Xiobhan: All About the X

Belated Congrats

Harry is making an honest woman of Misha! Here are a few of the pics from the little Matt-n-Chris soiree to celebrate their engagement. I had a few very tasty martinis but realize that I am woefully out of drinking shape. I need to work on that.

Harry & "Glasses"
Cake Love
Me and George
Matt's Mom with Michelle
Speech

And I think I may bring on a new feature here at the X Spot: Commenter of the Month

September: We honor Average Joe! For his unfailing commitment to consistent commenting, his much valued slightly sycophantic support, creative use of emoticons and inherent love for and personal pursuit of preservation issues.

Congratulations Average Joe!!!

The rest of you will need to work a little bit harder.

Raising Beck

Once again, in case you haven’t met him, this is Beck. Beck’s like a puppy x 10.

Myth #2:

Babies Smell Sweet. Sure, after you coat them with Baby Magic and other lotions that have a patent pending Sweet Baby Smell. My little man is malodorous. Between the stinky drawers, the spit up and the sour breast milk breath he gets some baby funk goin’ ON which means bath time, and washing him is no treat either what with all the crevices. Under the schnutties, around the pee pee, the folds of the neck and thighs, between the toes. My kid is an English muffin with all the nooks and crannies. A slippery little muffin that I am afraid to death I’ll drop or drown.

Note to readers: every new mother must have this terrible fear she will drop her new baby, trip or fall, or conk his head on a doorframe while carrying him. I had my first instance yesterday when, while struggling to get him into his new and recently recalled Baby Bjorn, he threw his head back and flew out of my arms. After lunging, I caught him. Thank god I was standing over the couch. Oh my god the cry. For the first time I realized that there were different cries and this was the “WHAT THE FUCK LADY!! YOU TRYING TO KILL ME?” cry. It was a combination of surprise, fear and pain. I don’t ever want to hear that cry again. I actually stopped breathing. All I could think of was 14 years from now Beck will do something stupid and one of his little friends will say, “Dude! Your mom drop you on your head?” And he will looks sheepishly down at the ground and mumble “yes.”

Other helpful hints for new mothers:

How to make changing time more fun: Baby clothes have more snaps than stripper pants and I have begun this unfortunate changing time thing where I hum a little tease song and then yank the pants apart. Bah na na na! Na! Na! Cha! While satisfying, and sort of fun, I do want my son to be a nice doctor or a lawyer and not a Chippendale dancer so maybe I shouldn’t do this anymore while he is so young and impressionable.

Watch out for Nursing Neck: No one warns you about this one. It’s the crick you get from staring down adoringly at your nursing baby while he struggles to latch on to the good breast without getting shot in the eye. Yes, I have a good one (the left) and a bad one (the right.) You may not know this, (I didn’t) but milk just doesn’t come out one hole in the center. Oh no, there are many little holes and it sprays out like a shower head. Good Boob has more holes than Bad Boob so the boy prefers it because he doesn’t have to work as hard. I have to force him on the right to ensure that it doesn’t stop working. I have already noticed a marked difference in size between the two. Good Boob is bigger. When he first latches on to Good Boob, it comes out so fast that he has to break away and gasp for air, getting sprayed in the head with milk before going in for more. It’s sort of like a boob bong and I like to chant, Old School style, “Beck the Wreck! Beck the Wreck!” Then he’ll throw up a little and pass out. I try and resist the urge to shave an eyebrow or break out the Sharpie. I think he might be ready for college.

(I've updated his photo gallery on the left too.)

Don't make me angry. You don't want to see me when I'm angry.

Ugh. Had a conversation with someone this evening that I can’t discuss but it made me grumpy. Really grumpy. So this song, a song my college roommate Katie used to sing to me when I pissed HER off, is dedicated to this special someone.

“The Rodeo Song”

Indian Giving

“It’s a good day to be indigenous.”
- Smoke Signals

As you’ve probably seen on the news, Tuesday was the opening of the Smithsonian’s National Museum of the American Indian. As part of this, activities are planned all week to celebrate and commemorate the role of the Native American in history and modern society. Good friends of my family are Indians (we’ll call them the Forests) and are in town for the event. Dr. Forest is Coeur d’Alene and Mrs. Forest is Menomonee. They have four children, Greg, Luke, Sara and Kristen. (They buried a son at 13 from cancer more than 25 years ago. His name was Brian.) Luke is the one closest in age to me and I was in love with him from 5th through 8th grade. He wanted nothing to do with me and looking back at photos of myself in 1984 I can’t blame him. This Luke now, a doctor like his father, with his daughter Dana. His hair, worn in a braid, is almost to his waist. Merooow! How Indian!!

Anyway. We had dinner with them on Saturday, watched the Packer game at Mr. Days with them on Sunday, and on Tuesday Beck and I went down for the Native Nations Procession, a parade on the Mall of all the tribes represented or participating in the opening. I met them at 7:30 in the morning at the staging area for A-C, which was the best area because we were with the Aztecs and the Apaches who were out in force and full regalia. They were fired up dancing and drumming and whooping. Beck and I wandered through Z-D to get there. Seeing so many tribes together in celebration of what they have in common, it’s clear just how different Indians all are. Different history, practices, beliefs, traditional garb. Even physical features such as skin tone vary depending on region. I took some photos but none are as good as the ones posted here.

While we have known the Forests for more than twenty years, I never fully appreciated their native history or culture until my father died. Dad was fascinated by American Indian customs and was involved, through the Forests, in the Indian community in our city. In many ways he served as a respected elder to the Forest kids as we were growing up giving advice, helping them with resumes and first jobs, loaning money on the sly…

When Dad was diagnosed with his brain tumor, Dr. Forest was both friend and physician. Luke was just out of med school and Dad said that his tumor was a great way for him to get hands on experience. What an opportunity! Five months later Dad was gone from an unknown heart-related condition - - his brain fine.

The week of the funeral the Forests had us over for dinner to get us out of the house. Prior to our arrival, they had the house cleansed by the same medicine man that blessed a blanket to heal Dad. I’ll admit, the house felt different. It was peaceful, and quiet and we chatted and laughed for the first time.

The next night we borrowed from their traditions and set a place for Dad at the table. We ate our dinner, it was swordfish and asparagus with almond slivers – strange the things that you remember - - next to his. Afterwards my brother, the oldest son, took the food and spread it under trees in the backyard for animals to consume. Through them my father and his spirit would be returned to the earth.

The funeral mass was held at St. Mary’s and Dr. Forest gave the eulogy. As part of their tribute to Dad our friends had a tribal elder from the res sing an honor song. It was the most beautiful sound - - just an old man beating a drum and chanting in cadence. It was simple, and haunting, and truly an honor. We were sort of hoping the elder, who’s Indian name was something like “Bear Who Runs Through Woods With Wind Spirit at Back” but said, “Call me Joe,” would wear the traditional regalia such as buckskin and headdress. He did not. He wore jeans and a Dallas Cowboy’s jacket, which gave me an ill-timed case of the giggles. An Indian in a Cowboy’s jacket. On the alter of a Catholic Church. It was all so…so…it was all so my Dad. I’m sorry he missed it.

He was buried with a small leather satchet of symbolic items to carry with him on his journey into the next world. One last gift from Dr. Forest.

Indians are a proud people and despite long friendships there are still things that are not discussed. Including Greg’s death a few months ago from alcoholism, a modern plague among Indian peoples. He was 36. He is buried next to Brian.

And just so I don't leave on that because I haven't dealt fully with it myself, here is Beck's first Metro ride. (Yes. Our Metro system is terribly orange.)

A Day in the Country

As I noted previously, we spent Saturday at Kevin and Jack’s country home. Kevin and Jack, fahbulous men of means, were gracious enough to invite us and a few other friends and neighbors to view what we had only heard about: Orlean House in beautiful Virginia horse country. They purchased the property more than a year ago and have renovated every inch of it. Most impressive is their attention to architectural detail and historical accuracy. They have brought woodwork back that was lost under generations of paint, and added a very sympathetic addition to bump out the dining room. (The original house dates back to 1795 and suffered from some pretty tough 80's "improvements.") Most impressive is the work done on the grounds with the addition of the gardens, patios, porches, pool and tennis court. Anyway, I began to write about it, the house, the picinic, the horses in the barn and the kids in the pool, but it was all so fahbulous in it’s fahbulousness that I’m going to let a few photos do the talking as everything I wrote sounded terribly impressed and rather pretentious.

The following are a few of the photos that turned out. Most taken outisde did not as I effed around wth my camera and the settings were off. (CJD - don't show these to DMV it will only give him notions...)

Front of House
Dining Room
Master Bedroom
Living Room
Kitchen
Guest Bedroom
Half Bath
House in 1897

I will say that it was our first outing as a family and it was a beautiful late summer day. It was also the perfect opportunity to dress the boy up in one of his new Jacadi outfits, which went over poorly with the husband: “Goddamn! You put my boy in a bonnet!”
Yes. I did. I f you can’t wear a bonnet for a day in the country, when can you wear a bonnet?

The boy wasn’t happy about it either.

Thankfully Beck loved the car and conked out for the drive, which left the husband and me with an hour plus together to catch up on all of the conversations that we haven’t had over the past four weeks. Unfortunately, he was tired and I have Baby Brain so we sat in silence for most of the trip while the Blackeyed Peas blasted the boy because all I could seem to come up with were things like:

“Do you think Sylvester Stallone is better known for being Rocky or for being Rambo?”

and,

“If you loved me you’d write my name on an overpass.”
(Disturbed glance)
“I’ve spoken my peace and counted to three.”

After that I decided to embrace the quiet, looked off to the tree line and watched the highway wildflowers go by in a watercolor wash.

About a Boy

Warning: First percocet free post.

This is Beck.

I love Beck.

Name: Beck (Mother-in-Law’s maiden name) Daniel (My father’s name)
Favorite color: not sure he sees color yet.
Favorite food: breast milk
Least favorite food: garlicky breast milk
Favorite Song: When Mama sings Yo La Tengo “My Little Corner of the World” really poorly
Nicknames: Sir Poop-A-Lot, Blow-Out Boy, Stinky Monkey, Squeaky Monkey, Tooty Monkey (now just “Monk,”) Buddy Man, Baby Boo, Bubeleh
Weight: He is gaining a lb a week. I can’t keep up. The kid’s a beast.

It has been just over three weeks since we met Beck and for the most part, things are going well. He eats well, sleeps fairly well, and isn’t a big crier. We’re really pretty lucky. So far the worst part of this has been the breastfeeding. I am still battling my breasts. My nipples in particular. They hurt terribly and I have tried everything from Lanolin to breast shields to pumping and then bottle feeding because they are so freaking sore that I just can’t stand to have Biter Boy latch on. (The husband thought he was through being my cheerleader after the labor. Wrong. Now he is my breastfeeding coach: “Are you crying? There’s no crying in breastfeeding!” Oh yes, there is.) There are so many dirty little secrets to giving birth. So many things that no one tells you lest they sound bitter or unhappy about the mother experience.

Myth #1: Breastfeeding is the easiest most natural thing in the world
All I have to say is, there aren’t hundreds of books, guides, organizations, lactation consultants and support groups to put formula in a bottle and shake it up. I am currently sleeping nakey between bath towels because I need to expose the nipples to air to encourage healing but leak milk nonstop. It brings new meaning to “sleeping in the wet spot.” I was also told by my Dr. to walk around the house “flaps down” (Meaning to unhook one’s nursing bra and expose the breasts to air. I try to do this late at night but I look like a really bad fetish queen or a Dominatrix from America’s Dairyland which I sort of was already…deep down…)

Other interesting things about the boy, he has my feet, which were my father’s feet. I wrote about them in this post that referenced this photo and the enormous gap between my big toe and my longer second and third toe. Growing up we called them “Orangutan toes.” It’s more than a little strange to see something that is so uniquely yours on someone new. Like feet.

See? We could totally swing from trees.

The dog is adapting. She has not been jealous, possessive or aggressive. She has been slightly annoyed and standoffish. If he pipes up, she goes where he is not. She has not yet expressed the interest that this Ridgeback did in his new little friend. Maybe that will come.

We had our first big outing yesterday to our neighbor’s country home. Uncles Kevin and Jack purchased a beautiful home last year and have been renovating. I was horrible and tacky and took a ton of photos because it was just so freaking gorgeous. The original house dates back to 1795 and the property includes stables, tennis courts and a pool. I’ll tell more about the day later and include some of the photos.