A Mother Nose

"I think he pooped."
"Someone has a poooopy diaper!"
"Loooooks like a poooop!"

Something happens when a girl becomes a mom...

I should have known when I was pregnant, a super-smeller with serious disdain for anything pungent. I get it now. The whole preggo-smell-thing was so I might give my nose its calm before the smell-storm. Being hyper-sensitive to stink is the nose's way to free itself from tyranny before succumbing to a life of less-than-aroma-therapeutic scents. Kinda like sleeping 18 hours straight when pregnant, the winter hibernation before the endless, restless summer.

When I was pregnant, the fumes in a car garage caused me to hyperventilate and I stayed indoors on garbage day as not to be bombarded by the orange stench of rotting waste on the streets. Everything stank including dust, which was my biggest adversary for months before baby popped on the scene.


The other day I found myself lifting Archer off my lap into the air and smelling his butt. "Smells like a pooooooper, mr. poopinbaum!" No big deal except we were at a rather cutesy breakfast spot in trend-o-rama neighborhood surrounded by people who do not sniff baby's butts nor seem amused by the people who do. (sorry, dudes.)

I stopped myself, adjusted my sunglasses and quietly sassed everyone from behind my cafe latte. Because the only way to get away with smelling baby butt at breakfast is to back it up with some Angeleno attitude and I have been here long enough to know how to work it.

"Who cares?"
"Poopy diaper with your eggs?"

I have to admit, I used to think people like me were disgusting. Diaper changing in public? Pulease. But the me of today would like to formally flip the me of yesterday the finger. I'm proud of my public displays of poopfection. Maybe proud is the wrong word. More like oblivious that I might be grosssing out local versions of my former self.

And now I ask you, readers: do you smell your baby's butt in public? And if you haven't a baby, do you find me tacky? Go on, use your words. Smell it and tell it, people.


A Sad Day for a GGC

Over the last week, Archer has decided that he hates hats which is contrary to my whole plan. I exist to dress my child up like a little man every where we go and on days (almost every day) when I have no adult interaction, I can dress Archer up like an adult and ask him what he thinks of current events and the status quo.

Those days have passed. Not even a beanie will suffice...

...Not even a HOODIE!!! I think I'm going to be sick.

At least I have the memories. The way you wore your hat. Oh noooooo. You can't take that away from me.


Nine Months Out

Today Archer is Nine months old. The following is a collection of entries post birth, continued from yesterday's Nine Months In.

One Week Old

Today he is a week old and right now he is sleeping. His hands are neatly folded under his slightly jaundiced chin and his breath sounds like a tide. In and out and once in a while a sneeze. I say, "Bless you" from the other room and check in on him every few minutes. Just now he had milk on his face. Sometimes when he sneezes it comes out his nose. The same thing happens to me when i sneeze but it's because I had my adenoids removed when I was seven and there is no space to block fluids when they go down the wrong pipe, but Archer is just a newborn. Maybe he doesn't have adenoids yet. I don't know.

My nipples are sore and stinging but it's worth it to be able to feed him with my body. When I had the surgery the Doctor told me I wouldn't be able to breastfeed and I didn't care because I was 18 and because I had to wear three sports bras to the gym. "Just hack them, doc. whatever it takes." I am glad the Doctor was wrong. I'm glad I can feed my baby myself, even if my nipples feel like they are going to fall off.

Growing up, my mother always said to me "Just you wait! You will understand one day!" It was the epilogue for every argument over curfew, her explanation for hysteria after I pierced my face, cursed at the dinner table, got caught smoking pot. "You will have a baby one day and you will understand." When Archer was born, and my mother entered the birthing room and saw me with my baby for the first time, she raised her eyebrows and said, "See. Do you understand now?"

Archer is so small that it's difficult to fathom one day he will be a man, a teenager, a little boy who plays with Tonka trucks and crawls through the grass in the park. He is so tiny and vulnerable and helpless, its hard to believe that every day he sheds more skin and that one day he will outgrow his shell, a hermit crab too big for a bassinet, a crib, a twin bed, our house.

And even at 5am when he is wailing to be held, fed, changed, spitting milk on my clothes I am so overwhelmed with love that it doesn't matter and sometimes when he is sleeping I watch him dream. He moves his eyebrows and reaches his hands in the sky sometimes and every day there is something new. A new expression or sound.

Today Archer is a week old and in many ways I am too. Everything looks different now, a lighter shade. I am just a baby myself in many ways, and now I have one. A baby! In my arms! I pinch myself and wipe my eyes and he's still there, between my legs with his head on my knees, spitting milk out his nose and waving his hands. A new life has changed mine. I know what it means to really give birth now, not just to an idea but to a perfect little being, with big gray eyes and miniature hands. I have looked into the eyes of the most beautiful face I have ever seen; in awe that something so magnificent could love me back. Crazy in love and scared out of my mind because the world is so fucked up and jaded and my baby is so new and perfect and I want to protect him from the monsters. Just like my mother wanted to do for me and her mother for her and every mother through time.

Two Months

When I was little I had a kaleidoscope. It was simple on the outside, cardboard and plain, but looking through it was an adventure. I loved bringing it outside and watching the shapes fall in squares and colors twist in triangles. I would gaze at myself in the mirror with a dozen eyes and ears and a nose with a hundred nostrils. The Kaleidoscope was wonderful because everything I saw was new - a discovery! Colorful and sometimes hilarious, surreal, and ever changing. I was never bored looking through the puzzle-like eye.

I thought of the kaleidoscope the other day while Archer was in my arms and we were walking around my Nana's garden. Archer had his eyes open; looking at the flowers with such awe and wonder as if it was the first time he had ever seen them. I was tickled. It took a second to remind myself that it was, and I felt overwhelmed by the flowers too. The colors and shapes and textures of such simple objects I had passed/seen every day. Suddenly everything we passed seemed new, wonderful, nature's collection of intricate, improved items. It was like looking through the kaleidoscope again as an adult: watching Archer chase the leaves with his eyes, all those rich greens, the curling of the grass, the fur of the dog, the sound of the piano, the glow of the television set, the neon lights of the shopping mall.

Being the first of my friends to have a child, I have been asked several times what it feels like to be a mother. "How are you different?"...Motherhood is like looking through a kaleidoscope. Every day a new shape forms, a new pattern emerges, shape-shifting and rich with beauty. A new surprise. I see the world through Archer's eyes, the joy and simple yearning for a new discovery. I am in awe of the world and everything alive. I see in four dimensions. Every day is a voyage. There is no such thing as mediocrity, boredom, hate. Not anymore. Not in this new world that I see first through Archer's eyes, and then my own. Just like my old kaleidoscope.

Five Months Old

Packing up the last few boxes, here. Archer is asleep in our bed, on the soft pillow under his blankie.

We let him sleep with us sometimes, Sandwich de Archer Sage. It's fun. Last night he slept between us too and I woke up at some point in the wee morning hours, nose to nose with him. He must have been watching me because when I opened my eyes, he smiled. I had no idea being a momz would be so intense. I was warned about the early morning feedings but never prepared for the early morning smiles.

Six Months

Some of my favorite times have been waking up with you in the middle of the night and bringing you into bed with us. You snuggle close and fall asleep with your hand on my face. We took you to the Monterey Aquarium at three-months old and you watched the jellyfish for half an hour, waving at the creatures with curious hands. And when I leave you with your Dad, I bring a book of photos with me so I can look at them at stop lights and pine for you. Sometimes I show strangers at parties because I am that mom and one day I'm sure you will roll your eyes at me because I'm so uncool.

And every now and then I sneak into your room and watch you sleep and sometimes you are smiling, dreaming again. And sometimes when you see me get upset you start to cry, because that is what happens when two beings are attached to each other, and it always makes me stop and make a silly face, so that you will laugh, because your happiness matters more than mine does and that is the way it is now.

I love you more every day, my bugsy, my little fish. Today you are six months, little daydreamer, miracle, gentle love. Little nuzzle-dancer, feet-stomping pilgrim, laughing-goose, hoot-owl, head-butting sleepy bear, petit prince. Every day you overwhelm me with joy and wonder. I can't believe you are even real sometimes.

Seven Months Old

Every day when we together, I'm so proud to call you mine.
Even at the very start when I hadn't slept in nine (days.)

Now you're sitting pretty, next to me while I be rhyme'n
More than just a son, you are my muse and partner in cri'ime

Seven months ago today, I knew you were the one,
That I would die for, Bugsy. (True) I'd kill for you, son.

I love you, little man, more than any thug before
You give my life a meaning that is wicked-fresh hardcore.

Eight Months

...I came home to my little boy, wide-awake and kicking his little legs, big-eyed and excited to see me and it felt amazing. From one world to another and I was happy to be home.

Finishing a book is a lot like birthing a child, except a child comes out of the body and creates his own story and a finished manuscript will never live up to the high standards of the author. (Unless you are James Joyce.)

I am starting to believe that the life we lead is our greatest masterpiece.

No matter what happens with the book, whether it sells or fails. Whether the next MS sells or fails. Whether anything I ever write again sells or fails, I have in my short life created something perfect. Something so extraordinarily pristine that inspiration strikes daily. The kind of inspiration that happens during normal business hours, influenced by the miracle of a life, a soft-skinned, smiley-faced, tangible life. No more cartons of cigarettes in the freezer. No more all-night coffee/red wine binges. And that's okay. Not ALL writers have to struggle or suffer or starve. Not all writers have to live up the romantic stereotypes of chain-smoking at their desk in the rain. No more trying to categorize myself. I can be everything, a writer, a mother, a wife. It is possible to do it all, to have it all. It's even okay to want more.

Life is long...

Today: Nine Months

Today you are nine months old. You have lived outside of me for as long as I carried you in my body, bouncing and kicking and becoming human. You are my baby and sidekick, and dearest darling. Every day with you is an adventure, even when you wriggle from my arms, resisting my kisses with squints and squirms and you are spitting up all over me and yourself as soon as I change your clothes.

You personify love and joy and every wonderful emotion that one can experience.You are a dream come true. You give me superhuman power with a mere smile, more joy than I can even explain just by giggling. You are my wide-eyed world. You are the perfect child, acne-faced and four months behind with your crawling, stubborn and shy and teething and pulling my hair at 6am, when I am trying to go back to sleep.

You came into my life like a miracle, swept me off my feet like a gentleman. You have given me life. Truly. Growing inside me and growing outside and growing into your very own person. I love you more every day, if that is even possible.


Nine Months In

For eighteen months I have embarked on a journey a la creating the littlest human boy. The following contains a collection of thoughts over the last year and a half. Our mutual growth, twisted around one another, dependent, independent, quite a ride. Tomorrow Archer is nine months old. In preparation, today I am posting nine months of thoughts leading up to Archer's arrival, the nine months before the nine months, counting down...

Two Months Pregnant

These past few weeks have been monumental for me, in my life. I have found that decisions, and the repercussions of the choices we make have everything to do with the loved ones that support us. I have learned that one is never ready for a surprise, and that there is no right or wrong decision, and that realism and idealism usually touch. I have come to recognize that opposites, like fear and excitement, can hold hands.I have learned that hard work pays off in the end, regardless of how much is in your pocket. I have learned that there is no wrong way to do anything, and that love is very simple. I have learned that I would rather struggle than regret.

Three Months Pregnant

I have multiplied. The person growing inside me, albeit small, waved at us the other day. From a computer screen, a little face appeared, with two hands and little feet that danced in the darkness. Fingers stretched and batted, and the little heart sang. Pump, pump. Pump, pump. I didn't plan this pregnancy, not that I usually plan for anything that happens. Every wonderful thing in my life has happened unexpectantly... My cup runneth over.

Four Months Pregnant

Last night I ate Beef Jerky for the first time since I was in 5th grade- two packets of hardened Teriyaki Beef. Earlier that afternoon I got on my hands and knees with a sponge and a toothbrush and scrubbed the kitchen, bathroom, bedroom and living room floor. I also windexed every surface, cleaned the oven, re-organized the medicine cabinet and baked cookies... I have never in my life baked cookies. I also have never been so anal about dust. For the past few months my cleaning habits have replaced my pre-pregnant smoking habits, and after work when I should be at my desk writing tenaciously, I have been slaving over the crock-pot and cooking three course meals...

Five Months Pregnant

Top Ten Reasons To Get Married in Vegas:

10. You save your parents $50,000 and yourself the pressure of parents. (no offense, momz and popz)
9. Rest assured, you will get lucky.
8. The Limos have felt red roses and the driver may have wise real-estate advice. (ed: you folks are having a kid. Shiyat. You should move on out here and invest in a high rise condo, you know, for the kid's sake.)
7. The 104 year old Organ player wears a faux diamond JESUS broach every day to work (her pastor got it for her.)
6. It's exotic to get married in another state from home. Kinda like marrying in Acapulco or Cannes.
5. If you are five months pregnant and forget to bring your paperwork to the chapel, they will marry you anyway.
4. You get to stand in line with people from all over the country, mostly from the Midwest... and the girls are "so nervous!"
3. The "I'll marry you in one second, just after I finish with the couple at the drive-through window" quote, which we heard more than twice.
2. Britney Spears did it and she is quite happily married.
1. The minister has a boom box and he isn't afraid to play it.

Six Months Pregnant

We found out yesterday that we are having a little man-boy in three months. The Ultrasound was one of those super tech 3D situations where you can see the baby but he looks like a fossil. A cute fossil. He had his foot in his mouth and was giving us two-handed devil horns. He was also wearing a beret and speaking French. I could tell by the way he was scowling and twisting his mustache.

Seven Months Pregnant

Are we there yet?

Eight Months Pregnant

...The mother pats her belly. She draws circles where she thinks his head rests, like a halo round and round. She wonders what he is thinking about. If he will be claustrophobic like her, feeling the need to burn holes in the sky, to climb out of the world that seems at times so low like the ceiling of a dollhouse or the 6 1/2 floor. How does he cope with his growth? Curled up in a ball, walled in by humidity and darkness, blinded by the occasional beam of light through her belly button.

He has a name and she calls to him, so that he can hear her voice and love her as he grows beneath her rib cage, sagging quietly toward the hole between her legs, his escape. Full of life, she pushes her belly out and walks him down Detroit Street, to the end of the block and back with her dogs in tow. The dogs recognize her voice when she calls to them. She wonders if they know about the baby, like a beanstalk curling through her, green and freckled like her husband's eyes. She wonders if the dogs can sense that two hearts are beating in the same space, her body, layered like a Russian Matroska doll. Perhaps they can hear the two drums in harmony

She thinks he will have a sense of humor because every time she laughs he bumps her with his heels, stretching to the rhythm of her giggles. She knows that he will be beautiful, strong and sensitive, stubborn with the willpower of an idealist, and that perhaps she will have to teach him as she has been taught that the real world seeks not another dreamer so he must be aware of the risks involved. She hopes to be like her mother- aware of her child's potential, generous with love and the freedom to explore. That she will remember to send her child looking for his own hiding places and mountaintops, rather than mapping out her own. She tells herself that he will find the way without her, so long as she packs him lunch and an umbrella. "Just in case it rains," she will say and he will roll his eyes and tighten the laces in his boots.

When people ask for his name, she tells them, introducing her belly with pride, as almost a shadow would, for in the sun he stays in focus as she stands behind him slightly blurred. She knows that everything is about to change, that he will escape her violently and enter a world that she and her husband are wary of. The baby tickles her with the voltage of trapped enthusiasm and she laughs again.

Nine Months Pregnant

He moves inside me, trapped in the only world he knows. Soon he can stretch his legs and touch strange faces, pulling stories and light through the holes in fallen leaves, nibbled by inchworms on the topsoil. He will open his eyes and see the doctors, then his Dad and finally, me. And soon he will see the medical machines and the Renoir prints framed by brassy gold that hang slightly crooked on the bleak hospital walls. I cannot imagine what he will say to himself when he sees these things for the first time. The congruency of seeing and knowing based on first impressions. Everything, a first impression.

His moves become rapid and I turn on my back so my husband can press his ear to the stretching shell and hear the ocean. So that he can trace the movements with his fingers and feel an entire world, under water, white as skin, ambitious with nature's willpower: the balance of natural beauty and disaster. Her husband looks at her, still resting on the conch of questions, anxious and excited. We feel his movements together. Three sets of hands exploring my body, motivated by life's natural impetus, the forces that be. And we lie together through the night and wait...


A Head Above the Competition

Summary of today's pediatrician well-visit:

-Weight: Average
-Height: Average
-Weight for Height: Average
-Head circumference: Waaaaaaaaay above average.

Not that we were surprised. Since his birth he has resembled an attractive, human-version of Stewie from Family Guy. (As well as a kinder, less war-hungry model.)


GGC Recommends: Lullabies for Sleepy Babies and Parents

We have a teeter on our hands. Two little teeth have pushed through the skin, which explains the temper tantrums, all-night slumber parties as of late. Poor wittle buggy-woo wee wombat.

Beside the dogs, the only thing Senior Arch is responding to is music, so we have been blasting everything from Ella Fitzgerald to Mirah to Warrant. The kid dances, chews empty strawberry boxes and the GGC house is happy.

I digress. Today's GGC recommendation is another bedtime CD for sleepy families and one of Archer's favorites. This CD is beautiful and soothing and everything the Baby Einstein CD's are not: appealing to the ears. (Is it just me or do Baby Einstein CD's sound like the slaughter of elephants?)

You can also check our the Brisa baby catalogendorfer. All sorts of fun for little ears! Buy it here.


Dear Dogs: An Apology Letter of Sorts

Dearest Cooper and Zadie,

This will not come as a surprise to you but ever since we brought Archer home from the hospital, you are no longer considered, "the kids" but rather second-class citizens of the GGC household. It might have something to do with the fact that you are actually, dogs, which for three years BA (before Arch) we all thought otherwise.

I know that there was a time when I showered you with love and attention constantly, when we spooned in my bed and hiked five days a week and went on long drives together and I know those days have passed. You are no longer allowed on the couch or in the bed and we haven't been hiking in weeks. Months? I guess it's just what happens, dogs. Baby moves in = dogs get the shaft and I don't want to player hate on all you all but I just don't have the cuddle time like I did in my previous life.

All I can say is that I still think you are both pretty cool, even if I wash my hands after I pet you now and subject you to Archer's collar-pulling, tail-yanking, ear-biting, paw-slapping. Even if I forget to wash your dishes and give you treats when I come home from the grocery store and am less patient when you sniff every blade of grass when we are walking.

You see, Archer is a time-consuming young person. He may be small but he has quite a large presence, kind of like you, Zadie.

Please don't look at me with those sad, droopy eyes. It's all downhill from here until Archer's old enough to take my place as playmate.

Until then, please don't take it personally. You will always be my dogz.




GGC Sunday Not in the Mood to Brag Book Presents:

The birth of the power trip/temper tantrum/ wiggle-fit:

But donchou even think you can beat me at my own game... Oh no, little man. This is war.


Placenta: a Woman

No offense to my armpit-braiding earth-mammas (if you're reading) but who eats their placenta? I know that it is full of vitamins and sure, it nourished your baby and represents fertility and has some sort of spiritual significance but dudes, wtf?

After Archer was born, my doctor sweetly asked whilst sewing up my episiotomy if I wanted to take home my placenta. He gestured at the slaughtered Man-o-War in the large plastic tub and I politely declined.

"Do people actually take them home?"
"Yes, as a matter of fact they do."

I had heard stories of women eating their placentas but I was shocked to hear that post-pardum patients regularly left Cedars-Sinai with a large sack of veins as well as their newborn baby.

"And don't forget to throw my placenta in a doggy bag, okay nurse? I'm taking that shit home!"

I started to wonder... Maybe it was more common than I thought. Maybe Julia and Danny nibbled Placenta while recouping with the twins?

Anyway, if you or someone you know has eaten their placenta please share your story here. Really, I want to hear about it. How did you prepare it? Did you keep in the crisper drawer in the fridge or in a jar beside the pickles? Did you invite friends over for a placenta BBQ? Did you drink red wine or white? Comment, people. Enlighten me...


Baby's First Picnic in the Park on a Hot Winter's Day While Teething


Girl Gone Child, For Real

I have been noticing that as Archer grows up I seem to be growing down. I am genuinely interested in building castles out of letter blocks and playing with Pound Puppies. (My favorite toy as a child.) I find myself exploring basic crap as wide-eyed and curious as my son.

"Archer!" I say, "Don't pull Cooper's tail." Then I pull Cooper's tail to see what happens. I am turning kind of retarded. No offense because I know some very nice retarded people. I do.

So today I was playing with Archer and we were pressing the buttons on the Sesame Street thingy so that Oscar the Grouch would pop up out of his can and sing "I love trash." After interrupting Ernie's fully-clothed bathtub-romp several dozen times "rubber ducky, you're the oooooone" I suddenly wondered if Elmo "This is the song. LALALALA. ELMO song!" had room in his pop-out window for Archer's nunu.*

"Archer. Can I please take this nunu? Thanks bud."

I snatched Archer's nu out of his mouth and folded it gingerly in Elmo's compartment and closed the door shut. I had decided that it would be fantastic to press the button and see Elmo fly out of his window with Archer's nunu. I was ecstatic with excitement. I also thought my brilliant idea would perhaps cause Archer to become more interested in the toy, so I could take a break and get some work done. I was shocked to find that my brilliant idea wasn't brilliant at all. In fact, it was stupid. The door was jammed. ELmo had hijacked Archer's favorite NuNu and it was all my fault. What a dumbass.

Frantic I began smashing the toy with my good hand, pressing the button, wedging a nail file in the door as to force the door open, ANYTHING TO MAKE THIS RIGHT while Archer looked on and babbled at the wall.

Suddenly my hubz appeared to see why the hell I was cursing in espanol**. "Um. Archer locked his pacifier in Elmo's cave thingy."

"Archer did?"

"Yeah. Our son is such a curious little person. Psh."

But we all knew the truth. (I am a very bad liar.)

For the record, I succeeded in unjamming Elmo's window and rescuing Archer's nunu. Because although there is a large part of me that never grew out of childish mischief-making, there is also a part of me that wants to make everything right...

...All by myself like a big girl.


** cursing in espanol is a great way to get away with saying your favorite words including fuck & shit. Seriously. Try it. GGC Recommends...

GGC Recommends: JellieJoolz, Gifts for Grandmomzes

Looking for an amazing gift for your baby's momma's momma and/or baby's daddy's momma? Look no further: The lovely lady at Jellie Joolz will cook you up the perfect gift for Gramz. Or if you're the kind of mom who OD's on the I HAVE CHILDREN merchandise, (no comment) Jellie Joolz will cook you up the perfect gift for yourself! My Momz and Momz in law both wear one proudly AND HOW! All you have to do is pick your design, send your photos or email jpgs and Viola!

... Because Grandmothers are allowed to OD on I HAVE A GRANDCHILD merchandise. Go here. Dig.


Just Because I drive a Station Wagon Doesn't Mean You Can't Race me on the Freeway...

I wanted a station wagon even before I got knocked up. Mostly because I thought they were cool and because I had dogs and wanted to appear more grown-up. I had gone through my Cabriolet phase and my Jetta phase and was feeling old and retired at 23, opting for the Passat wagon with the V6. No more bikini-clad cruising to the beach with the top down, no more illegally tinted windows I had to roll down every time a cop passed. I wanted the seafoam green family wagon, even before I knew I was settling down. Call it "telling the story until it comes true". Call it presumption. Call it another predetermined chapter of my life.

In my younger, wilder days I liked to drive fast. I was the person in the carpool lane honking when people drove slower than 85. I was always in a hurry and like a good LA driver I was vocal, horn-happy and crazy behind the wheel. Anyone who has done the San Diego to LA drive (a la the 405 freeway) at 2am knows that its prime racing time for Acura Integra/ suped-Civics and other spoiler-sporting UCI alum. It seemed that every night I made the drive someone in a fluorescent rimmed, lowered, something-or-other with twin exhaust tips was trying to step to this. Not that my Jetta was race-esque. It was a Jetta with 14'' rims and a spoiler that came stock on the car but for some reason dudes would cruise up beside me, cut me off, flash their hazards and try to race me. Dipshits. I liked to drive fast but I wasn't an idiot. I had learned my lesson at 19 with five speeding violations and very unhappy parents (who were paying my insurance at the time. Thanks, guys.)

For years I flashed my brights, tossed cigarettes at their windshields, rolled my eyes and turned up my music as they drove away, showing off their stupidity. It always bugged the shit out of me and didn't stop until recently. Like, say, two years ago when I traded the Silver Bullet in for the Green Grocery-Goblin. What? I'm not the only one who names my car.

Besides the fact that the GGC'S GGG was a faster car with a bigger engine, the Wagon just wasn't race-friendly and though I made the SD/LA trip dozens of times in the Goblin, no one even attempted to race me. Maybe because they could see me through the windows and pigtails aren't exactly intimidating. Maybe it was the BABY 1ST PUTS SAFETY FIRST sunblocker on the rear windows. Maybe it was the wagon itself. Anyway, I kind of missed being challenged to race.

I was explaining this to a friend on the phone one night while making the drive, Archer sleeping soundly in the backseat.

"No one tries to race me on the road anymore."
"Helllllo. You drive a station wagon."
"Hellllooooooo. I drive a V6 station wagon."

Just then, the two clouds in the sky parted and a Honda Accord with racing lights around the license plate cut me off.

"Dude, you won't believe this. Someone is seriously trying to race me right now."

I switched lanes and drove up beside the car. The kid lifted his chin and puffed out his chest. I lowered my glasses.

"Duh, idiot. I have a kid in the back and I'm driving a green station wagon. Are you out of your mind?"

I hung up with my friend and had an epiphany, the kind of epiphany one so often has when in (less than) two years their life goes from single, irresponsible twenty-something who regularly speeds on the freeway to married parent driving a station wagon barely doing 75mph in the third lane. Shit has changed and I reaIized whist pawing at my brain cloud that I was wrong. Just because I drive a station wagon does mean you can't race me on the freeway. Just because I have a child does mean you can't cat-call my ass when I'm walking my stroller down the street. Just because I wear a wedding ring does mean you can't flirt with me at the bar. I will not deny that I find myself secretly refreshed by this attention. (Duh!) A girl's gottta know she still gots it. I am also more and more annoyed by people that cannot see that I have changed, friends and strangers.

Having a child has made me grow-up very fast and I can't say there are moments when I feel I must retain my youth, parade around in ankle boots and designer duds, make kissy faces in my rear-view mirrors and I do... only now the boots and makeup are to pediatrician appointments and family-oriented gatherings and the kissy faces are for my baby on board.

And I started thinking about the young/independent/modern woman and the classifications/roles I have played in my young adult/adult life. First as a teenager, experimental, fearless, cruising the beach with my girlfriends and boyfriends and Operation Ivy CDs. Then as a college-dropout, all-nighter partygirl gone wild, seemingly tough in the city that for a minute I thought I owned (and we all know that wasn't the case).I don't know how I would classify myself today, what role I play to the exterior. Mom? Wife? Crazy multitasking biotch?

I do know that at twenty-four I don't feel like I am missing out on anything. Really. This is my life and the decisions I have made have brought me here, full speed. Pedal to the metal. I have lived quite fast and now that I have slowed down I feel very comfortable with who I am and where I'm going, pressing cruise control at 73 mph in my Green Grocery Goblin Momzmobile, no need for a map.


GGC Sunday Bragbook Presents:


Buster Brown: The youngest grandfather in history:


Friday = Yo GGC Baby Rapz

Here is a little something for the people. It's been a long week and I apologize for so many (including this one) potty-themed entries. Thanks for the member of the week crown. It was fun and I'm happy to see all of you new hitters. Please stay a while...

This is for you, Dad:

I Like Clean Butts
rapped to the beat of Sir Mixalot's Vintage Classic

I like clean butts and I cannot lie
You other mamas can't deny
When your kid walks in with his huggies in a bunch
from a pile of digested lunch
You get ready
Wanna pull up tough cuz you notice that butt is sweaty
Deep in the onesie he's wearing
You love him so you don't mind tearing
off his diaper, cuz you want to make it clean-a
baby powder on da wien-a
My homegirls tried to tell me
That that butt you got gets awful smelly
Oooh rump of smooth skin
Please don't pee on me agin

Cuz, baby, baby,
I aint that kind of lady

I've seen him crawling
Actually it's more like falling
But he tries. cries. no ifs ands butts(ha!) or whys.

So Mama? (yeah!) Dada? (yeah)
Does your kid have a loaded butt? (hell yeah!)
Well then, change it, change it, change it, change it, change that stinky butt
My Baby's got...
(Sweet smelling face with an odorous booty. wreck.wreck. wrecka.wrecka.wreck. wreck.)