That Which Never Was

When I found out I was pregnant a couple weeks ago, I looked forward to the time it would be appropriate to share the good news. Would I post the requisite picture of the pregnancy test, or was that lame? I hadn't decided yet. But, in the end, it didn't matter because I am not writing about my pregnancy, I'm writing about my miscarriage.

I wrote those words about a week ago. What followed was a long, convoluted post in which I tried to say more than I could manage at the time. Losing this pregnancy obviously brought up a plethora of emotions, but it also brought the memory of our trouble conceiving Charlotte and of my first miscarriage, to the surface. And, I just can't cover everything I am thinking about in one post. So, I'm starting over and just focusing on what happened last week and where I am now.

Getting pregnant after only two cycles of seriously trying was a very new experience for us. Here is that story, if you're interested. Something about it felt wrong. We weren't the couple who just decides to expand their family and POOF! We've done it. That's not us. Our story is supposed to be full of bitter resentment, disappointment, despair, and heartache. Between that nagging feeling that this was too easy, and the fact that we suffered an early miscarriage three years before, we were cautiously optimistic. But, as the days went on and my breasts continued to ache, and I continued to feel like I had been run over by a truck, the caution began waning.

Maybe we had been through enough. Maybe now it WAS our turn to have it easy. I had already had a miscarriage; surely I wouldn't have another one. Charlotte's pregnancy worked out just fine. Maybe we had turned a corner. So, we let ourselves get more and more excited, and every day our optimism grew exponentially. This pregnancy started out as a big secret, and within a week,ended up being almost common knowledge.

And then one day a pinkish hue was visible against the stark white of the toilet paper. It was ever so slight, but in my mind it was positively glaring. I called the doctor and was told that since the spotting had already stopped, to take it easy and call again if it resumed. Days went by, and I thought we were in the clear. Then Thursday came. I went to the bathroom: blood. Just a little bit of brown blood, but enough to paralyze me with fear. And then, instantly, I was angry. I didn't even know that this was necessarily a sign of trouble yet; after all, you are told constantly that spotting is common and many times innocuous in early pregnancy. But, I was pissed. Because I'm just so goddamned tired of pregnancy being this unattainable and terrifying thing. Because I was right about this pregnancy being "too easy." And, even if it turned out to be alright, I was just...so tired.

So, I drove myself to urgent care, and Chris met me there later that evening with Charlotte who had been napping when I needed to leave. When I got called in to the exam room, Chris and Charlotte were out wandering the halls since she was getting restless. I asked the nurse if I could get them to come in with me. She got really uncomfortable and said she would ask the doctor, but she didn't sound very optimistic. I told her if it was a problem, I could do without it, but I just didn't want to be alone if there was bad news. So, she asked, and I could hear a gruff voice answering, "What? No, I can't have the whole family in here." Then, he burst into the room, introduced himself, and proceeded to make me more and more uncomfortable as the exam progressed. First, there was the complete lack of an attempt to hide his disdain for my plan of having my family with me in the room. Next, he yelled at the nurse no fewer than three times for her apparent ineptitude (She seemed to be doing just fine to me.) And, finally there was the all-business way he informed me that I might be having a miscarriage, with no sympathy or concern in his voice or manner, and then repeated it incessantly. I'm sure I gave him every indication that I understood what he was telling me; there was no need to say it seven times.

Every time I have had a vaginal ultrasound since my first miscarriage, I wait in agony for the doctor to speak once he or she has inserted the wand and begun perusing the monitor, searching for a heartbeat. This time was no different, only it was made worse by the fact that I was in the presence of a doctor I had learned to loathe in a matter of minutes and didn't have Chris there to hold my hand. This time he told me he didn't see a heartbeat, but did (to his credit) quickly add that it might just be too early. He told me to put myself on bed rest, ordered me a blood test to be repeated a few days later to check my levels, and sent me home.

The days leading up to the Sunday I was meant to go have my follow up blood test performed were horrible. I held on to hope, even when the bleeding increased over the next few days. I told myself it was not as heavy as a period yet, and it would stop for hours at a time. Those few days were hard because Chris and I really didn't know what to expect. He was more optimistic than I was, but I went through periods of hope and increasingly more frequent periods of dismay. The ups and downs were tiring, and I was eagerly awaiting my second blood test Sunday morning which would reveal if my levels were increasing enough to call this a viable pregnancy.

But, I didn't make it that far. Saturday night the cramps started, and the bleeding was not something you could ignore or explain away. By Sunday morning (Superbowl Sunday) we were back at urgent care where my second blood test and an ultrasound confirmed what we already knew: this pregnancy was not only not viable, it was on its way out. Luckily, the doctor who saw me on this day was the kinder, gentler, and more encouraging of the two. I was also alone this time, because Chris and I both agreed after being there for a couple hours that he should take Charlotte home to nap. But, this doctor took the time to talk to me, answer my questions, reassure me that I should be able to have another child, and even squeezed my shoulder briefly before leaving the room. It was a vast improvement over the previous experience and just one of the many things I have found reason to be grateful for throughout this experience.

I am grateful for my beautiful, healthy child. For my husband who is not only a supportive and caring partner, but a wonderful friend. My best friend. And, somehow, the fact that he could make me laugh even in the darkest moments of this experience, makes me realize that we will be okay and makes me feel so lucky to be married to him. I am grateful that my body knew how to take care of this on its own and that I didn't have to have any interventions. I am grateful for our family and friends who stepped up with child care, gifts, cooked dinners, and washed dishes. I am grateful that even though I wish I hadn't been so frivolous with the news that we were expecting, everyone handled our disappointment perfectly. No one made me regret sharing with them. Which, is great, because I don't know that I could have handled it any other way.

And, that's the tricky part, isn't it? It's hard to contain your excitement over something as huge as being pregnant. It consumes your thoughts, your body, your entire life. How can you have casual conversations with your friends and family and NOT respond to their inquiries on your general well-being with, "Well, I can hardly keep my eyes open all day, my head is pounding from the caffeine withdrawals, I obsessively check my toilet paper for signs of bleeding, and I pretty much spend all day thinking about this super-secret baby I'm hiding in my womb. How are YOU?"

So, we sometimes take the risk and share our happy or happily terrifying news. Because it's human nature, or maybe mostly female human nature, but, we need support. We need people to be happy for us, hopeful for us, and then we need them to grieve with us when it doesn't work out. Using this logic, it's strange that we don't just take out an ad in the Sunday paper announcing our pregnancies the moment we see the double blue lines. But, there's something else. Something I can't quite put my finger on, but something that will prevent me from being so open about it next time. It's the same thing that made me regret telling as many people as I did. I think it's...embarrassment. Like, if I thought I was getting a promotion or a new house, and I told everyone about it, and they celebrated with me, congratulated me, and then it didn't work out? I'd feel silly. And I guess that's how it felt when I had to un-tell people about this pregnancy. Ridiculous? Maybe.

It's also hard to relive it over and over again. Especially because whenever someone heard the news and then proceeded to be amazingly kind and sympathetic, it would set me off crying all over again. When I had my first miscarriage I had only been at my new job for a few days. I didn't know anyone. Didn't have any friends there. So, when I returned from my leave of absence and the school secretary very warmly put her hand on my shoulder and told me to call her if I needed anything, I collapsed into paroxysms of sobs and unintelligible muttering. She hugged me until I was whisked into the principal's office, presumably so I would stop making a scene in front of the children.

So, maybe I will handle things differently if and when I get pregnant again. And,that "if" is what keeps me up at night. I should take solace in the fact that we got pregnant so easily this time around, and I do. But, I would be lying if I said that I wasn't just a wee bit terrified of the possibility that we just lost our only chance at having the family of our dreams. And, yes, we hit the jackpot with the child we have, but I do think we're allowed to want another one. I realize this sounds defensive, and maybe it is. I just know that somewhere out there someone wants to tell me to be grateful for the child I have, and I just want you all to know that I AM. WE are.

A long time ago, my sister-in-law and I were having a discussion about whether or not it is any easier to go through a miscarriage when you already have one or more healthy children at home. And, really, this was a completely useless discussion because how could we possibly decide something like that? How you handle a miscarriage will depend so much on so many different factors in your life, and it will vary from person to person. All I know is that for me and Chris, it is so much easier. When I walked out of that exam room after the Ultrasound of Doom and was greeted by a grin spreading across those chubby cheeks and golden curls bouncing up and down as my daughter ran to meet me, and later when I was treated to her very seriously looking me in the face and saying,"What's wrong, Mommy?" I knew I was going to be okay. Because I have to be. For her.

So, that is the very long story of my miscarriage. I feel a little better every day, a little more like my old self, and a little more ready to move on and continue trying for the baby we hope to have someday.

A Day in the Life

I used to constantly write about my life, however mundane it might be. I think it was easier when I started this blog because I was a new blogger, but also a new mother. And, every day I was experiencing something for the first time. Days spent nursing and changing diapers, folding tiny, little bibs and pants, were days filled with the joy that comes with being a wannabe mother who has finally fulfilled her destiny. Certain days would read like a comedy of errors, complete with a baby toppling off the bed or one of those poop blowout diapers we so often discuss in the parenting community.

It was all so easy then. Everything was a blog post. And, while those emotions and frustrations are all still there, though I can still tear up watching my husband read a story to our daughter, or somehow find peace in a day filled with tantrums and inconveniently timed diaper changes, I cannot for the life of me lately find the words.

And, it isn't because there isn't anything new or interesting to say about being a mom, because all around me people are doing it. Ginger, for example, wrote this beautiful post about a moment she shared with her son. A moment like so many of us experience on a daily basis. A moment that sticks with us, no matter how brief it may have been.

And then there's Clara, who is an amazing writer (and my Zen Master,) who wrote this post about an average day at home with her boys that is absolutely hilarious.

So, you, know, it CAN be done. But, you need to have a certain amount of talent and inspiration. And I'm not being whiny here; I do have small amounts of both, but they don't always choose to hang around at the same time, and sometimes they ditch me and go out for beers, and then all I can think to write about is how I made muffins today. Scintillating, no?

So, what this all amounts to is a blog about my inability to blog. But, never fear! I will write again. In fact, I got Charlotte down for an impossibly early bedtime tonight, which means I have more time before I collapse in a heap on my bed (Did I also mention I've been going to bed, like, two hours earlier than usual lately?)So, I am going to take Clara's advice and try some free-writing to get my brain moving so that one day soon I can share some awesomely bad fiction with you!

Sounds like a plan to me.

Sorry for all the links. I was all nostalgic and stuff.

Serenity Now!

Wow, has it really been over a week since my last post? The super lame one that wasn't so much a post as a list of ingredients in my cupboard? Man, this might be a new low.

It isn't traffic, comments, or networking potential that I mourn when I don't post for a while. I mourn the words that I was too lazy or tired or preoccupied to write. They might not necessarily be eloquent words, they might not say what I need them to say, but each one of them helps me stretch that writing muscle and brings me closer and closer to finding that eloquence.

See? That muscle metaphor? Weak. But, now I'm writing. I'm thinking. I'm trying things out. And maybe if I write again tomorrow, instead of a week from now, I'll be able to come up with something before that muscle stiffens up again. Oh, yes, I am riding this lame metaphor ALL the way out.

Get ready for a forced segue!

Speaking of stretching muscles, let's talk about my current fitness routine!

Yeah. That just happened. Believe it.

No, but seriously. Remember when I wrote this post about being happy? Part of the deal was to focus on being healthy instead of thin. And while there are times *cough*Christmas*cough* that I am neither, I think if I were to stick to what I said, I should be reasonably pleased with myself. I don't always find the time or energy to exercise, and I might bake a little too much for my own good. But, generally, I am healthy.

But recently, I've found that I do need to be more proactive in losing some weight. My clothes don't fit properly, and I'm not comfortable in my own skin. And I find myself wishing I could just do one of those crash diets that are just as impossible as they are bad for your health. I could eat nothing but grapefruit for a month, right? No. I couldn't. Even if I could, why would I want to?

Sometimes I understand how morbidly obese people on those TLC shows get to be the way they are. Maybe they just get so damned tired of thinking about food and calories and fats, until they wonder if this was really how they were meant to spend their lives: struggling against a country and culture that foster obesity while concurrently shaming anyone whose arms jiggle when they wave. Maybe it's like, "Screw it! I'm just going to enjoy this food and not think about it." As if that were possible.

Maybe I should get to my point. Balance. That is the word of the day. The word for my year. Instead of pondering crash diets or berating myself for even considering them and thus going back on my resolution to be healthy, I will accept that I would like to look different and take steps to achieve that. Then when I take one of those steps, I will pat myself on the back. Like when I had a good workout on the treadmill or when I choose a grapefruit over a third pancake (Both those things really happened!)And when I slip up? I slip up. I can be okay with it. I think.


When my husband showed me this lovely picture, all I could talk about was how fat I looked. I don't want to be that girl. I want to punch that girl in the face.

I'm looking for balance with my writing. I need to do more of it, but I also need to spend more time on my projects, meaning I can't worry about how often I update my blog if I'm working on something I need to spend more time writing, like the fiction I keep saying I'm going to attempt. Maybe I need some writing prompts. Or a dictator. A dictator who has given up on world domination and just wants to see me write a short story, for god's sakes, and who will yell at me until I'm done.

Balance in parenting. I think I have made vast improvements in my quest to stop worrying and over-thinking every feeling I have as a mother. Like, I don't need to feel guilty because I wish I could get out of the house more and do some of the things I did before having Charlotte. It doesn't mean I don't love her. It doesn't mean I regret having a child. I know these seem like obvious statements, but this is really how crazy I am.

The other night, Charlotte was in one of the moods, all too familiar at this juncture of our relationship, where she wanted to push my buttons. She was doing the opposite of everything I told her to do. She grabbed on to the base of a floor lamp in the corner of my bedroom she knows she isn't supposed to touch. I asked her to stop. At which point, she looked directly at me and began to shake it harder. I moved to physically pull her away from it, but I was too late. The heavy, frosted glass shade fell down and landed on her head. In that instant, before I had a chance to see the damage, when I wasn't sure if it had hit her eye, cut open her head, or gave her a concussion, I was terrified. But, I was also MAD. I told my friend that she was trying to piss me off, and she succeeded more than she had dared to hope was possible. I hate when people use a child's injury as an "I told you so" moment, convenient though it may be, so I refrained. But, once I ascertained that it was just a bump, I silently thought, "Bet you won't be touching that lamp again!"

The old me would second-guess those feelings, wonder if a GOOD mom, a mom who actually loved her children would entertain those thoughts. But, I didn't. I have accepted the balance between the idea of devoting all of yourself, leaving nothing for yourself, and of being a selfish parent. I am neither. I am human. I am ZEN.

Okay, so I'm far from Zen. But, I'm closer. Happier.



Oh, and these are my new glasses. Special shout-out to Jana who told me all about the magic of Warby Parker.

Help Me Make Dinner?

I've entered some stagnant water with my meal planning. This fall I was getting new and exciting produce from my CSA, scanning cookbooks and websites like mad, and discovering great dishes.

Things went a bit haywire over the holidays; we ate out a lot, ate at our parents' houses, and when we did eat at home, we sort of just scraped something together and passed out. Then my CSA took a two-week break for the holidays, and I was ever so lost without my veggies and the 500 apples they were sending me every week.

So, now that I have a fridge full of food again, I'm feeling a bit lost. I want to try some new recipes, but I haven't got the energy to hunt for them. So! Lest I resort to another week of the same risotto, potato soup, and stir fry that I have been eating for weeks, perhaps you could peruse this short list of stuff I have sitting around my kitchen and give me some ideas. Please? I can't promise I'll save some for you, but I will describe it to you in mouthwatering detail! That's just as good, right?

Okay, here's what I have:

Broccoli
Cauliflower
Potatoes (Oh, so many potatoes!)
Kale
Turnips
Spinach
Oranges
Onions
Garlic

And some non-produce items I already had:

Arborio rice
Brown rice
Quinoa
Black beans
Polenta


Hopefully at least ONE person will give me ONE idea. Then I will have a new recipe and won't feel like a jackass for posting this. I'll return the favor when I'm feeling more inspired...

Adventures in Exercise

I think I need to throw this bag of truffles into the trash. I sort of indicated that I was going to stop eating so many truffles after the holidays, didn't I? I do apologize for misleading you.

But! It's okay, because I actually went out for a run today. Well, a walk/run. And there may have been more walking than I'd care to admit. But, still! I went. And it was quite the ordeal, but I went anyway. Mainly because I have a little friendly wager going on with Cheryl, and whoever runs three times a week, ten times, first, gets a Starbucks card. I just envisioned lattes while I was panting along. There were a few reasons it was such a chore making this run happen today.And they are as follows:

My toddler's sleep schedule, otherwise known as OMGWTF?

We are still trying to undo the damage the holidays did to Charlotte's very delicate ability to sleep like a normal person. We live very close to both our families, plus we had family visiting from out of town. Between seeing everyone, shopping, family outings, etc. she kind of just napped when she napped, if at all, and bedtimes got later and later. It was very stressful, and ultimately resulted in what we have now, which is an almost-two-year-old who goes to bed around ten, sleeps in till nine, and naps late in the afternoon.

In trying to undo some of this damage, I spent an inordinate amount of time trying to make her nap earlier. I'll spare you the boring details, but it was looking like she was finally going to sleep, but not early enough that I would have time to run before it got dark when she woke up. So, when she fought through that last attempt, I threw up my hands, made her a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and strapped her into the jogging stroller. If she wants to stay up, we're doing what *I* want to do.

The Wind

I live in the desert, and one of the many fun weather patterns, besides crippling heat and frigid (to us, anyway) lows, is the wind. It's intense. Case in point: my friend bought her daughter a trampoline for Christmas. and a few days later the wind blew it up over a wall and into the neighbor's yard, effectively destroying it. When we were kids and lived in a more remote part of the desert, my sister and I would walk down the street to our friends' house where the four of us would each collect a tumbleweed, place them in the middle of the street, then let go and run away as the wind blew them down the road. Good, clean, hick fun!

So, after bundling Charlotte, handing her her cookies, and venturing out of the garage, it should not have come as a surprise to me that I was punched in the face by an icy wind. But that sort of thing tends to surprise you no matter how many tumbleweeds you've ran from or how many times you got a brush stuck in your windblown hair.

I thought for a moment that this was an ill-fated trip, and that we would have to go home. But, then I remembered that the jogging path is nestled in between two hills and might be sheltered somewhat from the blasts. So, we set out, another obstacle narrowly dodged.

My Toddler

This isn't really her fault. But, when we got to a certain part of the trail, where it widens and there's loads of grass just waiting to be frolicked upon, she was pretty much over sitting in the stroller, munching on dry animal crackers, and requested to "Run, run, run." And, I couldn't exactly blame her. So, there was sort of a lull in my workout as Charlotte ran around getting her exercise, falling on her face, getting consoled, and picking up sticks. But, I'd like to think I made up for that lull by pushing her home against the wind.

My (lack of) Stamina

I know this will change. I know I will get stronger and faster, and my lungs will no longer ache and throb after mere moments of jogging but damn is it uncomfortable in the meantime.

So, there you have it. A suburban SAHM goes for a jog. Riveting, no?

2011: The Year I Finally Sleep? (ControverSunday)

Edit: I was bummed that I had missed yet anotherr ControverSunday when Kathleen over at amoment2think (AKA the new host) suggested that I label this a ControverSunday post since this month's topic is about resolutions. So, same post, new label. Thanks, Kathleen!

I am sitting on my couch, sipping some green tea and blogging. It's a far cry from the champagne and truffles I've been living off this past week while ignoring my blog. Why not just wait till tomorrow? It will be the new year after all. One more day to indulge in my gluttony and laziness.

Normally I would take that day. I have always been big on resolutions, not just for the new year, but also the coming week, or the next day. Tomorrow. Or, next week. I will start to run, put down the remote and pick up a book, write a story. Then, when day after day, week after week, month after month, I fail to accomplish my goals, December rolls around. December with its hectic holiday schedule, abundance of treats, and the built in excuse to put it all off till next year. I may have squandered 2010, but THIS! This is my year!

I have a great deal to look forward to in 2011. My daughter will turn two. My little sister will get married, and we will get to travel to Rhode Island for the wedding. I'm going to BlogHer for the first time and will hopefully get to meet a lot of great people (including Brooke and hopefully Ginger!) My husband and I will celebrate our seventh anniversary. I'm looking forward to this year, and I plan on working at some of my goals.

But, unlike many other years, I don't see 2010 as something to regret. I don't really need a clean slate. Rather, I am looking forward to building on some of my accomplishments this year. I didn't become a mother in 2010, but I did really hit my stride. Which is not to say that I don't have completely off days where I feel like I couldn't possibly be doing this right or days where I feel like I just don't care to do it right. But, for the most part, I have worked hard to develop a beautiful relationship with my daughter, and I am proud of the mother I have become.

This past year I have also been welcomed into a wonderful community of bloggers, all of whom have been inspiring, supportive, intelligent, and, most importantly, hilarious. You guys keep me coming back to this blog when I get lazy or too intimidated to keep writing, because you make me feel like my story and my voice are valuable.

This is the year I discovered my passion for food. The year I made my first pie (and then made lots more.) The year I discovered risotto and how much better it is when I use homemade chicken stock. I baked and cooked, went to farmer's markets, joined a CSA. I got an apron for Christmas. I heard my husband tell me time and time again that I was "such a good cook." I loved every minute of it.

I took baby steps toward learning my guitar. I can play a few chords, and by the end of the year, I resolve to play at least one song (but hopefully more than that!) from the Beatles song book given to me by my father in law, the same person who gave me my guitar.

Many people scoff at New Year's resolutions, but I actually really love the promise of a fresh start. Nothing has actually changed: I am still carrying the weight I gained in 2010, still have empty space in my head where knowledge would be had I read more, Facebooked less. I won't be magically rocking out on my guitar after yet another year of neglecting it. But, there is the promise of change each December as I prepare to ring in the new year on my couch, once again (Seriously, I have never managed to do New Year's Eve right. Having a kid just allows me to pretend it's her fault.)So call it what you will: delusion, cliché, or foolishness, but I resolve to make 2011 a year of productivity, good food, friendship, fitness, learning, empowered parenting, romance,rest, and happiness. It's going to be a great year.

Now, if you'll excuse me I need to make sure I'm stocked up on champagne and more truffles for tonight.

Christmas in Hollywood

Yesterday Chris had to work for a few hours. He was working in Hollywood, and I remembered that when we were there last year around Christmas, there was a big Christmas tree in the fancy shopping center on Hollywood and Highland. Last year we went with Chris's sister and her boyfriend, and everyone convinced me to leave the baby with my in-laws even though I wanted to bring her. They were right; it was bitterly cold, and we would have spent the entire time making sure she was bundled, her ears covered from the wind, etc.

So, I was excited to bring her with me, show her the tree, and let her do some people-watching, a favorite pastime of hers. It was a different experience, and not just because I was pushing a stroller instead of drinking cocktails with my sister-in-law. It was HOT. And, we all know how I feel about unseasonably hot weather, right? And, I feel especially insulted when said weather is ruining the "feel" of a holiday. I don't like it when it's cold on Easter, either. I don't discriminate.

So, we walked in, past the Ralph Lauren and Coach shops, and headed for the restroom. I waited forever for the handicap stall because I had the stupid stroller, and I eventually left without ever getting to use the bathroom. That might seem like an unnecessary and terribly uninteresting detail, but it will be relevant later. Hang in there!

As we made our way to the center of the plaza, I noticed one of those water fountains that kids can run through, where they water comes and goes intermittently, alternating height and intensity. I pointed it out to Charlotte because she loves water, and since there weren't any kids there it wouldn't occur to her to run through it. Except that there was a little girl there who escaped my notice, running around the water spouts, daring herself to sprint across the entirety of the fountain before the geysers came back from their hiding place beneath the ground. At first Charlotte was content just to watch her while I slathered the sunscreen I couldn't believe I needed to apply in December, to her face.

But, ultimately, this is what happened:



At first she mostly ran along the periphery of the fountain, mostly only getting lightly misted by the water. But then she started getting more daring and running across while the water was gone. Until finally she was just running into the water, headfirst and squealing all the while. She was DRENCHED. Water was pouring off of her. When I finally pulled the plug on the water play, I realized I had gotten myself into a tricky situation.

The bathroom wasn't far, but it wasn't close enough for me to walk her there. I would need to put her in the stroller, and I didn't want it to be all soggy for the rest of the day as she would be riding in it. I try to be respectful of Charlotte's body and her as yet undeveloped sense of modesty. I usually take her to another room to change her diaper, even among family. So, I was a little uncomfortable with my own decision to strip her naked right then and there so that I could wrap my sweater (Guess it was good for something that day!) around her and take her to the bathroom.

I've mentioned that I struggle with images and perceptions. I'm trying to let go of my need to look like I have it all together. Because, first of all, I don't. And second of all, none of us do. So instead of putting on a show for one another, I am hoping we can all be honest and vulnerable with one another, and receive support in return. The point is, I struggle with it. And being in the land of beautiful people, whether or not that beauty is chemically and surgically enhanced, and being in the land of the designer-clothing-clad, perfectly coiffed babies, I was already a little on edge. But, I guess pushing a naked and sopping-wet toddler wrapped in a sweater through the crowd is what they call immersion therapy.

I did, in fact, get a lot of stares on our seemingly endless trek to the bathroom. I was able to get into a stall relatively quickly this time, and I began the arduous task of wringing out her clothes, shoes, and socks before putting them in a plastic bag I did not know I had, and I swear was put there by magical elves. Then I got her dressed into the pair of backup clothes that I don't always have, but did today by providence, or perhaps more magical elves. She didn't have shoes the rest of the day, including when we ate lunch in a restaurant, but, hell, she was happy.

I was slightly damp, as well, having been asked by Charlotte to join her in the water fountain romp. I was more cautious than she, choosing my paths carefully, rather than just charging in with reckless abandon, but I did manage to get a little water on me. So, I decided to use my Gap gift card and procured a tank top on clearance. (Side note: I also snagged an adorable summery skirt for sixteen bucks that I would not have been able to afford when it was in season. I win.) I didn't want to go ALL the way back to the bathroom, only to possibly wait another hour for a stall, so I devised a plan in which I took off the tag, walked into an empty elevator, arranged the shirt on top of the stroller in the ideal position for getting it on with ease, and pushed the button. Whereupon the shirt fell from the stroller just as I had taken off my old shirt, causing me to panic and scramble to get the shirt off the ground and onto my body in the length of time it takes to go up one floor, which, in case you were wondering, is not a lot of time. Which is how I ended up topless as the elevator door opened. But since luck was on my side this day, no one was there, and I was able to dress myself discreetly.

And with that, I leave you. I'm off to pick up a Christmas tree, probably clad in a tank top and flip flops. Oh, which reminds me: here's a picture of Charlotte at the Christmas tree display in Hollywood yesterday. Nothing says 'Winter Wonderland" like a barefoot kid in a t-shirt.