If you had the opportunity to live in/purchase a great house, but you knew people had been killed in the house within the past several years, could you do it?*

Emerson:  Look!  Mommy in the computer!

Me: No, that’s not Mommy. However, the fact that you think Mommy looks like Jessica Alba deserves a treat. Even a pregnant Jessica Alba.

In another news - the three of us are off to the hospital - again - have Emerson’s soft toddler arms stabbed repeatedly by a bloodthirsty medwhore. I say again because we’ve tried this once before - last week.  And was rewarded with exactly three drops of useless blood and much crying and plaintive “wassamatter, wassamatter! from the unwilling pincushion” I say bloodthirsty medwhore because, as well-intentioned as the brave medical staff of our hospital may be, when you’re drenched in hormones and someone starts routing around in your child’s flesh with a sharp, well, you become a bit murderous. And perhaps have to leave the room to weep in the bathroom for a minute.

Did I mention we have a peanut allergy?  I guess I left out that little detail, since I’ve been in denial since late Octover. Short version: Was in Vancouver at a conference when Michael called to deliver the fantastic news that they’d returned from the ER after a peanut butter sandwich experiment gone awry. Part of the trip to the ER involved an ambulance, when Michael thought Emerson had gone into severe respiratory distress.  The only humor of the event was that the “severe distress,” complete with red face and gasping, was actually Emerson pushing out the world’s largest poopball. Still, there were hives and there was wheezing and it was all too much when you are 3500 miles away.

I’ve been carrying EpiPens since, and approaching all unknown pastries and french fries with great suspicion. Good times.

Ok, so here’s a question I am pondering for, you know, a friend.  Ok, I have this friend, see.  And this friend has this colleague, and they work closely together on many, many projects. They chat alot on email, telephone and IM, usually every day.  In the process, this friend and this colleague have gotten quite, well, friendly. Friend once made the mistake of referring to her as single, to which colleague quickly replied “oh, no…I’m married.” And, since then, has mentioned a husband.  But recently, someone told my friend that colleague is not married, not to a husband, anyway.  And friend is feeling strange that colleague would have kept this from her, especially since they are quite friendly, have shared a decent amount of personal information, and now friend feels a bit uncomfortable that colleague has hidden this from her.

Should my friend let colleague know that she knows?  Not say anything? What do you think?

There are certain activities that hormonally-insane pregnant women are best advised to avoid.  Drastic hairstyle changes are probably at the top.  Also the masochist act of deciding “it would be fun” to try and fit one’s 32 week pregnant thighs into those favorite pre-preg jeans.

I had my hair cut two weeks ago, just touching up the layers a bit. I love my stylist, Nick, who I’ve only seen a few times now.  He’s a wonderful, gay, take-no-shit former Brooklynite at this salon. As I was leaving, he told me to book an appointment right before having this baby so he could cut my hair to my shoulders.  Since my hair would probably start falling out in clumps after delivery and it would look like crap.

He might be gay, but with several siblings who have given birth, the man knows what he’s talking about. I had shed like an anxiety-plagued terrier after having Emerson. Crazy attractive.  Even knowing this, I still told Nick that no way in hell was he cutting my hair. Was he high? Did he KNOW how long it took me to achieve “bra-strap” length?

Then came the first hot day of the season. barely hitting 80 degrees And I wondered why I thought having a baby in the summer was a good idea?  Something about nice weather, rather than facing cold dead winter with a newborn?  Holy shit, my entire body felt like an overstuffed sausage being fried on skillet.  And this mop on my head, with its millions of hairs that hadn’t fallen out in seven months, was like a single hot, itchy hairball on my scalp.

So, this Sunday found me back in Nick’s chair, sweating, swearing and holding a large frozen latte to my neck. Not even a hello…CUT. IT. OFF, I hissed.  And STOP SMIRKING AT ME. 

To his credit, he could have been a lot smugger about it.  But Nick knows that the cardinal rule is Don’t Fuck with the Pregnant Woman.  It’s a good rule.  Someone needs to needlepoint that somewhere.  Like my husband’s forehead, maybe.

Seven inches later, I felt tremendous…lighter, cooler and even maybe a little SEX-AY. And that’s a welcome feeling I had lost touch with, lo, these many pounds ago. Nick blew out my hair pin-straight, something I would never have the time or patience to do. In short (ha!), I love it.  Here was the result (from the salon restroom).

Then I started thinking about what Michael would say about the new look. He’s a huge fan of long hair.  It’ll all be fine, I thought, as long as he doesn’t utter those dreaded words. MOMMY CUT.  You know, the act of chopping one’s hair off in a short and frumpy fashion after giving birth.  Right up there up with “pleated khakis,” “mom jeans” and “practical shoes.” I swore I would never have a mommy cut. EVER. And I didn’t think this was frumpy. I thought it was cute and sassy and different for me. Hell, I had similar hair when I got married.  But still…I wondered.

I arrived home Sunday night.  Michael took one look at me and exclaimed Wow! I like it…it looks more like mommy hair! I might have flipped my shit a bit. I won’t deny it. He didn’t understand what he said wrong. Granted, he said he liked it, but that was left tiny and quaking in the huge shadow left by MOMMY HAIR.  Grab an embroidery needle.  Someone needs a little something cross-stitched to their head. 

First thought upon realizing the corporate email servers are a big ole SNAFU and won’t be doing any Lazarus-style rising at all today.  On a huge mamba-jamba of a deadline day.

Oh. My. Sweet. Fuck. KILLMENOW.

Second thought, upon realizing that only a select number of colleagues have my personal email address, and I can actually concentrate on meeting said deadlines without being disturbed by the 46,083 urgent!urgent! emergency! haironfire! readmefirst! youhaven’tansweredthenoteIsent2minutesago! emails and projects currently hitting the wall of the dead server like a rotten tomato, which will all just have to simmer the hell down and wait until the server comes back up (when?  IT Magic 8-ball says BETTER NOT TELL YOU NOW. ALSO, WE’RE A TECH FIRM, WHAT WOULD MAKE YOU THINK OUR EMAIL WOULD BE FUNCTIONAL?)

SwEEEEEEEEEEET!

Of course, I’m going to hate life when the server comes back up and I’m checking 40 bazillion, increasingly irritated notes wondering where the hell I’ve been all day but, hey, let’s savor the moment, shall we?

In other news.  We built a garden!  With live vegetables and stuff! With our very own handsies!  And let’s pretend it was totally the original plan and not a ploy to avoid having to painstakingly rake, grade and plant the back of our yard with grass.

Let’s also just enjoy this small, 100 foot square plot of paradise (watermelon, squash and cantaloupe still to be planted) and ignore the weedy, verdant hell that borders the rest of the yard.

And let’s not talk about the strange smell wafting from the general direction of the kitchen, which is more than likely a mouse carcass trapped in the wall.  Or the dead mouse I found curled around Emerson’s wooden block.

And you know that obsessive tendency that some people have about pulling out their own hair?  We have a chicken like that.  She doesn’t want to talk about it.

That’s doesn’t leave me with a lot to talk about then, does it? 

Uh…my hair smells good. 

I am curious about something…are young celebrity pregnancies the new purse dog?  I hope they realize that babies aren’t like Balenciaga bags or borrowing Harry Winston jewels for the red carpet.  You can’t give them back and you can’t donate them to the charity of your choice when they go out of style.

When I’m under stress, I have the tendency to clamp down into silence and put my normal thoughts into a temporary stranglehold.  Also, I become obsessed with meticulously peeling, eviscerating and wolfing down large quantities of grapefruit. Which is why I haven’t been around much (the stress, not the grapefruit.) (However, I would advise you to WASH YOUR HANDS before typing unless you want to repeatedly pry your D key out of a sludge of grapefruit stickiness.)

Work has been…well I can’t say a nightmare, because I actually like what I am doing very much.  But it’s been a lot of hours. Logging on at the crack of dawn before Emerson wakes up. Work all day. Log on again after Emerson goes to bed. Work until midnight.  Thank god for overtime pay. At least it keeps me in grapefruit.

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I’m not a big fan of mayonnaise.  But suddenly all I can think about is when EXACTLY would be the appropriate time of day to have a sandwich slathered with the stuff. (Answer: Any damn time I want.) It’s like the drinking before noon analogy…instead of happy hour, it must be lunch time SOMEWHERE in the world.  Where’s the bread?

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It’s interesting just how much you forget about a previous pregnancy. And what you forget.  Like, the exactly amount of crotch pain a 30 week old pilot fish relaxing against your pelvis causes. That getting up from an office chair is like watching the entire “evolution of man” poster in motion. How pants must be hitched up (and in the most attractive way) every 2.67 seconds, to avoid having your belly successfully “pants” you several times a day. Which is similar to having your toddler “pants” your flabby, pregnant, good-god-is-she-really-in-a-thong? ass in the middle of Barnes and Noble at checkout. Not that it’s ever happened or anything. Similar…and yet so much more horrifying.

And the third-trimester hormones.  Sweet Jesus, everything pisses me right the hell off.  I mean, seriously, could you possibly reach over the fucking 14 inches to the sink and pull out a new roll of toilet paper?  Do we need three empty boxes of cereal sitting on the counter for days on end?  Could you remotely think to lock the doors when you come home from work at 2 am so I’m not killed in my bed, you know, since I’ve only been asking for FIVE YEARS NOW?  (Answer: What are you worried about…nothing ever happens here!) God, I’m so annoyed and annoying even I want to punch myself in the mouth right now.

Michael has commented I am “more even-keeled, but less sunny” than I was last pregnancy. I’ll note he was standing out of arm’s reach at the time. So basically, I’m most of a consistent nightmare to deal with, but at least he knows what type of nightmare to expect. And when to duck. You’re welcome. 

“You’re bringing Emerson to the viewing?” my one family member said, slightly taken aback.  We’d decided to go to Junior’s viewing and funeral as a family, the three of us. It was a small private family affair, with a lone 18 year as the next youngest attendee besides Emerson.  “It’s fine,” I replied, fishing yet another Thomas power something lorry out of my purse.  “He’ll be thrilled to see the great-grands. He has no idea what’s going on, anyway.”

I remember the family funerals of my childhood. Or the lack of, more accurately.  My parents and various family members would get suited up and stuff their purses and pockets with tissues on their way out the door, while my brother Mark and I stayed behind at the house with one of the grandparents. Everyone wanted to protect us from death, from being scared. Dead bodies were something best left to the adults.  My grandfather lost his mother at the tender age of six, still remembers the funeral today, and the fear and confusion. He’s a strong believer in saving the young ones from having to deal with similar memories.

My first real funeral wasn’t until high school, when my grandfather died of a heart attack.  I was 16 years old and had never seen a dead body, never faced the reality of death.  Needless to say I didn’t handle it well.  I simply had no skills to translate it or to cope.

While I love and appreciate my parents for shielding me from the fear and confusion of being a child and watching the body of a loved one be closed in a box and lowered into the ground, I can’t say I’ve learned how to deal with death very well over the years.  Not that it is something one ever learns to field nonchalantly.  But I think there is something to be said about understanding the basic connection of life and death, the singular cycle that begins and ends.  Especially, since we aren’t Christians, we don’t have the, how do I say this, the prepared comfort of an afterlife to assuage the deep misery felt by losing a loved one into eternity.

So we decided to make Emerson a part of Junior’s leave-taking and, honestly, I think he managed to lighten the room a little bit, gave people a happy distraction. Emerson had asked whether we would see Aunt Eleanor this morning. Yes, yes you sure will, we replied.  And Uncle Junior? He asked (having only met Junior a handful of times). Well….no. Er, yes. Yes, but Uncle Junior?  He’s very tired.  He needs to rest. OK?

We walked up to the casket, hand in hand.  Junior looked great, decked out in his golfing attire, golf ball in hand.  Emerson hesitated, then peered in.

Shhhhhh, he whispered.  Uncle Junior sleeping now.