While My Boyfriend Was Sleeping

What I write after Joe and Henry go to bed

The King has entered the building.

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Surprise. Surprise.

The King is here.

Holy anticlimactic!

I let 12 days go by after his birth without so much as posting a picture.

Sorry. I’m easily distracted. I’ve had non-stop company and I’ve been nursing a newborn around the clock, which for a novice such as myself, requires both hands.

So yes. I’ve neglected to update my favorite corner of the web.

But what about Henry, you ask.

I’m sure it’s why most of you have pulled up this site repeatedly over the last couple weeks.

The newborn I birthed! Where is he? How did it go? Did the birth center live up to its expectations? Would I recommend natural childbirth? (More on that later…)

I know some of you grew impatient and decided to find my Facebook profile. As cringe-worthy as FB can be sometimes, it’s much less time-consuming than writing a real blog post. For someone whose friends and family are scattered all over the world Facebook is a requisite social networking tool. My profile has been a hub of activity since Henry’s birth.

In this space, however, I like to take my time.

Just like Henry.

Who, by the way, was born at 1:05 p.m., Sunday, June 5 at Breath of Life Birth Center.

He weighed 8 lbs., 12 oz. and measured 21 inches long.

“Ooo! It’s about time we got a trucker,” said my midwife, who sized me up with a disconcerting GRIN as I waddled painfully into the birth center in the throes of active labor. “We’ve had a lot of pipsqueaks lately.”

The most coherent thing I said that morning: “A TRUCKER?! I don’t want a trucker!”

But I got a trucker, who one hour after being born attempted to crawl. No kidding.

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Crawlout Shelter: Baby Cave

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This used to be The Man Cave. It’s now The Baby Cave since the word nursery is kind of weak. I realize that “cave” implies that our child has fangs and bat wings, but in our current vampire-obsessed culture I think he’ll blend just fine.

The room is 90 percent finished. When my dad comes down in June, he’ll install white chair rail between the beige and green walls.

The crib was a gift from my parents. There’s (of course) a ridiculous story behind the purchasing of the crib, but I’ll save that tale for another day. The rug is from Ikea. I LOVE IKEA. And yes, I always think of Ed Norton’s IKEA rant in Fight Club when I’m aimlessly wandering the store’s tidy/handsome apartment displays.

[Crib = Babies R Us. Rocking chair = Cracker Barrel.]

I still need to replace the mini blinds with white cordless shades. I haven’t decided if I’m keeping the green valances. My mom made them for The Man Cave a couple years ago and they seem to match the room’s current reincarnation, so we’ll see.

I take zero credit for the paint job and crib assembly. Last month, I escaped to my Oma and Opa’s place in South Sarasota County for a weekend away with my sister. When I returned two days later to a freshly painted cave and expertly assembled crib, I got all weepy and sentimental.

With each new step I take with Joe, I fall deeper and deeper in love. I’m a lucky lady.

[Paint = Benjamin Moore in aventurine green and interlude beige. Inspiration behind color combo = Eddie Bauer.]

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"She’s the other half of my zipper."

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ST. PETE – Today I had lunch with one of my oldest friends in Florida.
It was at a Thai restaurant called The King & I, and we were talking about relationships – his not mine – and I could tell by his blushing and squirming that the chick he’s dating is turning his insides to goo.
If he hadn’t squirmed and hadn’t blushed, I’d be writing about his smile. His smile was a billboard that flashed: DUDE IN LIKE, as it was one of those punch-drunk smiles that you cannot, no matter how much you think you’re in control of your facial contortions, pinch shut.
Basically, the man is smitten and getting smitten-er by the day.
Before I tell you what he told me today, which I’m pretty sure you garnered from the title of this post, I’ve gotta give you context. I’ve gotta paint a picture of this kid so you can squint him into focus in your brain.
I won’t tell you his name for fear that She, whom he is falling for, might read this. We’re not Facebook friends or Twitter friends, but who knows? We might one day be, and just you watch this relationship go in the shitter.
Ey! I pray it doesn’t. At heart, I’m a romantic. By trade, a cynic. It’s just that in the event that She screws Him over, or He screws Her over, I don’t want to air His vulnerabilities on the Internet.
This friend of mine. He’s analytical. Nerdy in the best way. Wears T-shirts with ironic expressions and dinosaurs decals. He’s a whore for gadgetry and all technological advances. And despite his CNET membership and frequent use of the word, “app,” he’s devoutly religious. I think the only friend I have who goes to church every week.
For four years he has insisted on paying for our lunches and dinners, which usually run several hours long and have functioned, for me, as food-talk-therapy sessions.
Anyway. So he’s dating someone new. A girl I’ve never met, but whose name I’ve invented a song for. (Well, not invented, per-se since the song I sing is a real song with a refrain that sounds like this chick’s name, but more like a song I adapted in the spirit of her name.)
It’s a nice name. Makes me think of gingham curtains and Ashley Judd in bare feet.
As grease dripped down my chin from the tubular spring roll I was eating, this glowy friend of mine explained in the most rudimentary terms, how this girl is just about perfect for him.
“It’s like my zipper theory,” he said. “You know how a zipper has two parts that are a little different, but kind of alike? We’re like that. She’s just different enough.”
“You’re so head over heels it’s killing you,” I said.
He blushed. Smiled like clothespins were pinching his cheeks and nodded begrudgingly in agreement. My supremely picky, painfully rational friend had found himself a lass.
As I began pounding the table in approval, he began pointing out that there was, of course, one problem.
The Perfect Fit had been really busy lately. So busy, that last month they went one whole week without speaking or seeing each other. So my friend, the self-preservator, decided to end the relationship. Nip it in the bud, as they say.
But of course, there was one other problem, he said.
He liked her. Good and plenty. He liked her tons. And when he dumped her, he felt cinematic-ly sad. Couldn’t concentrate at all at work the next day.
“She wasn’t making time for me, so I figured maybe she didn’t like me. But when I broke up with her or whatever, I could tell that night, by her face that maybe she liked me.”

So he decided to call her a few days later to see if she wanted to meet for dinner. And without officially reconciling, they began dating again.

As he told me this story, blushing and eating spring rolls, insisting he wasn’t going to invest himself in the situation because he wasn’t sure how the gal felt about him, I couldn’t help but pound the table again.

“But she’s your zipper,” I cried.
“I know,” he said.