The Daily Fuss

Parachuting Philosopher

I've kept a lifetime "to do" list for as long as I can remember. Some time has passed since "go to Disneyland" topped the charts. I've checked off some major items - graduate college, graduate law school, start a business, get a dog, be creative, marry the most wonderful man ever, buy a sweet home, have an even sweeter baby ...

I've done some interesting things in my day. I've scaled modest cliffs, played instruments, been on television, won contests, lost contests, flown a plane, met famous people, worked with the disabled, traveled, camped, made soap, made jewelry, made lots of things, soldered precious metals, acted, danced and entertained. But none of those things were on my list until after I had done them. I would accomplish a task and inevitably it would end up on my list with a fresh check mark. Yay me.

Some aspirations remain: learn a third language, learn sign language, write a book, learn to draw something more than stick people, learn to play another instrument, start a charity, join a band and live in another country. These edgier items were added by my inner Parachuting Philosopher. Who?

My friend Natalie and I have joked about the Parachuting Philosopher for a long time - the super interesting, witty and fearless person we envision ourselves or even our mate to be. Incidentally, the Parachuting Philosopher is also incredibly fit, is perfectly punctual, has impeccable manners and never runs out of money. We hold the Parachuting Philosopher out there as though becoming that person or marrying that person is actually an attainable goal.

Somehow, I thought I would perpetually check my alter ego's items off my list throughout my lifetime. Maybe I even thought maternity leave would free up my schedule for such endeavors. Excuse me? What? However, as I sat up those first few nights with my new beeb, fresh fantasy action items filled my head. Things like attend weekly mommy-and-me yoga, make various iPod mixes to teach her about real music, boycott all goods made in China, grow my own herbs and write a children's book made the list.

As I rocked my swaddled bundle of joy to sleep, It occurred to me that by checking "get pregnant" off of my life's list, I'd created the immense pressure of giving birth to and raising a future Parachuting Philosopher. Fuuuuuck.

It's too much to handle.

I thought I was alone in this. Or at least that Natalie and I were the only two goofs who coveted the coolness of the Parachuting Philosopher. Alas no.

One day early on, we were listening to music and having a new family moment. Ryan bounced Leighton on his knee and stared at her for the longest time with a grin on his face while describing to me precisely why she's the most amazing little person he's ever met. Then, he turned to me and said, in a most serious manner, "I need to take guitar lessons. I don't want Leighton to think it isn't important to play a musical instrument."

I love Ryan for being my Parachuting Philosopher and for always being "in it" with me. Even when I think "it" exists only in my mind.

What items made your life's "to do" list? Please post a comment and share the fuss with us.

Me and Skinny Jean Girl: The Difference Is Four Percent

As if we aren't self-conscious enough about stepping through the looking glass of marriage and parenthood, occasionally something small occurs to crystallize a reality that we are no longer "cool" in the same way we were in our singleton, mingling days. True, wedded bliss and parenthood bring new joys of a magnitude unimaginable to the skinny-jean-clad twenty-two year-old who just hopped in front of you in line as though you were invisible (or because she was texting furiously and wouldn't have seen you anyway).

Please don't misunderstand. I love skinny jean girl. She reminds me how far I've come and how life gets better with each passing year and how I would rather get a root canal than repeat my twenties and lose the insight I earned in that delicious decade.

Skinny jean girl has so much in store for her. She will read chick-lit on the train on the way to work and have her heart broken and spend too much on shoes and ring up a big ugly credit card bill and have an insane hangover and kill many plants and only buy 4x6 picture frames and have a semi-compromising picture show up on a social networking site and get in a huge fight with her mom and forget to take insurance on the rental car and wear something inappropriate to work and not know which fork to use and put her foot in her mouth and accidentally hit "reply all" and get the same, bad haircut twice, and worship Carrie Bradshaw for all the wrong reasons.

Still, when I received two catalogs from Boden yesterday - the first addressed to my maiden name and the other to my married moniker - I was taken aback. Each featured a different promotion. As a single girl I was offered 15% off, and as a married mama only a random 11%. Apparently the difference between being "young and single" and "aging and hitched" isn't the whole skinny jean thing. The difference, very plainly, is 4%.

At first, I moved to toss both in the trash, along with six J. Crew catalogs offering 20% off my order of $100 or more, with little care as to my name or status. Instead, I reflected on all of the foregoing and felt proud that the richness I've added to my life in just the last three years is far greater than the 4% figure that jumped out at me. I also realize that I'm reading much more deeply into this customer SNAFU than it deserves, but it makes for a decent post.

Alas, I have but two questions: 1) Really? Eleven percent is so random; and 2) What the fuss, Boden?

Mess E. Nest

After Leighton was born, my lingering pregnancy symptoms waned at different times. For example, I know the very second my "supersmell" wore off. It was three weeks ago. Ryan had eaten some garlic and onion pita chips and I managed to carry on a conversation with him without gagging and making him gargle promptly with Listerine. Earlier in my pregnancy, I could tell what Ryan had eaten for the previous two days, in order of consumption, just by speaking with him. At this moment, even Cool Ranch Doritos don't really bother me much. Supersmell ... gone.

Then there’s napping. I'm just not good at it. I could nap when I was pregnant, but that ended the moment Leighton was born. If I fall asleep during the day, even for a minute, I wake up disoriented with heart palpitations. Yes. For me, napping and anxiety go hand in hand. I suppose I feel like I would miss out on something, were I to nap. I know it's strange. I fight sleep as hard as Leighton. (Sometimes, when I try to put her down she blinks, one eye at a time, as a signal to me that she's not going down without a fight.) She doesn't want to miss a second of the action. I get that. I am exhausted right now, yet I choose to spend my few precious moments of free time today writing instead.

I don't miss the supersmell and napping qualities of pregnant life, but the recent departure of the nesting instinct has me bumming. My nesting instinct kicked in precisely one year ago. Three-hundred and sixty-five days later ... poof. It's gone, and my nest is suffering the consequences. BUMMER.

While I was pregnant with Leighton (and up until yesterday) our home was museum quality - tidy, accessorized and stocked with food, shampoo, diaper cream, band-aids, batteries, anchovie paste... You name it. We had it. I've been having a tough week and it finally occurred to me that I'm struggling because I am no longer hormonally propelled into action at the site of a stray crumb or rogue iPod that escaped it's cubby in the charging station. Nor can I remember to buy dental floss, ketchup or coffee creamer.

The best part of my nesting urge was my unrelenting drive to be organized. I was so focused on making our home a cozy base of family operation I could seemingly operate at the level of "superwoman". Okay, I could be romanticizing it a bit. Maybe I was "superwoman" because I never woke up hungover, or because I was able to nap during the day for the first time in my life since I was Leighton's age. Whatever the reason, I was getting shit done and getting it done in a super clean house. I loooooved it. I thought it would last forever. SIGH.

The amount of wine I consume now is inversely proportional to how much I care about whether the laundry gets put away before I go to bed or if the dishwasher gets emptied ... well ... at all or if I get to bed early enough to like myself in the morning or if Lue gets groomed properly with any real frequency. My post-delivery, nesting instict helped me fly above this mortal proportionality problem to achieve domestic bliss even after a glass or two of syrah. SIGH.

I am decidedly not Jenny-on-the spot with laundry anymore. At this very moment, my feet are propped up on a rhombus tote (explanation for another post) full of unfolded (but clean) laundry and a huge pile of unassembled (but clean) fuzzi bunz (also for another post). I threw away some towels today because they smelled like mildew from being left in the washer overnight. Ick. (I didn't really throw them away. I am donating them to PAWS - same effect.) Moreover, I am disturbingly fine with using the dishwasher as a cabinet all of the sudden, I am back to my old ways of staying up way too late, and, poor little Lue is sporting a shag and raccoon claws. B.L. (before Leighton) Luella would not have been "neglected" (Lue's word, not mine) in this way.

It's time to stop mourning and move on, as I plan to get much done this weekend. I will make my "to do" list and execute it with vigor. As I bid a final farewell to my beloved nesting instinct, I imagine I will once again be “superwoman” enjoying a clean house and an organized life. It's funny to think that I would consider having another baby in an attempt to get back there.