While My Boyfriend Was Sleeping

What I write after Joe and Henry go to bed

Newly minted!

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What have I done with my life since we last spoke …

seven weeks ago?

Well, let’s see.

I left my job, reevaluated my life, my work as a journalist and my work as a mother. I pitched a few stories to magazines. I booked a few freelance photography gigs. I helped my clever neighbor edit her book on grieving. I fretted (briefly) over leaving my job. I got over it. I made a list of all the posts I want to write because I feel lazy in the blogging department. I got a speeding ticket royally screwed for driving 28 mph in a 20 mph zone speed trap on Siesta Key Beach. I bought Henry a retro spring horse for $20 off craigslist. I got bit by an Australian shepherd on my final assignment for the paper. I took Henry swimming at the luxurious public pool near our house. In an attempt to fully appreciate the cool-down and to get the most for our $5 entry fee, we turned all the outings into bike excursions. (PS. Biking with my kid has become my new workout regime.)

What else?

Oh yeah, I stood up in my sister’s gorgeous wedding gown on the Erie Canal, at which Henry served as ring bearer and handsome flirt. The weekend before Heelya’s nuptials, I camped with my entire family in Middle of Nowhere, Upstate New York, where I exposed my one-year-old to the joys of four-wheeling through the woods, bathing in frigid spring water and sleeping in a cabin. When we returned to Florida, I gave him his first hair mullet cut. He had spent so much time in the New York hinterlands he’d grown a baby Billy Ray.

And then I gutted my office, which had turned into a black hole for all the crap in our house Henry has broken or has yet to break. I painted it mint green, redecorated/refurnished it with an uncharacteristically girly touch and managed to stay under my $200 budget.

Last year, when I posted pictures of Henry’s baby cave I pulled in my highest number of comments EVER. This still floors me. I write and write and write my heart out and it’s pictures of baby decor that generate chatter. A crib and an Ikea dresser-turned-changing-table, that’s what gets your juices flowing.

In the spirit of pretty pictures, I decided to return to the Lance after a long hiatus with a post dedicated to my office makeover. I was especially resourceful when it came to this overhaul. Now that we’re minus an income and living on tuna fish, I can hardly justify a new Aeron chair. This is why I got a wooden one for $30 at an estate sale.

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Portrait of a baby who (used to) sleep at night

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It’s about 2 a.m. I’m sitting here in my dark office, waiting for my sister Holly (otherwise known as Heelya) to get here. She’s on route from Myrtle Beach. We’re running the tri together Sunday.

Henry is asleep, which is a rare and beautiful thing these days.

We’ve had a rough couple weeks. He’s been up through the night every HOUR. To cope, we’ve started to sleep with him. It’s the only way he’ll conk out and STAY conked out.

That’s not to say he doesn’t kick off the night in his crib. It’s just that by midnight he’s usually crying, marking the start of what I call the One-Hour Hell.

But this is a relatively new development. My child used to be an expert sleeper. I hesitate to say “used to,” considering his past only goes back four months.

Before I was schooled in the powerful use of the word PHASE, I made the dumbass mistake of BRAGGING about Henry’s sleep habits.

“My baby goes down at 9 o’clock and sleeps til 6. Aren’t I a lucky mama?”

Now I know why other mothers glared at me when I said this. I couldn’t tell if they wanted to murder me or if they knew something I didn’t know.

I think it was a combination of both.

As one of my friends with a two-year-old told me, “Babies change by the second. Everything is a phase.”

There’s the money word. Phase.

So here I am, waiting for Heelya to arrive, thinking Henry is in a no-sleep phase and it’s 2 a.m. and he’s still out.

Go figure.

—

PS. I’m blaming the wakefulness on teething, although Joe and I fear it’s some kind of sleep regression. Let’s hope we’re wrong.

Training wheels

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I’m afraid I’m not ready for this weekend’s triathlon. I’m actually crazy worried about the thing.

I’m nowhere near as prepared for this race as I was for the last two. And no, it’s not because I pushed a baby out this summer. It’s because the baby I pushed out makes it harder to train.

Understandably, he likes to play. To be danced around. To be read to. To be kissed and hugged and bounced. He likes when I comb his five hairs with a fine-toothed comb. It soothes him. He likes when I rub lotion on his forehead. This too soothes him. He likes to be ferried around the house in his umbrella stroller, which Joe and I lovingly refer to as The Hank Patrol because when he’s in it it’s (usually) because he’s morphed into his wicked baby alter-ego, Hank.

My child isn’t big on napping and when he’s awake he requires entertaining. I would have been wiser to train for a circus instead of a triathlon.

Oh, and I’m back to work, so there’s always that excuse.

Two weekends ago, I swam 50 laps at the public pool. I biked there and back. When I got home, I ran three miles in the blistering heat. I didn’t break any personal records, but at least I was out there.

Thank god for muscle memory and jog strollers. I can’t wait for the temperature to drop below 80. The heat and humidity are killing me. (Oh, yeah. There’s that excuse too.)

And then of course there’s breastfeeding. Breastfeeding. Breastfeeding. Some people run with weights. I run with them strapped to my chest. Breastfeeding has taken running with milk jugs to a whole new level.

I’d like to tell you triathlon training is the reason I lost all my pregnancy weight (and then some), but I’d be robbing my mammary glands of the tremendous credit they deserve.

Breastfeeding burns a whopping 600 calories a day.

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On waiting and wish sticks

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June 1.

Today is supposed to be Henry’s birthday.

I’m learning, however, that “supposed to” and babies don’t go hand-in-hand. Just like “supposed to” and life doesn’t go hand-in-hand.

I’ve been on maternity leave for a week and half now. That’s a week and half of not having to meet deadlines.

Except for this one: Henry’s due date.

And like any deadline, this one comes with its share of pressure. I feel like I’ve got a massive story due at noon and none of my sources will call me back.

And unlike my job, where I’m lucky if what I produce lines a bird cage at the end of the week, this assignment has generated a captive audience like none I’ve ever seen before.

Between my Facebook page, Joe’s Facebook page, our family, our friends, our neighbors, my bank teller, the bums in the park and the girls who cash us out at the grocery store, the anticipation is so palpable you’d think I’d gone weeks past my due date.

Now I know what it feels like to be a watched kettle.

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Happy birthday sister.

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To Holly (otherwise known as Heelya):

Today we are the same age, which used to annoy me when we were kids. I liked being older and Dad knew it, so he used to aggravate me by reminding me of this fact for two days. Two WHOLE torturous days.

“You know, you and Holly are both 10 now.”

“No we’re not.”

“Oh, yes you are.”

“No. I’m older.”

“Nope. Not today and not tomorrow. Today and tomorrow you are the same age.”

This would infuriate me.

When we got older people called us Irish twins, although we’re neither Irish nor twins. We’re just sisters born within 12 months of each other.

After Joe and I called you at midnight to perform our acoustic (and painfully soulful) happy birthday song, you (as usual) said some unintentionally hysterical things, so hysterical and characteristically unscripted I’m certain the details would amuse many Lance readers. However, when I asked you if I could write about them, you hesitated and replied, “Nah. You’ll embarrass me.” And I was cool with that.

But then you sent me a text message at 12:25 a.m. that read: “Ok, u can blog about me, but only if its a birthday blog and doesnt embarrass me too much.”

So I dug up this old photo of us dancing at our 1999 prom. You were a sophomore and I was a junior. I can’t remember what song we were waltzing to, but I do recall we owned the dance floor that night – even though the evening started off on a sour note.

When we arrived at the prom, a female classmate snarled behind my back that I looked like a fat pig in my dress. You don’t even know it, but you saved my life that night. When I think back on my junior prom, I remember crying for 10 minutes in the bathroom and then spending the rest of the night dancing blissfully with you.

Heelya, I’m so proud of you. You bought your first house this week! Anyone who has ever hunted for and purchased a piece of real estate, shares in your joy and frustration. It’ll all be worth it this summer when you’re sitting on your porch, sipping iced tea and reading smutty magazines. Believe me.

You’re an excellent teacher; the best teacher I never had. I get misty-eyed when I read the letters your students write me. Sure, I’m proud of the kids, whom I know are learning disabled and struggle through every word. But I’m also proud of you.

Growing up we were inseparable and now we live too far apart, but I’m not one for drama, so I’ll just leave it at this:

You’re a good sister. I’m lucky to have you. You’re playful and thoughtful. You’re a good cook and an even better grocery shopper. No other Myrtle Beach resident can pull off a pair of fuzzy winter boots like you can. You have good taste in boys. (Ahem, Brian.) You make me laugh every time we talk and I miss you terribly.  I couldn’t possibly embarrass you on your birthday. That’s what the other 364 days of the year are for.

I love you and I’ll see you in two weeks.

Love,

Heidi

—

PS. Question for Mothership: did you stick baby’s breath in our hair for every prom?

At least when voice mail piles up it doesn’t collect dust.

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I’m a recovering pack rat, but sometimes I regress. Tonight I transcribed 14 saved voice mail messages dating back to 2007. It was as much a practical exercise as it was a display of my neurotic compulsion to document everything. I have no space left for voice mails and text messages. My mailbox is always full. I was forced to make room.

But before I purged these 14 messages from my voice mail memory, I decided to post them here. I’ve held onto them for very specific reasons, most of which will be completely meaningless to you:

……

1. “Hey cutie pie, baby pie, sweetums, lovey cakes. I hope this means you’re buying oak tag or poster board. It is 6:30 and I just walked into my house. I’ll be on the road about a quarter-to-seven, so call me back if you like, otherwise I’ll see you when I see you.” ♥

– From Joe when we first started dating. The poster board he’s referring to was used to make two giant Chinese takeout containers for a costume party at a bar in downtown Sarasota.

2. “Hey Heidi. I just got my grades back from my first essay and I got an 85, so I didn’t do as bad as I thought I would. The teacher said I ended the story too abruptly and I had a semi-colon in a place where I should have had a colon, but everything else was great, so thank you very much. I miss the heck outta ya.” ♥

– From my friend Chris, who I worked with at a marble yard during my two-year hiatus from journalism. Not long after I left the marble biz, Chris decided to go to college to pursue an engineering degree. He left me this message after I helped him with an English essay.

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When what to my wondering eyes should appear, but a package from Canada Post filled with holiday cheer.

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The man with no hair who you see in the freeze frame of this YouTube video is my sister Heelya’s boyfriend Brian. He buzzed his head last week.  He says it’s his new Chris Daughtry look. Joe filmed this little segment, among others, on Christmas day as we milled about our house cooking dinner and opening presents before Joe’s parents and siblings arrived for what would be a grand feast in the backyard. (To my family and friends back home in New York: yes we ate dinner outside under the carport in our backyard. It was warm and even a bit humid. Yes, I said humid.)

Before I explain the significance of this video, I should first point out the significance of yesterday.

Yesterday was my first Christmas together with Joe. Sure, it was our first Christmas as husband and wife, but it was also our first Christmas together, logistically speaking. I’m always in Western New York with my family and he’s always in Tampa with his, so the fact that we could celebrate under the same roof, much less the same state, was pretty awesome. I was so grateful for that.

It was also the first time in 16 years that my father has spent Christmas with his parents –– my Oma and Opa, who spend their winters in a retirement community about an hour south of me.

Now, add PK, who also lives in St. Pete, and Heelya and Brian, who live in Myrtle Beach, S.C. and you’ve got a whole bunch of Kurps together for Christmas who might otherwise be scattered up and down the east coast. It was wonderful. Our house was loud and crowded. When Joe’s siblings arrived, followed by his parents and grandfather, it got even louder and more crowded in that colorful bustling warm-energy way. I loved it. Ain’t no Christmas without a ruckus. As I shimmied past pairings of people in the hallway and the living room, carrying trays topped with cheese and veggies, guacamole and hummus, I couldn’t help but think of my Nana and Papa’s Christmas Eve gatherings back home in New York.

(I should also mention that this was the first time ever that my mom didn’t spend Christmas with her parents. Nana: I know you’re reading this. I thought of you the entire night, and now that I have one Christmas dinner under my apron I can finally fully appreciate all those years you hosted Christmas Eve at your house.)

Anyway. Joe and I decided to set up a long table Last Supper-style under the carport in our backyard, which turned out to be a genius idea. My dad strung lights and my mom and I crafted pine and berry napkin ring holders out of garland. Joe fired up the deep fryer and from scratch made better mozzarella sticks and chicken wings than any bar and grill I’ve ever been to.

With my mom’s help, we cooked turkey and ham, mashed sweet potato yams and set out a salad bar. Rosey made corn casserole and Joe’s mom made lasagna. Oma supplied her signature chocolate butter cream cake and so many cookies the tray collapsed when we cleared the table. Three pugs attended the celebration: Cubbie of course, Uncle Homer (my parent’s pug) and Owen (Heelya’s pug), who sadly was suffering from a ruptured ear drum and spent the night with his head cocked lamely to one side.

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To the burglar who stole my computer last night: Happy friggin Thanksgiving.

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This Thanksgiving I’m grateful for the the fact that I’m with my two sisters. I’m at my sister Heelya and her boyfriend Brian’s place in Conway, S.C., which is a darling house, despite what happened last night.

The bed I’m lying in right now, tucked under layers of blankets next to PK, is so warm and plush. Even Heelya’s pug Owen snoring under the covers, is warm and plush. He’s curled up on my feet. I can feel his chin resting on my toes. My foot vibrates every time he breathes in.

It took PK and I nine hours and three tanks of gas to get here. I’m grateful that my old Honda held up. We took the back roads through the middle of Florida, passing every tumbledown neon fruit stand selling oranges and peanuts from Ocala to Jacksonville.

It’s chilly out and I’m grateful for that. The weather in South Carolina is at least 20 degrees cooler than Florida. We bundled up last night when we went out for Mexican food followed by beers at a bar called Fats, where we played darts and Baba O’Riley on the jukebox.

I’m grateful I filed at least one story for the newspaper before I left town, because last night when we got back to Heelya’s house, her front door was ajar, the window in her living room was shattered and my laptop with every assignment I’d ever written and every subject I’d ever photographed since August 2007, was stolen.

It was the only thing lifted.

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