I read Amalah’s post about her being on this side of the Two Week Wait and it really got me thinking.

The whole Are We Done? question is always met with a HUGE resounding NO around here. We know there’s more in store for us, but the question of when is burning away.

We ignore all the family and friends and complete RANDOM STRANGERS cooing over Lyla and then immediately asking when Number Two will be arriving. I’ve been pretty relaxed and polite about my answers thus far. I’m the excuse queen. Some of my excuses, albeit completely acceptable responses include:

“When we get a bigger house.”
“Well, we can’t afford to put two in daycare right now.”
“I’m not ready for those newborn weeks quite yet. I’m not really over it.”
“We’re just trying to enjoy everything about Lyla right now.”

And then I look at this baby, who’s quickly exiting the baby stage, and I yearn for another. And that voice in my head starts telling me that I’m not getting any younger and how people my age are done having kids, what with their oldest practically ready for middle school. And I start to wonder. What is next?

Yes, we need a bigger house. We have a three bedroom, but the third bedroom is on the lower level; two floors away from our bedroom. I can’t put a baby three floors below us. But Lyla’s bedroom is big. And with a little re-arranging (and a storage unit rental), two kids could easily fit. Not to mention, I’d be pregnant for ten-months and also, just a reminder, if a new baby is anything like its older sister, it would sleep with on me for three five months. Quick math, carry the one, that gives us over a YEAR to solve the house problem. Hmmm.

No, we really couldn’t afford to put two kids in daycare and say, well, eat. However, I could probably hire a full time Nanny for what I’m paying daycare right now and then enroll Lyla part time just to a) give the Nanny a break and b) keep her in a school that she and I both love. So. Hmmm.

And no, I absolutely haven’t forgotten how terrible those first couple of months were. I haven’t forgotten the never ending screaming, the hideous sleepless days and nights; not knowing which was which, the awful helpless feeling, and the unanswered question of WHY the FUCK are YOU STILL CRYING!? I quite vividly remember the laps around the house, the constant dancing and rocking and swaying and shhhh-ing. Remaining immobile for 2-3 hours during the day, unable to pee, or answer the phone, or get a drink once she fell asleep on my chest. I totally remember.

However, I also know that it ended. That eventually I wound up with a happy, smiley, giggling cutie-pie that lit up every second of each day that I got to see her little face. That soon she was sleeping 10-12 hours a night, napping regularly, eating every 3-4 hours instead of every 3-4 minutes. And that I was able to determine what she needed when she cried or anticipate what it was before she started to get upset. And that brought immense joy. Now I know that the hard part is only temporary.*

And yes. I am totally focused on enjoying Lyla right now. She’s at such an amazing and awesome stage. She interacts. She listens. She’s starting to communicate with sign-language. She’s crawling and pulling up and walking with her push toy. She doesn’t need to be rocked to sleep. She’s babbling with intonation in her voice. Familiar intonation. My intonation.

This week her teacher called me at work. Naturally my heart was in my throat when I saw daycare’s number pop-up on my caller ID, but there was nothing wrong. In fact, Ms. J was just calling to let me know that the ice cream truck was going to be stopping at the school today and since Lyla and her friend D are the two oldest in the class, asopubgpauweh ptonamou lakjhsfiouwb……

!!!

I didn’t hear a word after she said “…two oldest in the class.”

No way is my baby, the one I dropped there just, like a MINUTE ago with her little bald head and her squeaky sounds and toothless smiles. The one that still needed to be swaddled and placed in a sleep positioner to nap. The one that was drinking just 4 ozs of breastmilk at each feeding that I had to pump every day. The one that just sat in the bouncy seat or swing in the swing and watched all those crawling and signing and pulling up babies move all around her. NO WAY IS THAT BABY THE OLDEST IN THE CLASS, LADY!

But she is. And now Ms. J wanted to know if that baby could have some ice cream. Because she is the oldest.

What happens when I have another baby? How do I spread my love and my attention between two? How could I POSSIBLY love another one as much as I love my Bean? It just doesn’t feel possible to love anything more than her. It can’t be. Or could it?

And so I ask myself, what’s next?

* Yes, I KNOW that you all told me that it was temporary and that it would get better, but here’s something for you. I WAS CONVINCED YOU WERE ALL LYING!

I’ve never been. I’ve always wanted to go. I never thought I’d get the chance now that I refuse to don’t travel for work anymore. I voted for Boston.

The plan when I bought my BlogHer09 conference pass was for the entire family to go and for this entire family to come with. The boys and kids would tour the city while she and I partied our butts off sat through extremely informative sessions on this fantastic medium that we love. Then her circumstances changed and she made the difficult decision not to go. I felt deflated.

But then I remembered that I had plans to finally lick meet this one. And I had recently gotten to be quite close to this one. And this one told me we could hug. And my amazing and supportive husband said he’d still come with Bean. So I continued down the path of finally getting to see Chicago.

Then the most disgusting month of all months hit when there was rain 17 out of 20 days and a sudden mass exodus of Earth with the undertone of more shit-tastic news fucking everywhere. Recap: Ed McMahon, Farrah Fawcett, Michael Jackson, Billy Mays and my dog – all inside of a week. Seriously, did your June suck or was it just me?

I had purchased my BlogHer pass in February. I reserved my hotel room. I had RSVP’d for the MamaPop Extravaganza. I had thought about my wardrobe. I stressed about traveling with a now increasingly mobile kid. I looked at flight options (this airport, that airport, noon time or evening) daily, but for some reason, my anxiety kept me from booking the flight.

Yesterday everything came to a head. I strongly considered not going. I couldn’t figure it all out. I was stressed about the travel, anxious about meeting new people, and guilty about leaving my husband and kid locked in a hotel room while I had fun. Part of me knew I couldn’t fully enjoy myself if I knew they were just upstairs alone. So the easiest decision was not to go.

But that didn’t feel right either.

I emailed and or called upon my circle. I talked honestly with my husband about how I felt. I slept on it.

And when I woke up I had my decision. I knew if I gave up the opportunity to go I might regret it since there were so many people I knew that wouldn’t even have the opportunity to give it up! I decided it would be best for our family if I made the trip alone. Once I had made this part of the decision, I felt about 30 pounds lighter. I eventually figured out that the stress of traveling with the baby was a huge portion of my anxiety. I mean the fact that Airbusses are just FALLING from the sky en masse was only PART of it. (Also? I can easily self medicate if I’m only responsible for myself ifyouknowwhatimean)

I booked my flight today. I’m Chicago bound. I can’t wait to lick hug shake-hands fist-bump you all.

She was my dog. I got her after college. It was too early. I wasn’t ready for such responsibility, but I wanted a dog. I wanted her.

As a puppy, she was my baby. We went everywhere together; to the bank, to the store, for rides in the car. She loved the car. The bank was her favorite stop. She always got a biscuit at the bank.

After the first year, my life changed. I had been working out of the house and I was able to hang out with her non-stop, but when I accepted a job that required an hour commute and frequent travel, my life was no longer conducive to having a dog. It wasn’t fair to her.

Luckily, my Dad would take her whenever I had to travel for business. He had an older Golden, Casey. They loved to wrestle and play and swim in the lake. They were best friends and Sage was always sad when I would pick her up. Eventually I decided she was happiest there.

My step-mother was home all day providing them with constant human companionship. They were both family members. So loved. So important to us.

Casey passed away in 2004 due to complications from an aggressive tumor he had on his back. He never showed that he was in pain, but the tumor was so big that it had to have affected his comfort. We were all devastated when he passed. And it was obvious that she was too. Sagie’s buddy was gone. She was so sad.

When my life changed again and I was no longer traveling, no longer renting, and settled in my own house, I considered taking Sage back. But my Dad, step-mother, and brother were so close to her. It wouldn’t have been fair to them. Despite not having Casey around, she was still happy as she could be curled up on the couch in the sun in the winter or digging a hole in the dirt under the bushes that line my Dad’s yard.

When my step-mother died suddenly last year, I worried about Sage being alone all day. But she always greeted me with the same energy; tail at full wag and squealing with joy. She loved hanging out on the hill by the garage watching my Dad and brother work on my brother’s car. Aside from the arthritis in her hips that gave her a hard time getting up when she’d been asleep for a while and made it difficult to navigate the hardwood floors at times, she was healthy and happy. And her same old self.

She hated the 4th of July. The fireworks always scared her. Thunderstorms too. More often than not my Dad or brother would come home to find a few lamps tipped over in the living room and a huddled mass of golden fur shaking in the bathtub. This year with the 4th looming and thunderstorm season upon us, she won’t have to be scared.

She passed away last night just before midnight in the company of my Dad and brother who loved her so much. She would’ve been 10 years old on Friday. I collapsed in tears this morning when I heard the news and couldn’t even fight them back long enough to drop Lyla off at daycare without getting 20 questions from her teachers as to why I was upset. I started thinking about why people like me attach themselves to animals and love them in ways we never thought imaginable. I think it’s because they can’t hurt us…

…until they’re gone.

And then it hurts like hell.

For those of you thinking, “It’s just a dog!”. (MOM!) You’re right. It is just a dog. But she was also a friend. And unconditional love giver who, on your worst day could make you smile when she rounded the corner with a green tennis ball/rope/squeaky toy stuffed in her mouth squealing with glee that you came to see her.

I love you forever, Sagie girl. I take comfort that you and Casey are running around wrestling, chasing squirrels, swimming, and playing tug-o-war together once again. You will be missed.

We always remember not to food shop the week before we’re going away. It doesn’t make sense to buy anything that will just sit through the weekend and perhaps rot, or be forgotten about, etc.

We ALWAYS remember not to food shop the week before we’re going away.

We always forget that this will mean there’s nothing to eat when we get home.

This time we got lucky. In a last minute decision to meet Mom out for dinner one night last week, the chicken that was supposed to be our meal for that night went in the freezer. Sunday night when we got home from Boston, we thawed it out and EHH grilled some chicken for dinner with a nice spicy rub on it and a side of grilled zucchini (I remembered not to food shop. I did not remember to cancel my Door-to-Door Organics delivery. Shut-up.)

I had planned on grocery shopping after work yesterday. I LOATHE grocery shopping. I’ve stated my extreme hatred for the sport before. I LOATHE it. I prefer Peapod. I want to make out with Peapod. I also missed my kid a LOT yesterday, as I do on most Monday’s, after spending three whole days with her sweet little face. Peapod won not only because it saved me from the act of physical shopping, but also because it got me home to her about 30 minutes earlier. Win/Win.

I placed our Peapod order and headed home only to realize…

We had absolutely nothing to eat for dinner.

Which was totally a reason for me to go to the grocery store.

But I REALLY didn’t wanna. Like stomp my feet and WHINE LOUDLY didn’t wanna.

We had just come home from Boston where we tend to spend a little too much money. I had just placed a grocery order upwards of $150. We have daycare bills due, mortgage, etc. I was determined to save us from the convenience of ordering out and build some dinner from the contents of our pantry.

(You people all know I can’t cook, right? That I have been known to accidentally broil toast? So what the HELL was I thinking? I was thinking that if this didn’t work, there was always pancakes. But no syrup.)

We always have pasta. I have Italian heritage. If I ever go to the pantry and have it be without pasta, another nook in hell for my soul will simultaneously form. I knew pasta would be the bulk of our meal. We did not have Olive Oil. Which kind of made me go hmmm when pondering how the HELL I was going to make the pasta.

I thumbed through other canned items; Pumpkin, chicken gravy, black olives, vegetable soup, diced tomatoes, hearts of palm, cannellini beans, more pumpkin, more diced tomatoes.

Mom was playing with Bean in the other room and when I told her I was trying to make something for dinner out of the pantry contents, she took that opportunity to remind me I should’ve just gone to the store.

Which I did not.

So was she going to help me? Or mock me.

(Both)

She has some funktastic app on her iPhone (ed. note: All Recipes. Downloaded that mutha!) that she was able to put in some ingredients and wham. A recipe actually matched.

Last night I made Greek Pasta with Tomatoes and White Beans.

Only mine wasn’t so Greek since I didn’t have any Feta.

The recipe called for:

- 2 cans of Italian style diced tomatoes (check)

- 1 can cannellini beans (check)

- Fresh Spinach, washed & chopped (check – see aforementioned forgetfulness on canceling the Door-to-Door Organics order)

- Penne Pasta (Meh – angel hair will have to do)

- 1/2 cup of crumbled feta cheese

There was a note on the recipe that mentioned simmering the tomatoes with a little garlic, oregano and basil. I had all three! So I did that. And people? There were no measurements listed on any of those three ingredients so I GUESSED and it was GOOD. (I used two cloves of garlic, diced small. And about a teaspoon of both the oregano and basil.)

Directions:

1) Cook the pasta as desired.

2) Combine tomatoes and beans, garlic, and spices in a LARGE (trust me you need the large one. I had to switch because the spinach wouldn’t fit) skillet. Bring to a boil over medium heat. Reduce heat and simmer uncovered for 10 minutes.

3) Add spinach to the sauce; cook until spinach wilts, stirring constantly.

4) Serve sauce over pasta and sprinkle with Feta.

I was convinced my husband would hate it because of the beans, but I would just tell him to pick them out because we were being ECONOMICAL IF IT KILLED US, DAMMIT! Turns out I WAS WRONG. AND HE LOVED IT!

It was a really good, easy, light recipe that I will definitely make again.

Maybe with the feta next time.

—–

Some nutritional notes.

Serves 4.
The recipe listing says there’s about 460 calories and 5.9g of fat per serving.
All of my ingredients happened to be organic with the exception of the pasta. This was merely an accident since I don’t tend to buy every grocery item organic, but I will say that the flavor and taste was very pure. The spinach looked fantastic and fresh and a very bright green. I never thought I’d be a proponent of organic items, but the more I use them and the more I think about poisoning myself with preservatives a little less than before, the more appealing going organic sounds.

Hmm. Next blog topic; my position on going organic…?

(My commute has sucked and then blown this week. I have to keep myself busy. So here’s some things I do during my commute to keep myself entertained for the long and torturous ride.)

Someone playing air drums to a certain Phil Collins song ah-hem In The Air Tonight ah-hem.
(Does anyone else BLAST the volume when that part starts?)

Someone singing every piece of Funkytown – even the instrumentals. I’m partial to the ban-na-na’s rather than the do-do-doos.

Someone laughing hysterically while listening to everything that is totally inappropriate on The Howard Stern Show.

Someone cramming a Coffee Cake Muffin in her maw.

While simultaneously claiming she’s on a fruit and vegetable diet.

And cursing the Coffee Cake Muffin for being so crumby and getting on the seat. (He’s totally gonna know.)

Someone updating Twitter. (Shhh)

Someone whipping her hair around like a fool while listening to anything on the Hair Nation channel.

Someone substituting lyrics for non-words because she never bothered to learn the real lyrics. Worst offense: Bennie & The Jets
“Hey kids, take a blue together… spotlight didnd’t blah de balh nanan ana na WEATHER.”
(oh it gets worse)

Someone substituting lyrics for songs she knows the words to, but hers are better. Example, Nelson, Love & Affection.
“I can’t live without your love and erection.”
(That’s just low hanging fruit. HA! Another penis reference.)

And then giggling like a fool.

Someone occasionally leaving the baby’s favorite CD in the player and singing along to her favorite songs.

And then peering into the backseat and wishing someone was back there singing with her.

Someone who puts on the Love channel just to astonish herself with how many horrible ballad songs she knows.

Someone who puts on the 60’s channel just to astonish herself with how many awesome oldies she knows (this one’s totally my Dad’s fault).

Someone who yawns, stretches, and wishes she were back in bed.

And someone’s who’s grateful for having a commute to actually complain about.