Me and the Mr. are featured on my gal pal, Meg’s blog: Mimi + Meg.

It’s just a little Valentine’s Day post, a gift-y guide kind of thing, designed with Meg’s super snazzy touch.

Upon reading what I wrote I was struck by how utterly unglamorous we are.

Really? Our “couple time” is spent watching Wipe Out and eating french fries? Where’s the ROMANCE? The RAPTURE? Rummy? RUMMY? Ah well. At least there’s champagne and face cards. On especially steamy nights, we use our Golden Girls deck. You heard right. The cards came with the show’s 25th anniversary DVD collection.

Anyway. Let’s forget our lameness for a second and return to Meg.

Damn girl was profiled in The Washington Post last week. How sweet is that?

Keep up the excellent work, my trendsetting friend. Your dogged ambition, excellent taste and clever design skills are paying off. You deserve the recognition.

Now. Any advice on how I can get the Lance featured in the St. Pete Times (ugh, name change) Tampa Bay Times?

It’s not like I don’t know anyone in the newspaper business.

–

PS. Wedding photo by Wendy Mitchell.

Something unsettling came to my attention recently. Something that shouldn’t have surprised me. Something that was like, duh, inevitable.

I’m a mommy blogger.

I had this no-shit epiphany after receiving an email from the communications coordinator at a cookie-cutter corporate preschool chain.

“Would you be interested in publishing my guest posts on early childhood education?” He asked.

I thought about this for a second or two. I’ve always wanted to feature guest posts – namely posts by my husband who seems to have avoided this chore at all costs.

“The articles won’t be promotional pieces for blah-blah schools…”

The offer sounded suspicious.

So I Googled the guy’s name and as expected, I discovered posts all over the mommy blogosphere that were the worst kind of promotional: SEO-friendly online marketing materials disguised as articles, covertly designed to draw traffic to his company’s website.

It was so blatant. Every post I found contained a quote that was according to the president, VP or an administrator at his school.

They were useful posts I suppose, no different than the humdrum stories you read in most parenting magazines. (ie: Creative Ways to Beat the Dog Days of Summer. Get Your Toddler To Eat His Greens. Etc. Etc.)

I wrote the guy back. I told him that while I appreciated his interest, I didn’t think my blog was the right fit for his articles.

“Thanks,” I wrote. “But my blog isn’t exactly politically-correct, kid-friendly or mom-approved, if ya know what I mean.”

What I really wanted to write was: “No, I will not publish your boring advertorials. I’m not that desperate for content and HELLO, I’m not a mommy blogger.”

And that’s when it hit me.

I am.

I’m a mommy who blogs. Or, rather, a mommy who used to blog before mommying (combined with working, combined with mental fatigue) kept me from signing onto WordPress.

Although I turned down the guy’s offer to use my dusty corner of the web to further his employer’s agenda, I did come to the conclusion that I need to embrace the new direction my life has taken.

And yes, despite the fact that I have 5 million interests outside of Henry (ie: the late musings of John Steinbeck, triathlons, yoga, pugs, chocolate, the forests of Idaho, magazine journalism, my lifelong dream of competing on Survivor, angsty bisexual singer/songwriters from the nineties, chocolate, guidance from bums, chocolate, running, country music, farmer’s markets, season two of Ally McBeal, season four of Ally McBeal, the adorableness of Craig Ferguson, the adorableness of Stephen Colbert, chocolate, tent camping, four-wheeling, motorcycles, picnics and primitive flip phones.)

Despite these interests and the fact that they compete on a daily basis for my weak attention span, I am and forever will be Henry’s mother. And as long as he continues to occupy most of my time, I’ll have to give in to writing about him most of the time.

This means I’m recanting a statement I once made about motherhood.

“Women have babies and then that’s all they can talk about. When I have a baby, you won’t catch me doing that.”

Yeah, about that: I was childless and oblivious. It’s all we can talk about because we’re knee-deep in BABY. You’re lucky we remember to eat when we come up to breathe.

I promise motherhood hasn’t swallowed my identity entirely. It’s just that it’s turned me into a different version of myself: Heidi 2.0.

If that makes me a mommy blogger, so be it. I intend to wear the title with as much grace and good humor as I can muster.

Nevertheless, I still plan to audition for season 25 of Survivor. Henry could use a little money in his college fund.

If you’re still out there, I apologize.

]]> http://www.whilemyboyfriendwassleeping.com/2012/01/12/girl-interrupted/feed/ 2 http://www.whilemyboyfriendwassleeping.com/2011/12/04/light-bright/ http://www.whilemyboyfriendwassleeping.com/2011/12/04/light-bright/#comments Sun, 04 Dec 2011 14:53:15 +0000 heidi http://www.whilemyboyfriendwassleeping.com/?p=5132

Walked into the living room this morning with Henry on my hip.

For six months he’s passed through the living room riding on my hip. I’d say he’s pretty well acquainted with the stuff in this house, which is why I was a little alarmed when all of a sudden, out of nowhere …

He GASPED.

And it was a loud gasp for a baby.

What the hell is wrong, I thought.

And then I saw the reflection of the lights in his eyes.

Oh right, the Christmas tree.

Sometimes I’m such a dumb adult.

]]> http://www.whilemyboyfriendwassleeping.com/2011/12/04/light-bright/feed/ 2 http://www.whilemyboyfriendwassleeping.com/2011/11/20/the-bane-of-my-existence/ http://www.whilemyboyfriendwassleeping.com/2011/11/20/the-bane-of-my-existence/#comments Sun, 20 Nov 2011 14:49:00 +0000 heidi http://www.whilemyboyfriendwassleeping.com/?p=5117

I love that I generated fortune cookie comments in my last post.

So in the spirit of WISHFUL THINKING, I give you the fortune I pulled from a cookie when I was 15 years old. As you can see by the dirt, dust and fuzz, I’ve taped this trifling thing EVERYWHERE over the years: furniture. journals, car dashboards, refrigerator doors, useless math textbooks…

And wouldn’t you know, the goddamn thing has yet to come true.

It taunts me.

–

PS. Holy moly. It just occurred to me NOW that these lucky numbers might mean something. In all the years I’ve obsessed over this piece of paper, I’ve never given the numbers much thought.

So let’s break ‘em down now: Joe’s birthday is Dec. 8. The first time I wrote a book that I was proud of was when I was 11 years old. It was for a school project and it spawned a short series of children’s books about a town in which expressions and idioms come true (ie: “It’s raining cats and dogs”). When I was 24, I quit my newspaper job, moved into a bungalow in downtown Sarasota and attempted, but of course never finished, my first novel. I was 25 when I met Joe. He was 34 when we got married.

And then there’s 38. I have no idea what 38 means.

]]> http://www.whilemyboyfriendwassleeping.com/2011/11/20/the-bane-of-my-existence/feed/ 5 http://www.whilemyboyfriendwassleeping.com/2011/11/19/the-day-henry-had-ice-cream/ http://www.whilemyboyfriendwassleeping.com/2011/11/19/the-day-henry-had-ice-cream/#comments Sat, 19 Nov 2011 16:52:17 +0000 heidi http://www.whilemyboyfriendwassleeping.com/?p=5098

(I started writing this Tuesday – and then Henry woke from a nap.)

There are a million things about motherhood that are exhausting. But for all of the things that are exhausting there are an equal number of things that are beautiful.

Sometimes the exhausting ones cloud the beautiful ones. Such is the way of life I suppose.

So right now, at 4:45 in the afternoon, when I’ve got work piled high on my plate, when Henry is down for an afternoon nap, when I should do be doing something more productive with my time…

like dishes, laundry, journalism

…marinating the chicken breast I’m grilling for dinner.

When I should be doing that and then some, I’m doing this instead:

Tipping my hat to Henry, to the baby who is well on his way to six months old, who is already so strong and bursting with personality.

When he falls asleep in my arms I count the tiny blue veins in his eyelids. They’re subtle, but when you notice them, they look like fireworks petering out in the night sky.

In these quiet moments, I try to picture the man he’s going to grow up to be.

And then I get hung up on the “man” part.

I’ve been told it happens fast.

So for all the moments when I could or should be doing something else, I’m going to do my best to do this instead:

be calm, be happy, be grateful, be easy.

I met an artist this week who works two jobs, has three kids and still finds time to create art and (occasionally) do yoga. He was all kinds of Zen, seemingly unencumbered by any of these pressures.

“Don’t you get burned out?” I asked him

“Sure, all the time,” he said. “It comes and goes. Life is messy, ya know. The sooner you accept that, the happier you’ll be.”

“Three kids though,” I said. “I have all I can do to adjust to just one!”

He let out a sinister laugh.

“Oooo,” he said. “But they’re so much fun.”

He’s right. Kids are messy and fun as hell.

A few weeks ago, Henry enjoyed his first ice cream cone.

Yeah I’m that mother. My kid’s first FOOD, aside from a couple spoonfuls of rice cereal, was ice cream.

I blame my father, Henry’s Opa. He insisted I let him taste it. He and my mom were in town recently and as usual, we paid a visit to my favorite ice cream stand – Nokomis Groves. It’s nestled between two orange groves and sells only soft-serve. I’ve been going here with my family since I was 11 years old.

“Just give him a little taste,” pleaded my ice cream-loving father. “It’s not gonna kill him.”

Typical grandparent. I grew up being handed sugar cubes by my overindulgent Oma.

Because babies tend to draw a crowd, a gaggle of strangers had gathered around my family. Everyone wanted to see Henry scream for ice cream.

So against my better judgement, I held the cone to my baby’s face.

At first he daintily licked it. Unsure of the cold, he wrinkled his nose and suspiciously gummed the soft-serve.

And then the eureka moment: he swallowed.

It wasn’t much. Just enough to get addicted.

Like a thirsty dog lapping at water, he ravenously returned to the cone for seconds. As confident as I am that my breast milk tastes like the elixir of the gods, I’m certain it pales in comparison to ice cream. It is, after all, a gateway dessert.

By now more strangers had gathered to witness my poor parenting.

“Give him more,” they cheered.

OK, one last taste, I thought.

Henry smacked his lips as the crowd waited in wild anticipation.

Like an insatiable beast, he shrieked and shook his fists in the air. His eyes were feral and hungry. His jaw was wide and open for business.

I was letting him sweat. It was a teachable moment.

Good ice cream comes to those who wait, son.

The crowd got antsy. Henry got antsy.

“He wants more,” they bellowed.

Fed up, Henry twisted toward a man sitting on the bench next to us. With his greedy little paws he reached for the man’s cone.

“Don’t even think about it kid,” the man grumbled.

The crowd cheered and laughed again.

Crestfallen, Henry turned his chin to me. He opened his mouth like a baby bird and like a mama robin, I gave him a big wet kiss with my ice cream lips.

You’ve never seen a son so comforted by his mother’s affection.

Last night I walked into the living room with a bowl of Halloween candy for Joe to distribute to our trick-or-treaters.

(Note: I will not be home tonight for Halloween. I’m “celebrity” judging a costume contest at a burlesque show in Sarasota, so Joe has been tasked with handing out our loot. )

I take tremendous pride in my Halloween candy assortment. Every year I fill a giant bowl with Reese’s, Twix, Hersheys, lollipops and if I’m feeling generous, Kit Kats. And every year, two or three shy kids show up in the company of nervous parents who advise them to only take ONE measly candy.

“One candy!” I cry. “NONSENSE! Take five candies! Hell, take 10. You’re the only little goblins I get all night. DIG IN.”

I’m bummed I won’t be here tonight to push candy.

(Note: If you’re in Sarasota and you’re planning to attend tonight’s contest, please know I’ve got eccentric taste in costumes. Ladies: I don’t have much love for those of you who dress as floozies for Halloween. Just so you know who you’re dealing with, my last three Halloween costumes were a Wheel of Fortune game piece, a Chinese takeout box and this year, a fugly mom – fupa and all. Timely, no?)

Anyway. Back to the candy bowl.

“This is an important job,” I said. “Make sure you answer every knock.”

“We get like three kids every year,” he grumbled.

“I know. Which is why it’s important you answer every knock. And don’t let them pick their own candy. They’re too polite. Parents train them to take only one piece. Tell them we never get trick-or-treaters and then give ‘em a giant handful.”

Joe rolled his eyes.

“I’ve been to Halloween before,” he said, plucking a Hershey bar from the bowl. “I went as Mork from Ork before you were even born.”

And just like that, my husband became an old man.

–

HAPPY HALLOWEEN LANCE-ALOTS!

If I were staying home tonight to hand out candy, I’d go as myself: a scary, bitchy, terribly sleep-deprived mom.

[ A little baby bliss goes a long way. ]

Swinging in this tree, in this backyard, with this little boy on my lap takes me back to a place I’ve not been in awhile.

It takes me back to my childhood, to the days I spent lounging in the sun, reading Alice In Wonderland, climbing old trees and performing front handsprings for passing cars. It takes me back to a trampoline and the poetry I wrote about lilacs, reckless dreams and young love. About why and where and how I would become a writer one day when I grew up.

I don’t know when I grew up.

Sometimes I catch myself looking in the mirror with Henry resting on my hip, our reflections bouncing back at us. His round face and his round eyes patterned after mine and Joe’s and all the family members that came before us.

I look in the mirror at this baby with the big eyebrows and the big grin telling me that I’ve grown up. And I think: what and how will you grow up to be?

Sometimes I beat myself up about things. About not achieving enough. It irritates Joe. He likes to point out that I’m the kind of person who can’t see the forest through the trees.

He’s so right.

I’m the Little Picture Girl and he’s the Big Picture Boy.

But now we’ve got this baby and he’s got us wrapped around his pinkie finger. He’s turning the big pictures and the little pictures inside out and upside down.

We created him using nothing but biology and now the world is different. Or at least it’s different for us.

The day he was born was unlike any other day of my life. I can’t explain it. Everything looked strange and beautiful. Things I had seen one million times looked as they did the first time I saw them. Businesses we passed on our way home from the birth center, places I had entered dozens of times, looked brand new. The air smelled exotic. The traffic lights glittered. The sounds of cars and birds and airplanes were louder than ever before.

You know how you feel when you move somewhere new? Or when you’re on vacation and you pass through a place you’ve never been? How your senses are heightened and your brain feels sharper than it has in months or years?

That’s how I felt in the days following Henry’s birth.

I felt like I was on drugs. The high was so beautiful and intoxicating. It felt just like floating – yet I was in some of the worst physical pain of my life.

In those early days, the very tough early days of wrapping my head around the fact that I had brought a person into this world, I did something I don’t do often.

I saw the forest through the trees.

This week, while swinging in the backyard with Henry on my lap, I saw it again.

The sun was slicing through the oak leaves. The air was cool for the first time since March. The church bells were dinging and Henry was giggling.

We swung this way for an hour. Back and forth, back and forth. Me and Henry just looking at the forest through the trees.

I write post ideas on anything I can get my hands on.

Sometimes the only thing I can get my hands on is an envelope. This is a Blue Cross and Blue Shield envelope. Inside is a statement explaining Henry’s health care coverage.

On the outside I’ve scribbled a laundry list of Lance topics.

• Zantac for babies who have reflux: why would you prescribe a foul-tasting medicine that TRIGGERS a baby’s gag reflex when that baby already suffers from reflux?

• Demi Moore is finally in a movie and suddenly there’s an Ashton cheating scandal. Coincidence? I think not.

• St. Pete trend alert: bums pedaling bikes with pull-behind baby trailers heaped with beer cans.

• It’s finally getting chilly in Florida. Break out your hoodies.

These are the PROFOUND topics I’d discuss on here if I didn’t have a newspaper deadline to meet tomorrow. Consider yourselves lucky.

So I was thinking …

Since I’ve got a full plate right now and since it’s bugging the hell out of me that I’m too busy to write the lengthy narratives I sooo love writing for you guys …

I ask you:

Is it better to have frequent, but shorter and less thoughtful posts? Or to have sporadic, but longer and more careful posts? The essay-style stories now take me years to finish due to my recent evaporation of free time.

When I started the Lance I told myself I would never fill it with blather. Now I’m beginning to think that approach is stifling me, or in the very least preventing me from keeping the site current.

I find myself starting posts only to abandon them in my draft folder because my mood has shifted, or because I’ve gotten bored with the topic, or because Henry has woken from his 30-minute power nap, or because when I’m writing for work I’m usually too mentally exhausted to write for pleasure.

So tell me: would you rather I just post stuff, regardless of whether it meets my stupid self-imposed standards? Or would you rather I continue to chip away slowly at longer stories – a process that seems especially daunting these days as I struggle to finish everyday chores such as, you know … laundry, cooking, cleaning and all the other domestic nonsense I’m forever sucking at.

I ask because I honestly don’t know if anyone cares. Your feedback on this matter would be incredibly valuable to me.

Thank you,

♥ Heidi

–

PS. Growling photo by Joe, taken this weekend at a beautiful wedding in North Florida.