A Utah Family Travel Writer's Adventures with Altitude
My little mountain man just prior to his first big hike in Colorado’s Rocky Mountains.
He said the views were out of this world. Especially those mountains and valleys.
Do you think it’s a coincidence this was also the first day he ever officially smiled?….
My good friend Eva from church generously offered to watch Haddie for a few hours yesterday. And even though I’m the one who should have been helping her (she has five kids under the age of eight, and another on the way in October), I eagerly took her up on her offer. I mean, with all those children, she can totally mother in her sleep, right? At least that’s my justification for taking her up on it.
During my window of opportunity, I took Bode on his first hike with my hiking group. Over the course of when I joined, there has been a lot of turnover. The group of gals I started hiking with now do the toddler hikes with Haddie and there was a whole different clan of women with new babies yesterday.
The hike leader, Sonja, was super sweet and warmly welcomed me as though I had returned from the grave. All the new moms looked at me in wonderment and awe. To have two kids…and actually be seen in public? Little did they know I had survived The Hurricane in order to be there.
A friendly gal started a conversation with me and a few of us soon gabbed along the trail. It didn’t take long for the conversation to turn to new babies, motherhood and weight gain. An exceedingly petite gal commented, “Yeah, I topped out at 130 pounds when I was pregnant.”
I bit my tongue that the last time I weighed that was in second grade.
But then came the follow-up comment from another gal. “Well, check this out: I was huuuuge and weighed XXX by the time I gave birth.”
She quoted my pre-pregnancy weight. Not my weight when I got pregnant with Bode (when I hadn’t yet lost my last 10 pounds) but my Hadley pre-pregnancy weight.
I thought it best to not contribute to that particular conversation for fear of the outcome. I.e. If I terminated all those skinny broads on the trail by accidentally sitting on them or something.
And so, a note to all those people out there who don’t give birth and walk out in their pre-pregnancy jeans or to anyone who’s ever struggled with their weight. This thought was taken from my friend and former roommate Kristy, a gorgeous, Real-Women-Have-Curves kinda gal:
“‘Nothing tastes as good as being sexy feels.’ This was said to me once by a friend with a perfectly fit dancer’s body in the course of a discussion on eating and exercising.
I don’t think she will ever know how sexy those chocolate frosted Hostess Doughnuts were this morning.”
After the week I had with Tantruming Hadley and Sleepless Bode, I was in dire need of a Girl’s Night Out. Fortunately, my friend Julie delivered. She’s part of my mom’s hiking group that has kept me from entering a mental institution since The Early Hadley Days. You know. Those ones where I only got three hours of sleep for months on end. Ahh, good times.
We planned to meet at a trendy downtown restaurant for tapas. I had never heard of this place because, as I was reminded, I am anything but trendy these days. I arrived late due to Bode’s feeding schedule. Simply translated for all those who’ve never nursed out there: scheduling around explosive mammaries due to prolonged absences from Junior is one of the many highlights of breastfeeding.
The area was a zoo. Unbeknownst to Julie, there was a huge outdoor fashion show across the street. Oodles of single yuppies roamed the area. You know the type: the ones pulled from a Sex in the City episode who wear the latest black fashions and starve themselves for weeks in order to fit into them.
And then there was me. Still in my maternity clothes because I refuse to go buy fat-girl ones until I lose my baby weight (is anyone else relating here?) Oh, and my leaking mammaries. I felt like shaking things up by proudly announcing to my friends that I had actually showered that day, which inspired a 10-minute confessional of their lack of hygiene those early weeks with Baby.
That is one of the many reasons why I love ‘em. They’re all down-to-earth former career gals who’d rather haul their babies up the mountains than hit the mall. And there’s nothing like a Girl’s Night Out, away from babies and husbands to talk about what else? Babies and husbands. Occasionally, someone will slip by mentioning something they read on my blog but as my closet blog readers, they will immediately clam up. Because how humiliating would that be to actually admit they have nothing better to do. Yes, you “no-comment people” know who you are.
My explosive mammaries and I left early at 9:45 p.m. Sure, we could’ve stayed longer but then I had a flash of girl-gone wild-kinda insanity: I could go grocery shopping. By myself. Without screaming kids.
Who says I don’t know how to party?
Denver has become John Karr obsessed. If you’re unfamiliar with who he is then maybe you’ve heard of a certain little girl named JonBenet Ramsey who he has professed to have killed. Living a stone’s throw away from Boulder, we are in the midst of a media circus. Insanity. I’ve never really lived in a newsworthy environment but suddenly, it’s all anyone talks about.
“Holy crap–did you hear he ate king crab on his flight back from Thailand?”
“Did you know that Karr’s movie rights are for sale?”
“How about those estrogen pills they found at his apartment?”
So, I’m curious about the coverage this has received on the national level and if you’re being overly-saturated as well. I feel like I’m living in a tabloid. Only it’s not the ridiculous celebrity gossip, such as whether or not a drunken Lindsey Lohan corrupted Disneyland or if K-Fed and Britney’s white-trash marriage really is on the rocks. Oh, and Oprah? I’m sure she dumped Steadman for good so she could be with her lesbo lover, Gail. In case you hadn’t heard.
Even though I don’t read them, I can talk tabloid with the best of ‘em, a fact that I’m sure would make my grandma proud if she was still alive today. In addition to trying to convince me to dye my eyebrows jet-black, she religiously tried to convert me to the Enquirer for years. You know, back in its really salacious days. It is still a mystery how the magazine somehow always ended up in our Christmas stockings every year. Because I’m sure Santa wanted us to know that an alien gave birth to twins and that the Virgin Mary appeared to thousands.
But I digress. Back to the big question about Karr: did he or didn’t he?
After all, Enquiring minds want to know….
I’m really not at all paranoid about needles, even The Motherlode of all Needles they stick up your spine during an epidural.
HOWEVER: call me crazy but wouldn’t you get just a bit nervous if you discovered a crib sheet (a.k.a. Epidurals for Dummies) attached to the machine?….
Confucius says: “Do not be boastful about children who sleep and siblings who are not jealous. You will be cursed with a sleepless, jealous house.”
If only I’d known. I’ll just say Hadley and Bode have done a complete 180 from my last post, despite Hunky Hubby’s encouraging words on his blog. Enough said.
Confucius says: “Mommy Time Means No Time”
Now that I’m pretty much mended from birthing a watermelon, I’m slowing easing back into my regular activities. This is proving to be tougher than anticipated. With Hadley, I carved out a half hour of “Mommy Time” with aerobics/strength training before breakfast and we’d then go hiking or walking every day.
That was then. This is now. As I prepped for my first big workout yesterday, I did something kinda requisite: I actually put the child down. Sadly, he would have NONE of it. I tried to rationally explain: “No, Bode, y’see, this is ‘Mommy Time.’”
Unfortunately, his definition of “Mommy Time” means just that: His Mommy Time.
Again, I won’t get into the sordid details. Just know the final score: Bode: 1 Me: 0. Enough said.
But today is a new day and a new battle. My revised strategy is to have the kid play while I workout. You know. Do fun things like stare at the wall or slap himself silly with those crazy new things called arms.
Kinda sad to think I’m losing to that kind of competition….
Bode has been a member of our family for more than a month now. While he definitely has his moments, overall he’s a sweet little guy. Of course, it’s still early and I am cognizant that things could turn the corner. I am just hoping that corner won’t occur for, say, another 18 years. And then he can go turn someone else’s corner.
By this time with Haddie, I was about ready to enter a mental institution. I lived off of three hours of sleep for months. Bode, on the other hand, only wakes up a couple of times and even slept seven hours straight the other night. SEVEN FREAKING HOURS. Do you know how long it took for Haddie to sleep that long? I think every family needs to have one Haddie so they can realize how FREAKING MIRACULOUS it is when a kid actually sleeps. I mean, if I had only easy babies, I might be disillusioned enough to think I had this parenting thing figured out. But I know better.
The Hurricane
I can’t stand when people tell me the reason why Haddie was so colicky is because I was a first-time mom and they then attribute Bode’s easy-going nature with the fact that I’m more relaxed now. Guess what: that’s a load of crock. For one, I will never be anything less than an unrelaxed-anal-retentive-type-A mom. So there! And two, from the moment those kids left the womb, they were just different. We couldn’t calm The Hurricane and we couldn’t ever wake The Slug. Different. Just different.
One area they are the same is their need to be constantly held. For Hadley, it wasn’t because she particularly liked us but because heaven forbid she should miss out on anything that was going on. And where else could we have a front-row seat of her marathon tantrums about the injustices of this harsh, evil world?
The Slug
Bode, welp, he’s a lover/snuggler not a fighter. And he won’t let you forget about it the moment you dare to set him down when his temper is unleashed. I just hope the kid manages to cut the cord sometime before he gets married because there’s nothing uglier than a mama’s boy. Especially one who’s still obsessed with her mammaries. I watch Desperate Housewives so I know how that is.
The Sibling Revelry
Many have asked how The Hurricane is doing since her brother’s arrival and overall, she’s great. She genuinely likes the little guy and is extremely helpful. She hasn’t exhibited much jealousy, either. Until last Friday. Until he posed a threat to her most prized possession: Grandma.
Y’see, she spent the day with Jamie’s mom. Her Grandma. That night when Linda dropped her off, she made the grave error of picking up Bode. I won’t get into the sordid details but there was drama i.e. “HOW COULD YOU FORSAKE ME?” There was manipulation i.e. “Grandma, Haddie poopy. Change now!” And there was desperation i.e. “Grandma, Mommy needs Bode.”
Yeah, right. Heaven forbid the day when he actually starts doing more than sleeping, fussing and pooping. Though if he stays true to his gender, that day may never come….
Me: “How’s your cousin these days?”
Mom: “Pretty good. He’s been building and selling houses. To The Gays.”
Me: “Err…’The Gays’. Gee, Mom. I didn’t know there was a market for them.”
Mom: “Yes, their people buy houses too, I guess.”
When Hunky Hubby turns a simple activity like drawing on the driveway into one that will send the innocent passerby into therapy….
Today is Bode’s four-week birthday. You haven’t seen any pictures of him lately because he has hit early puberty. (Translation: his formerly flawless skin is now covered in big, pussy pimples.) And not the fun kind. (Translation: fun kind being those I can actually pop. Yes, I’m sick like that.)
Now, don’t go lecturing me that I should be taking tons of pubescent pictures. I did that with Haddie during what I call The Blotch Phase, when her little body was blotchy, sore and red. And you know what? Those pictures still make me cringe to this day. I’m sure she’ll burn them when she’s in her teens because “Like, how totally gross!”
At least that’s what I did (burned all ugly pictures of myself) when I was a teen, though a few did manage to slip through the cracks. “The cracks” meaning my sadistic brothers who sent the worst picture ever to my new fiance. Some of you may know him. A man some call James. A man with a sick, twisted sense of humor. A man who posted Said Blackmail Picture on our front door the first time he welcomed me home to our new condo.
Oh well. What goes around, comes around and tonight, he got just a bit of payback. I’m sure most of us have dreamed of coming into a large inheritance from a wealthy great uncle we never knew. Jamie’s was named Uncle Jesse. OK, so maybe he wasn’t exactly rich or even related but Jamie befriended this older man last year. I think Jesse had a man-crush on Jamie because he called him (at minimum) five times a day. While tiresome, my sweet husband never whined or complained about it. That was always my job.
Our phone stopped ringing a few months ago when Uncle Jesse passed away suddenly in a tragic car accident. Sweet Hubby delivered his eulogy and never once expected anything out of it. But tonight, we discovered just how overrated money truly is. Uncle Jesse did leave one of his most prized possessions for Jamie: his old, ratty set of golf clubs, which Jamie tested out this evening.
Trying to be supportive as he swung away on our front lawn, I commented,
“You know, it really is sweet of him to bequeath these to you.”
Jamie mumbled some words of gratitude as he practiced his swing. After a few attempts, he walked over to the old leather bag and started going through the pockets and retrieving the contents.
“A Colorado Rockies jacket!” He announced. It looked and smelled like it had never been washed, neither of which stopped my father from claiming it.
“Golfing gloves!” Those were at least new.
But then came the clincher as Jamie paused and reluctantly pulled. “A diaper?” he queried. And then the sad truth was revealed: ’twas an adult diaper. And there wasn’t just one, but two. How’s that for an inheritance?
And so the quest begins for a long-lost uncle but now the qualifications have been altered. In addition to being rich without any posterity, we are preferably seeking one with bladder control.
I'm a Canadian-born mom of two, former Denver Post columnist, family travel writer, editor of MileHighMamas.com and 9News contributor. Expert on all things Utah, Denver, family and travel. Lover of laughter and life. Happily married to a man obsessed with growing The Great Pumpkin. Learn More