Stuck In The Middle With You

Five and a half years later and he still wears the Urban Fetch shirt all the time

On the plane home from a rather long, difficult week in New York (aside from a very special dinner at Jean Georges) dealing with a scary (and successful!) surgery for one of my necessary people, 500 Days of Summer popped on my Virgin Red. Who can resist Zooey? Mr. Schneed hates this movie. He just doesn’t understand why she doesn’t want to be with the nice, cute guy. I remember seeing it in the theater and my cute, nice guy husband was viscerally angry at Summer. Watching it the other night while feeling wistful, I had an epiphany—I never have to date again! You would think this would have struck me earlier given that I've been with my husband for over 5 years. I've always been a slow learner. Obviously, this is assuming that I don’t go through an even more horrifying divorce. Barring that, I never have to date again. Woohoo!

No more painful breakups. No more sobbing through dinners with friends because yet another relationship is on the bridge to nowhere. No more wondering if he'll call. No more wondering if I'll ever fall in love again. No more fearing that I'll never have a family. But also: No more searching for the perfect outfit to wear on a first date. No more witty text/im/email banter. No more wondering what it would be like to wake up with him. No more trying so hard to be my best self.

I've been so focused this past year on being a mother that I fear I've ignored my wifely duties. Perhaps ignored is a little harsh. Maybe more like forgot to water for, oh, say, about a year and change. But, thankfully ours is a cactus marriage and (mostly) thrived during the drought. In yesterday's Modern Love column in the NY Times, the author writes about how she poked the bear and endeavored to make her good marriage even better. I'm starting to feel the same itch to start poking. Why wait for things to start falling apart before letting my dear, sweet boyfriend-for-life know how much he means to me?

In the spirit of fixing what ain't really broken but could use a tune up, I want to try to recapture some of the giddiness and excitement of dating. Lately, I find myself saying things to my husband in a tone I might kindly call shrewish. Where did this person come from and how can I banish her? Before snapping or snarking, I want to take a moment to think about how I would react if I were only dating this man. Would I criticize how he bites the spoon every time he eats ice cream? Would I make fun of his desire to watch The Bachelor? (Probably). Would I compliment him more?

When we first moved in together, after traveling back and forth between New York and San Francisco for over a year, we used to wake up each morning laughing at our good fortune. We knew how exciting it was to be together every day and our pillow talk reflected that. Now our pillows are dreadfully quiet as we've both passed out from exhaustion and fear that tonight might be the night that the baby doesn't sleep. This week I'm breaking the silence. I've been feeling like quite the lucky girl again--time to let my date know.

Dog Days of Denim

Maybe we need to start from a different baseline

So yesterday I went through the joy of shopping for new jeans. I find jean shopping to be second only to bathing suit shopping in the humiliation department. I spent the last week fighting my husband's suggestions to go get "some jeans that fit." Finally, I caved realizing that at least I'd get some new jeans out of the horror show. Although he doesn't seem to care about any other items of clothing, Mr. Schneed is compelled by a greater force to comment on every single pair of dungarees* I own.

It all started a few months ago with some confusion on the part of my body and my wardrobe as to what fits post-baby. While my pre-baby clothing is in theory the same size as before, in reality much of it has been stretched out due to my refusal to wear maternity gear for much of the pregnancy. So...those pre-pregnancy jeans now look both tight and saggy at the same time. Sexy!

Although I've been buying new jeans every few months since having Mr. Monk, I've also been losing weight slowly but steadily. Other than boyfriend jeans, which those of us with hips can't rock without looking like a dock worker, most jeans look better fitted. Therefore, most of my jeans look a little not good.

One of the friends I saw in NYC who has a four month old baby asked me when she's likely to get back to her old body. As I was saying that it takes a (looong) while, she turned to me and wondered aloud if I was at my old self yet. Well, clearly I must not look it! Apparently, everything on the body does not just go back to the way it was before. Even if you're at the same weight or lower, things settle and hang and jiggle differently. Fun times. But, I birthed a baby, and I'll be proud of my body no matter what. (And I'll keep reminding myself of this on the beach next month).

As for the jeans, unfortunately, there is only so much they can do for the shape, length and size of the legs, hips and butt they contain. Too bad there's no store that sells some newer, firmer models.

*My mom cannot call them jeans. Once dungarees, always dungarees.

Think different

Thank you, Steve Jobs, for giving me the life that I know and love. About two months after I started dating my husband, he gave me a used macbook because it had a built-in camera. It turned out to be the most important present I ever received. So began our furious year+ of video dating. Without the ichat feature, I doubt our relationship would have continued to thrive despite the entire span of the US between us. We even thanked Mr. Jobs in our wedding vows!

Living in San Francisco and being married to a tech geek/Apple zealot who works in the industry, it's hard to miss the amazing impact that this company has had in our lives. I was on the street when I got a text from my husband telling me about his passing and every person in sight was also looking down on his or her iphone and frowning. Today was a grave reminder to live each day as if it were your last. Your family, your friends, your health, these are the things that matter. All else is fleeting.

As I begin to think about what I can and should do with my life, these words leave an indelible mark:

"Your work is going to fill a large part of your life, and the only way to be truly satisfied is to do what you believe is great work. And the only way to do great work is to love what you do. If you haven't found it yet, keep looking. Don't settle. As with all matters of the heart, you'll know when you find it. And, like any great relationship, it just gets better and better as the years roll on. So keep looking until you find it. Don't settle."

– Steve Jobs, Stanford commencement speech 2005

Best with fava beans and a nice Chianti

For a few weeks just before I was due with Mr. Monk, my husband and I attended a childbirth class at a local pregnancy/childbirth/parenting center. We decided to go to the crunchy, granola place considering our general desire to have a natural childbirth and, more importantly, it was only a five minute drive from our house. Over the years we've learned that long car rides when you're running perpetually late are not very good for our marriage or our sanity. So, the uber hippie place it was!

From the second we started our first class, I could hear the Sesame Street song "One Of These Things Is Not Like The Others" playing in my head. I was the only one wearing makeup. The only one giving birth at the posh hospital ("baby factory") across the city (maybe not the best planning considering our aforementioned driving issues). The only one who didn't consider the possibility of a c section to be a fate worse than death. The only one wearing deodorant. Just kidding, but I probably was the only one wearing perfume.

Over the course of the class, it was enlightening hearing the women talk about their home birth plans, tubs and all. I tried to keep an open mind as others shared their desire to breastfeed for 2 to 3 years. (!) Although I thought many of the other women were maybe just a little kooky and I'm pretty sure they were judging me and my purses, it was a serene environment in which to learn about the roller coaster we were about to experience. That is, of course, until they told us to eat our placenta.

For the uninitiated, eating one's placenta, placentophagia if you will, is supposed to help regulate your hormones and prevent postpartum depression. Look, it's trendy! One of the women in our class planned to mix her frozen placenta into a smoothie. The instructor also blended hers upon the birth of her daughter. While I was feeling mildly nauseous at the thought, my husband was listening with rapt attention. He became convinced that "we" needed to do this to help bring our baby into a happy home. "We? What we?" I wondered as he started finding out rates for the encapsulation of my placenta into pills that I would have to take.

After being a week overdue, I went to see an acupuncturist friend to kick start the labor process. While I was fairly certain the acupuncture wasn't doing what the pitocin later would, I chatted with my friend about the meal o' placenta. She was so emphatic about the benefits and her amazing experience, calling it the best high ever. I began to think that maybe I could take the pills after all. I was so used to downing all those prenatals, what not add another handful of horse capsules?

So, we decided to just have the pills made in case I wanted to take them. My OB hardly batted an eye when I told her my revised birth plan to harvest and take home my placenta in a tupperware. This is San Francisco after all. The "placenta doula" picked up the organ and turned it into pills less than 12 hours later. It was the most efficient transaction ever. I was half delirious having just delivered Mr. Monk into the world, but I remember her being sweet, braided and very soothing. She even brought me a print of my placenta (think fingerprint, only bigger and more bloody) that I specifically requested her NOT to bring. She suggested I may want to hang it in the nursery. It's rolled up in back of the nursery closet. Does that count?

I didn't follow her directions to take 6 pills a day for the first week postpartum. I couldn't even bring myself to open the jar for the first four days. Curiosity got the best of me on the fifth day and I tried two of the pills. Nothing happened. Taking that as a good sign, I took three more pills that night. I wish I could say that nothing happened.

I woke up in the morning with a bright red, itchy rash ALL OVER MY ENTIRE BODY! I was suddenly radioactive. The rash was so dramatic and so angry that I could feel the rejection searing through me. I knew instinctively that it was from the bad idea jeans (genes) pills. I reached out to my OB and the placenta doula, neither of whom had ever heard of such a reaction. In my leper-like state I went to see a dermatologist in case I needed a steroid to calm the welts. The stately old dermatologist immediately asked me if I ate anything out of the ordinary recently. "No, not that I can think of." "Oh, well, actually, um..."

The Dr. looked at me like I told him I ate my baby, which I guess I sort of did. Thankfully, I didn't need a steroid prescription and the rash went away by itself a few days later. I kind of wish I took a picture of my bumpy body for posterity. Now all I have is this awesome story. Oh, and the baby.

I like the color, but I'm not so sure about the size, mom...

No Goop for me

Activities I am fairly certain Gwyneth Paltrow* would not engage in if she were visiting Portland:

1. Driving.
For some reason we thought nothing of driving 600 miles through half of California and Oregon though we would probably never decide at the last-minute to cruise on down to South Carolina from NYC. It was a beautiful drive, even if I did have to climb into the backseat every ten minutes to pick up the baby's toy that he conveniently dropped into the door crevice.

2. Peeing in her friends' backyard.
We were staying at the home of friends who were out of town and just could not get the damn door open. After trying for ten minutes, I decided it would be better to intentionally pee on the grass rather than accidentally on their welcome mat. Hello Portland!

3. Feeding her baby a dirty bagel.
Mr. Monk's new favorite activity is to gnaw on a fat bagel with his two new teefs. Combine this with his old favorite activity of dropping things on the floor to see how many times mommy will go pick it up and you have yourself a party! I mean, how dirty could a city street in Portland after a farmers market really be?

4. Eating every possible free sample at said farmers market and then go back for seconds at one stand only to be told by a farmer that she "must be hungry today."
I don't care, those giant blackberries were a thing of beauty. I didn't know if I'd ever get to experience their kind again.

5. Getting yelled at by some self-righteous hippie.
When we stopped in Ashland, OR for yet another pee/smoothie break, my husband waited with the sleeping baby in the car. Sitting under the hot sun, he quickly realized that he needed the a/c running or the baby would melt. Or worse, wake up. After a few minutes, a woman came up to him and remarked that she was so disturbed by his car burning so much fuel into the air that she couldn't even eat her lunch. Well. My sweet husband kindly told her that he was conditioning the air for our son's benefit not to simply ruin her day. She wilted away and meekly apologized for not realizing he had a baby in the car. Booyah! We are all for a progressive attitude and proactive environmentalism, but this was downright obnoxious.

6. Go hiking in a dress.
Or, maybe she would? I forgot to bring any shorts but at least I had some closed toe faux sneakers. I got some strange looks but the trees in forest park were well worth the chafing!

7. Having to pull her husband's wedding band off his middle finger as he's driving 80 miles an hour.
Why he was playing with it and "just wanted to see if it would fit" as he was driving (speeding) is beyond me. His voice was creeping up in panic till he was practically screaming at me to get it off!

8. Getting her period in the middle of a party.
I felt like I was 14, having to ask around for a tampon. And not finding one. We went to a private concert by two awesome Portland bands, Ages and Ages and Portugal. The Man and I spent half the time worrying that I was about to pull a Carrie.

9. Letting her baby crawl around a pizza joint.
At first I tried to ignore the tantrum and eat my deelish pizza. Mr. Monk was not having it. I finally caved and let him loose. Thankfully, everyone in Portland is peach pie sweetness and nobody seemed to care that there was a rabid baby darting under their table.

10. Refusing to leave.
Have you been to this great city? It's so green and gorgeous. We honestly thought about checking out some open houses but then remembered that we want to move closer to our families on the east coast, not further away. Why is there no Portland equivalent back east?

*Hand-painted wallpaper? A bathtub in the middle of her bedroom? Seriously?

Gin and juice

On my good pal Marcie's reco, the Mr. and I watched this movie the other night. It tells the story of a man who discovered the power of juicing and lost about 90 pounds and one skin disorder along the way. Basically, this Australian dude travels around the US professing the benefits of a juice fast, drinking only 3 vegetable and fruit juices a day for either a 10 day reboot or 60 day life-changer.

We're big smoothie makers but were intrigued by the whole juicing method of getting at the micronutrients more efficiently because all the fiber is excluded. And, you don't have to peel anything! While we do eat a lot of vegetables, juicing is one way to get many, many servings in at once and just drink your way to good health. Or so the movie and the now buff and thin Aussie says.

The day after watching the film we went to the Marin farmer's market, which offers up some serious produce porn (very expensive, organic porn).







And the flowers were two for one!


Guess who loved the market most of all?


On our way back into the city from Marin, Mr. Schneed got all kinds of excited and wanted to stop and pick up a juicer at the local BBB. Between this and Insanity, I think I need to keep my husband away from infomercials. I guess he was feeling inspired by the movie and the absurd amounts of kale we just purchased. Surprisingly, the store had no juicers in stock and neither did any of the other stores that we visited yesterday. The juicer quest was on! Who knew there was such a run on these machines? Is everyone juicing?

Mr. Schneed found one this evening. Our life as juiceheads has begun. We'll see how many times we use it before it somehow finds its way into our cabinet with the rest of the abandoned appliances (anyone want a waffle maker?) Cheers!

What ice cream?

{via}

This ice cream is so good. Cannot. Stop. Eating. I've somehow confused the relative properties of food poisoning and decided I should eat Mr. Schneed's portion as well as my own since he's still ixnay on oodfay. Unfortunately, he's been illin all day today too. Food poisoning is one crazy ride. The one and only time I ever experienced it was when I was 17 and spending my last semester of high school in Israel. I left my program for the weekend and was visiting the home of the friend of a cousin of a family friend. Or some absurd nonconnection like that. Basically, I hardly knew these people but I defiled their bathroom for all the wee hours of the morning. I remember waking up the next morning and wanting so desperately to do the walk of shame home but I was literally in the middle of the desert. The lady of the house offered me some coffee and I threw up in her sink. Never saw her again. I am fairly certain that memory has remained repressed till just this moment.

Fast forward another lifetime and Mr. Monk and I learned more than we ever wanted to know about daddy sights and sounds over the past 48 hours. I started looking up the symptoms of E. coli bacterial poisoning and freaked us all out. Our soap dispenser has never seen so much action. I had to go to work and was terrified that he would pass out from dehydration. But, he's acting less zombie-like tonight, so I think the tide has turned. Hooray.

Though I'm just realizing that him getting better means we may have to start Insanity again. I have been abstaining for the past few days in solidarity. How could I go and get ripped without him? Damn you, three twins.

In other news, Mr. Monk has decided that he likes the sound of his voice. A lot. LIKE SCREAMING AT THE TOP OF HIS LUNGS ALL DAY LONG A LOT. Fun. How long does this phase last? Well hello, boyhood.

Life in the fast lane

Ever wish your hot dog could walk and talk? Now here's your chance to make dreams come true...introducing Happy Hot Dog Man! Definitely doesn't bode well for any future "don't play with your food" warnings. I'm thinking about having a BBQ just so I can bust these suckers out and start a real food fight.

This morning we enjoyed a scream-a-thon courtesy of Mr. Monk and his infinite lung capacity. Jury's still out on why, but the little guy straight up yelled for a good two hours when he first woke up. After going through our usual checklist--hungry? poopy? fevery? tiredy?--I finally figured he just needed to express himself. Loudly. Perhaps he's actually getting some teeth after all? They have to come some time, right? I imagine the gummy smiles aren't so cute past age 10 or so. This morning, while nursing, he chomped down on one of my special straws. I shrieked in pain and watched the babe's face crumble in horror. He immediately burst into tears--what? why? I thought I was the one hurt. The biting, combined with the tantrums, combined with the fact that he needs teeth to chew makes me think that one is coming soon. Or, more likely, five at once.

My husband is watching "Revenge of the Nerds" and laughing so hard he's practically snorting. Clearly I didn't marry an Alpha Beta.

Yesterday we took advantage of the heat to visit the one truly air conditioned place in San Francisco, the beach. The babe? His cuteness did enjoy. So much that he fell asleep.

When the cat's away...

First trip without the babe was a success! Granted, the baby daddy was here with him the whole time so I knew he was in good hands. What I didn't know is how easy it would be for both boys. I figured I'd come back on Sunday afternoon to a mess of a house, an exhausted dad and a baby clamoring for his mama. Only one of those actually came true and that's only because the dog decided that 5 am was a good time to start campaigning for a walk. Mr. Monk was an angel baby all weekend. The little traitor! I was secretly sort of hoping that he would be just a tad difficult to show my husband what I do all day. But, mostly I am glad that things worked out so well. That way, I can plan a monthly girls trip...hah, if only.

It was, in a word, awesome to be surrounded by adults for the whole weekend. There was little to no baby talk given that none of the other women had children. The lone pregnant woman seemed happy to ditch the pregnancy chatter for the weekend too. Highlights from the weekend included an intense discussion of whether having sex for three hours is technically possible (or pleasurable), a two hour long hike (walk) along the gorgeous northern California coastline, collaboratively cooking and eating a taco feast that featured no less than ten distinct dishes and nearly as many libations. And, of course, sleeping in until 8 and then GOING BACK TO SLEEP!

As much fun as it was bacheloretting it up, I did miss my family. Thankfully, Mr. Schneed sent me continuous pictures videos and texts detailing their adventures. Seriously, he took him out no less than four times on Saturday?! Some days I am happy if I manage to change both of us out of our pajamas. When I got home, we celebrated father's day by waiting for an hour and a half for pizza. Why no, I am not kidding. That's what the weekend's greatest dad wanted and that's what he got.

Two other random things I learned this weekend:

1. There are zebras in Mendocino (and sometimes giraffes).
2. Grilled leeks are quite possibly the most delicious thing ever.

Insane in the Membrane

Mr. Schneed and I are now on Day 6 of the Insanity workout. Only one more day until we get a break! How did this happen?! I have never worked out six days a week in my life. Even before my wedding I only kicked it up to four and I felt like a maniac. I just keep thinking that this is the best (only?) time for me to do something like this since I'm unlikely to have a break while the boss naps at my next job.

My main issue, other than that it is the worst pain I've ever willingly felt, is that I hate doing it with the mister. He talks out loud during the hardest parts! Can you imagine anything more annoying? The last thing I want when I am sweating more than I ever thought possible is for my husband to tell me that he can't believe how much I am sweating. Listening to him moan and groan, not to mention watching him flail out of the corner of my eye, makes me laugh. And sometimes I pee myself from laughing and moving so hard. Just a little. But still. Childbirth- the gift that keeps on giving.

Let's Go Crazy

After seeing so many beautiful bodies and beautiful people at this beautiful place, my husband decided that he needs to do something drastic to get in shape. And by he, I mean we because he isn't so good at the self-motivation. So, I was informed today that I will be doing the insanity workout over the next 60 days. My first thought was um, no. But, I have started to realize lately that breastfeeding isn't quite the workout it used to be. Apparently, the jig is up and I can't keep eating muffins and cupcakes every day and expect it to go right to the baby. I enjoy myself a good old endorphin rush now and again, so I figured I might as well try it. How bad could the first lesson be?

Pretty damn nuts, as it turns out. Before you start the program, you are advised to take a fitness test, which consists of 25 minutes of pure torture. Ostensibly, you are supposed to keep track of how many reps of each exercise you complete so that you can compare your results with any subsequent fitness tests you perform after beginning the regimen. Unfortunately, I was too concerned with the act of breathing while my heart was exploding to remember how to count. Basically, I failed the test. Guess that means I'm not ready for insanity, right?

The thing is, I kind of want to challenge myself. Since having Mr. Monk, I have regularly been going to spin but haven't stepped it up at all. This might actually be what I need to tighten things up without a trainer. Trainers scare me. I just hate the idea of someone telling me what I am doing wrong while I'm wearing shorts. That sounds like my worst nightmare--and then to pay $50/hour for that pleasure. No tanks. I'm not making any promises about finishing the 60 days, but I think I can at least try the real first day. That is, of course, assuming I can walk tomorrow.

Mahalo Mr. Schneed

I took my own advice and went to accomplish all manner of lady grooming today. Of course, the babysitter didn't show up this afternoon so that put a slight damper on my pre-vacation relaxation status. Thankfully, my husband came through for me and realized the desperation of the situation. You know you're tired when you almost fall asleep while lying half-naked on a waxing table. I do love me some nail salon action. Those ladies always tell me that I look great and ask after the baby. Now, I know the nail salon isn't exactly a bastion of female empowerment, but it is nice that they try to make you feel good. Combine this with my overtipping and you have a real chicken vs. egg conundrum.

While I was reading about Maria Shriver's betrayed heart in People magazine (reading gossip mags is clearly my favorite part of getting my nails done), I started to feel such an overwhelming sense of love and loyalty toward my husband (and an immediate hatred of all things Arnold, even "Twins"). Nothing like learning about someone having a secret child with the housekeeper to make you realize how good you have it. Today is our second wedding anniversary. I keep saying that it feels like so much longer than that, but in a GOOD way. We've been together almost five years now, which also doesn't seem like that long. He's so integral and necessary to my world that I can't imagine life was any good without him. It certainly wasn't anywhere near as fun. Or as filled with a seemingly infinite number of televised sporting events.

We're getting ready to get lei'd tomorrow. Naturally, Mr. Monk woke up with a terrible cold today. I fear that boy has inherited his father's impeccable timing. If this is anything like the other colds he's had, he'll be better by tomorrow afternoon and his father and I will be sick for the next week. Maybe we should boost our immune systems with breast milk too. Better yet, we'll just soak up some extra vitamin D in Hawaii this week. Aloha.