t even see you. Today, I partnered with the person at the top of my “A” list, and had a very, very good class. This person is waaaaay farther along in the program, so she does great work and I learn a ton from her. She’s also a total open book, and by the end of class she was working on my fingers and hands and we were whispering about her new boyfriend like sixth graders at a slumber party. And did you know that after I pass my board exam and get my LMT, it’s just another short step to being a for-real doula? I might like that.
Attention, Tooth Fairy:
Birdy has a tooth! And with very little drama, I might add. I felt it on Saturday at A’s family cookout in Indiana, and while you can’t really see it (mostly since Birdy has her tongue sticking halfway out most of the time at this point), you can definitely feel it. So I dropped Birdy off at daycare on Monday, and I triumphantly exclaimed that we had a budding tooth and that it was the biggest event in our wide-eyed and awestruck family at the moment. And the daycare worker said “Yeah, we know she has a tooth.”
Two things: If my kid cuts a tooth in your care, I want to fucking know about it. And you already ruined the “Hey! Bird can crawl!” moment for me, so at least let me pretend to discover just one of these beautiful new things about my own little biscuit. They really do grow up so fast, just like the little old ladies at the grocery store say they will, and mine is doing too much of it at the damn daycare.
The day the music died
My husband is no longer in a band. By this I mean that he is no longer in a band at all. If you know A., you are shaking your head and saying “WHAT?!?!” but I speak the truth.
If I push my extra belly-skin together towards my navel, it looks just like a little butt. Like Birdy’s butt. I have enough extra flab around my middle to make up a child’s ass, and then some.
I will leave you with a pic of birdy having her first one-girl pool party at Grandma’s: