Slumber Party

Sometimes a girl's just gotta stay in.

A friend was throwing a girl's night out (out for us, in her apartment for her) and she had the graciousness to let me bring one tiny man. I was going to do my best to avoid her Jell-O shots but was looking forward to her company.

Things have been going a little rough for me lately, which manifests in several tried-on-and-rejected outfits strewn all over my bedroom. I'm slightly obsessive about dressing to match Max, so the whole experience was exacerbated tonight.

I eventually got Max and myself dressed. I had no sooner wrestled him into a jacket and strapped him into his car seat when he decided to crap his pants.

I was considering an attempt to still conjure the energy to go to the party while I was changing him. But when I came downstairs I had to yell at Hippo for barking at something in the front yard, and she pissed on an oriental rug that has been rolled up in the basement during her puppy year and that Gabe had lugged upstairs and placed in the foyer only yesterday.

Game over.

I had Max and myself dressed in pajamas by 7 p.m. We'll go to bed as soon as he starts drooping his eyes.

Ain't All It's Cracked Up to Be

Max in one of his favorite places: his changing table.

This first week of working from home was like being inside a tornado. And it's not over yet.

"From home" is also a misnomer of sorts. Two significant board meetings, two on-site interviews, and a formal event all took place somewhere besides my husband's big desk that I have commandeered while he is out to sea. I have a whole festival to cover tomorrow. I'm schlepping around a lot more than I expected I would.

Beginnings of new jobs are always challenging, but I didn't think it would be this hard. Or that I would suck at it this much.

I've blown deadlines. I had an actual error in my first damn story. I swear I thought she said her name was Donna. Nope, Ana.

Complicating matters is that my babysitter has become unavailable. My mother and teenager have stepped up, but that came with a price. Gabe had a really bad cold and I tried to keep the baby away from him as long as possible, but I just couldn't get anything done and had to have him watch his brother. The next day, Max had sniffles.

Runny noses just happens to be my Achilles heel. I can't stand the snot seeping out and will make it my mission in life to eradicate it. That blue bulbous sucky thing the hospital gives out is my favorite baby tool ever.

But tending noses is a big time suck, too, and I haven't gotten anything done that I actually wanted to get done this week. Not in my job, and certainly not in my house. What a wreck that became in just a few short days. I forgot that I had washed a load of clothes and left them soaking wet in the washing machine for a whole day and night before remembering to put them in the dryer. Of course, I had to put them through another rinse cycle first, and there was a whole basket of baby clothes waiting their turn yet.

Hippo's horrible handiwork. That crap used to be a cushion.

And that miserable mother-)&)$#^@ mutt dog of my husband's (I like his desk, not his dog) has acted out terribly now that even less attention is being paid to her. My dog Johnny died recently (too sad to blog about it just yet) so she lost her playmate, and she had a yeast infection in her ear that required significant vet care. I was feeling a tad sorry for her and was trying to interact with her more often. But then she went and tore up a patio chair cushion and strew it all over the backyard. One more goddamn thing I have to take care of now.

Working at home is not green grass on the other side of any fence. Working early mornings downtown was stressful, but when I was "at" work I got my work done, and when I was "at" home I got my housework done. Now nothing is getting done, not with any satisfaction.

And there's not much I can do about it right now, except bitch on a blog. I've had time to do this only because I've been composing it in my head for two days now, and I finally figured out a better place to do work than the desk in the family room.

I'm sitting in the nursery rocking chair with my laptop in my actual lap while Max babbles away happily on his changing table. (I'm right next to him, so no danger of him rolling off unattended.) Like the strange-but-wonderful baby he is, he loves getting his diaper changed. He loves hanging out on the table and interacting with whomever is changing him. He loves sucking face with the little stuffed frog I keep on the table.

This is the most productive moment I've had in days.

Molting Chicken

Gawd, I am losing a lot of hair.

My body apparently has jumped off the postpartum hormone cliff. It's a study in opposites: What was supple has become brittle, what was smooth has turned flaky.

On a happy yet intensely personal note, an arid desert has once again become the lush rain forest it's supposed to be.

But mostly I'm just losing my hair at an alarming rate. Much of what I read insists this is normal, but I've never had tresses so thin.

My son Gabe is astounded every time the chore of sweeping the bathroom floor comes up in rotation and he fills the dustpan with my hair, which is absolutely everywhere. I am constantly plucking it off of Max and out of my bra. Washing my hair in the shower has become absolutely depressing, as I stand there and scrape tangled clumps of it off of my wet hands.

My doctor notes that while it is indeed typical for women who don't lose even the daily amount of strands while they are pregnant to shed a fair amount later, my copious loss is a stress symptom. Stupid job.

Thankfully, my hairdresser -- the real professional in this area -- ran her hands through it today and assured me that while I may have less of it, the hair that remains is healthy. Not even split ends.

I got a little trim and a much needed color boost, and we'll just have to see whether that shocks my hair into behaving properly.

Or I'll just go bald and rock some head scarves.