Kings of the Road

Tomorrow I return to work after about fifteen weeks of maternity leave. I am broken hearted at the thought of leaving Stella at daycare. Even though I know she’ll be in good hands, I still worry: will she remember that I’m her mommy? Will I get enough time with her? (NO!) Can I do this?

I know I’m not the first woman on the planet to struggle with this. My brain wants the intellectual challenge of work, and stimulating conversations with successful adults, and I want to wear business casual and heels.

But I also want to be the best mother I can be for Stella. I want to be there for all her firsts. Ah, the dilemma.

Realistically, I HAVE to work, unless we move to North Dakota and live in an a-frame and buy our clothes at Walmart and eat processed foods and drink budweiser.

I know I just have to do my best, as a mother and a professional. Too bad I can’t be a professional mother.

My brother Brandon and his girlfriend Amanda are spending the summer in Peru, where they are living in a hut atop a mountain and saving the lives of hundreds of Peruvian llama farmers (or something equally noble and selfless. I’m not even sure if they have running water or heat or STARBUCKS.) The other day, they posted fabulous pictures and a blog post about their trip to Machu Picchu, “the eighth wonder of the world”.

In homage to them, Larry, Stella and I ALSO went to Machu Picchu. Here is our story, told in photos.

Larry consults the PRESHUS iPhone for a map. Adventurous hat? Check.

The Preshus iPhone shows us the way to Machu Picchu.

Father and Daughter scan the horizon before embarking on the great adventure.

Larry’s hands grip the steering wheel as we drive through the wilderness. Knuckles white. Gaining altitude, losing breath.

A local boy, selling his wares on the streets near Machu Picchu. Could only afford a simple sign on cardboard, drawn with a marker.

The roads and signs here are confusing. We could barely decipher the signs pointing the way.

Another sign. On the right track. Bailey X Roads=Bailey’s Crossroads? Si?

A local wearing long white robes.

We saw the vestiges from a great civilization looming in front of us. Also, they drive like crazy people here. We narrowly avoided several collisions.

More locals, hanging out in front of a gas station. I guess they have nothing better to do on a Saturday afternoon?

A family crossing a 5-lane highway IN THE MIDDLE OF THE STREET. Not at the crosswalk. Apparently, they needed to get to the entrance ramp?!? (Note the young child. Is this any lesson to teach your children? Why do people do this?)

More locals, hanging out at the Seven-Eleven. Again with the nothing to do.

The road to Machu Picchu. So quaint.

BEHOLD, THE GREAT MACHU PICCHU.

A tour guide? A local? An Incan? I don’t know.

Who knew that Machu Picchu was so close to the middle east? You can get kabobs here.

Larry and Stella approach the door.

The grand hall, honoring many great nations and lost civilizations.

Ooooh, classy. Leather menus.

Ancient Peruvian snack of half-popped popcorn.

Ancient Peruvian appetizer of shrimp, fish and squid ceviche with a pile of onions.

The adventurous Larry, without his adventurous hat, takes a bite of the ceviche.

An egg on top of a steak, plus three starches. Starchy McStarcherson. (Who knew that Peruvians can make delicious rice?)

Peruvian Fried Chicken. Close relative of the Peruvian Char-grilled Rotisserie Chicken, which is popular in Northern Virginia, Peru, and Larry’s belly.

Stella, hiding behind her toy Ken. All the starches scared her, I guess.

A shrine to Machu Picchu…with Buddha? Please explain. How did Buddha end up in an ancient Incan civilization? Does this have something to do with Pangea and sled dogs?

What a view.

Thank you, come again. (look at those ta-tas!)

One last shot as we drove away. The other eighth wonder of the world. Machu Picchu.

Look at how punk rock my baby is:

Stella Is A Punk Rocker

I fell down the stairs yesterday.  My foot just slipped out from under me on the first step, like falling on black ice on a sidewalk in the winter. I landed right on my ass, and then bumped HARD down the next two stairs. I felt a searing pain in my tail bone and midway up my back. The wind completely knocked out of my lungs, all I could do was groan in agony. It reminded me of a time when I was young and fell on a roller skating rink. I couldn’t even talk, it hurt so bad.

I was also carrying the baby.

She is just fine–I think she thought it was a fun ride that I invented, just like the “bounce on mommy’s knee” game. Except this time, it was bounce in mommy’s arms while she gets the shit kicked out of her back and butt.

I have always wondered what would happen if I did fall or slip holding her, and now I know-I instinctively protect her above all else. My super mommy powers prevent her from any harm. It was instinct–do not let go, do not let go, do not let go. I still feel so guilty though, for having come so close.

I was just talking to Amy about this subject, because she has a bad knee that sometimes goes out on her, and she just tumbles to the ground. I told Amy that  if she was carrying a baby while it happened,  I thought her body would instinctively protect the baby.

So, I am grateful that it was ME holding her when I fell, and not someone else holding her and falling–I can’t say for certain that everyone has the instinct to protect a baby in their arms at all costs.

I have to admit that I did get nervous when she was just a newborn when certain other people would hold her. Those not used to holding babies, or clumsy people. It is awful to admit, but it’s true. If you’re reading this and you held my baby when she was a newborn, then the answer is YES, I was hovering over you because I was nervous. Because I was trying to protect her should you have stumbled or dropped her. Maybe this is a normal feeling for new moms?

As soon as he heard me groaning, Larry came running. He took the baby from me, and I sat on the stairs, unable to really move yet. SO. MUCH. PAIN. Fighting back tears and losing the battle. The impact jolted my spine badly. BADLY. I made it down to the couch and immediately took four ibuprofen.

I could walk and move my arms, legs, fingers and toes. I had no numbness anywhere. JUST PAIN. When I had back labor during childbirth, I had never felt anything like it before. Well, THIS FELT LIKE BACK LABOR. FUCK.

When Larry asked if I wanted to go to the hospital, I said no. More because I am scared of what they will say. What if they tell me I can’t hold Stella? What if I need surgery? What if I broke something or slipped a disk? What if the pain is PERMANENT? It’s better that I just grit my teeth and deal with the pain and not know. Not the best way to deal with it, I know. I don’t need any lectures.

Today the pain is better. It still hurts though. I will not go to the doctor unless it gets worse. I can hold my baby, and that is all that matters.

I think that Stella LOOKS LIKE A GIRL. She’s not one of those androgynous babies that could go either way. And practically every day I dress her in girly outfits. She looks like a cute blob of pink. Oozing girlishness. She has a pink pacifier. She wears pink socks. She has her name, STELLA, pimped out in stickers on her stroller. So why do people ask me if it’s a boy or a girl? Do people really dress second-born boys in frilly pink dresses and stick pink pacifiers in their mouths? Is it not completely obvious that she’s a girl?

My old self would say that people are just being polite, and don’t want to offend me and say the wrong thing. (”Oh, your little boy has such broad shoulders, he’s going to make a great football player, and with those giant feet, he’ll be a fast runner too!”) But having heard every sort of rude, intrusive comment when I was pregnant, I now know that people are NOT that polite. (”Your nose is so huge! You look like a lush!” “You’re about to pop!”)

We’ve managed to avoid the kidnappers thus far. But, we’ve found that there’s another downside to having the world’s cutest baby–the Paparazzi. The cameras. The fans. They follow us everywhere.

On Monday, Stella and I ate lunch at the Dominion Deli at Arlington Boulevard and Gallows Road with seven fabulous mommy and baby friends (which is always a sight-eight women, eight babies, eight strollers, and several gratuitous flashes of breasts as we feed our babies. I try to tip the servers well). We sat in the corner of the patio and managed to avoid the paparazzi all through lunch, although this was probably because I had Stella in a sling and no one could see her face. When I put her in her stroller and put her sunglasses over her eyes, it was ALL OVER. CUTENESS OVERLOAD. BRING ON THE PAPS.

We walked to the Starbucks for an after-lunch grande Lite Mocha Mint Frappuccino with chocolate whipped cream. The paparazzi, made up of three women, spotted us. They followed us to our car. They oohed and aahhhed over Stella, saying things like:

“Oh My GAWD she is the CUTEST BABY EVER!”

“I didn’t know they made sunglasses for babies!”

“Are you on maternity leave?”

“That sure is a nice car seat!”

and my favorite…”CAN I TAKE HER PICTURE?”

The youngest woman pulls out her fancy blackberry/camera phone/MP3/GPS/whatever and takes a picture of Stella. Because she is the cutest freaking thing she’s ever seen. Oh well, at least she asked.

One of the downfalls of having the world’s cutest baby is that people want to steal her. Seriously. Today we went to my local CVS Pharmacy to pick up a prescription, and the pharmacist told me to watch out, because she and her accomplice/pharmacist colleague were going to kidnap Stella.

How scary–these women had access to thousands of powerful, prescription-only drugs, and could have probably flung a syringe across the counter and injected me with a crazy kidnapper drug concoction, causing me to pass out right there on the stained blue CVS carpet. I would have woken up hours later in the dumpster out back, surrounded by bottles of expired Tylenol and Mylanta, my memory hazy from the drug cocktail the kidnappers gave me, unable to remember the last 47 hours and who stole my baby. They would have taken her home to their old, demented Vietnamese grandma to watch during the day while they continued to work at CVS, and the grandma would have dressed her up in those gawdy princess outfits and kept her locked up in the closet, taught her the secret family recipe for Vietnamese noodle soup, and I would have never seen her again.

I could not let this happen. I laughed nervously and gave them my best Chuck Norris glare. (Sticks and stones may break your bones, but a Chuck Norris glare will liquefy your kidneys.)

Sensing a threat, they decided instead to make Stella the “Shopping Center Mascot”. I considered this. Does it involve posters of my baby plastered all over the parking lot? Are people going to want to kiss her? Will we receive large sums of money so I can quit my job and buy a new car and sit around eating ice cream and watching TLC all day when I’m not out shopping and lunching with other mommies? Probably not.

Besides, the shopping center is ghetto. My baby ain’t no ghetto baby, yo.

I wheeled my chi-chi chicco stroller out of there as quickly as possible.

Stella is two months old now. Her favorite things to do are sleep, eat, poop, burp, babble, smile, go for walks, and stick her tongue out. Her favorite color is clear with a black background.

Here is a little video of the princess doing about three of her favorite things.

Stella LOVES her bee mobile, as displayed in this video (in spite of the fact that she lets out a little cry at the end. I think she was mad because she thought it was stopping). When it’s on, she stares at it intently. The only problem is that it requires someone with full control over their hands and fingers (i.e. Mommy or Daddy) to wind it for her every minute or so. Over. And Over. And Over. But it keeps her happy, so I love it too.

We took the baby on her first beach vacation last week to the Outer Banks of North Carolina. My parents rented a fabulous oceanfront penthouse condo and generously invited their kids, significant others and grandkids to come along on vacation with them.

Some highlights from the trip: Bramanda temporarily renouncing their vegetarian ways in order to eat seafood, so they could fully experience the ocean and all its bounties; countless hours playing Mario Kart on Nintendo Wii, in spite of the fact that we were only several yards from the beach; watching the baby smile and laugh over and over and over when Grandpa said “where’s your mama?” (we call it “Stellavision” because it’s so entertaining to just sit and watch her); climbing Jockey’s Ridge again, but this time taking the shortcut; relaxing on the beach with a good book, the sound of the ocean in the background, and a salty breeze on my face; Eric’s complete lack of knowledge on sunscreen, and the fact that you have to rub it around after spraying, or you end up with blotches of white and red skin; and watching the fishing boats come in at Oregon Inlet.

This time around, I didn’t get attacked by a single dolphin or bird like last time we went to the Outer Banks and I was gruesomely attacked by an angry gang of killer dolphins high on crystal meth, and then a gang of evil rabid birds  flocked around me and tried to peck my eyes out. To be fair, though, I did not go in the ocean this time. It was too cold, and babies and oceans don’t mix. I also didn’t make eye contact with any birds.

You may think that taking a 6-week old on vacation would be a silly, stupid idea, but it was pretty easy. In fact, maybe it was easier than staying at home. We had a Grandma that wanted to hold Stella, change her diaper, give her baths, and even feed her (which is kind of hard since she is on a breastmilk-only diet–and breast pumps aren’t exactly soft and cuddly like a newborn baby, so bottle feedings are rare. I’d rather just feed her and not pump and then feed.) We also had a Grandpa that just wanted to play with the baby (”what do you mean she’s asleep? Wake her up so I can play with her!”). And with Uncle Eric and Auncle Bramanda, and we had a whole village. Remember? It takes a village.

I have pretty much gotten over any issues I had with breastfeeding in public, because a) I’ve learned to be more discreet, so I don’t have to whip my breasts out and flash the whole world each time the baby is hungry; and b) I’ve decided that I don’t care. If someone is going to stare, I’ll just stare right back. This worked well all week, and I fed her in restaurants, coffee shops and benches. The only time it didn’t work was when she was over hungry, tired and crabby at a restaurant on our last night. I was sitting on a wall, facing the restaurant, she was fussily eating and having a hard time staying focused, and I just felt like I was one of those big stuffed animals at Chuck-E-Cheese, putting on a show for all the families eating dinner there. People were staring, it was just bad. And the food was mediocre, and the floor was sticky, and the baby had a diaper blowout, and the bathroom was too tiny and gross to change her diaper in, all of which only added to my discomfort and irritation.

Ah, I wish I could be on vacation again.

I just think this photo is funny–what the heck is he doing?

At Jockey’s Ridge. These poor suckers didn’t know about the shortcut: